When millions dropped dead in the streets, bodies stacked like broken statues?
When the ones who survived were nothing more than husks—breathing, but long past living?
Or maybe I should start from when existence itself became the prize. When people stopped chasing meaning and settled for a pulse. Even spending one night and waking up in the morning with breath became more than enough.
When good and evil blurred so badly you couldn't tell a saint from a butcher. Everyone just did whatever filth made them feel alive, and they called 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 burning already. Hollow, weightless, caught between memories that didn't matter and a future that never would.
Because I was born into the rot.
The world shifted long before I opened my eyes. Meteors fell—carrying monsters called Interstellars. Where they came from? Nobody knew. Every region spun its own legend. What was true didn't matter. What mattered was that they tore through armies and cities like wet paper. People screamed. People prayed. And the gods they believed in? Silent, as always.
Then came Dhruva. A soldier with a hammer, a messiah dressed in blood and fire. He broke the Interstellars with a single swing, and the people called him a god. They worshiped him, and through that worship, the world itself changed.
Chakra. A force clawed out from inside humanity. It rewrote bone, carved flesh into weapons. Made heroes—if you were lucky. Made monsters—if you weren't.
And from his sermons came chains. The Order of the Hammer.
Channelers were the chosen—the awakened.
Dulls were the forgotten.
And Outcasts? The ones who protested against the tyranny. Stripped of names, rights, worth. Human garbage left to rot in the cracks.
They broke us into Order of Hammers and Outcasts. Order and dirt. Easier to rule when the people are too busy hating each other to notice who holds the chains.
That's where my story bleeds in.
Because my mother was an Outcast.
And my father… he was Order. Elite. Untouchable.
He abandoned us the moment my existence stained his perfect little world. They couldn't let an Outcast woman carry the bastard son of a Hammer elite. So, to clean his conscience, they made a choice.
They killed her.
Dragged her into an alley and left her to choke on her own blood. My mother—who deserved more than this diseased world ever gave her—died nameless, unwanted.
Me? I was supposed to die with her. But I didn't. I crawled out of that pool of her blood and lived.
Because of a man named Victor. I don't know who he is, but he took me in. Taught me how to balance my lack of Chakra with skill.
Not out of kindness. Not out of pity.
He forged me into a weapon—to loot, to scavenge, to terrorize.
Eventually, I earned a name. One whispered like a curse.
Night Reaper.
Because crime only belongs to the dark.
And from all the things I did, I learned one truth:
The world doesn't deserve saving.
But it does deserve revenge.
[ Uffff… uffff… blood spatters from my mouth ]
So why am I here, in C.O.S.M.O.S., lying on the floor of an underground vault ten floors deep, my body charred, staring death in the eyes?
Because down here lies the Awakener Chamber.
A machine built to drag Chakra out of Dulls—to force open what the gods forgot to give. A chamber designed to make the powerless dangerous.
And I was powerless. An Outcast. No Chakra. No hope. Nothing but a grudge sharpened into a blade.
But instead of letting me take it, they sent him.
Bheeshma. Chief of the Danger Eradication Force. A man who could level an A-rank beast with a glance. His Volt Chakra carved 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 roars. Yeah, what a coincidence—above the vault, the elites are locked in battle with an Interstellar, maybe even A-rank. But the true monster isn't that.
It's him.
My heart slows. My lungs collapse. I don't ask for anything but justice for my mother. But even justice has qualifications, right? If you're high enough in society, 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'm crying. Maybe because, at last, I can see you one more time.
Then… a voice.
Cold. Patient. Like it had been waiting all along.
"Do you want another chance?"
A chance. The word almost makes me laugh. What the hell has life ever given me but scars and graves? But ashes… ashes don't get remembered.
So I answer the only way I know how.
"If living means power, then yes."
The fire twists. The pain folds inward. My veins don't just burn—they sing, sharper than agony, hungrier than death itself.
I don't care if it's god, devil, or just my brain rotting in fire. If it makes me stronger, I'll take it. If it wants a monster, I'll become its masterpiece.
Because morality? Morality is just a leash for the weak. And I am done being weak.
So I force the word out, my throat tearing to make it real:
"…Yes."
The voice answers. Not as a whisper. Not as a blessing.
But as a command that carves itself into my bones.
"Then rise. Let's show them what a god is truly made of."
And in that moment, I am no longer just Michael.
I am something else.
My body tears itself apart and stitches back together, re-made in a storm of black fumes—names I don't bother learning. It's violent and beautiful and filthy, and every part of me hums with a hunger that isn't mine and yet feels like all I've ever wanted.
You should've seen that bastard's face when it happened.
Hahahaha. Priceless.
Because 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 building altars of obedience. Cute. The joke's on them now.
I taste power and hate and something close to joy. It's not noble. It's not clean. It's exactly what I asked for—what I deserved.
And soon… I'll make them remember how their blood smells.