[Oliver's PoV]

  “As well as that of Gareth Lot.”

  The words echoed, distant yet heavy.

  Oliver blinked, his mind struggling to catch up. A moment ago, the boy had been running through the grass. Now, that warmth was gone. The sky above had turned gray and cold, and before him lay three coffins, lined in perfect symmetry across the open field.

  Soldiers stood in formation, their black uniforms stark against the horizon. The air was thick with tension and grief.

  Then came the sound, salutes, sharp and deafening.

  Rifles fired upward in synchronized bursts, the brilliant streaks of plasma cutting through the clouds.

  Oliver’s vision blurred. He could barely make out the figures standing ahead. Three of the remaining Yorks, their silhouettes locked together in mourning. He couldn’t see their faces clearly through the haze of tears clouding his eyes, but their grief was palpable.

  And beneath it all, beneath the sorrow and loss, Oliver felt something else.

  Rage.

  Not his own, but Mordred’s.

  It burned in him like molten metal, coursing through his veins, consuming every breath. It wasn’t the sharp, explosive anger of a child. It was something deeper, something primal and volcanic. It came from the core of his being, a fury so intense it seemed to warp the air around him.

  His hands clenched so tightly that the nails bit into his palms. He didn’t even feel the pain, only the heat, the trembling, the faint trickle of blood that seeped between his fingers.

  The emotion was so raw and powerful that it seeped into Oliver's mind, making his own heart ache.

  As he continued to cry, the soldiers approached the center. The coffins were moved to a massive funeral pyre built from dark stone and pale wood. The structure stood at the center of the field like an altar, its surface engraved with the sigils of the Great Houses.

  Mordred stood motionless, watching as the coffins were placed atop the pyre. The faint hum of Energy conduits filled the air as the ignition systems were activated.

  Then came the flame.

  It began as a spark, before blooming into a roaring inferno. The fire was too bright, too perfect. It burned with a golden hue unlike any natural flame, a fusion of plasma and ceremonial Energy that consumed everything it touched.

  The heat washed over him, scorching his skin, but he didn’t move.

  The flames climbed higher, devouring the coffins. The smoke rose in spirals, twisting into the storm clouds above until nothing remained but ash.

  Oliver’s breath caught, the intensity of the memory crushing him like a physical weight. The world around him blurred, the edges of reality fracturing like shattered glass.

  He tried to breathe, but the air was gone. His lungs burned. His vision flickered.

  And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

  The fire, the field, the mourners. All of it disintegrated, the world unraveling into light and dust. Oliver fell through the emptiness, the last remnants of the scene scattering around him like ash.

  “You are risking too much!”

  The voice came before the world returned.

  Then came the light. The darkness around Oliver peeled away like smoke, and the scene solidified into focus.

  He was still inside Mordred, but something was different now. The body felt heavier, stronger. The hands he saw before him were no longer those of a child.

  A wooden table dominated the center, covered in holograms, scattered reports, and a half-empty glass of amber liquid that trembled with every word being shouted.

  “I don’t care if I’m drawing attention!” Mordred’s voice exploded through the room, filled with fury and defiance. His hand slammed down on the table, the impact rattling the glass.

  Across from him stood a man Oliver recognized instantly. He had the exact red-faced, heavyset figure from before. Ludwig.

  He hadn’t changed much. His uniform strained against his bulk, his face glistened with sweat, and his eyes darted nervously toward the corners of the room.

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  “Mordred! You know they’re watching every move we make! Every act of disobedience!” Ludwig’s voice cracked with anxiety, his hands trembling as he gestured wildly.

  Mordred straightened, his glare sharp enough to cut through steel.

  “Father, you know it was a setup.”

  His voice was low, cold, and deliberate. Each word struck the table like a hammer.

  Ludwig flinched. “Think about the pilot!” he said quickly, his tone pleading.

  “To hell with the pilot!” Mordred roared, his fist slamming down again. “That mecha. They knew! The Energy readings were off the scale! It wasn’t a test; it was an execution. That thing could’ve killed anyone who stepped into that arena.”

  Oliver could feel the anger radiating from him, the way it burned hot in his chest, the way his pulse pounded in his ears.

  Ludwig’s face went pale. “And you cut it in half! You destroyed it in front of the entire command!” He wiped at his forehead with a trembling hand. “Now every general in the NEA is pointing fingers at us. You’ve made enemies you can’t afford, Mordred. They’ll never accept you into a Ranger squad now.”

  “Let them refuse me,” Mordred said flatly, his tone icy. He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “I only took their damn test to fulfill my obligation to the NEA. I don’t need their approval.”

  “One of these days, Mordred, I won’t be able to protect you anymore.”

  Something in those words, something in the way he said them, snapped whatever restraint was left.

  “Protect me?” Mordred’s voice hit like a whip, sharp and venomous. He took a step forward, the floorboards creaking under his boots. “Protect me how, Father? By teaching me to bow? To kneel to everyone who dares raise their voice against us?”

  He slammed both hands down on the table. “You call that protection? Like how you protected Gareth?”

  Ludwig’s composure cracked. He rose halfway from his chair, his face reddening, his voice booming. “You don’t understand!”

  “I understand enough!” Mordred shot back, his tone trembling with fury. “If you couldn’t protect him, I could forgive that. But lowering your head? Wagging your tail for them? That’s not weakness, it’s betrayal!”

  The silence that followed was deafening.

  Oliver could feel it. The way his pulse pounded in his ears, the way his throat burned from holding back years of resentment.

  Mordred turned, his boots striking the floor like thunder as he stormed toward the door.

  Behind him, Ludwig’s shoulders slumped. The older man sank back into his chair, his hands falling limp to his sides. His mouth opened, as if to speak, but no words came. Only a long, trembling sigh.

  Waiting by the door was Nuno, the ever-composed butler. His expression was unreadable, though the faint lines around his eyes betrayed concern.

  He fell into step behind Mordred without a word.

  It was Mordred who broke the silence first, his voice low, clipped. “They answered?”

  Nuno nodded once. “Yes, sir. One of our mercenaries made contact.”

  Mordred stopped mid-step. The chain of emotions running through him froze for a moment.

  “Will they accept?” he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

  “Only if you can deliver on your promises,” Nuno replied carefully.

  Mordred’s jaw tightened. He looked down, his reflection faintly visible in the polished floor beneath him. The weight of those words pressed against him.

  He exhaled through his nose, the sound low and cold. “I will.”

  “I’d rather sell my soul than bow my head again.”

  The butler said nothing. He didn’t have to.

  When Mordred finished speaking, the world around him fractured.

  The polished marble floors of the mansion cracked and crumbled into sand, the ornate walls dissolving into dust.

  However, the sand coalesced once more. It turned into black stone. The walls rose up around him, rough and uneven, lined with portraits that stretched from floor to ceiling. Dozens of them. Generations of faces, each captured in perfect detail.

  At the center of the chamber sat a throne. Upon it sat Ludwig Lot.

  He looked just the same, yet exhausted. “Son… forgive me.”

  He raised one thick arm and gestured to the sides. From the edges of the chamber, two officers stepped forward in perfect synchronization.

  Oliver, trapped in Mordred’s body, felt the tension in the air. Time seemed to stretch, each second drawn out.

  Ludwig straightened in his throne, forcing himself upright, his expression hardening just enough to deliver the words that would sever blood from blood.

  “Take him to the confinement cells,” he said quietly. “He will no longer be my heir.”

  Oliver didn’t know where in Mordred’s life this moment belonged, but he could feel it, the weight of it, the finality. This wasn’t just punishment. It was the end.

  Yet, despite the sentence, Mordred’s heart didn’t race.

  It didn’t even falter.

  It was calm.

  Cold.

  The officers stepped closer.

  But Mordred spoke first.

  “No, Father,” he said softly. “It is you who must forgive me.”

  Oliver felt the movement before he saw it, the subtle shift of the arm, the weight of the metal in Mordred’s hand.

  The gun was small, an old relic from a time before energy rifles. Its design was simple, elegant, and deadly. The barrel gleamed in the low light, its edges worn smooth by age and use.

  Oliver could feel the tremor in Mordred’s fingers as he raised it, the faint hitch in his breath. But his eyes, his eyes never wavered.

  They were locked on Ludwig.

  Then came the flash.

  A burst of light.

  The sound of the shot echoed through the chamber, sharp and deafening. The smell of burnt powder filled the air.

  Ludwig’s body jerked once, then slumped back into the throne. For a moment, he didn’t move.

  Mordred lowered the weapon slowly, his hand steady now.

  “You will pass the torch to the next generation,” he said quietly.

  [Third Floor Initiating.]

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