[Oliver’s PoV]

  Oliver didn’t hesitate. “Good. Then where’s the Empress?”

  The question froze the air.

  The reporter’s expression shifted in an instant. The false confidence of a man trying to stay calm, to the wide-eyed panic of someone realizing how far out of his depth he was.

  “Who?” Newton stammered.

  Oliver’s tone didn’t change. It was cold, clipped, the voice of a commander. “The Ork Empress. We have intel she’s here.”

  Newton swallowed hard, his throat audibly clicking. “Yes… yes, she’s here,” he said finally, his voice tight. “When you said you were hunting, I didn’t think you meant Moby Dick.”

  Oliver allowed himself the faintest smirk. “Still time to back out.”

  “No, no,” Newton said, glancing around at his team—the civilians, the Rangers, the exhausted survivors clutching their weapons a little too tight. “We'll continue.”

  Oliver studied them for a moment. They look too tired and too hurt. They were brave, yes—but bravery and survival weren’t the same thing.

  “Fine,” he said at last. “Then tell me, where is she?”

  Newton exhaled as he pointed toward the skyline. “Near Millennium Park. They’ve built a camp around it. The tallest building—” he hesitated, his eyes flicking away, “—that’s where they’re keeping the prisoners.”

  Oliver’s gaze followed the direction he indicated. In the distance, the once-proud Chicago skyline stood broken and burning. The glass towers were scarred with holes, their upper floors turned into wreckage.

  At the center of it all, just visible through the haze, was a structure that still stood taller than the rest. A monolith of steel and glass, its top floors flickering with the sickly orange glow of Ork forges.

  The Empress’s fortress.

  “You know the way?” Oliver asked, his eyes still fixed on the horizon.

  Newton nodded, his voice steadier now. “I do.”

  “Good. Then move.”

  Oliver raised his hand, signaling to the Hoplites.

  The elite soldiers moved. The ground trembled with the rhythm of their march, the sound of boots striking the cracked pavement echoing through the ruins.

  “Advance,” Oliver ordered.

  The column continued to move, cutting through the streets.

  The civilians and Rangers followed behind—less disciplined, more uncertain. Their movements were uneven, their formation loose. Oliver watched them carefully.

  “Stay in the center,” he commanded. “They’re used to fighting in packs. Keep your formation tight. Don’t break off.”

  He didn’t trust them. Not yet.

  They were unpredictable, and that was dangerous. One panicked move, one misfire, and the entire line could collapse.

  Every block they advanced, the resistance grew worse.

  Each encounter left more scorch marks on the cracked pavement, more ork bodies strewn across the ruins.

  “There!” Darwin shouted, pointing ahead.

  Oliver followed his gesture and saw it: a barricade spanning the entire street.

  It wasn’t just debris. It was a fortress.

  Cars had been fused together with molten steel, concrete slabs stacked like a wall, and the skeletal remains of buildings had been dragged into place to seal the street entirely.

  “They’ve sealed the roads,” Darwin said, breathing hard as he scanned the obstruction. “We’ll have to go around.”

  Oliver’s gaze stayed on the barricade. “Is this the shortest route?”

  “Yes, but it’s blocked,” Darwin replied, pulling up a holo-map on his wrist console. “Our drones show multiple collapsed buildings around their encampment. They’ve built a perimeter.”

  Oliver studied the feed projected before him. Thermal signatures, movement data, the faint glow of Ork patrols guarding the choke points.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  “Forward.”

  Darwin blinked. “What?”

  “Continue forward,” Oliver repeated, his voice calm but absolute. “Demolition team, prepare.”

  The order rippled through the Hoplite formation.

  The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances.

  “They brought explosives?” one of them muttered to his partner.

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  But when the Hoplites reached the barricade, they weren’t carrying any charges. No detonators. No heavy equipment.

  They simply stopped, ten of them, and stood shoulder to shoulder before the wall of wreckage.

  For a moment, the battlefield fell silent. Even the Orks beyond the barricade seemed to hesitate, sensing something unnatural in the air.

  Oliver watched as they raised their arms in perfect unison.

  At first, it was faint—a shimmer running along their armor plates. But within seconds, the glow intensified, bursting into flames of white and gold that licked up their arms and across their torsos.

  “What are they doing?” one of the soldiers whispered, his voice trembling.

  “Holy shit. Isn’t that Prometheus? Ten of them using it?” the Yellow Ranger commented, making those who weren’t Hoplites even more curious.

  No one answered.

  The answer came in the next instant.

  Ten fists crashed into the barricade. The world seemed to explode with the impact.

  A shockwave of Energy exploded outward, tearing through the street. The barricade, cars, concrete, twisted metal, ceased to exist.

  The explosion wasn’t fire, not in any natural sense. It was Energy, pure and unfiltered, burning white-hot and leaving trails of gold in its wake.

  The blast vaporized everything it touched. Buildings crumbled. Vehicles were hurled into the air like toys. The ground itself buckled, rippling under the immense pressure.

  The soldiers behind the Hoplites shielded their faces as the shockwave roared past them.

  When the light finally faded, the street ahead was gone. It had transformed into a smoking crater.

  The Hoplites had already withdrawn. They stepped back in perfect formation, making way for the next line to advance.

  However, soon came the roar.

  Orks.

  Hundreds at first. Then thousands. Their massive forms emerged from the smoke. Their eyes glowed with savagery.

  The first line of Hoplites raised their weapons.

  “Continue advancing,” Oliver ordered.

  The line surged forward.

  The clash was immediate and brutal. The Hoplites met the Orks head-on, their blades cutting arcs of light through the air.

  The Orks fought back with feral strength, their roars shaking the ground, but the Hoplites were relentless.

  Oliver moved with them as he fired bursts of Energy into the advancing horde. Each shot tore through ranks of enemies, leaving trails of smoke and dead bodies.

  As the smoke from the earlier explosion began to settle, the battlefield revealed itself in full.

  What had once been a park—grass, trees, life—was now a wasteland. The ground was blackened, littered with the wreckage.

  But most of all, there were too many Orks.

  They were everywhere.

  Crawling over the rubble, pouring out of collapsed buildings, charging through the smoke with their weapons raised. Their numbers seemed endless.

  Yet one thing mattered more than anything else: for the first time since the battle began, they could see their objective.

  Through the chaos—the burning streets, the screams and collapsed buildings—the Empress’s stronghold loomed ahead.

  At its far edge, still standing amid the devastation, was a tower of glass. The building’s facade shimmered, fractured but unbroken.

  Oliver could almost feel the pulse of Energy radiating from within.

  “Prepare yourselves!” he barked, his voice cutting through the noise of battle. “We’re splitting into three divisions. First division, you’re with me—direct assault. Second division, hold the plaza and reinforce the perimeter. Third division, find and destroy their teleportation relay. They’re reinforcing from somewhere—we end that now.”

  “Who do we go with?” one of the civilians whispered to the reporter beside him, his voice trembling.

  Newton’s eyes gleamed despite the soot on his face. “With him, of course.” He nodded toward Oliver, his tone hushed but full of awe. “Imagine it—seeing him fight the Empress. The first time anyone has ever witnessed it.”

  The man fell silent, swallowing hard, his fear for a moment forgotten.

  “Yes, sir!” the Hoplites answered in perfect unison.

  The formation broke. Thirty soldiers per group, each led by a commander. The Hoplites advanced like a tide of living steel.

  Oliver moved with the first division, the assault team.

  This time, he was closer to the front line, closer to the fire.

  The civilians and Rangers followed behind, their weapons firing sporadically, their movements clumsy compared to the Hoplites’ disciplined advance.

  Oliver increased his rate of fire; his Energy Pistol unleashed bursts of concentrated Energy into the advancing Orks. Each shot tore through their ranks.

  Still, they kept coming.

  The Orks were relentless—climbing over the bodies of their fallen, roaring as their crude weapons clashed against the Hoplites’ shields.

  Oliver’s concentration was absolute. Every movement, every shot, was deliberate. His senses were tuned to the rhythm of the battlefield.

  He felt it, before anyone else.

  A tremor.

  Subtle at first, a vibration beneath his boots. But it grew stronger, deeper, until the ground itself began to shake. The air thickened, charged with raw power.

  The Energy spiked wildly.

  “Something’s coming,” Oliver muttered.

  He could feel it, not one source, but three.

  Each one radiated immense power, distinct yet synchronized, converging on his location.

  “Fall back!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the comms. “Everyone, move! Aft—”

  He didn’t get the chance to finish.

  The ground erupted.

  Three shockwaves tore through the street, sending debris and bodies flying. From the smoke and ruin, three figures emerged—massive, armored, and Ork.

  But these were no ordinary Ork.

  Each one wore armor eerily similar to a Ranger's suit. Their forms were too large, too monstrous for the armor they wore, stretching it to its limits. The plating was warped, scarred, and dripping with black residue, as though the very power sustaining it was eating away at their host.

  One glowed red. Another shimmered black. The third radiated a sickly yellow, its Energy field flickering erratically, unstable and violent.

  “What the hell—” one of the soldiers gasped.

  Oliver didn’t wait for the answer.

  He raised both arms to defend himself.

  The impact was cataclysmic.

  Three simultaneous strikes—each one strong enough to shatter a tank—slammed into him. The shockwave rippled through the street, sending cracks spiderwebbing across the ground.

  Pain lanced through his arms. His armor cracked.

  Oliver gritted his teeth, pushing back the attack.

  Dust and smoke filled the air. The Hoplites regrouped, but not to help their commander; they kept focusing on their task.

  For a moment, Oliver stood locked in the clash. However, through the chaos, he smiled.

  “Finally,” he said, his voice low, steady.

  “I was starting to wonder when you’d show up.”

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