[Oliver’s PoV]

  Oliver crouched as if to check on the Empress’ body. Instead, he pulled out the Silver Crystal and stowed it inside his armor.

  He wasn’t an idiot.

  Even in the aftermath of victory, with the battlefield still echoing with cheers and static, he knew better than to relax. Triumph was a mask thin and fragile.

  The Orks were breaking apart. Their formations had collapsed, their discipline gone. They ran in every direction, roaring in panic. The once-mighty army of the Empress had devolved into chaos—beasts without a master.

  The Hoplites pressed the advantage as they advanced in perfect formation. Their rifles fired in rhythmic bursts, each shot merciless.

  Amid the carnage, the civilians who had survived the siege were beginning to emerge. Some stumbled through the ruins, dazed and bloodied. Others raised their fists, shouting, crying, clinging to one another in disbelief.

  “This is a historic day!” the reporter’s voice blared through a broadcast drone. “Against the Ork threat, humanity has achieved the impossible, the fall of the Ork Empress!”

  The words echoed in Oliver’s ears. He wasn’t listening.

  Because beneath the noise, beneath the cheers, he heard something else.

  Footsteps.

  They were coming straight for him.

  Oliver’s expression hardened. He tapped his comms, his voice low and controlled.

  “Send everyone.”

  The order was quiet, almost a whisper, but the command center would hear it.

  He exhaled, then deactivated [Combat Mode].

  The bronze pieces above his red armor flickered once before fading away.

  “How did you do it?” Stewart's voice was cold.

  Oliver turned, facing the White Ranger.

  Even under the soot and grime of battle, his armor gleamed pristine. His ball and chain hung loosely at his side, but his posture was tense.

  “Do what?” Oliver asked, feigning confusion, buying precious seconds.

  Stewart’s tone sharpened. “The dual armor.”

  “Why the hell would I explain that?” Oliver said evenly, though his gaze drifted past Stewart’s shoulder, scanning the sky.

  He could feel it. They were coming.

  Stewart didn’t notice.

  He stepped closer, his voice lowering to a mix of envy and calculation. “Because I can negotiate with the Emperor.”

  Oliver’s jaw tightened.

  “Negotiate?”

  “Yes,” Stewart continued, his tone smooth now, almost persuasive. “If I bring him leverage, if I give him means to expand the empire, maybe I can get you a pardon.”

  Oliver said nothing.

  He didn’t need to look into Stewart’s eyes to know what was there. He could sense it, a strange mix between greed and loyalty.

  Stewart's helmet retracted, revealing a face slick with sweat, his eyes wide and feverish.

  “You’re saying you’d sell me out,” Oliver translated his words.

  “I’m saying you’d survive,” Stewart corrected.

  Oliver almost laughed. A dry, humorless sound.

  “You always were good at that. Like when you sold me a mission that would kill me.”

  For Oliver, there was no chance of peace. Not now. Not ever.

  “No.”

  The word that left Oliver’s mouth was absolute.

  Stewart blinked, thrown off balance by the simplicity of it.

  “No?” he repeated, incredulous. “You’re really going to throw away your chance to live? Look around, boy. We have the entire Empire behind us.”

  Oliver didn’t flinch.

  “No, you don’t,” he said evenly. “You don’t have the entire Empire. Maybe three… six Great Houses at best. A few scraps of the NEA, all too busy fighting the Orks to care.”

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  He took a step forward, his voice cold and precise. “All that’s left to your Emperor is the Imperial Guard.”

  Stewart’s jaw tightened. “The Guard is full of Rangers with Unique Crystals,” he shot back, his tone sharpening.

  Oliver’s gaze hardened. “Which is why I trained my soldiers to be the best on the field.”

  The two men stood face to face now, the air around them thick with heat and tension. The ruins of the plaza crackled with the sound of settling debris.

  Stewart’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “You have a hundred of them, and they’re already stretched thin. Give up, Oliver. You can’t win this.”

  Oliver’s expression didn’t change. He simply raised his hand and pointed upward.

  “A hundred with me… and five hundred above us.”

  For a heartbeat, Stewart’s eyes flicked toward the sky.

  The clouds split apart.

  From the heavens, dozens of Rangers descended through the smoke.

  The first Ranger crashed down at the edge of the plaza, the impact exploding outward with seismic force. Shockwaves tore through the ruins, flinging dust and embers into the air.

  The Hoplites emerged.

  Oliver’s comms lit up with status reports, formation codes, and tactical confirmations.

  He didn’t need to speak to know that every soldier on the field was waiting for his command.

  “Hold the Imperial Guard,” he ordered.

  The White Ranger lunged at him with blinding speed. But Oliver was already moving, his instincts sharpened, his body ready with [Prometheus].

  He kicked off the ground and launched himself backward. The attack missed by inches, slicing through the space where he’d been standing a heartbeat before.

  The impact of Stewart’s strike split the earth.

  Almost immediately, the Hoplites reacted.

  Dozens of armored soldiers surged forward, forming a wall between Oliver and Stewart.

  The clash erupted again.

  The sound of it was deafening. Plasma fire cut through the air, and the ground trembled as the Hoplites engaged the White Ranger and the Imperial Guard.

  But Oliver didn’t stay to watch.

  He had no interest in prolonging the fight.

  I still have to face the Emperor… and the Sovereign, he thought. I can’t waste time here.

  He stopped only once—just long enough to snatch up the case with one of his soldiers. He clipped it to his back without breaking stride.

  Then disappeared into the main building.

  The interior was a maze of destruction. Corridors twisted through the wreckage, walls torn open by explosions, smoke and dust choking the air. The lights flickered weakly.

  A few Orks still lingered inside, stragglers, wounded, or simply lost without command.

  None of them lasted long.

  Oliver didn’t slow down. He moved like a storm through the corridors. A single punch shattered an Ork’s armor, and a single kick sent another crashing into a wall.

  Without pause, he was already scanning ahead.

  Expanding his perception, he poured Energy around him, letting the world unfold in his mind like a map. Each floor above and below him appeared as a ghostly outline, Energy readings.

  He could see everything. Above him, ten floors up.

  A faint but distinct signature. Adrian.

  “Finally,” he muttered.

  Oliver didn’t hesitate.

  He crouched, the floor cracking beneath his boots as he gathered power into his legs. Then he leapt, smashing through the ceiling like a missile.

  Concrete and steel gave way as he ascended, each jump carrying him through another floor. The building shook from the force of his ascent, dust and debris raining down in his wake.

  When Oliver finally broke through the last barrier, he landed hard on the upper level, the floor buckling under his weight.

  The Energy readings were stronger. Adrian was close.

  Even without Energy reading, it was obvious where he was. The entire floor was lined with cages holding prisoners, and at the center of the hall stood the most important one of all.

  He was barely recognizable.

  His face was swollen, one eye nearly shut from bruising. His back bore long, dark welts from repeated lashings, the wounds still raw and weeping. His wrists were shackled high above his head.

  Adrian’s head lifted weakly at the sound of footsteps. His eyes, bloodshot and unfocused, locked on the crimson figure standing before him.

  The confusion on Adrian’s face lasted only a second before giving way to disbelief.

  “Who—?” he croaked, his voice raw.

  Oliver stepped closer. He had already removed his helmet.

  “Your salvation,” he said flatly. “Where’s the Emperor?”

  Adrian’s eyes narrowed. Then he spat—a glob of blood and saliva hitting the floor between them.

  “Traitor,” he rasped, his voice shaking with fury and pain. “You use this moment to fight your own kind.”

  Oliver didn’t even blink.

  “I don’t care what you think of me,” he said, his tone cold as steel. “Where is the Emperor?”

  Adrian’s lips twisted into a faint, broken smile. “One of the islands,” he said hoarsely. “You’ll never find which. You’d need a military teleporter to even get close.”

  He chuckled, but it was a hollow sound, more weariness than amusement.

  Oliver’s gauntlet flickered as he activated his comms. “Hermes, I need a military-grade teleporter. Do we have one nearby?”

  The reply came through static, Hermes-1’s voice tight and efficient. “Negative. There are only a handful left on the planet. You’d have to infiltrate an NEA base to access one.”

  Oliver’s jaw tightened. “Command, can you move me to any of them?”

  Another voice joined the transmission. Talos answered. “He’s saying no. The teleportation needs a point of reference, somewhere you or he has already been.”

  Oliver stood there for a moment, silent, his mind sifting through memories like files.

  Then it came to him.

  “I know a location,” he said. “I’ve been there before.”

  “Command says to focus on it,” Talos replied.

  Oliver reached forward, gripping Adrian’s arm. The man flinched, but Oliver held him steady.

  “Hold still,” he said.

  Oliver closed his eyes. The world around him seemed to fade.

  He pictured it clearly: the place he needed to go. Every detail of it.

  The connection anchored in his mind.

  Then came the pull.

  And in the next heartbeat, the universe snapped back into focus.

  They were gone.

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