[Oliver’s POV]

  “Then we will not wait for them to find us. We will meet them before the gates. We will strike them first!”

  The words thundered from his throat, but Oliver could feel the truth beneath them. The Sovereign’s bravado was a mask. His soul had already resigned to defeat. Beneath the fury, beneath the command, there was only dread.

  The Chaotic had no hope.

  He knew his armies would be trampled. He knew his city would burn. He knew his name would be erased from the Grand Game, his existence reduced to dust and forgotten echoes.

  And yet… for a moment, he was chaos incarnate. For a moment, he was unpredictable. For a moment, he was perfect.

  Flashes tore through Oliver’s vision, jagged and rapid, like shards of memory cutting through the dark.

  He saw the scorpion-men climbing into strange ships. He saw them engage in desperate battle with silver-scaled dragons, their vessels torn apart by fangs and fire.

  He saw other reptilian forms. Some kind of humanoid lizards, bipedal but clad in the same metallic scales. They marched proudly in disciplined ranks.

  Then the city itself.

  The cavernous metropolis was aflame, its stone houses collapsing under explosions, its statues of bronze warriors shattered into rubble. Screams echoed across the burning streets. And at the center, seated on his throne, the Chaotic Sovereign remained. He was the last of his people. Unmoving. Waiting for the inevitable.

  But before the vision dissolved, Oliver saw something else. Something more.

  The Proud One was not content with victory. He was building a prison.

  This was no simple banishment from the Game. The Chaotic would not merely be defeated; he would be entombed, cut off from sustenance, unable to feed, unable even to scatter his crystals into the galaxy. A fate worse than death, irrelevance.

  Yet the Proud One overlooked something.

  The Chaotic’s technique. The subtle way his Energy threaded into everything, parasitic, invasive, a poison hidden in plain sight.

  As the ritual closed around him, as the prison sealed, the Chaotic’s Energy had already seeped into the Proud One’s essence. A venom that would linger. A corruption that would spread.

  And in that final instant, as his body was bound, as his throne dissolved into nothingness, the Chaotic Sovereign smiled.

  He was defeated. He was imprisoned. But he was also avenged.

  Darkness swallowed Oliver’s vision once more, dragging him back into the void.

  --

  The blinding light of the desert faded, and with it the black void that had consumed Oliver.

  He opened his eyes to pain. His skull was pounding, his veins still aching from the flood of Energy that had torn through him. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It was pressure.

  [I already know who the victor shall be.]

  The voice slithered into his mind again, playful and cruel.

  [Only you must follow my rules. They do not bind me.]

  [If I removed one of you now, the game would lose its flavor.]

  [So I will take you both.]

  Oliver’s stomach twisted. Then the world broke apart.

  It was teleportation, but not like anything he had felt before. Not the precise pull of Command, not the clean, surgical shift of human technology. This was invasive, like being unraveled and rewoven, every atom dragged screaming through a current that wasn’t meant for mortals.

  And then, suddenly, it was over.

  Oliver staggered, his boots scraping against cold stone. He was standing upright, his body whole, though his muscles still trembled from strain. Around him stretched a small chamber, its walls old and rough. The space was dark, except by the light of four torches, one mounted on each wall.

  As Oliver recovered, he noticed he was not alone.

  Adrian stood beside him, his posture rigid but his face pale, from the same exhaustion Oliver felt. The Meridius heir looked as though he had been dragged through fire, but he was on his feet, his pride refusing to let him fall.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  And they were not the only survivors.

  Across the chamber, seated calmly on the floor as though meditating, was Demi. Her green eyes glinted in the torchlight, sharp and unyielding. She had no visible wounds, her posture serene, her expression unreadable. Of all of them, she seemed the most composed, the most ready.

  To the right, slumped against the wall, was Katherine. Sweat streaked her face, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. A long gash ran across her right shoulder; the blood dried, but the wound still raw.

  And in the final corner, half-hidden in shadow, sat Alan. His face was buried in his knees, arms wrapped tight around himself. His breaths were ragged as if each one was a battle.

  Though his eyes flicked instinctively toward Katherine and Alan, Oliver forced himself to remain in character. He could not break the mask of Atlas Blackwell now, not in front of the others. Without a word, he strode into one of the chamber’s corners and dropped onto the stone floor.

  But his silence was not idleness. His eyes moved constantly, dissecting every detail. He didn’t linger long on any one person, but he took note of everything.

  [No, five alone won’t be enough.]

  The words slithered into their skulls.

  [Let’s add one more to each team. And as for you, you know too much. You’re coming as well.]

  The cryptic declaration left the chamber in silence. No one knew who the entity was addressing, yet Oliver’s instincts answered for him. Six.

  And then, as if conjured by thought, Six appeared. He dropped into the chamber, landing on the stone with a grunt, his uniform disheveled, his expression sour. He sat up slowly, muttering under his breath, but Oliver caught the flicker of relief in his eyes.

  Next to Alan, a new figure materialized, Orton of Enceladus.

  Katherine, Demi, and Adrian each received a soldier of their own. They were men Oliver didn’t recognize, but their uniforms marked them as officers. They stood with their hands clenched as if grasping weapons, eyes darting nervously in the torchlight.

  [Excellent!] the voice purred, its tone mocking, gleeful. [Now we can start the second part.]

  [You’ve dealt with my Jailers. Now you must enter the Jail itself.]

  The words reverberated, heavy with malice.

  [But it won’t be simple. This entire city has become my prison. Every street, every alley, every house is filled with those who would see you fail. They will fight to stop you before you reach the heart.]

  [Your mission is simple: find my cell and free me.]

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  But the voice was not done.

  [For those of you who brought down my Jailers first, do not worry. You will receive a special bonus.]

  The words dripped with cruel amusement.

  [I’ll release you into the city one by one, my little rats. Each hour, another will join the game.]

  The torches flared white-hot.

  [And so we begin with our first place. Demi of Demeter.]

  Demi rose with the quiet grace. The officer assigned to her followed closely.

  In her hands she carried a weapon that made Oliver’s chest tighten. A trident, its shaft forged of steel. At its center pulsed a massive red crystal, veins of energy spiderwebbing through the weapon like molten fire.

  A Crystal Weapon.

  Oliver’s eyes narrowed. They were things of legend, rarer even than Ranger Weapons. To create one required dozens, sometimes hundreds, of Z-Crystals, fused into a single vessel. An entire battalion’s worth of power, sacrificed for one weapon. The cost was astronomical. The risk of failure, catastrophic. Only the greatest of Houses could even dream of wielding one.

  And yet here she was, carrying it as if it were another toy.

  But what drew Oliver’s attention most was not its rarity; it was its potential. Unlike Ranger Weapons, a Crystal Weapon did not demand a Ranger Armor to wield its full force. It was raw, unfiltered power. Even the Chaotic’s rules, which had stripped them of their Ranger abilities, could not suppress it.

  That weapon could change everything.

  The chamber’s stone wall groaned, the ancient door of rock rising slowly, dust spilling from its edges. Demi stepped forward without hesitation, her trident glowing faintly in her grip.

  The moment they crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind them.

  Oliver exhaled, his muscles relaxing slightly as silence reclaimed the room. There was nothing left for him to do but wait.

  And wait.

  Every minute that passed was another step his opponents took ahead of him in the cursed city. But each minute was also a gift, a moment to let his body heal itself.

  Three hours crawled by.

  At last, the stone door rumbled again, rising with a grinding groan.

  [Go!] the voice of the Chaotic whispered in their minds.

  Adrian was the first to move. He sprang forward the moment the gap was wide enough, breaking into a light jog. He did not look back at Oliver. He didn’t need to. Pride and rivalry drove every step, as if distance itself would prove his superiority.

  Oliver rose slowly. Six sighed behind him, muttering under his breath as he fell into step. Together they walked into the passage, the stone door slamming shut at their backs.

  And then Oliver saw it.

  The city.

  It stretched before him in endless ruin, a labyrinth of stone houses, shattered towers, and broken streets. Black roots coiled down from the cavern ceiling. Fires flickered in the distance, though no sun lit the sky. The air was thick, oppressive, charged with the same venomous Energy he had felt in the Chaotic’s memories.

  I know this place.

  This was no ordinary ruin. This was the city from his vision—the town where the Chaotic had been bound.