Where should I begin this story?
Perhaps from the moment millions died… or from when people—alive in body but dead in spirit—were shattered by the loss of those they once held dear.
Or maybe from the time when simply being alive became enough. Or when right and wrong blurred, and people believed they could live however they pleased—no matter how twisted their choices.
But really… who cares?
Especially me. I couldn't care less.
I was drifting—weightless in the void of memory and meaning—when this all began. And yet, it always felt like I'd been watching the world rot from the inside. Even before I opened my eyes for the first time, I think I knew what kind of place this was. Maybe that's why I never liked people. Or their gods.
This story doesn't begin with me. But it get stuck with me. So pay attention.
It all started when the skies cracked open and rained fire.
Meteors struck down upon the Earth. From them came monsters—interstellar beasts from dead worlds, twisted things beyond imagination. They ravaged everything. The military tried to fight, and they were wiped out. No gun, no tech, no prayer worked. Cities became graveyards. Screams became lullabies.
Humanity—weak as ever—turned to their gods. The ones they'd always cried to when the world didn't go their way. They begged for miracles. They wailed in temples. But no one came. The heavens stayed quiet.
Hope died.
Then… something else happened.
A meteor—larger than the rest—crashed into the Indian Ocean. And from it rose a monster that made the others look like flies. A leviathan. Just its roar shattered buildings and drowned the screams of entire cities. It was the end.
Until he showed up.
Dhruva.
Clad in nothing but a torn military uniform, holding a warhammer so massive it could crush tanks. He dropped from the sky like vengeance incarnate. And with one strike—just one—he killed the leviathan.
The world paused.
People whispered: "A god."
He never claimed to be. But he didn't need to. In that moment, humanity decided he was divine. Because they needed something to believe in.
They called him Dhruva, The Immovable.
With every step, monsters ran. With every strike, the skies cleared. He didn't give sermons. He didn't demand temples. But people built them anyway. They sang his name. Worshiped his power.
And something even stranger happened: people began awakening powers of their own.
Chakra.
A mysterious force—born from somewhere within—that turned humans into weapons. Those who could harness it became warriors: Channelers.
The world changed again.
Meteor strikes stopped. Peace returned. Humanity had a new god. Their savior. Their hammer.
And from Dhruva's teachings, the Order of the Hammer was born.
An organization founded on his ideals—or what they thought were his ideals. Discipline. Order. Control.
Channelers were recruited into their ranks. The rest—the powerless—were divided. Those who followed the Order were called Dulls. Those who didn't… were Outcasts.
Outcasts lost everything—rights, protection, even their names.
Fifty years passed.
And then Dhruva vanished.
No warning. No farewell.
Just gone.
And the meteors returned.
Fear came back with them. And so did the truth no one wanted to face:
Maybe gods were never meant to save us.
I learned that the hard way.
Flames chewed through me, licking bone, melting skin. Every breath was fire; every heartbeat, an explosion of agony. My vision pulsed in red and black until the world dissolved into nothing but the smell of my own burning flesh.
I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I was just a corpse waiting for the dirt, sprawled on the cracked floor like I'd been thrown away.
In those moments—those endless, suffocating moments—my life flashed before my eyes. Not the warm, cinematic version people talk about. No. Mine was a slideshow of every mistake, every betrayal, every smug face that walked past me when I needed a hand.
And in that molten haze, I asked myself: Was this my fault?
The answer came fast.
No.
It was theirs.
The so-called righteous. The smug, hollow society that smiled while grinding people like me into dust. The same fools who built their faith on gods, hammers, and empty promises.
The pain didn't stop. If anything, it dug deeper.
My body was nothing more than raw nerve endings and scorched meat, twitching on the cold steel floor of Vault B10. Every breath was like swallowing molten glass.
And Bheeshma—Chief of the Danger Eradication Force—just stood there. Arms folded. Watching me burn like a man studying a specimen under glass. No pity. No hesitation.
This bastard…
He'd electrocuted me with his Volt Chakra—the same power he'd used to destroy an A-rank interstellar beasts. Only this time, his lightning was meant for me.
Somewhere above us, muffled through tons of concrete and steel, a roar shook the air. Deep. Primal. An A-rank Interstellar Beast. Necadron.
It didn't matter.
Because here, in the depths of C.O.S.M.O.S—ten floors underground—the monster wasn't the one tearing me apart.
Vault B10. The Awakener Chamber. A place where the C.O.S.M.O.S designed suits to awaken dormant Chakra in Dulls. Turn the powerless into weapons.
But not me.
I was an Outcast. Stripped of rights. Stripped of the option to become anything more than what I was. If I wanted something, I had to take it by force—looting, stealing, doing whatever the hell it took to survive.
And for that… instead of hunting Necadron, the Chief himself came after me.
Figures.
The heat was killing me. My lungs burned like they were filled with oil. My heartbeat slowed.
I think… this is it.
Fine. Let it end here. Let the flames swallow me and drag me to hell. That's the only place that fits me anyway, after everything I've done.
Then…
A voice.
Calm. Cold. Like it had been waiting.
"Do you want another chance?"
I didn't have the strength to think straight. I had no other option. So I forced the word out.
"…Yes."
The voice sharpened—turning from a whisper into a grimming command that echoed through my bones.
"Then rise. Let's show them what a god is made of."