[Oliver’s POV]

  The real Jailer had not yet revealed itself. And it was coming their way.

  [Oh! You thought my sons and daughters were the Jailers? No, no…]

  The voice slithered into his ears, silk twisted into mockery.

  [Aren’t they beautiful? Not originals, no… only corruptions, the remnants of what was left.]

  [They could never be my Jailers. No. The Jailers are loyal to the Proud One.]

  The words reverberated through the minds of every living being on Fantasia-3.

  Oliver didn’t look at the glowing letters that danced in the air before him. He ignored the taunts. His eyes were locked on his map. The red marker pulsed like a heartbeat; faster, closer, closing the distance at astonishing speed.

  He couldn’t tell how many meters remained, but he knew it would reach them in seconds.

  From which direction… where? His head turned sharply, scanning the dunes, searching for the horizon that seemed to shiver.

  And then he felt it.

  The Energy.

  It rolled across the desert like a storm front, crushing and suffocating, pressing against his chest until every breath was an effort. It wasn’t the infinite, world-breaking pressure of a Sovereign, no. Yet it was still something unlike anything else.

  From the corner of his eye, Oliver saw Adrian. The Meridius heir’s composure had cracked; his knuckles were white from how much he was pressing his hands. Even his arrogance bent under the weight of what approached.

  And Uklush, who had laughed through every strike, who had mocked them even as he bled, now stood rigid, his eyes narrowed with unease. Even the Ork warlord felt it.

  “Chief… what’s happening?” one of the Red Orks stammered, his voice betraying the fear he tried to hide.

  “Didn’t we kill the Jailer?” another asked, his eyes darting to the corpse of the scorpion-man.

  “Silence!” Uklush roared, his voice cracking like thunder. His axe gleamed as he hefted it high, though his grip was tighter than before; his fury had been sharpened by fear. “Prepare yourselves! Do not show fear again!”

  But the humans were no better. Soldiers who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder against Orks now fell back, crowding around their leaders, eyes wide, whispers breaking into panicked murmurs.

  Six moved to Oliver’s back, his breath ragged.

  Oliver’s jaw clenched. If only I had a Green Ranger Armor… The thought burned in his mind like acid.

  The map’s red point pulsed again.

  It was finally approaching; it looked like a storm on the horizon.

  The dunes rippled unnaturally, as though some invisible force was parting the desert itself. Grains of sand rose in streams, thrown aside by something vast and fast-moving above the surface. A metallic glint caught the sunlight.

  Whatever it was, it was coming straight for them.

  There were no tremors, no thunder of colossal limbs striking the earth. Instead, the sound that reached them was stranger: the wind itself, being torn and pushed in rhythmic bursts, as if driven back by turbines. Each pulse grew louder until the air itself seemed to vibrate with a cadence not of the desert but of wings.

  The Orks were the first to break. Their shouts cut through the storm, their fear clear in their voices.

  “They were extinct!” one cried in terror.

  “How can there still be one alive?!” another demanded, his voice cracking as he looked toward Uklush.

  The Ork commander’s jaw clenched. He said nothing, but the tension in his stance was answer enough.

  Oliver narrowed his eyes, straining against the glare of the sun. His heart pounded as the sound grew clearer, the rhythmic thunder of wings tearing through the air. Then he saw it: a silver blur skimming the dunes.

  The blur surged upward in a single move, climbing into the sky. At twenty, maybe thirty meters above the battlefield, it unfurled itself.

  Enormous, gleaming wings of silver spread wide, catching the sun and hurling blinding light across the desert. The force of their beat sent waves of air crashing down, blasting the dunes apart and sending cascades of sand raining across the battlefield.

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  At first, it was only a shadow that passed overhead, a vast silhouette that drowned the light and pressed down on the world with its sheer immensity.

  Then came the revelation.

  Its body uncoiled above them, serpentine and endless, scales gleaming like silver. Each plate of armor shimmered as though forged from liquid metal, reflecting the merciless sun of Fantasia-3. Its tail lashed behind it, long and sinuous, carving the air like a living whip.

  Four massive limbs extended from its body, each one corded with muscle, tipped with claws that could cut steel like paper. And then, at last, its head lowered, casting its gaze upon them.

  Not the face of man. Not beast. Something greater. Its eyes were vast, molten orbs of intelligence and fury, scanning the battlefield below with the precision of a predator choosing its prey. There was no wild hunger in its gaze; only cold calculation.

  Oliver’s breath caught in his throat. Each detail stitched together in his mind until the realization struck.

  This was no corrupted spawn. No twisted imitation.

  This was something far older. Far purer.

  “…That’s a dragon?” Six’s voice trembled, the words breaking the silence that had fallen over soldiers and Orks alike.

  No one answered.

  Because everyone already knew the truth.

  “Who dares trespass in my domain?”

  The voice did not come from the dragon’s maw. Its jaws did not move, its lips did not part. The words were inside Oliver’s head, vibrating through his bones.

  Oliver staggered for half a heartbeat before steadying himself. The dragon was inside him.

  “Who dares wake the Chaotic One and face me in my territory?”

  The words thundered again, overlapping in the minds of all who stood beneath its shadow. Men clutched their helmets, Orks growled low in their throats, but none could block it out. It was everywhere at once, inescapable.

  The dragon’s molten eyes swept across the battlefield. Its gaze lingered on each of them in turn, dissecting, weighing, dismissing. It looked upon them as one might glance at insects crawling across a table. Pride radiated from its gaze, the arrogance of a being that had outlived empires, that had no reason to see them as anything but ants beneath its claws.

  Oliver’s fists clenched. Energy surged inside him, flowing into his arms and chest, threading into his very bones. His disguise, the mask of Atlas Blackwell, the careful restraint, was meaningless now. Against this enemy, half-measures would be suicide.

  Disguise? Forget it. I’ll need everything I have.

  The heat rose inside him, burning through his veins. His skin prickled, then cracked as golden light spilled from beneath it. Tiny flames licked out from his pores, weaving into the air around him, wrapping his body in a faint, shimmering aura.

  Six took two involuntary steps back, the heat washing over him like an open furnace. His eyes widened behind his wrappings, understanding immediately what this meant. “You’re sure about this?”

  Oliver didn’t look away from the beast above. His voice was curt, clipped, his attention unbroken. “Yes.”

  [Observation]

  The world bled into monochrome for an instant, the patterns of movement, the predictions of action. Then shattered like glass.

  [Boon failed.]

  Oliver’s stomach sank. His jaw tightened. “Damn it…”

  If Observation had failed, then its meaning was clear. This creature wasn’t just strong. It was on the level of a Queen-class threat, or worse.

  Oliver’s golden flames flared brighter. His heart pounded with anxiety.

  The odds were abysmal.

  “You need not answer. I can take the truth from your bodies.”

  The dragon’s voice resonated through their skulls, its jaws spreading wide. Between its curved fangs, a glow built. Blinding, argent light swelled until it burst forth in a torrent of fire.

  But this was no ordinary flame.

  Silver fire cascaded downward, a torrent of annihilation that washed over the battlefield. Where it touched, the world ignited.

  Each group scattered in panic. Orks dove into the sand, roaring in terror. Adrian barked orders as his men scrambled behind dunes. And Oliver seized Six by the arm and hurled him back just as the inferno descended.

  The blast struck where they had stood.

  The air screamed. The sand became glass. The fire rolled outward in waves, chasing them even as they tumbled aside. Oliver shielded Six, but stray tongues of silvery flame lashed at them, clinging like glue.

  Six cried out as his robes caught fire. Oliver ripped at the fabric, tearing it away, but the flames would not die. They licked hungrily at the cloth, at the sand, even at the air itself. Six beat at them desperately, but the silver fire only spread.

  With a grunt, Oliver grabbed what remained of the burning wrappings and tore them free with brute strength, casting them into the dunes. The fabric vanished in a hiss of molten light, consumed utterly.

  For a moment, silence.

  Six panted heavily, his chest heaving, revealing the Aquarius uniform he wore beneath the desert garb. His face remained hidden, his identity intact. Yet his eyes were wide, reflecting the silver inferno still burning in the sand around them.

  The fire had not gone out.

  The dunes themselves burned. The argent blaze clung to the grains as if they were oil-soaked rags, spreading in patches of eternal flame. Even the wind could not extinguish it. The desert had become a sea of silver fire, burning without fuel, without mercy.

  Six swallowed hard. His voice cracked as he muttered, “Not good.”

  Oliver’s jaw tightened, his fists flexing as golden sparks danced across his skin. “That’s obvious. But what in hell is he breathing?”

  Six glanced at his gauntlet, readings flashing across the display. His throat went dry. He forced the words out, each one heavier than the last.

  “Not just the fire. The reading. His level…”

  He looked up at Oliver, fear in his eyes.

  “He’s a King!”