He descended.
And the hall felt colder in his wake.
"Pannival, now that the evaluation of the Clan Heads is complete… it's your turn. Step onto the disk," Angkasa Jayantaka said, his voice firm but calm.
But Pannival raised a hand and replied with quiet authority, "I must decline. Instead, I ask that you step forward. Let the children see… who you truly are."
A silence swept through the chamber.
Angkasa, with a half-smile and regal nod, accepted. "If you ask it of me, then so be it."
And then he moved.
Not marched—moved. Each step was deliberate. Measured. Yet the weight behind it sent tremors through the hall. The very air shifted, as if bracing itself for the presence of a titan.
He was old, yes. His body carried the lines of time—but his strength aged like ancient steel: tested, sharpened, enduring. Though bent by age, Angkasa Jayantaka was not weakened by it. If anything, it made him more terrifying.
Every soul in the room stood straighter.
They all knew: If every Clan Head fought together against this man… they would still fall.
Angkasa stepped onto the platform.
His past? A myth draped in mystery. Even among the wisest, no one truly knew where he came from, what he had done, or what forces had once tried to stop him—and failed.
The machine stirred.
Then it trembled.
The Naritti Index—used only for entities whose total power surpassed a million—spiked erratically. The device began beeping in rapid succession, almost as if it were gasping under the pressure of an impossible force.
The hall held its breath.
And then—one long, final beep.
The results blinked into existence:
3,999,999 – COMPOSITE STRENGTH SCORE
Raw Strength – 3,987,363
Mythical Strength – 2,976,363
Mental Strength – 3,543,342
The room exploded in silence.
No one dared move. No one cheered. Because this wasn't just power—it was divine terror in human form.
But the machine wasn't finished.
Beneath the numbers, a golden glyph shimmered—then glowed bright red:
Naritti Level: 389
A soundless gasp ran through the chamber. It was more than a score. It was a declaration.
Naritti is the cosmic scale of divine potential. Only those whose strength exceeds one million across combined categories—raw, mythical, mental—are assigned a Naritti rating. It is not just power; it is influence over reality. A being with a Naritti level affects the fabric of space, time, soul, and nature merely by existing.
At Level 300 and above, a person begins to warp the environment with their aura. Emotions become storms, footsteps shift gravity. Their thoughts can poison or bless, and their will can bend the flow of battle like wind bends fire.
At Level 389, Angkasa Jayantaka is no longer simply a warrior or a tactician. He is a walking warfront, a one-man apocalypse. The Naritti glows around him in visible ripples, often mistaken as divine light—when in truth, it is aether-drenched Aura, saturated with generations of disciplined mastery.
When the machine finally powered down, the entire hall erupted in applause—but not the cheerful kind.
It was the kind offered to gods.
Even the coldest of hearts among the Clan Heads could not deny it—Angkasa Jayantaka was more than just a leader. He was a force of nature, clothed in flesh.
He stepped down with the same grace he had ascended—calm, unbothered, as if the numbers meant nothing to him.
And perhaps… to him, they truly didn't.
Because when you are carved from legend itself—scores are meaningless.
"What a score!" Pannival commented, "Nothing less expected by the leader of the Saptavansh"
"Now, now… I will evaluate myself, if you're asking," Angkasa said, a sly smile curling on his lips. His voice was calm, but his words carried a weight that silenced the chamber. Then he turned toward the throne. "But to my pleasure, Pannival," he continued, his tone sharpening like a blade, "I would be far more delighted to see whether the great Novari Clan still carries that mighty spark… or whether it has long since faded into dust."
A murmur rippled through the hall. All eyes turned to the aged monarch.
The Pannival, Mahaji Malwai, merely chuckled—a low, weathered laugh that echoed across the marble pillars."Ha! If I were to strike the mark myself," he said, "an old monarch like me could achieve nothing more than proving what you already know. The time for men like me is fading. What this world needs… are young leaders, not relics."
Yet despite his words, all knew this was no ordinary monarch. This was Pannival Mahaji Malwai, heir of a bloodline of emperors, Chairman of the Kings' Table—the most powerful body of monarchs after the Union of Nations itself.
He walked slowly down the long red carpet, his steps measured, heavy with history. Behind him trailed the memory of his ancestors—Pannival Kaaima Malwai, his grandfather, who after the First Holy War had gathered 78 monarchs to form the Chamber of Monarchs, an institution strong enough to rival the newborn Union of Nations.
When Pannival ascended the raised disk at the center of the hall, silence swallowed the chamber. He stood tall, the light from the golden chandeliers gleaming on his crown. Then the great machine beside him—an artifact older than most dynasties—hummed to life.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Within seconds, the readings flashed across its vast crystal panel. The results appeared so swiftly that the chamber gasped as one."How could the evaluation complete so quickly?" voices whispered in disbelief.
The numbers shone bright:
Composite Strength Score – 6,999,999
Raw Strength – 6,973,000
Mythical Strength – 6,008,901
Mental Strength – 6,787,222
Naritti – 702
The crowd fell into stunned silence. Then, as if compelled by instinct, every single person bowed. The hall became a sea of bent heads, reverence filling the air like a holy fragrance.
Pannival lifted his gaze, his eyes sweeping over the masses. He raised a hand, and with that simple gesture, the hall quivered in awe. His voice thundered:
"Once again, I am Mahaji Malwai, the 599th Pannival of the Malwai Empire. I have witnessed wars, treaties, peace, and bloodshed. I have seen empires born, and empires fall. From the Holy War, to the World War, to the so-called War of Peace—I have seen them all.
I am nothing but a vessel. A vessel to deliver the wisdom of those who came before me. And perhaps… this may be the last time I address you as your Pannival. For the next time, if fate wills it, will be in the shadow of war—something I do not wish for, yet something none of us can escape."
The chamber tensed. His words were a warning, a prophecy.
He paused, then leaned forward, his voice dropping to a grave whisper:
"You call yourselves Guardians. Men, women… listen well. This planet does not need guardians."
A ripple of shock stirred. Heads lifted, eyes widened. What did he mean?
"For every one of us," Pannival continued, "there are ten more ready to replace us. But we… we are the Saptavansh—the Seven Clans of Protection. And you… you are the Saptara, the blade and shield of Prithvi itself. You will not guard. You will not watch. You will protect. From within, and from beyond."
The hall erupted into a deafening roar:"YES!"
It was not just a cry. It was a vow. A scream of blood and resolve, a scream of men and women ready to fight, ready to die for their nations—for their world.
Pannival raised his hands, and silence returned like a sudden storm."The Saptara," he declared, "shall be divided into two great organs: the Interne and the Externe. Together, they will answer to the HEAD. The HEAD shall consist of the Pannival of the Malwai Empire, the Leader of the Saptavansh, the Grand Commander of the Saptara, the Advocate of the Interne, and the Advocate of the Externe."
A collective breath was held. The time had come.
"The Interne will handle the struggles within. Our wars against the Union of Nations. Our conflict with the Muvah. It shall be the organ of intellect, strategy, and shadows. And at its head, there will be one Advocate—a single voice, unquestioned by all Company leaders. That Advocate shall be…"
He let the words hang. A deliberate pause. The silence was thick with anticipation.
"Maqbir… or Aurelia, perhaps?" someone whispered.
Pannival straightened, and in a voice that cut like thunder, declared:"MAQBIR MAHORAGA!"
The chamber erupted. Applause thundered, though among it lay envy and bitterness. Some eyes narrowed, some lips curled. Maqbir's wife, tears streaming, bowed her head in pride, her heart swelling with triumph.
"Moving ahead," Pannival continued firmly, "the Interne shall be divided into two companies. Company Alpha will march under Lysette Adamus. Company Beta shall follow Shinsho Mitsuba."
He gestured. "Each company will number one thousand. Half shall train in the ancient Powers. Half shall sharpen mind and body alone. A balance of intellect and might."
Angkasa Jayantaka rose. "Precisely. The Interne will be our shield against chaos."
"Correct," Pannival nodded. "And now… the Externe."
The room grew tense. This was what they had waited for.
"The Externe shall face outward, ever watchful of the skies beyond our own. It will confront the godly foes who lurk outside our world. It will face the Rulers themselves. Unlike the Interne, the Externe will wield strength above all—powers honed for battle without mercy.
At its head shall stand the Advocate of the Externe. One voice. One authority, subject only to the HEAD itself. And that Advocate shall be…"
He stopped again. The hall froze. Hearts pounded. Suspicion crept like shadows.
Then—"MINAKI AKATSUMI!"
The chamber gasped. Murmurs turned to shouts. One voice roared above the rest—Awaja Azhura's. His eyes burned with rage, his fists clenched white. He had been denied.
But Pannival continued, unshaken."The Externe will split into two companies. Company Delta will march under Awaja Azhura." The furious man stiffened, lips pressed tight. "Company Gamma will follow Orien Nostrus."
The hall grew restless. Only one rank remained. One final announcement.
The Grand Commander.
And only one Clan Head was left unspoken. Aurelia Sifon.
Not all could accept the thought of kneeling before a woman. Many shifted uneasily. Awaja's rage was barely concealed, his glare fixed like a blade at Aurelia.
Pannival raised his hand for silence once more."The companies of the Externe," he declared, "shall each number one thousand. Soldiers who wield Power and Strength as one. Warriors prepared to fight at any time, in any place, against any foe—human or devil. No exceptions."
Then, at last, his voice rang clear, sharp, undeniable:"The Grand Commander of the Saptara… will be AURELIA SIFON. The strongest woman in the empire."
The chamber exploded. Applause, protests, disbelief, awe. Aurelia's eyes gleamed with pride—but also with the weight of a burden few could bear. Awaja turned his face away, his jaw clenched, his shadow darker than ever.
"But this is not the end," Pannival declared, his voice echoing across the chamber like a verdict. "The final and most secret division of the Saptara—the Waffe Squad—will oversee both Interne and Externe. It will be entrusted with missions of the highest peril, with operations that could alter the very fate of empires. For this purpose, the Squad B of the Runestone Regiment of the Malwai Military will also stand as the Waffe Squad—the last weapon of the Saptara. With Miyazaki Azhura at its core, it shall answer only to the Grand Commander, and even then, only if it so wills. Its captain will be Mazhiro Akatsumi… and its special captain, Anata Shikawa."
A heavy silence blanketed the room.
Mazhiro exhaled sharply, breaking it. "We are also a part of this?" His tone wavered between disbelief and resignation.
"Unfortunately… yes, we are," Sukheer replied quietly, his words carrying more weight than he intended.
Armeet's brow furrowed, his usual bravado faltering. "What in the world are we being dragged into?"
Before anyone could answer, Elva's voice rose, soft yet trembling with an eerie certainty. "I just hope it never comes to pass. The visions I've seen… they are no mere nightmares. My head burns every time I glimpse them. If the war I foresee truly ignites—it will not just scar our world. It will devour universes. It will be the most dreadful, the most brutal war ever etched into the history of existence."
Her words left a chill lingering in the air, each syllable gnawing at the squad's composure. For a moment, no one spoke.
Finally, Mazhiro placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, his eyes hardened with resolve. "Then whatever happens," he said firmly, his voice rising with conviction, "we never break apart. Not in fear. Not in war. Together—we will eradicate this threat, or die standing against it."
And thus, the stage was set. The Saptara was born. But already, suspicion and rivalry simmered beneath its surface.
[To be Continued in Chapter 41]