[Oliver's PoV]

  The False Sovereign fell.

  Time slowed to a crawl as Oliver watched the creature’s body descend. When the Sovereign’s form hit the ground, it wasn’t the sound that struck him; it was the pressure.

  The black ooze that had covered its body began to dissolve, disintegrating into ribbons of smoke. The light from the Sovereign’s golden eyes flickered once, then vanished.

  But it wasn’t over yet.

  The Energy that erupted from the corpse was unlike anything Oliver had ever felt before.

  Reality seemed to twist, bending inward as the dying Sovereign’s essence fled the body.

  Oliver gasped, clutching his chest.

  It felt like being dragged underwater by an invisible tide, his lungs screaming for air. Every breath was a battle.

  He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Could only endure.

  The light grew brighter, swallowing the hall's darkness.

  The pressure vanished as quickly as it came. The air returned to his lungs in a violent rush, and the world around him shifted.

  He blinked.

  The throne room was gone.

  He was standing again, but not where he had been. The stone beneath his feet was smooth, unmarked by battle. The air was clean, crisp, filled with the faint scent of flowers and sunlight.

  He was at the entrance of the Tower.

  But everything was different.

  The plaza that had been cracked and broken was now whole, pristine. The Tower itself still loomed before him. But the world around it had changed.

  The city, the one that had been reduced to ruins, was alive again.

  Buildings that had once been shattered now stood tall and perfect. Above him, the sky was blue.

  Not the dark and grey smoke, but a real, endless blue. A sun burned bright at its center, warm and golden.

  Oliver turned toward the plaza, seeing for the first time its inhabitants.

  They looked human, but only at first glance. Their faces were ageless, their features symmetrical and flawless. Men, women, and children, there was no distinction of age or gender. Each one moved with quiet grace, their bodies strong and lean.

  But it was their wings that gave away any resemblance to humans.

  Some were white as snow. Others were dark, black as obsidian. And some shimmered with iridescent colors, blue, green, and gold. Each set of wings moved subtly, folding and unfurling as their owners walked.

  Above their heads floated halos, not of light, but of metal.

  Dark, polished rings hovered silently, rotating slowly. The halos cast faint shadows across their faces. Their clothing was simple, white robes, draped and tied with cords of silver or gold.

  They walked without haste, their movements smooth and serene.

  The city around them was alive. The winged beings moved between the marble-like structures. Some sat cross-legged in the plaza, basking in the sun's warmth, eyes closed in deep meditation. The air was still, heavy with peace and divinity.

  Oliver’s senses buzzed. Every step he took felt wrong, like he was moving inside someone else’s skin.

  “They’re coming. We have to prepare our defenses.” His mouth spoke words he hadn’t meant to say.

  The sound of his own voice startled him. It wasn’t his tone. It wasn’t even his language. Yet he understood every syllable as if it were his own.

  It was the same sensation he’d felt on the second floor—the strange disconnection between thought and action, between mind and body.

  He wasn’t speaking.

  He was inhabiting.

  'I’m in someone else’s body,' he thought.

  “No. Wait. I will speak with them.”

  The moment the voice reached his ears, Oliver felt it—his skin tingled with pure Energy.

  He turned his head, and for the first time, he saw the being walking beside him.

  The sight nearly stole his breath.

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  It was a Sovereign.

  A true one.

  Not the twisted mockery he had fought in the Tower, not a False imitation, but the real thing.

  And he was walking among mortals.

  'Why?' Oliver wondered, awe and disbelief colliding in his mind. 'Why would a Sovereign walk here, among them?'

  “The Corrupt and the Greed, they will move at the same time. My lord, I do not doubt your strength, but it will be two against one.”

  The Sovereign turned his head slightly, his expression calm.

  “Atherion,” he said, and Oliver felt the name vibrate in his bones. “You are my firstborn, and perhaps that makes you more protective than the others. But remember—”

  The Sovereign’s voice carried the weight of eternity.

  “I was here before them all. And the Just will not kneel to others.”

  Oliver’s vision trembled.

  He couldn’t look away.

  The Sovereign’s very presence burned at the edges of his perception, as though his mortal senses weren’t meant to witness something like this. The being’s skin was white as marble, flawless and radiant. His golden armor shone under the sunlight.

  His face was serene, his expression calm, but behind his eyes was the weight of ages. He was beautiful in the way only something beyond human could be.

  The being turned his gaze toward the horizon, his eyes narrowing slightly as if sensing something distant, something approaching.

  “When they arrive,” he said quietly, his tone still calm, but threaded with command, “send them to my chamber.”

  --

  Atherion stood still, hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid and disciplined.

  It took Oliver several seconds to realize where he was this time.

  This was the same throne room, the very one where he had fought the False Sovereign.

  However, it was far from seeming the same place. The ruin and decay were gone. The cracks in the marble were whole again. The shattered pillars stood proud.

  On the throne sat a true Sovereign.

  He was nothing like the corrupted Oliver had faced.

  Where the False Sovereign had been twisted and broken, this one radiated purity.

  Flanking the room were two long rows of soldiers, their formation flawless, their golden armor identical to their ruler’s.

  They weren’t Sovereigns, not yet, but they were close.

  Oliver’s focus was only broken when the massive doors at the far end of the hall swung open.

  Two figures entered.

  Even from afar, Oliver knew. He didn’t need to see their faces, didn’t need to feel their power. The air around them warped, bending under the pressure of their existence.

  They were Sovereigns.

  Real ones.

  Their Energy wasn’t wild or chaotic. Yet beneath that control was something darker, bloodlust.

  The first was taller, his frame massive, his presence suffocating. Its armor was a deep, molten orange, forged in overlapping plates that looked more like a beast’s hide than crafted metal. From the top of his helmet rose two black horns, curved and jagged. The armor itself was brutal, every edge designed for war, not ceremony.

  The second Sovereign was smaller, more compact, but nothing about him was lesser. His movements were smooth, his confidence palpable. His armor was deep purple. Less monstrous, more surgical.

  His helmet covered most of his face, but what little was visible was the curve of his mouth. The faint smirk tugging at his lips radiated arrogance.

  The two Sovereigns walked the length of the hall in silence. With each step, the air grew heavier, the pressure mounting until even Oliver, inside Atherion’s body, felt his knees tremble.

  “Just. We have come to demand your return.”

  The words came from the taller of the two Sovereigns, the one encased in orange armor. His voice was deep and commanding. But it didn't sound like a request. It was an order.

  The second Sovereign stepped forward. “Your presence among the mortals for so long, and your… position, are becoming a problem for the Grand Game.”

  The way he said it made Oliver’s skin crawl. There was no reverence in his tone, only authority.

  The Sovereign on the throne didn't move. Yet when he finally spoke, his voice filled the hall.

  “You come into my hall not with requests, but with commands.”

  A pause.

  Then, softly, dangerously.

  “Perhaps you have forgotten what it means to stand before one greater than yourselves.”

  The air changed.

  The atmosphere thickened, pressing down on everything and everyone in the room. Oliver felt it immediately, the crushing force of the Just’s Energy, and it was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

  The weight of it hit him like a tidal wave.

  Even the other two Sovereigns, the ones who had entered with such confidence, staggered under the pressure.

  Oliver felt his borrowed body tremble, his knees threatening to buckle.

  This was what true divinity felt like.

  The Just rose from his throne.

  The light of his armor flared, gold and white, brighter than any star.

  “My position has not changed,” he said. “This game you speak of should never have existed. We were never meant to be separated from our people.”

  His gaze turned toward the massive doors, toward the city beyond.

  “They are our sons and daughters. We made them. We are meant to guide them, to raise them, not to feed upon them. They are more than batteries to sustain our existence.”

  The waves of Energy pulsed outward again, so dense that Oliver’s vision fractured into shards of light.

  The two Sovereigns flinched. Their own Energy flared instinctively in response, but it was futile, like trying to hold back a storm with bare hands.

  As suddenly as it had begun, the pressure vanished.

  The Just exhaled softly, lowering his head.

  “I trust I’ve made my position clear.”

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  The two Sovereigns stood motionless for a moment before they reached up and disengaged their helmets.

  Their faces were revealed.

  Oliver’s heart stopped. He blinked, uncertain if his eyes were deceiving him.

  The first, the one in purple armor, had a face he recognized.

  He had seen that face before.

  Odin.

  The Sovereign of Humanity.

  The second Sovereign, the one in orange armor, was something else entirely. Her skin was dark, the color of volcanic ash; her body was massive and muscular, built for war. Her nose was broad and flat, her jaw strong, her eyes burning with primal fury.

  'The Sovereign of the Orks.'

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