"Today shall be etched in history as the rebirth of Saptara—the guardians of Prithvi!" proclaimed Pannival Mahaji Malwai, his voice echoing with pride and command. He turned to Angkasa Jayantaka, the Leader of the Seven Clans, and nodded in solemn approval.
Angkasa stepped forward with a fierce glint in his eye. "Bring forth the machine."
At his word, six uniformed men marched into the hall, hauling a massive, metallic device. It was just over a meter long, with a circular platform on its surface, etched with footprints at the center and handprints on the side in gleaming obsidian.
Jayantaka's deep voice rang through the air, commanding silence.
"You must be wondering what this towering device is for. Let me make it clear—this is no ordinary machine. This will determine the strength, stature, and structure of Saptara. From this moment forward, this device shall decide the roles each of us shall play—based on merit, not legacy."
The crowd stirred. A low murmur rose like a tide—whispers of ambition, doubts, rivalries. A cold war had begun before the real battle. Who would rise? Who would command? Who was truly the strongest among them?
Rumors and speculations sparked across the chamber like dry grass catching fire.
Seeing the tension grow, Pannival raised his hand, and with a voice that silenced even the boldest tongues, declared:
"Enough talk. Let the trial begin. Minaki Akatsumi, Clan Head of the Akatsumis—step forward. Place your feet upon the circle, and your hands on the markings. Let the truth of your strength be revealed before the eyes of the Saptavansh!"
All eyes turned to Minaki as she walked forward, calm and proud, her footsteps heavy with the weight of generations.
The evaluation was about to begin.
Minaki Akatsumi rose from his seat like a mountain made flesh.
He moved without flair, without pride—but his mere presence stole the breath from the chamber. Conversations died. Eyes locked. Even the air grew still. The strongest of the Seven Clan Heads, the man known as The Flame That Cannot Be Extinguished, made his way toward the machine with quiet finality.
Each footstep was a declaration of power.
Left foot. Right foot. He mounted the circular platform.
He laid his hands flat upon the glowing imprints. For a moment, silence. Then—the machine roared to life, a mechanical hum reverberating through the stone-floored chamber.
Within two minutes, a sharp beep.
999-9991,002,846 – RAW STRENGTH890,972 – MYTHICAL STRENGTH342,125 – MENTAL STRENGTH
A collective exhale spread through the hall. There was no denying it—Minaki stood above them all like an eternal flame, his strength a force that echoed through every corner of the Saptavansh.
"Now you've all seen how your power shall be measured," Angkasa Jayantaka announced. "Let the next step forward—Maqbir Mahoraga."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Maqbir rose.
He felt the weight of every eye in the room.
He turned to face the platform, but his eyes caught Vahalla's—a quiet exchange of thoughts and fears. Vahalla gave no expression, only a knowing glance. Maqbir turned away.
His breath was slow, controlled, but inside—the storm churned.
He wasn't a warrior who rose by force or fame. In fact, since the day he was named Clan Head of the Mahoragas, many had doubted him. They whispered behind his back, questioned Angkasa's judgment, called him unworthy—a man not of the sword, but of old scars.
But they didn't know.
They didn't know how he once spent three winters bleeding in the Northern Dunes to save twelve lost soldiers.
They didn't know how he gave up his right to vengeance to protect the boy who would become his rival.
They didn't know the sleepless nights, the silent sacrifices, the shattered bones that never made the war songs.
They didn't know how he earned this seat not with glory—but with quiet, relentless resolve.
He walked slowly. Step by step.
As Minaki stepped down, Maqbir stepped up—a quiet torch approaching the peak lit by a wildfire.
He placed his feet on the designated spots. His hands followed.
The machine began again, its gears spinning, groaning against the weight of hidden truths.
A beep.
888-888701,264 – RAW STRENGTH882,543 – MYTHICAL STRENGTH
The murmurs started almost immediately.
"Below Minaki by far.""How disappointing for a Mahoraga.""Was this Angkasa's grand pick?"
A few scoffed. One or two even laughed.
Angkasa said nothing. His eyes remained locked on the machine. So did Vahalla's.
And then it happened.
The third score flashed.
2,999,894 – MENTAL STRENGTH
The hall fell deathly silent.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Even the wind outside the meeting chamber seemed to pause.
Almost three million. The highest ever recorded in the machine's memory—surpassing gods, surpassing monsters.
Those who mocked him shrank back into their seats, humbled, silenced.
"You measured his body," Angkasa finally said, "but forgot to measure his mind."
"Maqbir Mahoraga," the Leader continued, voice now rich with pride, "is not just a man of strength. He is a mind sharpened by struggle, a heart forged by loss. And that, my friends, is why he is Clan Head."
Vahalla offered the faintest of smiles.
And Maqbir? He stood still, letting the silence embrace him. There was no gloating, no fire in his eyes. Only a quiet strength. A whisper of a storm that had already passed.
He turned and descended the platform.
But in that moment, Maqbir Mahoraga was no longer just a name. He was a force, a symbol—of the power that lies not in the blade, but in the soul behind it.
The air in the Hall of the Saptara had grown heavy, dense with unspoken judgments and the echoes of a past too rigid to forget. At the head of the chamber, Pannival rose from his obsidian throne and looked down at the gathered clan heads and elders, his eyes flicking across them with regal weight.
Then, his voice rang clear and deep:
"I would now call upon Aurelia of the Sifon Clan to step forth and present her strength."
The room shifted.
All murmurs quieted as a tall figure in deep indigo armor rose from her seat. Aurelia Sifon, known by few titles but many tales, walked forward. Her every step sounded like thunder on the ceremonial carpet. But to Aurelia, it felt like walking through fog.
Her chest was tight.
She had faced battles before—on fields soaked in blood, in parliament halls dense with corruption, and within the very clan she now represented. Yet this, this quiet march towards a strange, gleaming machine that would quantify her very soul, was a battlefield of a different kind.
She could feel the stares. Not just from men, but from women—young girls, warriors, mothers, widows—who had once looked up to her and hoped.
Would she prove worthy?
Aurelia was no stranger to rising from ashes. Years ago, the Sifon Clan had nearly collapsed under the suffocating weight of its own traditions. Daughters were denied education. Women were barred from council halls. Even the strongest of them were kept as shadows of men. When she first stood against that order, they laughed at her.
She didn't laugh back.She rewrote it.
From the lowest rank of the Malwai Military's Defence Force, Aurelia rose—sweat by sweat, scar by scar—to become Vice Commandant of the First Division. Her strength was matched only by her vision. But even then, behind her achievements, she fought a greater battle against an invisible enemy—disbelief.
Now, as she reached the towering evaluation device, her hands slightly trembled.
She wasn't afraid of the numbers.
She was afraid that if she failed, the system she had bled to change would return to its original rot, and the hundreds of silent hopes pinned on her would collapse.
She placed her feet onto the circular disk, as instructed. Then she pressed her palms against the metallic handprint engravings. Her heart beat like a war drum.
The machine stirred to life with a deep, mechanical hum. It glowed faintly, then brighter.
One minute passed.
Two.
The crowd started whispering again. Was the device broken? Was it her fault?
Pannival himself leaned forward. Jayantaka Angkasa narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
Then, a long, shrill beep pierced the tension. All eyes snapped to the floating screen.
999-999
Gasps echoed. Then came the breakdown:
1,001,896 – Raw Strength890,051 – Mythical Strength979,611 – Mental Strength
A stillness swept through the hall so sharp it could cut glass.
Aurelia remained frozen.
For a moment, even she couldn't register what had just happened.
The technicians rushed to confirm the numbers. They double-checked, then announced to all: "The device is functioning perfectly. The results are true."
And in that moment, the balance of the room shifted.
She hadn't been the strongest in sheer power—Minaki Akatsumi still claimed that throne. Nor was she the most mentally precise—Maqbir's mind was unmatched in insight and foresight.
But Aurelia was balanced.She was complete.
Together, her scores totaled the perfect harmony of body, soul, and mind.
She became, not the most dangerous warrior, but the ideal commander.
The murmurs returned—but with awe instead of mockery. The very men who had sneered at her presence now avoided her gaze.
Pannival rose and stepped toward her, offering a rare bow of respect.
"You have not simply proven your strength," he said, voice thick with admiration. "You have reminded this world what true leadership looks like."
Jayantaka Angkasa spoke next, every word like thunder."Let it be known that Aurelia Sifon is more than a warrior. She is the embodiment of equilibrium. She is the light that rises through shadow. Today, the flames of prejudice are dimmed by the fire of a woman who would not be silenced."
From the side of the chamber, Awaja Azhura sat stone-faced. His eyes twitched as whispers buzzed around him. His world, built upon inherited power and unchallenged dominance, was cracking.
He could feel it.
And Aurelia—standing at the center of it all—closed her eyes, exhaled slowly, and remembered the first time she was told she couldn't lead.
She opened her eyes again.
And led anyway.
[To be continued in Chapter 39]