[Oliver’s POV]

  [Shall we play a game?]

  The words floated before Oliver’s eyes, not as light or projection but as if they were etched into his mind. The letters pulsed, then twisted, and suddenly he heard them. They were whispered into his ears in a voice that was silken, mocking, intimate.

  [Oh! I see some of you are already playing something. But with whom?]

  Oliver stiffened. The storm’s roar became distant, muffled by the whisper that crawled into his skull.

  [Him? What does he call himself now? Ah… Odin. How boring. He makes your little game so dull.]

  The whisper sharpened into laughter, cruel and childlike.

  [Games should be shorter. Faster. More fun.]

  Oliver exchanged a glance with Lucaz. Even through the desert wrappings around the man’s face, Oliver could see the tension in his eyes.

  [Now then, let me introduce the players…]

  [Wait! A moment. Someone is trying to join our game.]

  Both men looked skyward.

  The sandstorm above them, a swirling wall of dust, suddenly split apart. Through it, a small ship forced its way down, engines straining, its hull glowing red from friction.

  For a heartbeat, it seemed the vessel might make it safe.

  Then the storm closed.

  The sand itself moved like a serpent, coiling around the craft. The ship twisted, metal shrieking as the grip tightened. Panels buckled, bolts shot free, and the hull collapsed inward as though crushed by a giant.

  Oliver and Lucaz shielded their eyes as the ship imploded. The explosion never bloomed outward. Instead, the storm swallowed it whole, muffling the blast, holding the fire and shrapnel in its grip. Only fragments of twisted steel fell from the sky.

  Lucaz’s voice was low, shaken. “He… he can control the sand?”

  Oliver’s reply was grim, measured. “It's not just sand. It's the defense system. And now, it’s his.”

  Above them, the whispers returned, gleeful.

  [No more players. We have enough.]

  [Where was I? Ah, yes. The participants.]

  The words twisted again, shifting. The voice chuckled.

  [Wait! These messages won’t do. Let’s change things a little.]

  The distorted messages flickered, then dissolved into nothingness. In their place, a blank panel shimmered into existence, hovering in the air before Oliver like a projection. Slowly, the white canvas began to darken, shapes forming at the edges, as though a lens were struggling to focus.

  It was a view from above.

  The image clarified into the sprawling Oasis, seen from high. From the crown of the colossal Tree. Every street, every tent, every brick house beneath. Yet when Oliver’s eyes swept the sky, searching for the device or drone that could be producing such a feed, he found nothing. No machine. No lens. Only the Tree itself, vast and silent.

  The view fractured, colors bleeding into the screen. The sound came next. It sounded muffled, warped, like voices whispered through water. Fragments of words spilled out, meaningless at first, until the cadence sharpened. The language was not English or any Human-like.

  It was Orkish.

  “How am I appearing on this screen?” The guttural voice was harsh.

  [The first of our players. Uklush! Am I saying it right? Uklush?]

  [Commander of the Ork Vanguard Line. You were on a secret mission, weren’t you? I do love secrets. Such a pity.]

  The image shifted, resolving into a figure bathed in darkness. The Ork loomed in a cavern, his massive form hunched, his red face half-lit by the glow of some unseen fire. His eyes burned with fury at the humiliation of being exposed.

  Lucaz leaned closer to the image, his voice low with shock. “The Orks… they’re here too? That darkness. It must be a cavern. But where or when did they arrive?”

  The mocking voice chuckled again.

  [But don’t be sad. There are… many more participants.]

  The screen flickered. The cavern dissolved into a new scene.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  [For example. We have Adrian Meridius. Heir to the Emperor.]

  The image sharpened into clarity. Soldiers staggered across a desolate stretch of sand, their uniforms torn and scorched from a crash. Some limped, others bore fresh wounds, blood seeping into their fatigues. At their center stood a young man, his hand pressed against his face, brushing away the sand.

  Even battered, even dirtied by the fall, Adrian was unmistakable. His insignia gleamed on his chest, the crest of House Meridius. His posture was defiant, his eyes sharp with pride that refused to bend.

  [The last to arrive in my little prison,] the voice purred, savoring the words.

  [Don’t worry. You all may play in groups.]

  [For the Humans, you are not the only team.]

  The image flickered, the blank canvas shifting until it resolved into the form of a woman veiled in cloth. Even through the projection, Oliver recognized her posture, the commanding way she held herself. Katherine York. Officers surrounded her, their desert garb concealing the sigils of her House, but her presence was unmistakable.

  [We also have Katherine York.]

  The feed cut again, snapping into the face of another. A young woman with sharp green eyes and short dark hair. Her clothes were similar to Katherine’s, desert silks to withstand the heat, but with green markings. Her expression was severe, lips pressed thin, her gaze cold as steel.

  [Our fourth participant: Demi of Demeter.]

  The Oasis seemed to hold its breath as the image shifted once more.

  A man stood with his arms crossed, his jaw set. Orton of Enceladus. Even captured on projection, the Admiral radiated authority.

  [Representing the Lots, we have Orton of Enceladus.]

  And then, everything stopped.

  The screen flickered, hesitated, then dimmed. A pause. A whisper of static.

  [And finally, we have… interesting. What name should I call you by? I’ve already unraveled one of your secrets. I won’t spoil another.]

  The image sharpened, and Oliver’s breath caught.

  It was him.

  The projection showed him cloaked in white, his head bowed, his silver case at his side. Then the figure lifted its gaze, and Oliver found himself staring directly into his own eyes, reflected at him, projected across the Oasis for all to see.

  [Atlas Blackwell.]

  [Too bad I can’t add my own participants.]

  [But now that we’ve all been introduced, let’s talk about the rules.]

  [The first game shall be… Kill the Jailers.]

  The projection changed again, showing a map of the desert. Four points flared outward, each one glowing in a cardinal direction around the city.

  [This beautiful prison is guarded by four wardens. Each of them waits fifty kilometers from this city.]

  The voice grew sharper, colder.

  [Kill them within one hour. The four who succeed shall move on to the next phase.]

  The screen darkened, the whisper curling into a hiss.

  [Fail… and I shall bring each Jailer here. I will tear them through the desert and drop them into your Oasis. And when they finish with this city, there may be nothing left.]

  The final words struck like a knife, each syllable dripping with malice.

  [Oh, and one more thing. No Crystals. No Rangers. We wouldn’t want an unfair game for our Ork friends, would we?]

  There was a pause, followed by a mocking chuckle.

  [Too difficult? Perhaps. But…]

  The whisper sharpened, playful, cruel.

  [Good luck. And try to enjoy the game.]

  The moment the last words faded, the screen dissolved into nothingness.

  Lucaz’s voice trembled as he turned toward Oliver. “W-what just happened? Wa-was that the trap?”

  Oliver’s gaze never left the center of the Oasis, where soldiers and civilians alike were breaking into chaos. His voice was calm, steady, as though he had expected this all along. “No. Not the trap. The reason the trap exists.”

  Lucaz swallowed, his eyes darting between the fleeing colonists and the soldiers forming squads in the streets. “Then… who is he?”

  Oliver opened his mouth to answer, but before the words could leave him, glowing letters seared themselves into the air before both men.

  [I've kept your secret. You'd better keep mine.]

  Lucaz froze, his throat working. He opened and closed his mouth several times, but no sound came out.

  Oliver, however, remained composed. “It seems we don’t have a choice.”

  “You mean… we’re really going to play this game?” Lucaz asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just the two of us? And without Ranger Armor?”

  Oliver’s eyes tracked the chaos spreading through the Oasis. Civilians screamed as they trampled over one another, rushing into their homes or ducking behind walls that would never withstand what was coming. Soldiers were already forming up, moving in disciplined units, barking orders everywhere.

  “Yes,” Oliver said flatly. “Us. That’s all we need. What are you nervous about?”

  His tone carried no fear, no hesitation.

  Lucaz inhaled sharply, then forced himself to steady his breathing, his shoulders stiffening as he tried to appear composed. “Yes, sir.”

  Oliver knelt, setting his silver case on the ground. With a click, it opened, and he drew out four metallic spheres. He tossed them into the air, and instantly the drones came alive; hovering, whirring, their stabilizers fighting against the storm as they circled above.

  “Use them,” Oliver commanded. “I want to know where each of our competitors is heading.”

  Lucaz raised his gauntlet, a faint glow linking him to the drones. His eyes flickered as data streamed into his arm. “Connection established. Katherine York is moving north. Demi of Dementer is heading west. Admiral Orton is advancing south.”

  Oliver’s eyes narrowed, committing each direction to memory. Only one path remained unclaimed.

  “Adrian Meridius… he’s moving east.” The drones descended, obediently returning to the silver case. Lucaz locked them back into place with a snap. “Which one do we pursue?”

  Oliver remained still for a long moment, his gaze distant, calculating. Without his Crystal, his options were limited. But limitation had never meant weakness.

  Finally, he turned. “We go after Adrian. His squad is wounded from the crash. They’ll be the easiest against.”