[Oliver's PoV]

  ‘Zero.’

  The moment the thought crossed his mind, everything stopped.

  The screams. The sound of the creatures. The hiss of acid. Even Mordred’s ragged breathing, gone.

  Silence swallowed the world whole.

  Oliver’s pulse pounded in his ears, but even that faded, replaced by an eerie, absolute stillness. He opened his eyes, though he couldn’t remember closing them, and blinked several times. Nothing changed.

  There was nothing.

  No light. No sound. No air.

  He raised his arms, expecting to feel the pull of the chain, the weight of his uniform, the ache in his muscles, but there was nothing. His hands moved freely, untethered, yet he couldn’t feel them.

  He hung there, suspended in a void that wasn’t cold or warm, real or imagined.

  A limbo.

  Then, a voice.

  [Second Floor Initiated.]

  It came from everywhere and nowhere, a mechanical monotone.

  The darkness shifted.

  Then, suddenly, the world ignited.

  Light exploded around him, flooding his vision. The transition was so abrupt it made him flinch, his eyes watering as the black void gave way to color.

  When his vision cleared, he was standing on grass.

  Not the artificial kind used in training domes or ship gardens. The faint smell of wet earth reached him as water from nearby sprinklers tickled the edges of his boots.

  He turned slowly, his mind struggling to reconcile what he was seeing.

  The sky above him was a deep, hazy blue. It was too smooth, too uniform. A faint mist hung in the air, and far in the distance, at the edge of the horizon, he could see it, the faint shimmer of a dome.

  A massive, transparent barrier that enclosed everything.

  It stretched in every direction, curving upward until it vanished. Far away, he could see the faint light of a small sun.

  Inside the dome, the world was… peaceful.

  A park sprawled around him, vibrant and full of life. Trees swayed gently in the artificial breeze, their leaves rustling softly. Flowers bloomed in neat clusters, their colors vivid under the simulated daylight.

  And there were people.

  Families. Parents. Children.

  A little girl ran past him, giggling as she chased a drone shaped like a butterfly. Two adults sat on a bench beneath a tree, their faces calm, their eyes bright.

  It looked like a summer afternoon in any civilized world.

  “Come on! One more time!”

  The voice came from his left, and before Oliver could even process it, his head snapped violently to the side. The world spun for a second, and he gasped, instinctively raising his hands to steady himself.

  But his body didn’t respond.

  His arms felt heavy, uncooperative, as if they weren’t his. His breath came in ragged pulls, his chest tight, his throat dry. His heart hammered so hard it echoed in his ears.

  He blinked rapidly, trying to focus.

  The world around him was… wrong. He wasn’t in the tower anymore.

  Sitting a few meters away was a boy.

  He couldn’t have been much older than Oliver. He was in his early twenties, yet something about him radiated confidence. His short blond hair caught the light, and his uniform, a pristine NEA Ranger outfit, was spotless, the kind only someone with rank or pedigree could get away with keeping that clean.

  He was smiling.

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  Not mockingly, but with the kind of easy confidence that made his words sting all the more.

  “Go on, then. Don’t tell me the great heir of his Great House can’t handle one more round?” the boy teased, his grin widening.

  Oliver’s jaw tightened. He tried to reply, but his voice came out strained, hoarse. “Go to hell, Arthur.”

  The words came out sharp, laced with pride. Oliver could feel his jaw tightening, his teeth grinding together as anger bubbled up in his chest. “John’s four years older than me! He’s already training to be a Ranger, and his Energy output is endless!”

  Arthur laughed, the sound light, almost mocking. “Stop making excuses. John hasn’t even used Energy against you yet.”

  Oliver’s fists clenched at his sides. The familiar surge of frustration coursed through him, but it wasn’t his own. For the first time, he looked down at himself.

  This wasn’t his body.

  His arms were too short, his legs thinner, his stance unsteady. The proportions were wrong, the perspective off. He was small and young. Eleven, maybe twelve.

  He swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. 'What the hell is this?'

  But before he could think further, the body he inhabited moved on its own.

  “Again,” he heard himself say, his voice higher, sharper. It was strange hearing it, his tone, but not his tone.

  Across from him, John stood tall and composed, his dark hair neatly cut, his uniform immaculate. The crest on his chest caught the light.

  Oliver’s breath caught. He knew that symbol.

  'The York badge.'

  “Brother, are you sure? He’s already exhausted,” John said, his voice calm, even. There was no mockery there, no arrogance. His tone wasn’t cruel, just detached.

  “Oh, come on, John. He’s the great heir, remember? He can handle it.” Arthur answered.

  Oliver’s borrowed body bristled at that. His small fists tightened again, knuckles whitening.

  He didn’t think. He just moved.

  The world snapped into focus. His body lunged forward, fast and low, the movement almost feral in its intensity. The air rushed past his ears as he closed the distance between them.

  For a boy his size, he was quick. His strikes were precise. He attacked from the left, feinting, before pivoting and swinging from the right. His movements were fluid and instinctive.

  But John didn’t flinch.

  He moved with effortless grace, his body reacting before the attacks even landed. Each punch, each kick, was read, deflected, redirected.

  Every time Oliver’s small body struck, John was already there, one step ahead.

  A punch aimed for his ribs was met with a flick of the wrist, sending the blow off-course. A kick to his side was sidestepped with minimal effort, leaving him off-balance.

  It was like fighting a wall that moved.

  Oliver snarled and pressed harder. His small frame darted left, right, low, high, his fists a blur. But it was useless. John’s expression never changed. His dark eyes followed every motion, calm and calculating.

  Oliver could feel the exhaustion bleeding through the body he inhabited. His lungs burned, his arms trembled, every muscle screaming in protest. Still, the boy kept swinging, refusing to stop, refusing to yield.

  Then a hand caught his wrist, twisted lightly, and his balance vanished.

  The world spun.

  He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of him.

  For a moment, he just lay there. His back pressed against the damp grass, the cool blades sticking to his skin. The faint scent of rain and soil filled his nose.

  He tried to ignore the sound, Arthur’s laughter.

  “So, do you give up now?” Arthur called, his tone light, teasing.

  “Go to hell!” The words shot out of Oliver’s mouth before he could stop them.

  Arthur only laughed harder, his voice echoing across the yard.

  “Brother! Brother!”

  The shout came from somewhere to the side, high-pitched, excited, unbothered by the tension in the air.

  Oliver turned his head, still breathing hard. A small boy was running toward them, his short black hair bouncing with each step. He couldn’t have been more than six or seven, his face still soft with the roundness of childhood, his dark eyes bright with innocence.

  He wore simple, noble attire: a black tunic with silver trim and polished boots far too clean for the muddy field.

  The child barreled straight into him and knocked them both back into the grass.

  “Come play!” the boy said, laughing as he clung to him. His voice was pure, unguarded, the kind of laughter that didn’t belong in a world of soldiers and training fields.

  “Gareth! Can’t you see I’m training?” Oliver heard himself say, the irritation in his tone cutting through the warmth of the moment.

  “Training?” Gareth tilted his head, eyes wide with confusion. “I thought you were playing.”

  Arthur snorted from nearby, trying and failing to hold back a grin.

  “Hey! I’m not playing!” Oliver protested, sitting up.

  “You’re always training,” Gareth said, crossing his arms with a tiny huff. “You and Katherine, always training. Nobody ever wants to play with me!”

  He stood, brushing the dirt from his clothes in an exaggerated motion that only made him look smaller.

  “I’m going with them today!” he declared, puffing out his chest. “I won’t be back until next month, and you’d better play with me when I get back!”

  He jabbed a finger accusingly at them, his little face scrunched up in a mix of anger and sadness. Then he spun on his heel and stomped away, muttering under his breath.

  Oliver watched him go. He sighed, lifting a hand to his face, the familiar weight of guilt settling in his chest.

  “You should go after him,” Arthur said, his voice softer now. The teasing was gone; his expression had shifted to something more serious. “He’s going to be with us for a while.”

  Oliver hesitated. He didn’t want to move. His pride still stung, and his body ached. But Arthur’s tone left no room for argument.

  “Go on, Mordred.”

  The kick came a second later, a light one, but enough to push him to his feet.

  Oliver stumbled forward, catching his balance. The name echoed in his head again, louder this time, clearer.

  'Mordred.'

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