Harish leaned back in his creaky wooden chair, the credits of the webseries rolling on his cracked smartphone screen. The fan overhead wobbled precariously, clicking with every rotation like a countdown to a structural failure. Outside, the red dust of xxxxxxxxxxx, India, settled on the windows of xxxxx, coating the stacks of soap bars and lentils in a fine layer of grit.
"Logically satisfying," Harish whispered, tapping a rhythmic beat on his knee. "The protagonist pretends to be a nobody, endures the insults of the arrogant, and then reveals he owns the city. It's the perfect way to filter out the noise of the world. No expectations, no taxes, just pure, unadulterated peace."
The only problem was the "reveal" part. Harish looked at the shop's cash drawer. It contained three crumpled ten-rupee notes, a handful of copper coins, and a stray plastic button that had fallen off a customer's shirt three months ago. On Earth, he hadn't achieved anything. He had no stocks, no real estate, and his "Industry" was currently just a pile of scrap metal in the basement that looked like a junk dealer's fever dream.
"I have the power of a God," Harish mused, scratching his chin as he looked at a damp leak in the ceiling, "but the credit score of a college dropout. No matter. If I want to fix this fridge and stop my father from complaining about the 'dying bird' noise, I will follow the script. The wealth will come later; the attitude starts now."
A week later, the peace of the neighborhood was shattered. A fleet of black, mana-shielded SUVs pulled up outside the shop, kicking up a massive cloud of red dust that coated the fresh tomatoes. This was the GSC's "Deep-Scan" team, led by Commander Vane, an S-Ranker who wore a cape so long and heavy it dragged through the muddy gutter like a dead animal. They were hunting for the "Atmospheric Void" signature of dollar.
Harish was outside, wearing his most stained apron—one that smelled faintly of turmeric and old dishwater—and manually scrubbing a plastic milk crate with a regular, soapy rag. He looked like the definition of a struggling youth: tired eyes, unkempt hair that hadn't seen a comb in days, and shoes with soles so thin he could feel the temperature of the pavement.
'This is just like Episode 1,' Harish thought, his heart racing with a weird, role-playing excitement. 'The arrogant official arrives to look down on the hidden master. The setup is perfect.'
"You there! Boy!" Vane shouted, stepping out of the vehicle and shielding his nose with a silk handkerchief from the smell of spices and exhaust. "We're conducting a mandatory security sweep. Who owns this pathetic establishment?"
Harish looked up, putting on his best "clueless and slightly intimidated" face, blinking rapidly as if the sunlight were too much for him. "My dad does, sir. But I do the heavy lifting. Would you like to buy some biscuits? We have a 2-for-1 special on the ones with the slightly dented boxes. Good for dipping in tea, and only half the price."
Vane sneered, his mana-scanner—a device worth more than the entire street—passing right over Harish. The device didn't even beep. It registered nothing but the ambient heat of the Indian summer and perhaps a slight elevation in Harish's cholesterol.
"Pathetic," Vane muttered, shoving Harish aside with enough force to make him stumble into a stack of empty crates. "We're looking for a God-level entity, a being who can erase reality, and all we find is a peasant selling dented cookies. You're a stain on the neighborhood, boy. A waste of space."
Harish bowed slightly, hiding a smirk as he adjusted his apron. 'Classic dialogue. He even called me a stain. He's following the script perfectly. Now I just need to build my empire in the basement.'
That night, while Kaelen was busy meditating on the terrace and Chu-mu was busy having a spiritual crisis, Harish descended into the damp, dark basement. He didn't have a multi-billion dollar laboratory, but he had something better: Nano-Technology he'd "borrowed" from the higher floors of the Tower—items he'd picked up because they looked "neat" or "useful for repairs."
"Nano-bots, initiate," Harish commanded, his voice dropping into that cold, precise tone he used when he wasn't pretending to be a grocery clerk.
The liquid metal he'd scavenged from the Floor 25 "Junkyard" surged out of an old oil drum. It flowed up his legs like living silver, cooling into a sleek, matte-gold Modern Knight Armor. No cape. No unnecessary bulk. No glowing runes. It looked like a piece of high-end military hardware from the year 3000, designed to withstand a nuclear blast without scuffing the paint.
"I have no money on Earth," Harish whispered, his voice modulated by the helmet into a terrifying, vibrating baritone that sounded like grinding tectonic plates. "But the Astra League has a prize pool of ten billion credits. I'll win the money as a 'proxy,' then the drama becomes real. For now, let the world wonder who is behind the mask."
The transition from the basement to the Astra League Arena was seamless, facilitated by a spatial gate Harish had "found" near a trash can on Floor 18. Now, he sat in the technician's dugout, back in his grey jumpsuit, while his Gold Knight armor stood motionless on the arena sand, awaiting the arrival of Vikas Agnihotri.
Vikas stepped out, a boy of eighteen with the ego of a king and a jawline that suggested he'd never been told 'no' in his life. He was the youngest son of Vikramaditya Agnihotri, and he possessed a "monstrous" talent for solar fire that made him the favorite to win the entire tournament.
"Father," Vikas said, turning to the silent, bowed figure of Vikramaditya behind him. "Fetch me a cold towel. I want to be able to wipe the soot off my boots after I turn this 'Sovereign' toy into a puddle. And tell that tech-boy in the dugout to start writing the refund check for his boss."
Vikramaditya bowed, his face a mask of perfect, terrifying servitude. A small, invisible earpiece hummed in his ear. "As you wish, Clan Leader," he whispered, but the message went straight to Harish's earpiece in the dugout.
"Vikram," Harish spoke into his sleeve while pretending to adjust a loose speaker wire. "Did your son just call you a servant? That's cold. Even for a webseries villain. He's really leaning into the 'Arrogant Scion' role, isn't he? It's a bit much, honestly."
"Master," Vikramaditya's voice crackled back, filled with a strange, dark satisfaction. "He is playing his part perfectly. He thinks I am a broken old man who has lost his fire. He has no idea that the 'drink' I am fetching him is served in a glass made of Astra-Glass—a nano-sensor that is currently mapping his entire mana-circulatory system for your database."
"Good," Harish said, checking a box on his clipboard. "Phase 4: The Betrayal of the Scion. I need to know exactly where his 'Origin Core' is located before the match starts. I don't want to accidentally kill him; that would be a paperwork nightmare, and I'd never hear the end of it from my mother."
The bell rang, and the air in the stadium ignited. Vikas didn't just move; he exploded. He used the Agnihotri Solar Step, appearing in front of the Gold Knight in a flash of white heat that turned the oxygen into ozone.
"Sun-Cutter's Reach!" Vikas roared, his hand glowing like a miniature star as he lunged for the Knight's throat, the heat warping the very air around his fingers.
The impact should have melted the Knight's chest plate. Instead, the Gold Knight moved with a horrifying, mechanical efficiency. It didn't block; it used two fingers to perform a small, casual diagonal flick in the empty air between them.
There was a sound like a silk sheet being torn in a vacuum. Vikas's white fire was bisected. The top half of the flame surged harmlessly into the sky, while the bottom half scorched the sand. The cut was so clean that the flame didn't even flicker—it just existed as two separate, severed entities for a heartbeat before vanishing.
Vikas skidded back, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "What... what are you? That wasn't a skill! You didn't use mana! I didn't see a single spark!"
"Stiff sword-arm," the modulated voice of the Gold Knight echoed, sounding profoundly bored. "And your posture is a 4/10. You're leaning into the heat. Inefficient. You're wasting 30% of your mana on the light show. It's like a cheap disco ball. If you want to be a 'Sovereign,' learn the basics first."
"You dare...!" Vikas's pride snapped. He pulled all his mana into his center, his skin turning a translucent, glowing orange. "Supernova Heart!"
A beam of pure, solid white light—a spear of solar force—erupted from his chest. It was a move designed to pierce mountain ranges and level cities.
The Gold Knight didn't flinch. It simply stepped to the side—a movement so small it looked like a frame-rate error—then raised its foot and performed a sharp, downward "stomp" near the beam. The conceptual ripple of the stomp caught the edge of the light, and the spear of fire shattered like a glass vase hit by a sledgehammer.
Before Vikas could blink, the Knight was in front of him. It tapped Vikas on the forehead with two golden fingers.
Tink.
The impact was absolute. Vikas's mana-circulation was instantly "Audited." Every major meridian was blocked by a microscopic "Void-Knot." He fell to his knees, his fire extinguished, his "monstrous" talent feeling like a dead battery in a flashlight.
"I'm an auditor," the Knight's voice replied, already sounding like he was thinking about dinner. "And your account is overdrawn. Go home, Vikas. And tell your father to buy a new refrigerator. The one in the VIP booth is making a 'dying bird' noise, and it's very distracting for the staff."
The stadium fell into a stunned, breathless silence. Harish, sitting in the dugout, stood up and dusted off his jumpsuit. He looked at his phone—the tournament app had just credited him with five thousand rupees for the Round 1 win.
"Perfect," Harish whispered. "The compressor is as good as delivered. Now, let's see if I can win enough in the next round to buy some of those premium cookies for Dad. He's been complaining about the dented ones."