Well, before you try to picture me tangled in the current mess, let me drag you through the rot that holds this world together. You see, once upon a time, there was Dhruva—the so-called god of this world. He appeared, made his proclamations, and people swallowed them whole. His grand gospel was nothing but chains dressed as scripture:
1. Strength is sacred.
2. Faith is law.
3. The hammer delivers judgment.
4. The unfaithful must kneel or be broken.
Simple, brutal, and exactly the kind of garbage that desperate fools love to cling to. They called themselves Undermen, devoted like dogs, wagging tails at the feet of their master. And then—just like that—Dhruva disappeared. Vanished without so much as a whisper.
The world panicked, the meteors came again, and chaos reigned. Humans awakened with chakra, sure, but on their own, they were pathetic—power without order, sparks scattered in the wind. That's when the Undermen stepped in, puffed up their chests, and crowned themselves as Hammersaints. They rallied the masses, claimed Dhruva's mantle, and built their little kingdoms.
Ten of them. Ten Hammersaints, each carving up the world into neat little slices like vultures fighting over a corpse.
Each ruled by one Hammersaint, each a kingdom of chains.
And the ten divided parts of the world is called as The Ten Dominions
What you call India, Sri Lanka, Nepal—all of that's dust now. Borders, flags, songs, languages, prayers… burned away when Dhruva vanished and the meteors kept falling. What's left is the Indravana Dominion. One hammer-saint sits on that throne, pretending to be divinity.
Europe? Once a land of kings, castles, cathedrals. Now it's just the Aurelian Dominion, shackled under their golden tyrant.
The East turned dragon—Shenlong Dominion, swallowing China, Mongolia, Korea, Japan. Their hammersaint wears silk but swings steel.
The Middle East, deserts soaked in history, now renamed Ascalon Dominion. Their banners claim fire and holy war, but it's the same hammer crushing skulls.
Africa—every inch of it—bowed to the Kemetian Dominion. Old pyramids, new blood. Their hammersaint rules like a pharaoh reborn.
South America? Doesn't matter what they called it once. Now it's the Zirconia Dominion, colorful and brutal, a jewel that bleeds.
North America? Depends on who you ask. The Obsidian Dominion claims it, black and cold. But the Erevan Dominion rises too, swallowing what's left, both gnawing at each other like rabid dogs.
Northern Europe and Russia? That's the Fenrir Dominion—wolf's land, frozen teeth and endless night.
And the last piece, scattered across oceans—Australia, the Pacific islands. They're chained under the Abyssian Dominion, a kingdom of tides and drowned bones.
Ten dominions. Ten tyrants. Ten hammer-saints clutching their thrones, choking the world in Dhruva's name.
And so the world was carved into ten cages. Each cage held by a Hammersaint, each one draped in faith twisted into chains.
This is the damned world I walk through. A world where gods are gone, yet men wear their skin.
And you'll probably wonder—what the hell does all this have to do with the mess I'm in?
Well, let me rewind for you. The whole Hammer Saint business didn't just pop out of thin air. No, it was cooked up more than a hundred years ago—five years after Dhruva vanished, to be exact.
The first Hammer Saint of Indravana made a decision, a bold one, or maybe a stupidly ambitious one. To strengthen the bloodline, to make sure every new generation would be stronger than the last, he didn't just pick one family—he made five. Yeah, five. He married five different women, had children with each, and set up five dynasties that would eventually become Indravana's Five Strongholds: Vellory, Aarin, Rathore, Khunaan, and Senapati.
From then on, it didn't matter who you were—man or woman—if you had the bloodline and the grit, you could be the next Hammer Saint. And as fate would have it, the current Hammer Saint is Rajendra Vellory, big name, big hammer, big ego.
And here's where my life takes a nosedive. Because apparently—I'm his runaway son. Yeah. His son. The prodigal Vellory kid who bolted and came crawling back.
Except—plot twist—that's not me.
That's not even close to me.
It's Vashir's little trick. The bastard framed me, shoved me into this role I never asked for, and now every pair of eyes in the Dominion sees me as that lost Vellory boy come back from the wind.
So here I am, Michael, the not-a-Vellory, stuck in the middle of a legacy war I didn't sign up for.
And Vashir? Yeah, screw you, Vashir. Really, from the bottom of my heart—screw you.
Ok fine, let's just cut the crap and face it—I'm knee-deep in this shitstorm, maybe neck-deep, who knows. Soldiers of the Cosmos all around me, armored up like they own the universe, and me? I'm just the bastard who stumbled into their lap because Vashir thought it'd be funny to throw me to the wolves.
And then there's Ajay Meer, walking ahead of me, calm as if the whole damn galaxy bends when his boots hit the ground. I keep staring at his back thinking, what the hell is that snake up to? Every step feels like a march into a furnace, but I don't stop. I can't.
Because if I bail now, if I bolt like some rat, then my mother's murder stays unsolved. And that? That burns hotter than any of this nonsense about Hammer Saints, runaway heirs, or cosmic soldiers breathing down my neck.
The guards push me into a chamber—cold, wide, walls humming with some kind of energy—and when that heavy door slams shut, I swear it feels like a coffin sealing.
Ajay Meer finally turns, eyes like they've already read my obituary, and I just stand there thinking—how the fuck am I going to claw my way out of this mess alive?
Ajay Meer stares at me like I'm a puzzle he forgot the answer to. His bracelet flickers, projects my ID—half the data censored, the rest bleeding into a clean holo. He reads the bits that show.
"Adhitya Vellory," he says slow, deliberate. "The runaway son of the Hammer Saint."
My stomach drops. What the fuck, Vashir? This is the mess you drag me into?
Ajay doesn't let it hang. He leans in, tone flat with a nervous edge. "But our intel listed him as Michael. Different identity. Different history. And—" his eyes sharpen like knives, "—an outcast from Dhruvansaar. The birthplace of our god."
Silence explodes into the room like a gunshot.
Soldiers around me snap to it. "An outcast?" one breathes, like the word itself is blasphemy. Another snarls, "How dare he set his filthy foot on our headquarters?"
Every muzzle swivels. High-spec rifles pivot until their targeting beams paint my chest like a constellation. Trigger lights hum. The air tastes like ozone and old fear.
Ajay watches all of it with the calm of a man watching children argue over a toy. He wants to hear what I'll say. He wants the show.
I shrug, because why lie now? Because why smooth this over? Because I suddenly have zero interest in playing by their rules.
"Why should I explain?" I say, voice flat. "Bring me my father, fuckers."
Heads twitch. Mouths open. Faces contort—rage folding into confusion and a little, thin amazement. I know I hit them where it hurts. I know I've set a hook.
Truth is: I'm not his son. Not really. But telling them that now would make me smaller, make me expend breath proving myself to people who gave my mother a grave and called it justice. No. I'll skip the dance. If I go straight for the saint—Rajendra Vellory—then I cut the rot at the root. That's the first strike. That's the ledger I want balanced. It saves me a thousand bureaucratic knives later.
Ajay's laugh cuts the tension—loud, brittle, delighted. "Interesting kid," he says, eyes bright. "Then go to hell."
The soldiers tighten their grips. The trigger hums deepen. Everyone's ready to ink the air with my blood.
I stand there, chest bare under the holo-glow, hands empty, not a sliver of fear showing. Why should I? Fear's for people who have something left to lose. I lost that when they buried her.
Right then, like a spiteful bell, a window blooms in my vision—black-edged and clinical, stabbing into my skull.
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
Let's see. What should I do now?