What the fuck.
Is this how I'm going to die — burned to toast by these C.O.S.M.O.S bastards?
Aaaaahhhhh. Memories flood in: every time society beat me down, every sneer from the so-called upper class.
Where do I even start this story? When millions drop dead in the streets, bodies stacked like broken statues? Or when the survivors turn into husks — breathing, but long past living?
Maybe I should start from when existence itself becomes the prize. When waking up with breath is an achievement.
When good and evil blur until you can't tell a saint from a butcher. Everybody does whatever filth makes them feel alive, and they call it survival.
But let's be honest — who gives a damn?
Not me. Especially not me.
I wasn't some grieving saint or reluctant savior. I was already burning. Hollow, weightless, stuck between memories that don't matter and a future that never will.
Because I'm born into the rot.
The world shifts long before I open my eyes. Meteors fall — carrying monsters called Interstellars. Where they come from? Nobody knows. Regions make their own legends. Truth doesn't matter. They tear through armies and cities like wet paper. People scream. People pray. The gods? Silent. Always.
Then Dhruva comes — that's the name they give him, though nobody knows the man behind it. A soldier with a hammer, a messiah in blood and fire. He smashes an Interstellar with one swing, and people start calling him a god. They worship him, and the world changes.
Chakra. A force clawing out from inside people. It rewrites bone, carves flesh into weapons. Makes heroes — if you're lucky. Makes monsters — if you're not.
From his sermons grow chains. The Order of the Hammer replaces every old religion. People who protest are branded Outcasts.
That's where I belong. Left to rot like garbage. Scraped off the map. They never cared whether we live or die.
My story bleeds in there.
My mother was an Outcast. My father… that bastard was from the Order of the Hammer.
He used my mother like a toy, then abandoned her the moment my existence stained his perfect little world.
She toiled and lived hell, and the only thing she loved was me. We lived hard — but for those years, it was the best part of life for us. Then the Order finds out. They can't allow an Outcast woman to carry the bastard son of their elite. To clean their conscience, they make a choice.
They kill her.
They drag her into an alley and leave her to choke on her own blood. My mother — who deserved more than this diseased world — dies nameless, unwanted.
Me? I'm supposed to die with her. But I don't.
A man named Victor — who he is, I don't know — fights them off and takes me in. Not kindness. Not pity. He forges me into a weapon: loot, scavenge, terrorize.
Eventually I earn a name people whisper like a curse: Night Reaper.
Crime belongs to the dark.
From everything I do, I learn one truth:
The world doesn't deserve saving.
But it does deserve revenge.
[Uffff… uffff… blood spatters from my mouth.]
So why am I in C.O.S.M.O.S., ten floors under, charred and staring down death?
Because beneath this place is the Awakener Chamber. Where C.O.S.M.O.S forces Chakra into Dulls — pulls open what the gods forgot to give. A machine to make the powerless dangerous.
While I am into obtaining the powers the chakras, then he appears Bheeshma.
Chief of the Danger Eradication Force. A man who can level an A-rank beast with a glance. His blaze Chakra rips through me like lightning through dry wood.
Flames chew me alive. Every nerve snaps. Every muscle convulses. My blood boils under my skin. My vision collapses into red and black. My body is already a corpse waiting for dirt.
And he just stands there. Arms folded. Watching me burn like an insect under a magnifying glass.
Figures.
Above us, a Necadron — an A-rank Interstellar — roars. Sure, a coincidence: the elites fighting a beast above the vault. But the true monster right now isn't that.
It's him.
My heart slows. My lungs collapse. I want nothing but justice for my mother. But justice has qualifications, right? If you're high enough, you get whatever you want and call it justice. If you're not, you choke in the dirt.
Fuck that. Fuck everyone. I don't need anything or anyone.
"Maa…" I don't know why I cry. Maybe because, for once, I think I'll see her again.
Then — a voice.
Cold. Patient. As if it's been waiting.
"Do you want another chance?"
A chance. The word nearly makes me laugh. What the hell has life ever given me but scars and graves? Ashes don't get remembered.
So I answer how I know:
"If living means power, then yes."
The fire twists. The pain folds in on itself. My veins don't just burn — they sing, sharper than agony, hungrier than death.
I don't care if it's god, devil, or some hallucination. If it makes me stronger, I take it. If it wants a monster, I'll give it one.
Morality's a leash for the weak. I'm done being weak.
I force the word out, throat raw:
"…Yes."
The voice answers, not a whisper. Not a blessing.
A command carving itself into my bones.
"Then rise. Let's show them what a god is truly made of."
In that moment I'm no longer just Michael.
I am something else.
My body tears itself apart and stitches back together, remade in a storm of black fumes — names I don't bother learning. Violent. Filthy. Perfect. Every part of me hums with a hunger that isn't mine and feels like everything I ever wanted.
You should have seen that bastard's face when it happens. Hahahaha — priceless.
Right then I become what the Order never planned for: their shame, their mistake, their reckoning.
They taught the world to fear the hammer. They taught themselves to be gods. They thought control came from dividing people, from altars of obedience. Cute. The joke's on them now.
I taste power, hate, something like joy. It's not noble. It's not clean. It's exactly what I asked for — what I deserved.
Soon I'll make them remember how their blood smells.