Michael stepped into the sprawling training grounds of C.O.S.M.O.S, where sections were meticulously segregated for core combat drills.
Soldiers clashed fiercely under the watchful eyes of instructors, the arena engineered with chakra-suppressing barriers to unleash powers without scarring the environment.
This controlled intensity forged skills essential for the ranking system: F and E for novices, D and C for soldiers, B and A for executioners, and S-plus for supremes—advancement hinging on skill count and mastery.
Vikram Vellory dominated the central ring, surrounded by all the other C-Rank soldiers sparring to steal techniques and climb ranks.
Vikram loomed over his latest victims, sprawled and groaning. "What were you thinking, challenging me?" he sneered. One defeated fighter rasped, "Fuck... we're all C-rank, but you overwhelm us. This is royal blood power, isn't it?"
A roar erupted from behind. "Scorch Verdict!" Flames erupted, slamming Vikram's back with a searing brand that blinked once—then detonated. The blast hurled him forward, but Vikram staggered upright, pain twisting his features, his superior chakra absorbing the brunt.
Ranveer Rathore smirked, flames dancing at his fingertips. "Hey, throne pervert, pick your rivals wisely, damn it." Vikram's rage ignited, but Ranveer pressed on. "What, cat got your tongue? Maybe your 'elder brother' showing up rattled you? Hahaha!"
Fury propelled Vikram forward. "King's Armor!" His body hardened into unyielding rock, veins bulging as he charged with a earth-shaking punch. The skirmish escalated into a maelstrom, shockwaves cracking the reinforced ground.
Michael watched from the shadows, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Try your hardest, brother",he thought, turning away toward the next section.
In the next section of the training grounds, a scene of utter devastation unfolded—men sprawled across the dirt, defeated and groaning, their eyes fixed on one indomitable figure: Neha Khuraar.
The young woman in her early twenties commanded absolute obedience; no man dared defy her, her presence alone enough to break wills.
One of the fallen soldiers muttered through gritted teeth, "Fuck... that girl fights like a veteran warrior. There's something unnatural in her voice."All eyes shifted to her opponent—Varsha Aarin, team leader, standing unflinching.
"Now it's all in her hands," someone whispered.Varsha faced Neha head-on, her expression a mask of stoic calm.
Neha smirked wickedly. "What, Varsha? Even in a practice match, I won't show mercy."Varsha's stern gaze sharpened. "So this is revenge for your father, isn't it?"
The words ignited Neha's fury. "Fuck! It's your family's attitude that makes me want to kill every one of you!"
She whispered, "Whisper Velvet."The skill warped perception, a insidious distortion that had felled Varsha's entire team—illusions twisting senses until victims collapsed in confusion.
But as Neha uttered the words, suffocation gripped her throat. Whisper Velvet fizzled uselessly against Varsha's pre-deployed counter: "Jealous Silence."
Within the skill's radius, an oppressive quiet descended, stripping enemies of voice, will, and strength.
Neha crumpled to the ground, defeated before she could strike, her body betraying her in humiliating silence.
Michael observed from the shadows, impressed. That's some serious skills she possesses. Maybe I can use her in my plan for revenge.
Neha staggered up, face flushed with rage and shame. "Again? Why can't you people face us head-on instead of relying on these sly tricks?"
Varsha's stern expression never wavered as she delivered her cutting words. "A skill is a skill—no emotion, no mercy. Just like defeat."
Without a backward glance, she turned and strode off the training field, her steps measured and unyielding.
Neha Khuraar, still kneeling in the dirt, clenched her fists until her knuckles whitened.
"Wait, you bitch!" she spat, her voice raw with fury. "One day, I'll make you and your entire Aarin stronghold regret messing with us Khuraars!"
Her eyes blazed with unquenchable vengeance, a burning promise etched into every fiber of her being. She would spare nothing—no mercy, no hesitation—to crush them all.
Then, exhaustion claimed her; she collapsed forward, fainting amid the dust, her face a mask of fierce determination even in unconsciousness.
The chaos across the training grounds hung thick in the air until a commanding voice sliced through it like a blade. Mr. Vayanshi, the overseer for the C-rank soldiers—an imposing B-rank executioner from one of the Aarin stronghold's branch families—stepped forward.
"Halt!"That single word was enough. Fights froze mid-strike.
Vikram Vellory's rock-hard fist hovered inches from Ranveer Rathore's smirking face.
The entire field fell silent, weapons lowering, combatants separating as if pulled by invisible strings. Vayanshi's authority was absolute; no one dared test it.
His sharp eyes swept the pitiful scene: C-rank soldiers sprawled across the reinforced ground, bodies bruised and broken from the brutal sparring.
Others, not locked in combat drills, panted through their physical conditioning regimens—push-ups under chakra-weighted gravity, endurance runs laced with illusionary beasts.
Vayanshi raised a hand. "Medics—now!"The healing team rushed in, their emerald heart chakra auras glowing softly. These specialists wielded skills honed for restoration, their powers deeply tied to their compassionate personalities.
Heart chakra users excelled here, their empathy amplifying heals that mended bones, soothed burns, and knit torn muscles—often synergizing with fire or water chakras for faster recovery.
They moved efficiently, channeling golden light into the fallen, including Neha and her defeated teammates.
Wounds closed. Energy returned.Neha stirred first, her eyes fluttering open.
The moment she registered the medics and Mr.Vayanshi's face, she disgust and twisted her features. "What the hell is this? Getting treated because of him?" She jerked upright, glaring daggers at Vayanshi, her voice dripping venom. To her, his branch family ties made their aid an insult—a reminder of the strongholds' endless rivalries.
Vayanshi didn't flinch. Disrespect from a hotheaded C-ranker like Neha meant nothing to him. He stood unmoved, his face a stone wall of professionalism. "Assemble immediately.
Everyone."Michael, who had watched the entire spectacle unfold like some absurd circus act—Vikram and Ranveer's legacy fight, Neha's rage, Varsha's cold dominance, the medics' quiet efficiency—shrugged it off.
He'd seen enough drama for one session. He turned toward the assembly area as ordered, joining the stream of co-soldiers filing in under Vayanshi's watchful eye. The air buzzed with lingering tension, but for now, the training grounds reset for whatever came next.
Mr. Vayanshi stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, his presence quiet but authoritative.
"Everyone," he began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the training grounds, "it's good to see you all working this hard."
A few soldiers straightened instinctively.
"You may belong to different strongholds," he continued, "branch families, main lineages—or even no lineage at all. But once you step inside C.O.S.M.O.S… once you wear this uniform—"
He paused.
"You are brothers and sisters on the battlefield."
That was when it happened.
Laughter.
Not loud—but deliberate.
Vikram smirked openly. Ranveer chuckled beside him, shaking his head as if he'd just heard a bad joke. Neha's face twisted in visible disgust. Varsha, as usual, showed nothing—her expression calm, unreadable.
A few members of Vayanshi's own branch family shifted uncomfortably, silently reminding themselves to behave. Not because they agreed—but because appearances mattered.
Mr. Vayanshi didn't react.
"Brotherhood," he continued evenly, "is the only reason you survive real battlegrounds. Until now, you've fought Interstellars with known attack patterns. Predictable. Documented."
His eyes hardened.
"But once you're promoted to Executioner status, you'll be deployed directly to meteor fall zones. Unknown terrain. Unknown enemies. New species of Interstellars humanity hasn't even named yet."
The laughter died.
"Remember this," he finished. "Out there, arrogance kills faster than claws."
Michael listened quietly.
For a moment—just a moment—he felt something close to respect.
Huh. A decent man… pulled out of a dump yard, he thought dryly.
Then—
"Vellory."
Vikram snapped to attention. "Yes, Overseer—"
"Not you," Mr. Vayanshi interrupted calmly.
"I called Adhitya Vellory."
Ranveer laughed outright this time.
A sharp, humiliating sound.
Michael raised his head.
"Yes, Overseer."
Mr. Vayanshi studied him. "Everyone here is actively training. You aren't. That's fine. Let's see your abilities."
He gestured to the center of the field.
"I'll prepare an augmented reality combat ground."
Michael's temple throbbed.
Great. Just when I thought he was decent, Michael sighed inwardly.
He's already lining me up for a mess.
He hesitated—just slightly.
"If I show too much… I become vulnerable".
As if reading his mind, Mr. Vayanshi added,
"Didn't I say this earlier? In real battles, hiding everything gets you killed. Knowing your allies' skills—and trusting them to cover your weaknesses—is how you last longer."
Michael's face remained calm.
His mind, however, was anything but.
Fuck. What do I even show?
The Black Lotus is out of the question.
But dodging forever will only make this worse.
He exhaled.
Fine. If not now, then later. Might as well finish it here.
Michael stepped toward the augmented field.
Then—
A voice cut through the air, loud and dripping with confidence.
"Why should he fight the system," the man said, cracking his fists together as electric arcs danced between his hands,
"when I'm the pinnacle here?"
Nagul Senapati,Volt Chakra user.
Senapati Stronghold.
He walked toward Michael with a smirk that screamed entitlement, electricity snapping along his knuckles like it was begging to be unleashed.
Michael glanced at him.
Unimpressed.
Again, he thought, deadpan.
Another idiot volunteering to get his ass whooped.