[Oliver’s POV]

  “We’re going to find Tower Seven,” Oliver commanded, his voice carrying an unwavering authority.

  Two Hoplites remained behind to secure the captured tower, while the rest moved out into the open.

  They advanced quickly, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. The neighborhood below was a graveyard of opulence.

  Each building was a mansion, a towering structure of glass and steel, its facade adorned with displays now flickering erratically. Some were gutted entirely, others were smoldering from recent explosions.

  If not for the destruction, this place could have been paradise.

  “Mercenaries, eleven o’clock!” one of the Hoplites shouted, while pointing toward one of the better buildings.

  Oliver’s lips curved into a tight grin. “Leave a few for me. I need to get used to this armor.”

  The Hoplites didn’t hesitate. They adjusted formation, giving their commander room to engage.

  Oliver kicked off the ground, accelerating toward the enemies. The world blurred around him. Two mercenaries barely had time to raise their weapons before he was on them.

  The first went down with a single punch to the gut, the impact folding his body like paper. The second tried to retreat, but Oliver’s follow-up strike caught him across the chest, sending him sprawling into a wall with enough force to crack the Ranger Armor.

  “Governor, more incoming!” a Hoplite warned over the comms.

  Oliver looked up, eyes narrowing behind his visor.

  At the far end of the street, a new group of enemies emerged from the smoke, seven, maybe eight of them, each one encased in Ranger Armor. Their movements were sharp and coordinated, better than the last group.

  The faint yellow glow of their suits marked them as mercenaries outfitted with Yellow Crystals—mass-produced, reliable, and brutally efficient.

  “Keep an eye on the towers!” Oliver shouted, pointing toward the colossal spire. Even through the smoke and haze, he could make out the faded number painted near its base.

  T5.

  “Yes, sir!” two Hoplites answered in unison, dropping to a crouch and taking aim at the tower.

  Around them, the battlefield was chaos wrapped in silence.

  The mercenaries hesitated.

  They looked at one another, their stances uncertain, their weapons gripped tight but unmoving. Confusion rippled through their ranks; none of them seemed to understand what was happening.

  The Hoplites didn’t advance. They didn’t even fire. They watched, waiting.

  The mercenaries turned their attention to the one figure standing between them and victory, the Red Ranger.

  Oliver moved first.

  The mercenaries surged forward, their Ranger Weapons materializing in flashes of Energy, spears, lances, blades, tridents, and even knives.

  But none of it mattered.

  Oliver was already among them.

  His movements blurred, precise yet unpredictable. Each strike, each pivot, each twist of his body was a storm of violence.

  A mercenary lunged with a spear. Oliver sidestepped, grabbed the shaft, and wrenched it free, spinning the man off balance before driving a knee into his chest. Another swung a blade; Oliver ducked under it, his fist connecting with the attacker’s ribs hard enough to dent the armor.

  One after another, they fell.

  The mercenaries’ weapons cut only air. Their strikes were wild, desperate, while Oliver’s counters were fluid, efficient. He didn’t just overpower them; he dismantled them.

  Nine of them charged him at once.

  Nine fell within seconds.

  None lasted more than three hits before their armor began to fold, their visors cracking under the force of the blows. Bodies hit the ground one after another.

  Oliver stood amidst the wreckage of the fight, his breath steady, his stance firm. But what he felt wasn’t triumph.

  It was unease.

  'It blocked my punch,' he thought, his gaze dropping to his armored hands. The red plating was marred with scratches and faint scorch marks.

  The armor felt wrong.

  Not only was it heavy, but it was also unpredictable.

  The Red Crystal wasn’t resisting him anymore; it was interfering.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Every movement came with an irregular pull, as if the suit itself were fighting back. Sometimes his strikes veered slightly off course. An inch to the left, a fraction too high, a fraction too late. Sometimes the armor amplified his strength to dangerous levels, sending his opponents flying farther than intended. Other times, it deadened his blows, leaving him off balance mid-combat.

  It wasn’t malfunctioning. It was acting on its own.

  “Fuck you,” Oliver cursed under his breath.

  “Governor, are you all right?” one of the Hoplites called, his voice carrying a note of concern.

  Oliver turned. He could see it in their stances, in the way they looked at him, his soldiers had noticed.

  He straightened, forcing his tone to remain calm. “Fine. The armor is… temperamental. But it’ll do.”

  The Hoplites nodded, though their postures remained tense.

  Another Hoplite jogged up from the tower, his armor streaked with soot. “Sir, we’ve confirmed. They fled from the T5.”

  Oliver looked past him, scanning the horizon. Through the smoke and haze, the faint outlines of more towers stretched into the distance.

  “Tower Six should be a few kilometers ahead,” the Hoplite continued. “Then Tower Seven. If we keep heading in this direction, we’ll reach it soon.”

  Oliver nodded once. “Good.”

  The soldier hesitated. “But we’ll need to move faster. The mercenaries are retreating from the lower levels; they’ll be topside any minute.”

  “You all know how to use [Prometheus]?” Oliver asked, glancing over his squad.

  The question wasn’t rhetorical. Prometheus was one of the most fundamental techniques taught in Aquarius’s Ranger corps. Yet mastering it required incredible control over one’s Energy. It wasn’t something a Nameless near its expiration could invoke without consequences.

  “Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.

  Oliver nodded once. “Good. Then it’s time to move.”

  Immediately, golden flames erupted around his boots. They weren’t fire in the traditional sense; they were Energy made visible, pure and contained, burning without heat or destruction.

  The same glow flared beneath the Hoplites’ armor. The squad looked like spectral warriors, each one outlined in golden fire.

  “On my mark,” Oliver said.

  He bent his knees slightly, feeling the ground beneath him vibrate as the Energy built up. The Red Crystal inside his armor pulsed once, resonating with the Prometheus ignition.

  “Go!”

  The world exploded.

  With a thunderous crack, the concrete beneath them shattered, grass and debris scattering in every direction as the squad launched forward. The propulsion wasn’t flight, not exactly, but it was close. They soared low to the ground, their movements a blur of light and speed.

  The shockwaves of their passage tore through the neighborhood. Windows shattered in their wake, and the air rippled with the force of their acceleration. The golden trails left behind by their Energy burned like streaks of lightning, fading only after they’d already vanished down the next street.

  Oliver felt the Red Armor strain against the force. The flames around his boots burned brighter. His focus narrowed to a single point ahead.

  Tower Seven.

  They cut through the city like a storm.

  The mansions and apartment blocks of Tros blurred past. The artificial sky above flickered with the glow of distant fires, the faint shimmer of the atmospheric barrier glinting overhead.

  They reached Tower Six in seconds.

  The structure loomed tall and silent, its walls scarred by plasma fire. As they passed, Oliver caught glimpses of movement, mercenaries fleeing through the shattered corridors, abandoning their posts.

  “Contact ahead!” one of the Hoplites called out.

  Oliver’s visor zoomed in automatically, highlighting a group of figures sprinting down the main avenue between houses. Mercenaries, at least twenty of them, all moving in the same direction.

  “They’re heading for T7,” the Hoplite reported. “All of them.”

  “If each tower has this many, we’ll be facing several hundred at the main site,” one of the Hoplites reported. There was no fear in his voice, only a statement.

  Ahead, the artificial horizon of Tros stretched wide beneath the shimmering energy field that separated the station’s atmosphere from the void of space. And there, rising like a monolith of steel and shadow, stood Tower Seven.

  The ground below was chaotic. Hundreds of mercenaries in Ranger Armor swarmed the area.

  Transport ships dropped through the atmospheric barrier one after another. They didn’t land, they hovered, opening their side bays in midair. Dozens of mercenaries leapt into the ships, like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

  Then, just as quickly, the ships pulled away, disappearing back through the glowing barrier.

  “They brought a real army,” one of the Hoplites muttered.

  “They’d need at least that much to attack a Great House,” another replied.

  Oliver said nothing. His eyes scanned the battlefield. He was looking for one thing: the green asshole.

  But he found nothing—no sign of green armor.

  'He’s not here,' Oliver thought, his mind racing. 'He’s directing this from somewhere else. Or he hasn’t revealed himself yet.'

  Another detail gnawed at him.

  There were no Dardanus soldiers anywhere in sight. No defenders, no resistance. The Great House’s forces should have been here, fighting tooth and nail to protect their station.

  'Are they fighting below?' He wondered. 'Or did they already fall?'

  “Governor, we’re landing,” one of the Hoplites said.

  The nine of them descended together. The moment their boots hit the ground, the world erupted.

  Bolts of plasma and streams of laser cut through the air. The mercenaries opened fire immediately, their ranks disorganized but overwhelming in number.

  “Don’t shoot the ships!” one shouted from within the chaos. “We need them to get out of here!”

  “Kill them fast!” another screamed, panic breaking through his voice. “We need to leave. Now!”

  Oliver’s squad didn’t flinch.

  The nine Hoplites closed ranks, forming a tight defensive circle, their backs to one another.

  Each soldier focused only on what was in front of them. The Hoplites advanced methodically, cutting through the sea of enemies one at a time.

  Even surrounded, they were unbreakable.

  Oliver’s fists glowed with golden light as he struck down a mercenary wearing Blue Armor, the impact sending the man crashing into a nearby wall.

  Then he heard it, one of the Hoplites shouting.

  “He’s coming!”

  Oliver turned just in time to see the crowd part.

  A figure emerged from the haze of smoke and fire. The Energy radiating from him was overwhelming.

  “Fall back!” the figure with green Ranger Armor barked. “I’ll handle them.”

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