[Oliver’s PoV]

  The Imperial line, soldiers and Rangers alike, was still staggering from the missile barrage when the black mechs struck again.

  Cannons roared. The air filled with incandescent trails as shells and concentrated Energy bolts ripped across the field. The cordon around Oliver broke apart in seconds, men scattering instinctively, formations collapsing as smoke and dirt churned into the air.

  Oliver didn’t watch the result. He didn’t have time.

  “I need Adrian!” he shouted, turning toward Alan and Mordred as they landed amid the chaos.

  Alan’s armor flared, forming the Bronze Armor. Mordred, in turn, was wearing his Black Armor. Oliver couldn’t tell whether the crystal was an original one or something corrupted and altered.

  “Understood!” Alan yelled back, already moving.

  He launched himself toward the heirs like a missile. The ground cracked beneath his boots where he pushed off, his momentum kicking up a spray of dirt.

  “Grab him and go!” Alan called over his shoulder. “I'll take care of them.”

  Oliver tightened his grip on his weapon case and scanned the field, searching for Adrian amid the chaos.

  “You can handle them?” Oliver asked, not because he doubted Alan’s skill. However, it wasn’t a simple skirmish anymore. These were heirs with Ranger Armors and Imperial backing.

  Alan didn’t even look back.

  “No doubt,” he said, voice calm and confident, as if they were sparring in a training hall instead of standing on the edge of a civil war.

  Ahead of them, Scipio coughed—dust and smoke catching in his throat—and his voice rose, furious and incredulous.

  “Mordred!” he shouted. “Have you lost your mind? Your situation with the Emperor is already terrible, and you decide to ally with him?!”

  Mordred’s head snapped toward him.

  “Ally?!” Mordred roared, his voice heavy with rage. “I’m not allying with anyone. I’m going to bring down the Emperor, with or without him.”

  The words carried across the field, loud enough to silence a few of the soldiers in mid-motion. Even some of the Rangers hesitated, caught between disbelief and fear.

  Oliver, Alan, and Mordred advanced together through the grass.

  The Imperial troops reacted on instinct. Rifles snapped up. Wild fire erupted, shots streaking past their heads, scorching the ground, cracking against armor plating. Most of it was desperate, inaccurate, and meant to keep them back.

  Alan raised both hands, palms open.

  [Gravity Hold]

  The command hit the battlefield like an unseen hammer.

  In an instant, the world became heavier. The grass flattened as if crushed beneath invisible steel plates, and the ground seemed to groan under the sudden change in pressure.

  Most of the Imperial soldiers didn’t even have time to react.

  They simply dropped.

  Helmets slammed into the turf. Weapons slipped from numb fingers. Some tried to brace themselves, but their knees buckled and their bodies folded forward, pinned face-first into the grass. A few screamed, not from wounds, but from the panic of being trapped under a force they couldn’t fight.

  The Rangers fared better.

  But only barely.

  Their armor compensated, and Energy cycling hard through their joints, yet their movements still slowed to a crawl. They took steps as if walking through deep water, each motion strained.

  Only Scipio looked almost unaffected.

  Not because Gravity Hold didn’t touch him, but because he didn’t need to fight it.

  He could Blink.

  A sharp pop of displaced air, and he slipped several meters away, reappearing with that same tactical precision. It was a perfect counter to Alan’s Boon, except for one flaw that Oliver noticed immediately.

  Scipio was no longer close to Adrian.

  The hostage had been passed off to soldiers before the gravity surge hit, and now those soldiers were pinned to the ground, clustered beside Adrian like fallen statues.

  Oliver and Mordred pushed forward.

  Unlike the others, the two of them moved as if the increased gravity didn’t exist.

  They passed between the heirs as a blur, red and black streaking across the grass, too fast for the slowed soldiers to track.

  By the time they stopped, only a handful of still-moving Rangers remained beside Adrian, their weapons raised shakily, their arms trembling under the weight of Gravity Hold.

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  Scipio tried to Blink toward them.

  Oliver saw the shift in his stance, the micro-movement before the displacement—

  But he never completed it.

  A bronze streak slammed into him mid-motion.

  Alan’s kick connected with Scipio’s ribs, the impact detonating in a shockwave that sent the heir flying backward through the air. Scipio tumbled across the grass and hit the ground hard, skidding to a stop in a trail of crushed turf.

  “You should worry about me,” Alan said. “I’m not letting you leave this field.”

  Scipio struggled to rise.

  Nearby, Zip, Triz, and Demi weren’t doing much better. Even with Ranger Armor, they were fighting the weight, moving slower, breathing harder. Their attacks, once swift and confident, became clumsy under the pressure, their footing unstable.

  Oliver couldn’t help the flicker of surprise that ran through him.

  He’d seen Alan’s strength before. He knew what the Bronze Armor could do. But he’d never seen Alan’s Boon applied across a battlefield of this scale, with this level of effect.

  Against corruption beasts or even the False Sovereign, Alan’s gravity manipulation hadn’t seemed so decisive.

  But against humans? Rangers? Soldiers?

  This was devastating.

  “Are you going to stand there admiring it?” Mordred snapped, voice edged with impatience.

  Oliver blinked once, refocusing.

  He stepped forward and grabbed Adrian’s chains with a hard pull, hauling the battered noble to his feet. Adrian winced, his legs unsteady.

  “Let’s go,” Oliver said.

  With Adrian between them, the three of them ran.

  Oliver kept a brutal pace, dragging the battered heir forward whenever he faltered.

  Behind them, the battle continued.

  Plasma rounds and laser fire hissed overhead. Explosions rolled across the field like distant thunder, shaking the ground beneath their feet. But Alan and the black mechs held the line.

  Oliver didn’t look back.

  If Alan had said he could handle it, he would.

  Ahead, partially concealed by scrub and the rolling terrain, stood a structure that didn’t belong on an open island.

  It was low, angular, and deliberately plain. Its exterior was coated in dull plating that bent light, crude yet effective camouflage that made the building hard to focus on from above.

  “There,” Oliver said, voice clipped. “That’s it.”

  They slowed, then stopped at the entrance.

  The door was sealed. Made of thick alloy, it was fitted with a lock designed to withstand both hacking and explosives. There wasn’t even a visible keypad.

  Oliver didn’t bother searching for one.

  He drove his fist into the door.

  The blow detonated with a dull, concussive boom. The door caved inward, collapsing into jagged fragments of steel.

  Oliver stepped through first, weapon case on his back. Mordred followed, shadows curling at his feet. Adrian stumbled after them, blinking against the sudden change from open air to cold, recycled atmosphere.

  Inside, the facility was dark.

  Emergency lights flickered along the walls. Dust drifted in the air, undisturbed, no voices, no operators.

  Yet the core of the building still lived.

  The teleportation chamber ahead hummed.

  Oliver’s gaze swept the room once.

  No ambush. No hidden squad. Good.

  He strode to the central console and placed his gauntlet against the interface. The system recognized the contact with a faint beep, and a cascade of pale holographic readouts bloomed into existence.

  Diagnostics. Power routing. Destination protocols.

  The machine was functional.

  Mordred stood back, watching, while Oliver began activating the sequence.

  “I need coordinates,” Oliver said, turning toward Adrian. The heir was sitting near the edge of the platform, coughing, trying to steady himself. “Which island?”

  Adrian lifted his head, blood still at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were narrowed, stubborn even through exhaustion.

  “It’s useless,” Adrian rasped. “You won’t achieve anything. All you’re doing is betraying the Empire. Both of you.”

  Oliver’s voice didn’t rise.

  “Save your speeches,” he said coldly. “If they kill us, that solves your problem too. Which island?”

  Adrian hesitated, looking torn between fear, loyalty, and the simple human instinct to survive.

  Mordred didn’t give him time to find courage.

  The floor behind Adrian rippled, and four shadow-tentacles erupted upward, wrapping around his wrists, ankles, and torso. They stretched him out in a rigid X-shape, lifting him just enough for his joints to protest. Adrian gasped, the pain stealing his breath.

  “He might not want to kill you,” Mordred said, looking at Adrian. “I don’t have that problem.”

  The shadows tightened slightly, just enough to make Adrian flinch.

  “I can pull you apart finger by finger,” Mordred continued, his tone matter-of-fact. “Slowly. Until you beg to be dead. But I’d rather keep you alive. Someone has to lead House Meridius if we don’t want this to spiral into an even bigger war.”

  Oliver folded his arms, watching. He didn’t interrupt.

  Mordred stepped closer.

  “So you have two choices,” he said. “I torture you, I kill you, and we find the Emperor anyway. He dies, your House collapses into irrelevance, and your family name becomes a footnote.”

  He tilted his head slightly.

  “Or you give us the location. We destroy the Emperor, and you live. You keep your House. Maybe you even clean the stain off your family’s honor.”

  Adrian’s breathing grew shallow. His eyes flicked to Oliver, searching for mercy and finding only cold patience.

  “Fine,” Adrian whispered. His voice shook, but it wasn’t defiant anymore.

  The shadows loosened. Adrian dropped to the floor, trembling, then pushed himself upright. He walked toward the console.

  Oliver stepped aside without a word.

  Adrian’s fingers moved across the interface with practiced familiarity. The holographic display shifted. The machine responded.

  A deep hum rose from beneath the floor. The teleportation rings began to glow.

  Adrian stepped back, his voice hollow.

  “Done,” he said.

  The machine’s tone changed as it stabilized the destination lock.

  Oliver grabbed Adrian by the collar, hauling him onto the platform. Mordred stepped up beside them.

  The pull came instantly. Space folding, air vanishing, the world stretching into a tunnel of light.

  Oliver felt weightless for a fraction of a second, then gravity returned like a slap.

  His boots struck sand.

  He inhaled and tasted salt.

  A sea breeze washed across his face, cool and sharp, carrying the sound of distant waves.

  He felt it.

  A pressure in the air that wasn’t weather, wasn’t heat, wasn’t wind.

  Energy.

  Dense, ancient, concentrated. So heavy it made the back of his skull ache. It was the unmistakable signature of something beyond a common Crystal. Beyond a Unique Crystal.

  A Sovereign.

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