SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — SIDE MISSION
TITLE: Hostile Clearance (Black Ledger)
OBJECTIVE: Eliminate Soldiers ×11 (Hostile Targets — C.O.S.M.O.S. Rank)
LOCATION: C.O.S.M.O.S. Perimeter / Training Grounds
REWARDS: Black Essence Units — 118,000
BONUS: Increased notoriety / unique intel drops (chance)
RISK: Extreme — high-tier opponents; lethal force expected; mission flagged as criminal by local authorities.
ACCEPT / DECLINE
The prompt hangs in my vision like a blade—clean, indifferent, waiting for me to pick it up. Eleven soldiers. 118,000 BEU. My chest tightens the way it does before a punch: nervous but yet ready and hungry.
A question snaps through my head like a thrown rock: "You dumb enough to actually do this? Get your shit together and get out of the chamber." Practicality speaks like a sane man. Survival speaks like a coward.
Then the math kicks in. +1 to every stat cost 500 BEU. Strength. Agility. Endurance. Vitality. Ten points turns 'almost-killed-by-a-D-rank' into 'I cut through E-rank like paper.' The thought buzzes under my skin—tantalizing and dangerous. I can already taste the change. The petals will shift. And most of all—Vellory's door gets a little closer.
Excitement slides up my spine. Call it greed. Call it necessity. Call it what you want. For me, it's the only language that matters: power = answers = blood paid back in kind.
A knock—one, sharp, like a fist on a metal drum—cuts the thought off mid-breath. Not a polite knock. A shovel to the door.
Ajay's eyes sharpen. He hates interruptions the way saints hate sin; his jaw tightens like he's trying to chew the moment into order. "Hold," he snaps. "Do not move."
A soldier bolts to the door, breath loud in his throat. He throws it open and stumbles in, chest heaving like he sprinted through a storm. Sweat streaks his face. He looks like someone who just read bad news and swallowed it.
"What is it?" Ajay asks, voice hard—too calm for the kind of panic in the man's lungs.
The soldier, panting, straightens up, hands trembling. "Commander— High-priority—Arjun Vellory's sudden arrival." He spits the name like it's a brand.
Everyone in the chamber freezes—shock, whispers, disbelief—like the floor just cracked under them. Me? I don't even blink. My head's already working, slicing this mess into angles I can use.
The system prompt floats in my vision: Eliminate Soldiers ×11. Rewards: 118,000 BEU. Tempting for sure. But not now. I press Decline and let the room thrum.
Ajay Meer's face hardens. He doesn't shout—he doesn't need to. His eyes say he knows exactly why I'm here. "You don't realize what kind of mess you're in," he mutters, and signals the soldiers to move me.
We walk until the roar of a crowd drowns the echo of our boots. The gates part and I step into the training grounds.
Hundreds of candidates fill the arena—nobles, commoners, kids with too much hope and not enough sense. Flags hang heavy above: Vellory. Aarin. Senapati. Khuraar. Rathore. The five clans of Indravana. The families that feed blood into the hammer saint machine.
Names snap into focus.
Vikram Vellory — the golden son, primed for throne talk.
Varsha Aarin — quiet, elegant, devastating the room with one look.
Nagul Senapati — loud, arrogant, always backed by muscle.
Ranveer Rathore — sharp tongue, quicker to start trouble.
Neha Khuraar — cold, calculating, letting others burn until only she's left standing.
This isn't just a trial. Whoever wins gets sway over C.O.S.M.O.S.—the one independent force that can tip a throne. Control them and you flip the whole damn map.
The stage flickers. Glitch appears—too clean, too perfect to be fully human. The trial AI smirks in holographic form, voice all sarcasm.
"Welcome, little wannabes," Glitch trills. "Round one: group battle. Five per team. Hunt the interstellar habitat. Specifically—D-rank Ironbacks."
Groans ripple through the crowd.
Glitch rolls his digital eyes. "What's with the whining? Can't handle Ironbacks? How do you expect to earn the title hero then?"
Vikram tightens his jaw. "I'll succeed. I'll prove myself worthy of the hammer saint's throne."
"Watch your back until then," Ranveer sneers.
"Don't dream of stealing the Saint's bloodline," Nagul spits, and their lackeys erupt into noise.
Neha watches, unimpressed. Her followers murmur, "Milady, this throne belongs to you." She only smiles, faint and dangerous. "Let them fight. Less competition for me," she thinks—practical, patient.
Varsha Aarin stays silent, unbothered. Her presence is a weapon—no one needs words when everyone's staring.
Then I walk in, flanked by soldiers. Every head snaps toward me.
"Is it true? Heir to the hammer saint?"
"Bullshit. Publicity stunt."
"He's finished if he's lying."
"Or worse—if he's telling the truth."
I hear them. I don't care.
The temperature drops.
White-robed guards cut through the crowd, flanking a man in his late thirties. He moves like authority made of bone and iron. Arjun Vellory.
The arena tightens. Teachers bow. Ajay Meer's jaw goes taut.
One of Vikram's lackeys leans in, whispering, "Young master— that's your uncle."
Vikram startles, having missed the commotion while scheming for the throne. He whispers back, "Definitely he's not here for me."
From the stands, Vikram blurts, "Uncle? Why are you here?"
Arjun's gaze snaps to him like a blade. His voice is low, heavy, final. "That young man," he says, pointing straight at me, "claims to be your elder brother—Adithya Vellory."
The arena erupts.
Ranveer laughs loud enough to cut through the noise. "Then you're not in the race, Vikram! Guess the throne skips you!" His lackeys pile on.
Vikram's face flushes. His fists clench.
Arjun moves.
A slab of chakra slams the arena—tidal, invisible. The air crushes. Ranveer folds to the floor, gagging. Varsha, Nagul, Neha—everyone dips to their knees. Candidates stagger. Even the so-called elites buckle under the pressure. Neha grits her teeth. What the hell is that power? He's not even trying, yet he overpowers us all. I won't back down that easily, she thinks, and the thought is a promise.
Arjun retracts the pressure as if it were nothing. "Behave yourself," he says, cold as winter.
Silence hits harder than the blast did.
I stand in that silence, breathing the same air as them, feeling the game shift under my boots. The whole crowd thinks they've seen the worst of me. They've only seen the opening move.
I haul myself upright from the aftershock of his power. If Arjun's brother can shove the air around like that, imagine what the hammer saint can do—doesn't matter. I don't come for gods. I come for the bastard who made my mother's life a trash fire.
Arjun Vellory steps up close, crowd choking around us—Vellory, Aarin, Rathore, Khuraar, Senapati—every entitled face thinking they're watching a funeral. He looks at me like he's reading a verdict. "You claim to be Adithya Vellory, right? Then showcase your power. Prove the Vellory blood runs through you."
Right then a system window pops in my vision.
MAIN MISSION:Trial of Blood
Hunt all the Ironbacks
Rewards: 1,500 BEU each
Bonus: Entry to Vellory household
Accept / Decline
Arjun roars the rules: fight all the Ironbacks solo—no team members. Pick any weapon from the arsenal. Win.
Vikram Vellory screams, "What, uncle? Are you—" and then shuts up because Arjun's eye does the silencing. Neha Khuraar laughs to her heart's content. Nagul Senapati giggles. Varsha gives nothing—no emotion, just a look. Ranveer laughs like it's all a joke.
"Seriously?you thought you would compete with us? Nah na !na !na!. you better wish for a peaceful life next time," Ranveer sneers. Peaceful life? Please. Who wants peace when ruining others pays better?
With no second thoughts.I hit Accept.
They all expect me down on my knees. They expect the show. Shock them: I walk to the arsenal.
They laugh when I pick the twin daggers. Disbelief like it's a sound. Glitch the AI sneers in my ears, one-word verdict: "Bold." Then it clicks into carnival mode: "What are you waiting for? Let's start the event. Let's see what kind of one-side massacre this will be."
Good. Let them laugh. Let them watch. This isn't theatre. This is the first cut.