The sharp blare of an alarm pierced the silence.
"What the hell is that noise at this hour?" muttered an officer, emerging groggily from his flat in the same apartment complex where Chief Rithvik resided.
The alarm intensified.
Officers flooded into the hallway. One of them shouted, "Why is the emergency alarm ringing? What's going on?!"
"How the hell am I supposed to know?!" another barked back, already sprinting down the corridor.
They reached Rithvik's floor—and froze.
The apartment was in ruins, scorched black, the walls cracked, and the ceiling partially collapsed from the explosion. Smoke still lingered.
"What the fuck happened here…?"
High above the city, under the pouring rain, a masked figure flew silently through the night sky. His boots flickered with chakra-powered propulsion as he descended into the outskirts—the outcast slum.
He landed softly, walked past the makeshift homes, and approached a lonely grave near an isolated house.
Removing his mask, he reached into his coat, pulled out a necklace, and gently placed it back on the sword hilt planted into the earth.
The grave read:
"In loving memory of Angel."
A gruff voice echoed behind him.
Michael. What are you doing out here at this hour, in that suit? I don't remember assigning you to any mission."
Michael, without turning, replied coldly:
"And I don't recall giving you permission to question me, Victor."
Victor, a rugged middle-aged man, stepped forward, arms crossed.
"Straight to the point as always. I heard that bastard did something filthy to the outcasts today… and stole that necklace. How'd you get it back?"
"What he did was none of my concern," Michael replied, eyes fixed on the grave.
Victor's voice tensed.
"You know this is beyond your authority, Michael. What would happen if he used the rest of his chakras? it would've cost you your life."
Michael stood up and turned toward him, unwavering.
"Nothing is beyond my power."
Victor sighed deeply.
"Don't get cocky. Without that suit, you're just another damn kid."
Michael didn't respond. He walked past him, heading to the worn-out door of the house.
"What about your academy?" Victor called after him. "Are you still attending regularly?"
Michael paused, hand on the door handle.
"See you later."
"Then answer me this," Victor added, voice firm. "What did you do to Rithvik?"
Michael opened the door, stepped in, and muttered:
You'll find out soon enough."
The door clicked shut.
Early next morning, the scene of the previous night's chaos was sealed off as a restricted zone. Armed officers swarmed the area, scanning every corner of the scorched apartment.
A tall, imposing figure walked steadily through the crowd. His very presence commanded silence and respect.
It was Vyaan Sahay, Chairperson of C.O.S.M.O.S.—a man in his early 60s, known for his iron will and legendary authority.
Flanking him was Bheema, his personal assistant. Towering and muscular, Bheema looked like a warrior from ancient times—but he spoke with calculated calm.
Vyaan didn't waste time.
"Report."
Bheema began, "Based on forensic analysis, sir, a major battle occurred here."
Vyaan scanned the blackened walls and shattered glass.
"I could tell that much just by looking."
Bheema continued, "We reviewed footage from the stairwells, hallways, and parking lot—nothing unusual. And unfortunately, there's no video inside the flat."
Vyaan raised an eyebrow.
"All flats are supposed to have surveillance installed."
A few officers nearby exchanged uneasy glances.
"They do, sir," Bheema confirmed. "But Chief Rithvik disabled his. A direct breach of protocol."
Vyaan clenched his jaw.
"That bastard never cared for rules."
What's his condition now?" he asked without turning.
Bheema, towering beside him, responded in his usual calm tone, though there was a tinge of hesitation.
"There's no threat to his life, sir. But… he's sustained severe third-degree burns. Most of his appearance has been destroyed beyond recognition. Even the best reconstructive surgery won't be able to restore him completely."
Vyaan let out a disappointed sigh and finally turned toward Bheema. His face twisted into a sneer of contempt.
"Pathetic… That bastard—a chief, no less, of an elite unit—reduced to a pile of scorched flesh. And defeatedso easily?"
Bheema shifted slightly. "We did find two clues, sir."
"Go on."
"First—residue analysis revealed traces of unburnt hydrocarbons, nitrogen oxides, and sulfur dioxide. The source: petroleum-based explosives."
Vyaan narrowed his eyes.
"Petroleum? That's outdated tech. Who the hell still uses that?"
"Second—the apartment is on the 50th floor, sir. With no signs of internal movement, the only way in was likely through the balcony."
"Meaning the culprit used flight tech—possibly jet boots or similar."
Vyaan nodded grimly.
"So either a rogue with C.O.S.M.O.S. gear... or someone who shouldn't have it."
Bheema gave a tense nod.
"We've got ourselves a delicate situation," Vyaan muttered.
He turned, voice low and sharp.
"Keep this under wraps. I want full control over this investigation. No leaks."
Bheema replied, "Yes, sir."
"And find out how the hell someone got their hands on our tech."
There was a beat of silence.
"What about the perpetrator, sir?" Bheema asked cautiously.
Vyaan's eyes sharpened.
"Don't deploy a task force. That'll just attract attention. Assign someone discreet—Rithvik's personal assistant, Bheeshma. Let's see where his trail leads."
Bheema hesitated but bowed slightly.
"Understood."
In the worn-down slums of the outcasts, Michael was getting ready for another day at the academy—unwillingly.
"Why the hell should I even show up? That grey-haired bastard's just gonna block my way again…" he grumbled, slamming the rusted door behind him.
He glanced briefly at the lonely grave outside his house, where a necklace still hung from a sword's hilt. A deep silence followed, then he muttered under his breath:
"I know exactly what I need to do."
As he walked past through the slum's cracked pathways, and enters the city the people around him shot disgusted glares—like a cockroach had crawled into their world. But Michael didn't flinch. Their hatred didn't bother him anymore.
A bus screeched past, dangerously close, as if the driver was disgusted by the thought of breathing the same air as him. The vehicle stopped ahead at a bus stop. Michael clenched his fists, his anger bubbling, but kept walking.
Suddenly, a commotion caught his attention.
A group of channelers were beating up a dull—a lean kid pinned against the wall.
"You're just my sidekick, Sesha. Don't even think about talking back to me!" one of them growled.
The dull, Sesha, despite the bruises, shot back:
"We're both part of the Order of the Hammer. Why are we treated like dirt?!"
The one leading the assault, Arjun, a Blaze-type chakra user, laughed cruelly.
"Because you are dirt. Nothing more."
Sesha's shoulders sank. His eyes dimmed—not from pain, but from the weight of that truth.
Then, a voice—cold and sarcastic—sliced through the tension.
"Tch... Who'd have guessed? Even garbage like you lot have a hierarchy within you"
All eyes turned. Michael stood there, hands in pockets, a lazy smirk on his face.
Arjun's face twisted in rage.
"Look who showed up… Welcome, outcast."
"Son of a bitch," Michael replied, not even sparing him a glance. "I wasn't talking to you."
He stepped past him and stopped in front of Sesha, who stared back, confused.
"What's this? A little pup in need of saving?"
Sesha didn't know how to react. Arjun and his gang, however, were seething.
And the tension on the street was about to ignite.