[Oliver’s POV]

  [Alert! Low Synchronization Detected]

  | Synchronization Status

  | ??105% [Godlike]

  | ??25% [Low]

  | ??21% [Low]

  | ??0% [Denied]

  The notification flickered across Oliver’s vision.

  He grimaced but dismissed it with a blink. The low synchronization warning was more of a nuisance than a real threat, at least when dealing with a standard Crystal.

  The Red Crystal, unlike a Unique Crystal, didn’t reject him outright. It fought him. Resisted his movements, dulled his reflexes, made the armor feel heavier.

  He could feel the difference immediately. The plates along his limbs dragged against his muscles with every step. It was like wearing a suit of concrete, sluggish, unbalanced, wrong.

  Still, he told himself, 'it won’t be a problem.'

  He wasn’t fighting trained soldiers today—just common mercenaries.

  The teleportation chamber loomed ahead. It was a vast, circular platform lined with glowing conduits and humming generators. The air shimmered with residual Energy from earlier jumps.

  As he approached, the Hoplites were already waiting.

  Dozens of them stood in formation. Each had a different Ranger Armor and a unique build. Some bore the heavy plating of ground assault units, others the sleeker frames of marksman. Yet all shared one unifying mark: the symbol of Aquarius emblazoned across their chestplates, two sharp waves.

  “Only ten will come with me,” Oliver explained.

  The soldiers straightened instantly, their visors turning toward him.

  “The next team departs in twenty minutes. Then another ten every twenty minutes after that.”

  He paused, letting the command sink in.

  “We want them to think we weren’t ready for this.”

  The Hoplites nodded in unison, their movements almost synchronized.

  “Yes, sir!”

  Their voices echoed through the chamber, sharp and disciplined.

  “Good. You are not to kill unless necessary,” Oliver ordered, his tone clipped and authoritative. “I want the mercenaries alive for interrogation. The Naustes will handle most of the fighting in orbit; they’ll have already thinned their numbers.”

  He gestured toward the Hoplites’ formation, his voice steady but urgent. “Avoid letting anyone on Tros see you taking prisoners. If needed, hand them over to the local authorities. We don’t want attention.”

  “Teleportation ready,” announced the officer manning the control panel. The concentric rings of the teleporter pulsed with light.

  Oliver turned to his team, his expression unreadable behind the helmet. “All right. Let’s move.”

  “Sir, be careful,” the officer warned. “Whatever’s jamming their communications might also affect ours. We could lose contact once you’re through.”

  “Understood.” Oliver gave a short nod.

  The officer’s voice echoed over the rising hum of the teleporter. “Teleportation in three… two… one.”

  The world dissolved.

  For an instant, Oliver felt the familiar, stomach-twisting pull of displacement. His vision fractured into shards of color, space folding and unfolding around him. Then, with a thud, his boots hit solid ground.

  He exhaled, the faint static of the teleport dissipating from his armor.

  When he looked up, before him stood a manor.

  A sprawling, two-story structure of polished wood and soft green paint, its architecture strikingly reminiscent of Terra. The building’s design was elegant yet simple, adorned with wide windows and balconies overlooking a meticulously kept lawn.

  The grass beneath his boots was damp. He could smell the faint sweetness of moisture and soil, the kind of scent that didn’t belong on a station hundreds of millions of kilometers from Earth.

  For a moment, it felt like stepping into a memory.

  A quiet suburb. A peaceful neighborhood.

  But then he looked up.

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  And the illusion shattered.

  Above him stretched a breathtaking expanse of stars, sharp and endless against the void. Jupiter loomed in the distance, its swirling storms casting faint orange and gold light across the horizon. But more than that, he saw the other side of Tros just beyond the shimmering shield that separated them from the void.

  The mansion stood enclosed within a fragment of paradise.

  Oliver's eyes swept across the scene, cataloging every detail.

  “We’ve arrived on Tros,” Oliver said into his communicator.

  The only reply was an explosion.

  The blast hit before his mind could register the sound. An all-consuming wave of fire and pressure that devoured the manicured garden and tore through the side of the mansion.

  The shockwave swallowed him and his Hoplites. The world became light and noise.

  Instinct took over.

  Oliver threw his arms up, his visor flashing red warnings as debris and flame cascaded around them. The ground shattered beneath his boots, the force hurling him backward. He hit hard, sliding across scorched earth.

  The Hoplites fared better, their Ranger Armors absorbing the impact. They rose quickly, weapons drawn, their formation holding firm despite the chaos.

  Oliver, however, struggled.

  His new armor resisted him.

  He could feel it. It was like an invisible tension between his will and the Red Crystal. It was as if the suit itself refused to move as he commanded.

  'Damn it, move!'

  He forced himself upright, his boots sinking into the blackened soil. His armor’s systems whirred in protest, the internal displays flickering. He glanced down and saw the grooves his heels had carved into the ground.

  Even now, he could feel the armor’s personality.

  The Purple Crystal had been violent, eager for blood. The Green was defensive, wanting to prove his capabilities. The Blue was loyal, obedient, and calm.

  Yet, the Red was something else entirely. It was defiant.

  Not hostile, but proud. It resisted his control. Its energy pulsed through the suit in uneven waves, raw and heavy. It felt alive in an unnerving way. It felt resentful.

  Oliver didn’t know how he knew this. He couldn’t explain it. It wasn’t thought—it was instinct. The Energy itself spoke to him, not in words, but in feeling.

  And that feeling was clear: the Red Crystal didn’t trust him.

  “Enemies!” one of the Hoplites shouted, his voice sharp through the comms. “They’re in the security tower!”

  Oliver’s head snapped up.

  Through the smoke and ruin, he saw movement; dark silhouettes high above, framed against the security towers of Tros. Gunmetal-gray spires that reached almost to the atmospheric barrier. Their surfaces glowed faintly with the pulse of shield generators and mounted turrets.

  Near the tower, figures soared through the air. Mercenaries equipped with jetpacks that spat bright plumes of blue flame. Others were entrenched on the tower’s upper platforms. One of them hefted a massive shoulder-mounted cannon, its barrel still smoking from the shot of moments ago.

  “Spread out and engage!” Oliver commanded. “Citadel, do you read me?”

  Silence.

  He waited a heartbeat, then another. Nothing but static.

  “Communications are down,” he said grimly.

  The Hoplites didn’t hesitate. They were already in motion.

  Five of them raised their long-range Ranger Weapons, rifles, and sidearms aimed at the Mercenaries flying. The others drew close-combat weapons, mostly spears and swords.

  Each Hoplite moved with perfect coordination, their training evident in every motion. They were outnumbered, but numbers had never been Aquarius’s advantage.

  'Quality over quantity.' That had always been the doctrine.

  The first volley of plasma fire lit up the air, searing through the smoke. The shots were precise, synchronized. Each bolt found its mark, striking mercenaries mid-flight and sending them spiraling down in trails of fire.

  The Hoplites advanced like a machine, their formation shifting fluidly as they pressed forward. The rhythmic sound of their weapons firing was almost musical.

  Oliver stayed behind the main line, scanning the horizon. His HUD flickered with hostile markers; dozens of them, moving fast.

  Above, a mercenary in a worn-out Ranger suit tried to dive-bomb the formation. Before he could close the distance, one of the Hoplites pivoted, raised his rifle, and fired. The blast hit center mass, vaporizing the attacker’s jetpack in a burst of light and shrapnel.

  The body fell like a meteor, crashing into the lawn below.

  Oliver didn’t need to lift a finger.

  Each of his Hoplites was worth ten ordinary soldiers. They fought with the precision of veterans, their movements seamless, every strike calculated. Even the mercenaries who wore Ranger Armor couldn’t match them; their synchronization rates were low, their Energy unstable.

  “Try to recover their comms. Ours are down, but if they’re still transmitting, we might be able to intercept their chat,” Oliver ordered.

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

  The T3 security tower was theirs.

  The battle had lasted less than ten minutes. Now, the air inside was thick with smoke and the sharp scent of scorched metal. Broken panels flickered weakly on the walls, sparks cascading from exposed wiring. The floor was littered with bodies, some unconscious, some beyond saving.

  The Hoplites moved with precision, securing the perimeter, scanning for survivors, and gathering whatever equipment could be salvaged.

  “Leave two men here,” Oliver commanded, stepping over a fallen mercenary in a cracked Ranger suit. “Try to reestablish contact with the Citadel. Get these prisoners transported to the ship once we regain signal.”

  “Understood, Governor.”

  One of the Hoplites raised his hand. “Sir, found something. A comm unit, still functional.”

  He held up a small, sleek, black device. A simple earpiece, no different from the thousands used across the system.

  Oliver took it, the faint hum of static greeting him as he placed it against his ear. For a moment, there was only noise. Then voices broke through, distant and panicked, overlapping in a storm of chaos.

  “Evacuate! Evacuate!”

  “Our ships are boxed in—get to the smaller craft! We have to move, now!”

  “We’re heading for the surface! We got what we came for!”

  “Regroup near Tower Seven! T7—get there fast!”

  The transmission cut off with a crackle, replaced by silence.

  Oliver lowered the comm, a slow smile forming beneath his visor.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice calm but charged with purpose. “We have our next target.”

  “We’re going to find Tower Seven.”

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