Michael was burning.It wasn't some fancy metaphor or poetic bullshit. No, his body was literally on fire. Flames from the C.O.S.M.O.S. fire chakra licked at his skin, charring his flesh black. Every nerve in his body screamed in agony.
He was ten floors underground, deep in the heart of their fortress, and this was how it all ended. Burned alive by the same assholes who claimed they protected the world.As the fire ate him up, memories crashed into his mind. Not nice ones, not in order. Just sharp, broken pieces like shards of glass stabbing his brain.
Every time the rich upper class sneered at him. Every kick from society that kept him down. Every reminder that his life meant nothing to anyone important.
Where did his story even start? Was it when millions died in the streets, bodies stacked like garbage? Or when the survivors were left breathing but empty inside, just going through the motions?Maybe even earlier.
Back when just waking up and taking a breath was a win. This world had lost all sense of good and evil a long time ago.
Saints killed without blinking, and killers preached about right and wrong.
Everyone did dirty things to stay sane and called it survival.Michael? He never gave a damn. He wasn't some sad hero mourning his losses. He wasn't a savior who got dragged into it. He was empty already.
Burning from the inside out long before these flames touched him. Born into a rotting world, and he knew it from day one.The collapse started before he was even born.
Meteors rained from the sky like angry gods. They carried monsters called Interstellars. No one knew where they came from. Some places made up stories about them being demons from hell. Smart people argued about space rocks or other worlds. Didn't matter. The beasts ripped through cities and armies like they were paper.People screamed for help. They prayed to whatever gods they believed in. But the gods? Silent as graves.
Then Dhruva showed up.
That's what they called him in the history books. No one really knew the guy behind the name. Just a soldier with a massive war hammer. He smashed one Interstellar beast with a single swing, and boom—the world decided he was their god.
A messiah covered in blood and fire.
From Dhruva came the chakras.It was like pulling power straight out of human meat. It changed bones, turned muscles into weapons. If you were lucky, it made you a hero. If not, a monster.
Dhruva's teachings built new chains. The Order of the Hammer popped up and replaced all the old religions.
Anyone who said no got labeled Outcasts. Wiped out. Left to rot in the dirt.That's where Michael fit in. Outcasts like him were nothing. Their lives worth less than dirt.
His story really started there.
His mom was an Outcast. Worked her fingers to the bone in the slums. His dad? Worse. Some big-shot elite from the Order of the Hammer. The guy used her like trash, then threw her away when Michael came along. It would've ruined his perfect reputation.For a while, life was okay.
Mom loved him like he was the only good thing in her shitty world. She smiled through the hunger, the beatings, the endless grind. Those memories were warm, even now.But the Order found out.They couldn't let an Outcast slut have a baby with one of their pure elites.
To feel better about themselves, they "cleaned" it up.They murdered her.Dragged her into a dark alley. Beat her until she drowned in her own blood. A woman who deserved a real life died like garbage, forgotten.
Michael was supposed to die too. A little kid, helpless.But he didn't.Some guy named Victor showed up.
Michael never learned who he really was. No hugs, no "it's okay."
Victor didn't save him out of kindness. He broke him and built him into something useful.
Stealing. Scavenging. Hurting others to survive.
Michael got good at it. Too good. They started calling him Night Reaper. A name whispered in fear in the shadows.
Through all that blood and dirt, he learned one hard truth: The world didn't deserve saving. But it sure as hell deserved payback.Blood bubbled from his mouth now.
His body was giving up. Lungs filling with smoke. Heart slowing.So why was he here? Deep under C.O.S.M.O.S. headquarters, facing death?Because below this torture chamber was the Awakener Room.
A machine where they forced chakras into "Dulls"—people born without power. It ripped them open, made the weak dangerous. If you survived.
And standing over him was Bheeshma.Chief of the Danger Eradication Force. The guy could kill an A-rank Interstellar beast with just a look. His blaze chakra was like lightning hitting dry wood. It burned Michael's skin to blisters. Nerves fried. Muscles twitched and tore. Blood boiled inside his veins. Vision went red, then black.
Michael was done.
A corpse waiting for the dirt.Bheeshma just watched. Arms crossed. Face bored, like burning a bug under a magnifying glass.
Up above, an A-rank Necadron beast roared. Elites fought it, shaking the whole fortress. But the real monster wasn't up there.It was right here.Michael's heart stuttered.
Lungs quit. All he saw was his mom's face. The unfairness of her death. Justice? That was for the rich. High up, you could kill and call it right. Low down, you choked in the mud.
His lips moved.
One word escaped."Maa..."Then—a voice cut through the pain.
Cold. Calm. Old as time.Like it had waited forever for this.
"Do you want another chance?"The question was almost funny.
Life never gave him shit but scars and graves. Dead people didn't get revenge.
But Michael didn't think twice."If living means power," he croaked, "then yes."The fire changed.Pain didn't just hurt—it twisted into something alive. His veins burned hotter, but now they hummed.
Hungry. Sharp. Stronger than death.God? Devil? Dying dream?
Didn't care.If it gave strength, he'd take it. If it wanted a monster, fine—he'd be the worst.Morals were for weaklings.
He was over being weak."Yes."
The answer wasn't a gift.It was an order.
"Rise. Let's show them what a real god looks like."
Michael stopped being human.His body ripped apart. Flesh melted, bones cracked. Then it rebuilt. Black smoke poured from his skin. Power exploded inside, wild and angry.
Names? Past? Gone.Only hunger left.Only strength.
Bheeshma saw it. His bored face cracked. Eyes wide.
Priceless.In that second, Michael became the Order's nightmare.Their fuck-up.Their end.They taught everyone to fear the hammer. Crowned themselves gods. Ruled with whips and prayers.Now they were the joke.
Power rushed in like a flood. Hate chased it. Joy twisted behind—like laughing in a storm.Not pretty. Not right.But it was his.And soon, he'd make them taste blood again. Real blood. The kind that sticks.