As I want you to know, the chakras awaken after the appearance of the Man-God—the Immovable, Dhruva. After that, humans across the earth start to wake their chakras, personality-locked and element-based. They are:
Stone Chakra — based on strength and earth attributes.
Blaze Chakra — based on endurance and fire attributes.
Volt Chakra — based on agility and electricity attributes.
Soul Chakra — heart; vitality and healing attributes.
Echo Chakra — sound; manipulate sound as you please.
Mind Chakra — mental fortitude; those who activate it can manipulate surroundings and create illusions.
Crown Chakra — gods; they blend reality and perform miracles humanity thought impossible.
Dhruva was a different kind. After his disappearance, no one in this timeline reached that state again; that happened a nearly three century ago. After that, people split and all that bullshit happens:
Channelers who awaken chakras, Dulls who don't, the Order of the Hammer and the Outcasts, the formation of C.O.S.M.O.S.—all of it.
To identify suitable people to fight interstellars, they made a ranking system to pick potential individuals. But that only added discrimination to an existing system. Like society split into Order and Outcasts,
C.O.S.M.O.S. divides people into E, D, C, B, A, S, SS—based on how many skills you cracked open.
In this world, rank is not decided by raw power alone, but by mastery.
If you are a Blaze Chakra user, your rank is determined by how many distinct Blaze-based skills you have fully acknowledged and mastered. Each skill represents a separate expression of control, application, and understanding of the element.
The ranking system works as follows:
One Blaze skill mastered → E-Rank
Two Blaze skills mastered → D-Rank
Three Blaze skills mastered → C-Rank
Four Blaze skills mastered → B-Rank
Five Blaze skills mastered → A-Rank
Six Blaze skills mastered → S-Rank
It applies for all the other chakra users.
A skill is not merely the ability to generate chakra's power.
It must be:
Distinct in function
Stable under combat conditions
Acknowledged by the user's chakra system
For example, producing fire, shaping fire, reinforcing the body with fire, and releasing compressed flame are all considered separate skills, even though they originate from the same Blaze Chakra.
This system prevents false rankings based on brute force alone.
A wielder with immense energy but only one refined technique remains low-ranked, while a disciplined combatant with multiple mastered applications ascends rapidly.
In short:
Power shows how hard you hit.
Rank shows how much you truly understand.
And Michael? He wasn't a Channeler. He was an Outcast. That was all he ever was.
All he wanted was simple: find the bastard who made his mother cry her last tears, drag him down to hell, and kill him again when he got there. For that, he had to get into C.O.S.M.O.S.—the very people who had killed her.
Why they killed her, why the Vellory family was suddenly mixed into this mess… none of it mattered. Seeing those golden-spoon brats stroll through life with luxury and leisure—he needed that power, that access, that freedom. Not to live; to avenge.
"Uncle, do whatever you want. It doesn't change who I am," he'd said.
Arjun Vellory didn't flinch. "Start."
The moment the word left his lips, the candidates surged forward—including the five prodigies from the great houses. E-ranks to D-ranks, and all of them rushed straight at Michael.
He sheathed his daggers.
Why should he use weapons on these punks?
From the crowd, someone snickered, "Look at that bastard—frozen by our power."
Another chimed in, "Of course. He must've realized he's going to die like a dog."
Confidence dripped off all of them. After all, they thought they were fighting an Outcast.
Two trainees lunged, weapons raised.
THHHUUUUDDD
Michael kicked both of them. They flew several feet and hit the dirt like sacks.
Gasps broke out.
"Fine—fine," someone stammered. "It's true. Dogs can't do anything when surroun—"
"I'm not a dog," Michael cut in, voice sharp enough to slice bone. "Reverse that word. That's what I am."
The prodigies froze. The aloofness in their eyes shifted into something else—wariness. They realized, too late, they weren't facing a normal reject from the slums.
Then the rest swarmed him like flies. Kill the outsider; same script as every day of his life.
They struck with caution now. Chakras glowed. Stone users barreled forward—easy. He kicked one and sent him spinning. Blaze users tried to rush—another kick sent them tumbling, their flames dying pitifully. Volt users zipped around, but flashy was not fast enough; he planted boots in their ribs.
E-rank trash.
Not even worth warming up to.
Ajay Meer watched from his VIP box, arms folded, expression tight. Arjun slipped back into the shadows of the box behind him, silent as smoke.
Ajay's voice drifted down. "You've been interfering with C.O.S.M.O.S a lot."
Arjun's eyes found Michael. Cold. "Do you need an explanation?"
Ajay shook his head. "No. But tell me this—how did you conclude he isn't your nephew?"
Arjun's jaw hardened. "Do you know why my brother's son ran away?"
Ajay didn't reply. So Arjun continued, every word a blade.
"He didn't run away. He was banished."
Ajay stiffened.
Arjun went on, voice calm, dead. "He was talentless. Worthless. A disgrace. Before the world discovered his incompetence, my brother and I cast him out. We couldn't allow such a stain on our blood."
Ajay's breath hitched. "You—what?"
"We killed him," Arjun said, shrugging as if discussing weather. "Technically, we hired someone. Letting him live would've tarnished our reputation."
Ajay's face twisted. This was the world—no love, no loyalty. Only pride and name.
Arjun finished, "So no—he isn't Adhitya Vellory."
Ajay whispered, "Then who is he?"
Arjun's answer dropped like a guillotine.
"An existence that should not be allowed to live."
Back on the field, Michael kept mowing through candidates. Knives sheathed. Fists doing the work. E-ranks dropped like flies; D-ranks tried clever tactics and still fell with holes in their pride.
Almost boring.
Until it wasn't.
A blow slammed into his side, sending him skidding. He got up—and another hit knocked him back again. He tasted dirt.
Vikram stepped forward, Stone Chakra half-activated and arrogance glowing on his face. An electrified jab from Nagul cracked across Michael's ribs. Neha's Echo Chakra sliced the air, making his knee buckle. Ranveer's Blaze Chakra scorched his flank.
They formed a neat execution line.
"Embrace your death, rat," Ranveer sneered.
"That's my line, you bitch," Vikram added, puffed up like royalty.
"Hehe… whoever kills him gets the glory," Neha purred.
They thought he was finished.
They thought wrong.
Michael spat blood, breathing raggedly. "So all of you use your skills, huh?" His voice dropped, low and cold. "Then why not me?"
Silence fell.
His eyes darkened—void-black, flat, geometric. The air grew unnaturally still. A chill slithered up every spine.
Neha whispered, "What… what is that?"
Michael didn't answer. He saw them—chakra cores pulsing, weak spots glowing like cracks in cheap armor. Tendons begging to be struck. Breaths he could break.
He moved.
No hesitation. No mercy.
He didn't want to break them completely—just their pride.
He made them kneel.
Vikram took a brutal punch to the abdomen. Ranveer folded after one to the solar plexus. Neha caught a precise, humiliating strike under the throat. Nagul got two blows—gut and thorax—dropping him hard.
They hit the ground, gasping like dying fish.
"How—?" Neha wheezed.
"How can you—?" Ranveer sputtered.
Michael towered over them. "Don't worry, kids. Time to kneel before your king."
Their pride shattered. Their foreheads hit dirt.
Then something smashed into Michael—a leg, wide and heavy as a steel beam. He flew. The world spun. He slammed into the ground, dust exploding around him.
He pushed up, bones screaming, and forced himself to his feet.
A tall figure approached—broad, calm, a shadow that swallowed the sun.
A warning window blinked in Michael's vision.
DANGER ALERT!! DANGER ALERT!! DANGER ALERT!!
Nothing had ever triggered that before.
The figure appeared right in front of him—no movement, just arrival.
He looked at Michael like at a tired child.
"Sleep, boy," the man said.
His fist cracked against Michael's skull.
The world folded.
Darkness swallowed him whole—no ground, no light, nothing but ringing emptiness. Floating in a nameless void.
Then a face appeared. Cold. Amused.
The one man Michael hated on instinct.
"I was waiting to meet you as soon as this problem was over…" Michael snarled in the darkness.
"But you showed up first, you great asshole-sucker."
Vashir.