[Oliver’s PoV]

  The moment Oliver’s mind recognized the face before him, the Sovereign of the Orks, the memory fractured.

  The image splintered like glass, scattering into shards of light and sound that twisted around him. For a breathless instant, everything dissolved into chaos. Just as quickly, the pieces began to reassemble.

  But the world that returned was not the same.

  The city was no longer bathed in golden light. The sky above was burning orange, not from the warmth of a sun, but from something far more violent.

  A weapon had exploded in the upper atmosphere.

  The blast painted the heavens in fire. The ground trembled in response, the shockwave rolling through the marble streets.

  And yet, Atherion, the body Oliver now inhabited, did not flinch.

  Even with the world trembling beneath him, his gaze remained steady. From his vantage point high above the city, his wings spread wide against the burning sky, Oliver could feel the man’s confidence radiating like heat.

  Atherion believed in his kin. In his brothers.

  Even facing two Sovereigns, he did not doubt victory.

  The wind howled around them as Atherion hovered in the air. Below, the battlefield stretched endlessly, a tapestry of fire, metal, and blood.

  To the east, the Winged descendants of the Just Sovereign, marched in perfect formation. They moved as one, their discipline absolute, their wings cutting through the air with precision.

  To the west, the Orks gathered, a tide of muscle and fury. Their weapons were crude, their armor brutal, forged for destruction rather than beauty. They roared as they advanced, their sheer presence shaking the ground.

  But the Orks were not alone.

  Marching beside them were Golems.

  Oliver’s breath caught.

  They were massive, their forms crafted from metal and crystal. Each step they took made the earth quake. Veins of Energy run through their frames like living circuitry.

  They had a humanoid form, yet each were unique in design. They wielded advanced weapons Energy blades, plasma hammers, cannons built into their arms.

  They were machines of war, but not mindless ones. They thought. They adapted.

  And yet, as he watched them march, a cold realization crept through him.

  'They look like the Orks' Titans.'

  He narrowed Atherion’s eyes, focusing on the way the Golems moved. But these weren’t twisted, corrupted monsters.

  The Titans he knew were broken. Beasts of instinct and rage.

  The Golems were different. They were intelligent.

  Behind each army stood the ones who commanded them, the gods of this war.

  The Sovereigns.

  Behind the Orks, the Sovereign in orange armor loomed, her presence radiating raw power. She seemed the embodiment of strength and conquest.

  Behind the Golems stood another Sovereign, one Oliver recognized instantly, the one in purple armor. His presence was different, not wild like the Ork Sovereign’s, but measured, calculating, strategic.

  And as Oliver’s borrowed gaze fixed on him, a thought surfaced—a whisper that didn’t belong to Atherion.

  'He shouldn’t be here. He’s the Humanity's Sovereign.'

  Oliver’s pulse quickened. His thoughts spiraled.

  'But… humanity didn’t exist yet. Did it?'

  He couldn’t tell when this memory had taken place. The world around him felt ancient.

  'Could Sovereigns move between civilizations? Could they abandon one species for another?'

  He didn’t know. Yet something deep inside told him this had all happened long ago.

  The war raged on, but the outcome was clear.

  From the skies above, the Winged reigned supreme. The Ork and Golem fleets never even reached the city; their ships were torn apart mid-flight, reduced to fire and debris before they could breach the atmosphere.

  On the ground, the story was the same.

  Hundreds of enemy soldiers fell for every one who dared approach the walls. The Winged were relentless.

  Yet… despite the near certainty of victory, Atherion’s heart was heavy.

  He descended from the sky, his wings folding behind him as his boots touched the streets of the capital. The once-bustling avenues were eerily empty now.

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  Only a few figures remained.

  Soldiers, mostly, those too stubborn or too loyal to retreat.

  Atherion walked toward the city’s heart, the plaza that once overflowed with people.

  It was during his walk that he saw the being moving toward him.

  A lone figure walking through the chaos.

  The moment Atherion’s eyes met the stranger’s, Oliver felt the same realization dawn.

  He knew that face.

  He had seen it before, in another vision, in the broken memories of the Sovereign he had slain in the desert.

  The being with a silver armor. It was The Proud One.

  Atherion stopped, placing a hand over his chest and bowing deeply. “Proud One.”

  The figure smiled faintly, raising his hands in a gesture of dismissal.

  “There’s no need to bow, Atherion. You are the first son of my brother.”

  “But don’t call me that,” the being continued, his tone soft but firm. “‘Proud One’ is what my brothers call me when they wish to insult me. I'm Order. Remember that.”

  Atherion straightened, still cautious, his voice respectful. “My apologies, my lord.”

  Order smiled again. “No need for apologies. You’re almost one of us already. Give it a few decades, and you’ll stand among the Sovereigns.”

  The words hung in the air like a promise.

  Atherion’s curiosity broke through his composure. “Truly? You think I could ascend that soon?”

  Order’s smile widened, but there was something in it, something predatory.

  “Perhaps even sooner.”

  He lifted one hand, and a small orb materialized in his palm. It glowed a deep amber, swirling with light that pulsed like a heartbeat.

  “All you need is a spark of divinity,” Order said softly. “Just one. With it, you would rise to our level.”

  Atherion hesitated, his eyes fixed on the orb. “How… how would I obtain something like that?”

  Order’s tone turned almost casual. “I can help you. But I’ll need your help in return.”

  Oliver felt the shift immediately. The subtle change in the air, the faint vibration that accompanied every word the Sovereign spoke. It wasn’t just sound. It was Energy, woven into his voice, resonating inside Atherion’s chest.

  “My brother, The Just, has lingered among mortals for too long,” Order continued, his voice calm but insistent. “He’s forgotten what we are. I need you to help me remind him. Convince him that it’s dangerous to stay in this realm. Bring me to him. That’s all I ask.”

  He extended his hand, the orb hovering above his palm, spinning slowly. The light from it painted the plaza in hues of orange, the reflection of a promise too tempting to ignore.

  “Do this, and the spark is yours.”

  Atherion’s hand trembled.

  Oliver could feel the conflict within him. The loyalty to his father, the desire for power, the yearning to step out from under the shadow of his lineage.

  “I… I don’t know,” Atherion whispered. His voice cracked, uncertain. “I should speak with father before—”

  Order stepped closer. His voice dropped to a whisper, the words curling through the air like silk.

  “Don’t worry. This will be for the best. For your brothers, for your people, for you. You’ve lived too long beneath your father’s wings. It’s time to fly on your own.”

  The Energy in his voice pulsed again, stronger this time, wrapping around Atherion’s mind like a melody too sweet to resist.

  The orb hovered closer, its light reflecting in Atherion’s wide eyes.

  With a trembling breath, Atherion reached out.

  --

  The world shattered the instant Atherion’s fingers closed around the orb.

  The golden light of the spark flared. When the brightness faded, the world had changed.

  Oliver found himself standing once more atop the Tower. However, not the ruined, lifeless monolith he knew.

  Atherion was there, gasping for breath.

  His chest rose and fell rapidly, his wings twitching as if they could no longer hold his weight. Panic rippled through him, a storm of fear and guilt and disbelief that Oliver could feel as if it were his own.

  In front of him sat the Golden Sovereign.

  He was dying.

  The golden armor that once shone brighter than the sun was now cracked and dull, its light fading. His body was pierced by three weapons. A sword through the chest, a spear through the side, and an axe buried deep in his abdomen.

  Blood leaked from the wounds, pooling at the base of the throne.

  The Just’s breathing was shallow, ragged. His once-serene eyes were now dim, filled not with anger, but with regret.

  He wasn’t looking at his killers.

  He was looking past them, directly ahead, toward the young man standing frozen by the door.

  Toward Atherion.

  Oliver’s pulse raced.

  He could feel the turmoil inside the man whose body he inhabited. Horror. Guilt. Love. Betrayal. It was all there, crashing together in a tide that threatened to drown him.

  Before the throne were three figures. Three Sovereigns watched the dying god.

  The first wore silver armor, smooth and perfect. The Proud One, Order, his face was calm, almost amused.

  The second stood beside him, encased in purple armor, his posture rigid, his Energy cold and sharp—Odin, the Sovereign of Humanity.

  And the third, her armor a molten orange, was the Sovereign of the Orks, her presence radiating rage and violence.

  Together, they looked down upon like judges over a condemned man.

  Order spoke. “Order exists for a reason, brother. You cannot change it.”

  He took a step forward. “If you fight against the [System], then, unfortunately, we must deal with you.”

  Oliver felt Atherion’s heart clench. The words cut deeper than any blade.

  The Just Sovereign coughed, golden blood spilling down his chin. When he spoke, his voice was weak but unwavering.

  “No… brother. You don’t see it yet. Entropy has already taken hold. The ones you rule will soon turn against you. The order you cling to will burn.”

  The silver Sovereign’s expression didn’t change, but the faint smile faltered.

  The Just’s gaze drifted, locking onto Atherion. His eyes, dim but still piercing, seemed to look straight through him.

  “And to those who have listened to the serpent’s voice,” he said, his tone heavy with sorrow, “know this, its words carry a poison deeper than any bite.”

  His breathing hitched. His hand trembled.

  “Cursed One.”

  The words hit like a hammer.

  Oliver felt the last of Atherion’s strength collapse. The memory unraveled, the golden light of the throne room dissolving into fragments, scattering like ash in the wind.

  Then everything vanished.

  The memory burned away, and Oliver’s senses returned all at once.

  He was back in the ruined hall, gasping for air. His hand instinctively went to his chest, his heartbeat still racing. He could still feel Atherion’s anguish, the echo of betrayal, the crushing weight of guilt.

  He barely had time to breathe before something slammed into him.

  A fist struck his stomach with brutal force, knocking the wind from his lungs. He doubled over, choking.

  Before he could even recover, two arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a tight embrace.

  “You idiot,” a voice said, trembling between anger and relief. “I thought you’d died again.”

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