The man walked beside Michael in silence, forcing him forward without restraints, without chains, without even the courtesy of an explanation. And the absence of those things bothered Michael more than their presence ever would have. If they didn't intend to cage him like a beast… then what was the purpose behind dragging him here?
Though Michael's face stayed calm and unreadable, a strange heaviness crept into his chest as the colossal structure ahead came into full view.
The palace rose out of the horizon like a monument carved from divine arrogance—majestic, radiant, and overwhelming. Thousands of soldiers lined its path in flawless formation, statues carved out of iron discipline and living steel.
Yet beneath all that grandeur… something felt wrong.
There was no life within those walls. No warmth. No sound of a place inhabited by humans.
Only a suffocating emptiness.
A palace built not to hold power—
but to show it.
The man continued forward, and Michael followed, boots echoing through long marble corridors that stretched into eternity. Every guard they passed slammed a fist to their chest in sharp salute, their respect directed solely at the man.
Michael tilted his head with an amused scoff.
"Whoa," he muttered, smirking. "I thought you were just some mercenary. Looks like you're a big shot here, huh?"
The man chuckled—a sound too mocking to ignore.
"A child who doesn't understand the world dares to claim it as his own," he said, voice echoing down the hall.
Michael's jaw tightened. If the man thought mockery would soften him, he was terribly mistaken.
Their steps carried them beneath a ceiling painted with murals of cosmic history—meteors shattering the sky, the rise of humanity, the birth of Dhruva, the awakening of chakras, and finally his mysterious disappearance.
Michael scoffed, folding his arms behind his head.
"What a great tale."
His sarcasm was heavy enough to crack the marble.
The man's expression darkened instantly. His fist drove into Michael's abdomen like a hammer. Air burst out of his lungs; pain seared into his gut. Blood splattered across the polished floor as Michael coughed.
He wiped his mouth, eyes burning.
"Don't give me that crap," he hissed.
"You'll regret it soon enough."
The man leaned closer, eyes sharp enough to cut steel.
"I'm waiting for it."
Moments later they reached a massive golden door—so tall even giants would feel small beneath it. Two soldiers pushed it open with visible effort.
A burst of blinding light exploded outward.
Behind it roared a colossal spinning mechanism—like a rotating disc big enough to tear the world in half. Its sound thundered through the royal chamber.
Then came the shouting.
Inside the Royal Chamber
A voice exploded like thunder against stone.
"HOW CAN YOU ALLOW AN OUTCAST INSIDE THIS ROYAL CHAMBER!? AND EVEN ANNOUNCE SOMETHING SO ABSURD!?"
Varuna Khuraar—cultural head, 37—roared with fury, face flushed with humiliation.
"I agree with Mr. Khuraar," added Devashish Aarin, 46, head of the Aarin household. His stern tone cut sharply through the air.
Samrat Rathore, highest legal authority and head of the Rathore household, slammed his palm onto the throne armrest.
"How much more must we tolerate!?"
"And without our consent," Jai Singh Senapathi barked, 58, military advisor and head of the Senapathi household, "you cannot simply decide anything you wish! This disrespects us entirely!"
But then a colder voice sliced through the uproar.
"And we never cared about what you think."
Aravindan Velkar—Grand Chancellor, strategic mind of Indravana—spoke with quiet but lethal disdain. The four household heads froze, humiliated.
"So," Aravindan continued, "fit yourselves into it."
His words sparked laughter among certain nobles—sharp, mocking, cruel.
Michael observed them all, eyes narrowing.
Mere sub-branches of the Vellory household… mocking the great houses?
One day, he would grind their pride into dust.
As he entered with the man at his side, dozens of nobles turned to stare. Cold. Disgusted. Contemptuous. Their eyes treated him like filth stuck to their boots.
Dog. Trash. Outcast.
But their stiffness, their rigid posture, their forced discipline—all of it was for the man beside him.
Not him.
Michael felt the presence like a storm pressing down on his skull.
Rudra Shakthiraya.
War General of Indravana. The one who personally captured him. A monster forged for battle.
Aravindan Velkar bowed sharply.
"Welcome… It appears you have retrieved him, War General Rudra Shakthiraya."
Michael's entire body went still.
War General.
Why would a man of such power be involved with an outcast?
What game was unfolding here?
But before he could think further, he felt it—
A piercing glare stabbing into his spine.
He turned.
Arjun Vellory.
Brother of the Hammer Saint.
A man whose presence alone could suffocate a room.
Arjun stared at Michael with disbelief—almost fear. His aura pressed against Michael like a blade on skin.
Something was wrong with him.Something deeply, violently wrong.
But the world shifted in the next breath.
THE GROUND TREMBLED.
A crushing weight slammed through the chamber, shaking the pillars and bending the air itself. The aura was so suffocating Michael felt his lungs tighten involuntarily.
Then—
Everyone fell to their knees.
Aravindan Velkar. Rudra Shakthiraya. The royal council.
All kneeling out of respect. All bowing out of admiration.
But—
Samrat Rathore. Varuna Khuraar. Devashish Aarin. Jai Singh Senapathi.
The great household heads knelt from fear alone—
fear of having their families wiped from the map if they dared remain standing.
Their hands dug into the marble floor. Bodies trembled. Teeth clenched so hard they threatened to break.
And into that trembling hall stepped—
Rajendra Vellory. The Hammer Saint.
The strongest wielder born of the Vellory bloodline.
He entered with no speech. No declaration. Just a presence heavy enough to break worlds.
A tyrant dressed as a hero.
A legend forged in brutality.
A father by blood—
but never by heart.
Every noble stared at him through lowered heads, hatred choking the air. Forced to kneel, dreaming of slitting his throat someday.
Michael lifted his chin, meeting the man's stone-cold gaze.
For the first time in years, they stood face to face.
Father and son.
Predator and prey.
Saint and outcast.
And a single thought carved itself through Michael's mind:
Whether he knows who I am… whether they dragged me here because of the incident at the arena… none of it matters now.
His fists tightened. Blood burned like liquid fire. His heart roared with defiance.
This time, he would not kneel.
A king never kneels.
He makes others kneel.