"People of the Clans!" Angkasa's voice thundered through the ancient hall, echoing off the obsidian walls like the toll of destiny itself.
"This meeting was not summoned for formality. It exists for one purpose alone."
He paused, his eyes sweeping across the long, curved table where the greatest warriors, strategists, and leaders of the Saptavansh sat in silence.
"It has been far too long since we last intervened in the affairs of the world. After the First Holy War ended—a war that liberated nations and brought an end to countless monarchies—the tribunal sought a scapegoat. Someone to blame for the bloodshed and chaos that followed. My predecessor, Jayjal Angkasa, the former Leader of the Seven Clans, took that burden upon himself. He accepted full responsibility for preserving global peace and, with a heavy heart, dissolved the legendary order of protectors… the Seven Knights."
Angkasa stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with fire, his voice rising like a storm gathering strength.
"But the time for silence is over. Corruption has bled deep into the roots of the Union of Nations. Incompetence festers where justice once stood. And so, I say to you, the time has come once more… to rise! To revive the power that once kept this world in balance. To oppose the decay with strength, as only we can!"
The weight of his words settled like thunderclouds over the chamber. Most of the room stirred—some with awe, others with unease. All but two.
Seated in the shadows, Miyazaki Azhura leaned toward his neighbor and muttered, just loud enough for one to hear,"This old man's finally losing it."
Mitsuba Shinsho didn't look up. The Demon of the Saptavansh traced slow, deliberate circles on the stone table with his fingers, the movement calm, almost meditative—yet full of restrained menace. His voice, when it came, was quiet but sharp enough to cut through steel.
"Do not stand out, Azhura. Stick to the plan."
The weight of his presence silenced Miyazaki immediately. The smirk faded. He gave a brief nod.
"As you say."
And so, within the walls of Diwankula—the birthplace of the Saptavansh—power began to shift once again. Whispers of old alliances, hidden agendas, and rising storms filled the air.
The world would soon remember what it meant when the Clans moved.
"Men," Angkasa's voice echoed with command. "Before I reveal the final phase of my plan, Maqbir Mahoraga—the Clan Head of the Mahoragas—has someone he wishes to introduce. A... guest, who may prove critical in what lies ahead."He turned his sharp gaze toward Maqbir."We are waiting, Maqbir. Where is he?"
Maqbir opened his mouth but the words stuck in his throat."My guest…" he began hesitantly—only to be cut off.
"Did you not hear him, Maqbir the Brave?" Awaja's voice carried a mocking edge, arms crossed as he raised a brow.
Maqbir's thoughts spiraled in silence.Where is he? What shall I do?If Meilin's words are true, then he must be with Shailya… training. But why hasn't he come yet?I never foresaw this. Oh, God… I leave it to you now.
"Maqbir!" Angkasa called again, his tone firmer this time. "You delay us. Introduce him."
A chorus of voices followed, echoing support:"Yes!""Bring him forth!""We do not have all day!"
And then—just as tension began to twist through the room—a violent gust of wind tore through the chamber.
WOOSH!
The ceiling above them trembled. A burst of energy surged down from the heavens, shaking the walls of the sacred hall. Scrolls fluttered off the shelves. Torches dimmed. Robes rustled and chairs scraped against stone as the pressure changed. The very air itself seemed to bow to something far greater.
Suddenly, a swirl of violet smoke spilled into the hall, rippling like waves through the obsidian floor. But this was no ordinary smoke—it shimmered with an otherworldly glow, thick with the scent of power, unmistakably Aura—the signature presence of only one being.
Pannival narrowed his eyes.
Angkasa smiled faintly.
And then came the voice—cool, commanding, laced with cosmic arrogance.
"Good evening… People."
From the heart of the swirling fog, a silhouette stepped forward. Each footfall echoed like thunder. The aura grew denser. The smoke coiled around him like a cloak of divinity.
He stood tall, eyes glowing with an ethereal light, his form radiating both serenity and supremacy.
He bowed slightly, hands behind his back."I am Vahalla."
A silence heavier than stone followed—until Awaja shot to his feet, his axe drawn without hesitation.
"Who are you, and how did you enter this sacred ground?" he demanded, the steel of his voice almost matching the blade in his hand.
But the Pannival remained still.
Angkasa did not flinch.
Vahalla only smirked."Don't be alarmed," he said calmly. "I am the one Maqbir wished to introduce to you. Or more precisely… the being destined to be here."
He took another step forward, and the weight of his presence seemed to push the air itself away.
"I am Vahalla. A Chakradhari. The Guardian of this Galaxy for the current age. And if titles amuse you…"He raised his head, eyes locking with Awaja's."…you may call me the strongest being in this galaxy."
And for a moment, not a single soul in the hall dared to speak.
Then, from the silence that had seized the hall like a vice, a calm voice finally rose.
It belonged to Mitsuba Shinsho—the man hailed across realms as one born to lead. A man whose presence was both thoughtful and commanding, his silver gaze unwavering.
He stood, adjusting the intricate folds of his clan robe, and spoke with poised authority.
"On behalf of the Mitsubas," he began, his voice measured yet resonant, "I, Shinsho Mitsuba, head of the clan, welcome you, Vahalla, to this sacred ground. But if I may—"
He narrowed his eyes, his tone shifting ever so slightly.
"—I must ask why a being of galactic stature has descended to concern himself with humankind. Surely, in the grand order of the cosmos, our existence is no more than a ripple in an endless sea. A blink, easily forgotten."
A murmur rippled through the chamber, but Vahalla simply smiled.
He looked at Shinsho with something close to admiration.
"Sir Mitsuba," he replied, his voice smooth yet thunderous in meaning, "what you say is not wrong. Human lives may seem insignificant when compared to the vast tides of the galaxy. And yet…"
He stepped forward, his eyes scanning the ancient hall—his gaze as if peering through time itself.
"…you humans have accomplished something that even the oldest and strongest beings struggle to attain."
The hall leaned in.
"You have earned the recognition of the Council of Gods and Demons, and above all… of the CREATOR himself."
Gasps stirred, but Vahalla wasn't done.
"Among the Creator's many experiments, there was one that stood apart. One born not of strength, speed, or celestial power—but of pure intellect and raw will. That creation… was Humanity."
He raised his hand, and a projection of a burning planet appeared in the air—Dharti, the original cradle of humankind.
"The Creator once wondered—what would happen if a species were left to evolve on its own, without divine interference? No gifts. No shortcuts. Just flesh, fear, and fire. That was the origin of humanity."
He walked slowly as the image shifted to Prithvi, the planet they now called home.
"Thousands of years passed. No gods came to hold your hand. No demons to warn you. And yet you built cities, civilisations, empires. You survived plagues, wars, the collapse of your own worlds. And still… you stood."
The purple aura around him flickered as he continued.
"Humans are the only race in the history of existence to thrive on a dying planet. The only ones to break their atmospheric barriers without divine aid. And more importantly…"
He looked directly at Maqbir now. Then to Angkasa. And finally, to Shinsho again.
"…the only mortal species in existence to have ever defeated a god."
Silence fell again—this time heavier, deeper. A different kind of awe gripped the room.
Vahalla's voice dropped, almost reverent.
"And yet, what you know is but a fraction. You are descendants of the Dhartian Lineage—humans of Prithvi, yes, but only a fragment of a much older, far more evolved race. The humans of Dharti wield powers you cannot yet imagine. You think yourselves evolved because you adapted without resources—but imagine what you could become with them."
His words struck like thunder, like prophecy.
"You are not small, Mitsuba. You are unawakened. That's why I'm here—not just to aid, but to prepare you. Because once again, the gods are watching. And this time…"
He looked toward the ceiling as if seeing beyond it, beyond space.
"…they are no longer content to observe."
"But before we can save the planet… or restore the balance of the cosmos," Maqbir Mahoraga declared, his voice echoing across the hall like a war drum, "we must first cleanse our own world. And that begins with defeating our sworn enemies—the Mondevieu Union."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the hall, swelling into a wave of rebellious fervor.
Jayantaka Angkasa rose, his indigo aura flaring like sacred fire. "Maqbir speaks the truth. We've enjoyed the safety of the shadows for too long—content in our secrecy while the world decays. Now, we must face what our predecessors could not. It is time to finish what they started… and clean the mess they left behind."
A voice of caution broke through the surge.
"But aren't we too small? Too weak?" asked Aurelia Sifon, the head of the Sifon clan, her tone sharp but grounded in realism. "The Monde Uni controls nearly the entire world. If we rise now, we declare war on the world itself."
Lysette Adamus—the fierce and graceful matriarch of the Adamus Clan, and mother of Elva—met her gaze.
"Aurelia, you haven't changed," she said, with a half-smile that didn't dull the steel in her voice. "We are Saptavanshis. We were not created to blend in—we were born to stand apart. Bestowed with power not for privilege, but for purpose. We are the Guardians. And guardians don't run."
Minaki Akatsumi nodded, his voice calm but resolute. "She's right. We weren't meant to wait for miracles—we are meant to become them."
A chuckle broke the tension. "Getting a bit poetic, aren't we?" smirked Orien Nostrus, the mischievous yet sharp-eyed head of the Nostrus Clan. He leaned forward. "So then, Leader… what's the real plan?"
Angkasa turned to him, eyes glowing with quiet fire. "Ah, dear Orien. You always did know when the real game begins."
The room fell utterly silent. Everyone knew—this was the moment they had been summoned for.
"The Pannival, Vahalla, and I have spoken privately. This gathering, this hall, and this sudden convention were no coincidence. This was all planned—for this very declaration."
He stepped forward, his voice now louder, rising in pitch with every word, like a call to destiny.
"The Seven Clans will no longer act as scattered fragments of old glory. The Saptavansh will rise again—not as individuals, not as mere survivors, but as one unified force. An order greater than any military. A cause deeper than any war."
"From this day forward… we stand together as one."
He raised his hand, and a new sigil burned into the air above him—a symbol composed of seven interlocked arcs forming a radiant circle.
"Our new name shall be…" he paused, letting the silence stretch and burn into memory.
"Saptara."
Gasps filled the air—some of awe, others of realisation. It was more than a name. It was a legacy reborn.
"Saptara will be a symbol of unity, justice, and unyielding resolve. We will protect, we will guide, and when needed—we will fight. Not as relics of the past… but as architects of the future."
The hall erupted into thunderous applause, cheers, and the rhythmic beating of fists to table—an ancient tradition of allegiance.
Outside, the wind howled as if answering the call.
The age of scattered clans had ended. The era of Saptara had begun.
[To be Continued in Chapter 38]