[Oliver’s PoV]

  Three sharp cracks split the air.

  The black-armored Ork’s head jerked

  as each round struck dead center, three perfect shots in rapid succession. The creature’s eyes flickered once, then went dark. Its massive body stiffened for a heartbeat before collapsing.

  Oliver didn’t let it fall.

  He caught the corpse mid-drop, his hands locking around its shoulders, and hauled it upright. The weight was immense, but his armor compensated, as he turned the body into a makeshift shield.

  “Contact! Imperial Guards!” he barked through the comms, his voice sharp and steady despite the chaos.

  The Hoplites responded in a moment, their formation shifting. Those still locked in combat with the remaining Orks pressed harder, while the others pivoted, weapons raised toward the new threat.

  Across the ruined plaza, through the haze of smoke and fire, figures emerged.

  At their center walked a man, clad in pristine white armor. In his hands, he carried a Laser Rifle, the barrel still glowing from the recent shots.

  Around him moved ten Rangers, their armor deep purple, their visors reflecting the fires burning around them. They advanced in perfect formation, silent and deliberate.

  A new variable had entered the battlefield.

  The Imperial Guard, the Emperor’s elite.

  The man in white stopped at the edge of the plaza, lowering his rifle. The purple Rangers spread out behind him, forming a semicircle, their weapons ready but not yet firing.

  When he spoke, his voice carried across the distance.

  “He always told me,” the white-armored figure said, his tone almost conversational. “The greatest talent. The greatest opportunity.”

  He tilted his head slightly, as if studying Oliver through the haze. “Your death broke him. It crushed his hope. Such a waste.”

  Oliver frowned, his grip tightening on the dead Ork’s armor. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  The man chuckled softly. “Wiz.”

  The name hit Oliver’s mind.

  “Before he retired,” the man continued, stepping closer, “he tried to find out what happened to you. Unfortunately, I had to… force his retirement.”

  Oliver’s breath caught in his throat.

  Wiz.

  General Wiz of the New Earth Army, his former commanding officer. The man who had defended him when the NEA wanted to discard him. The one who had handpicked him to become a Blue Ranger.

  “Stewart. It’s been a long time,” Oliver said, his voice steady but edged with something colder.

  The White Ranger paused mid-step. He reached up and disengaged his helmet. The locks hissed open.

  The face beneath hadn’t changed much.

  Five years had passed since Oliver had last seen him, yet Stewart looked almost the same. Sharp features, eyes like tempered steel, and a faint, knowing smirk that never quite reached them. His hair, streaks of white and dark, his posture was as unyielding as ever.

  “Yes, yes,” Stewart said, his tone almost casual. “Quite the trick, faking your death. Even the Sovereign didn’t know who you were.”

  “So he’s watching now,” Oliver said.

  Stewart chuckled, humorless one. “After assembling an army and getting rid of two Sovereigns? Of course he is. It was only a matter of time before he noticed the anomaly walking across his domain.”

  Oliver couldn’t help but laugh. “Good. It’s nice to know he’s expecting me.”

  Stewart’s expression hardened. The faint glimmer of amusement vanished, replaced by the cold professionalism that Oliver remembered all too well.

  “Expecting you?” he said, his voice flat and precise. “Don’t flatter yourself. We’re not here for you.”

  He took a step forward. “We’re here for Adrian. You’re dust in the Sovereign’s path, insignificant. A remnant of a failed experiment.”

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  Oliver didn’t react, not outward. But inside, his mind was already racing, every instinct sharpened.

  He studied Stewart. Every movement. Every shift in weight. The way his fingers hovered near his rifle, the subtle angle of his stance.

  Around him, the Imperial Guards repositioned themselves with military precision.

  “Finally! The Imperial Guard!”

  “Fuck those Orks!”

  The cheers rose almost instantly. Civilians, reporters, and even some of the Rangers who had survived the earlier fighting shouted in relief.

  However, they didn’t understand.

  They couldn’t feel it, the tension that had settled over the battlefield like a storm waiting to break.

  Oliver could.

  The air between him and Stewart was razor-sharp, charged with hostility.

  The Hoplites around him had gone still, their weapons raised but waiting for his command.

  Two armies, both human, stood on opposite sides of the same battlefield.

  And between them, Stewart and Oliver.

  “Even a grain of dust can tip the balance,” Oliver said quietly, his voice calm but cold.

  Stewart’s expression hardened. “Then I suppose I’d better deal with that grain of dust before it becomes a problem.”

  The two men stood almost face to face now, separated by only a few meters of cracked earth and scattered debris. The world seemed to hold its breath.

  This wasn’t another duel.

  This was the moment the war between the Empire and Aquarius would begin.

  There would be no more diplomacy. No negotiations.

  Only survival.

  It was impossible to say who moved first.

  One heartbeat, the two of them stood still. The next, they exploded.

  Their fists collided, and the world shook.

  The impact sent a shockwave rippling outward, shattering what remained of the plaza. The ground cracked beneath their feet, chunks of concrete flew into the air. The force of it knocked several nearby soldiers off balance.

  Oliver struck again, his gauntlets flaring with golden light as [Prometheus] roared to life.

  Every blow they traded carried the weight of thunder.

  Sparks and plasma bursts filled the air as their strikes connected. The sound was deafening, a rhythm that drowned out even the roar of the Orks still fighting.

  “What’s happening?” one of the reporters shouted.

  “Aren’t they allies?!” another cried, confusion and fear spreading among the civilians.

  No one answered.

  The live feeds continued to broadcast the scene to every network still active across the system. The world watched as two human forces, Imperial and Aquarius, turned their weapons on each other.

  Confusion rippled through the battlefield.

  What had begun as humanity’s desperate stand against the Orks had devolved into something else.

  Imperial Guards and Aquarius Hoplites clashed amid the ruins. The Orks, sensing opportunity, surged forward with guttural roars, turning the plaza into a maelstrom of fire and blood.

  The war had fractured.

  No longer humanity versus Ork, but faction against faction, each fighting in the ashes of a dying city.

  At the center of it all, Oliver and Stewart.

  Even without his Unique Armor, Oliver held his ground, channeling the raw flow of Energy through his body, his movements fluid and precise.

  Yet he also knew, Stewart wasn’t fighting with his all.

  Every strike, every counter, every dodge. It was too measured, too deliberate. The White Ranger was testing him, gauging his strength, his limits.

  Oliver could see it in his eyes. Behind the veneer of control, Stewart was studying him like a scientist disassembling a machine.

  They broke apart, stepping back almost in unison. The air between them shimmered from the residual Energy of their last exchange. Both men breathed hard, the ground beneath them cracked and glowing.

  For a moment, they stood there, circling, each waiting for the other to make the next move.

  However, Oliver’s senses were already shifting elsewhere.

  Something was changing.

  The flow of Energy was wrong. It was focusing toward a single point. He could feel it like a vibration in his bones, a pulse that didn’t belong to either him or Stewart.

  Behind him was the towering glass-fronted building that dominated the plaza. Something powerful was coming.

  He exhaled once, steadying his breath. Then jumped.

  A split-second instinct, pure reflex.

  The moment his boots left the ground, a massive blade cleaved through the space he’d just occupied. The impact carved a deep scar into the concrete, splitting the earth.

  Oliver twisted midair, landing in a crouch several meters away.

  Behind him, a new voice echoed across the plaza—deep, guttural, heavy with authority.

  “You didn’t think I’d let you kill each other before I had my turn, did you?”

  The roar rolled through the ruins.

  Oliver turned, eyes narrowing.

  There she was.

  The Empress.

  Her massive form with her orange armor. The immense sword she held, still hummed from the force of her strike, its edge glowing red.

  Her presence was suffocating. Even the Orks paused mid-battle, their guttural cries fading into uneasy silence.

  “Nothing of the sort,” Oliver said, straightening, his voice steady despite the weight pressing down on him. “I was waiting for you to decide to join us.”

  For a heartbeat, the Empress looked surprised.

  Then she laughed—a deep, barbaric sound, equal parts amusement and menace. Her grin flashed.

  “The universe is full of surprises,” she said.

  Stewart’s voice cut in, sharp and disdainful. “I’d forgotten you could speak the tongue of these animals.”

  The tension coiled tighter, the air itself vibrating with the Energy of three powers converging.

  Every soldier, every Ork, every Ranger froze instinctively, sensing what was about to happen.

  The Empress' voice was almost playful when she spoke again.

  “Well? Are we going to stand here talking… or is one of you going to let me take your head?”

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