[Oliver’s PoV]

  “I was starting to wonder when you’d show up.”

  The words left Oliver’s lips like a challenge.

  Before him, the three Ork champions loomed. Each step they took sent cracks spiderwebbing across the concrete, their presence alone pressing against the battlefield.

  They were powerful. Too powerful for a normal strike team. But power wasn’t the problem.

  Oliver saw it almost immediately.

  They had a weakness.

  “Fall back,” Oliver ordered, his voice cutting through the comms like steel.

  The Hoplites obeyed, sweeping the perimeter clean. Synchronized strikes cutting down the stragglers.

  “Protect the case!”

  Oliver kicked the metal briefcase toward three nearby Hoplites.

  “Secure it and hold position!”

  The soldiers nodded and retreated.

  The reporter and his crew, pale and wide-eyed, didn’t need to be told twice. They scrambled behind a collapsed section of wall. Newton’s voice crackled from somewhere behind the debris. “He’s actually doing it… he’s going to fight them alone.”

  Oliver ignored them. His focus narrowed.

  What do I need? he thought, his mind running as he studied the three Orks.

  The red-armored one moved first, a juggernaut of muscle and fury. His armor burned with crimson light, every movement accompanied by the hiss of overcharged Energy. His punches were wild but devastating, each blow strong enough to pulverize a tank.

  He was slow, though. Predictable. A hammer without precision.

  If one of those hits connected, it would shatter Oliver’s armor, and maybe him along with it.

  Then came the black-armored one.

  He was massive. His armor layered like the shell of some reptile. His plating was thick, his movements deliberate.

  He was a fortress, built to endure. His strikes were heavy but sluggish. Oliver could already tell, he wasn’t meant to kill. He was meant to protect.

  Of the three, the yellow-armored Ork was the real issue.

  He was fast. Deceptive. Always waiting.

  He didn’t charge in recklessly like the others. He lingered at the edges of the fight, studying, watching for the perfect opening. Every time Oliver moved—every time he parried, countered, or shifted his stance—the yellow armored Ork was there, slipping through like a serpent.

  He struck in the spaces between actions, exploiting the moments when Oliver’s attention was divided.

  Cunning. The worst kind of opponent.

  He could use [Observation]. He knew it would work.

  He could also try [Prometheus]. That would end the fight fast.

  But he didn’t.

  Not yet.

  Better to keep those cards close to the chest.

  Oliver’s gaze swept across the battlefield. The plaza was a burning ruin. Fires raged in the wreckage. Beyond that was glass facade of the tower ahead.

  She was there. She was watching.

  The Empress.

  He could feel her eyes like a weight pressing down. Even without seeing her, he knew she was there—observing, analyzing, testing him.

  This battle wasn’t a skirmish. It was a trial.

  She wanted to see what he could do.

  And Oliver wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of seeing everything. Not yet.

  Not until I have her in my sights.

  In any other time, he wouldn’t have had much choice. The yellow Ork’s speed alone would have forced him to draw on Prometheus.

  But today, luck was on his side.

  He could see the flaws.

  It was subtle, imperceptible to most, but to Oliver, it stood out like a beacon.

  And they didn’t even realize.

  Khan gave them the tech, Oliver thought, narrowing his eyes. But he didn’t explain it. Or he didn't even knew.

  It was a lesson Oliver had learned the hard way.

  The Ranger Armor wasn’t powered by the Crystal alone. The Crystal was only the heart of it, the core that amplified and directed Energy. But the armor itself was alive in its own way, and it fed on its user.

  It drew from the wearer’s Energy reserves, siphoning it to maintain its power output, augment its systems, and reinforce its plating.

  If you didn’t manage that balance, you didn’t just weaken the armor. You weakened yourself.

  Too much strain, and your body began to break down. Muscles locked, nerves burned, and your mind slipped into exhaustion. If you pushed far enough… the armor would drain you dry.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Few people could sustain it for long. Only those born with near-limitless Energy, people like John York, could wield it without fear.

  Oliver wasn’t one of them.

  And apparently, neither were the Orks.

  He saw it now, clear as daylight.

  Their first attack had told him everything.

  All three of the armored Orks had come at him with overwhelming force. Each strike had been fueled by raw, unchecked Energy, the kind that could shatter everything in its path.

  But now… they were slowing down.

  Their movements weren’t as sharp. Their strikes didn’t carry the same weight.

  It was catching up to them.

  The first blow they’d landed should’ve cracked his armor wide open—split him in half, maybe. But it hadn’t. The impact had hurt, yes, but not nearly as much as it should have.

  They are burning themselves out.

  From what he’d gathered, these three had been hunting Rangers for days without rest, tearing through human lines, killing anyone wearing powered armor. They were relentless, unstoppable… until now.

  Now, their own power was eating them alive.

  Oliver ducked under a wild swing from the red-armored Ork, the massive fist missing him by inches and smashing into the ground instead. The pavement exploded under the impact, shards of stone and debris spraying in every direction.

  He could feel the tremor through his boots—but he was already moving, sliding to the side.

  They’re running out of Energy.

  He remembered what it had been like when he first used a Ranger Armor. A real one. It had a rush of power, the sheer intoxicating strength of it. He felt invincible then.

  He’d been wrong.

  He’d learned fast that every ounce of Energy he poured into his armor had to be accounted for. Every movement, every shot, every transformation had a cost.

  He had learned to budget his strength. To decide how much Energy went into his Energy Pistol. He’d learned to shape and redirect it, to make the armor an extension of his will instead of a hungry machine.

  The Orks hadn’t learned that lesson.

  They were using their armor the way he had on his first day. Recklessly, desperately, without restraint.

  They were throwing everything they had into every attack, burning through their reserves faster than they could produce.

  All Oliver had to do was wait.

  He sidestepped another charge, the yellow-armored Ork flashing past him. The creature’s blade struck the ground.

  Too long, Oliver thought. Too exposed.

  Even the most cunning of the three Orks was making mistakes.

  Their movements were still sharp, their blows still heavy, but the rhythm had changed. They were overconfident. Drunk on their own strength.

  They’ve killed hundreds, Oliver thought, his eyes tracking the trio as they circled him. They think they’re untouchable. They think the armor makes them gods.

  He’d seen it before.

  The same arrogance had claimed countless soldiers in the NEA. Rookies who bonded too well with their Ranger Armor. The armor amplified their strength, sharpened their senses, made them feel invincible.

  That was exactly when they died.

  The first to die are always the ones who think they can’t.

  He could feel the faint tremor through his boots, the heavy footfalls of the red-armored Ork closing in from the front.

  Behind him, the yellow one was moving.

  He could sense the faint distortion in the Energy.

  Oliver didn’t turn.

  He didn’t need to.

  There you are.

  He exhaled, forcing his body to stay relaxed, to move naturally. He let the Ork believe he was distracted, let him think the opening was real.

  The yellow Ork took the bait.

  The creature shifted, crouched low, and lunged.

  At the exact same moment, the red-armored one charged from the front, roaring as his massive fist ignited with crimson Energy.

  It was a coordinated strike—one from the front, one from behind.

  It would have worked.

  Maybe, weeks ago. Maybe if they hadn’t been so tired, their suits overcharged and unstable. Maybe if they hadn’t been so sure of themselves.

  But not now.

  Not against him.

  Oliver moved.

  With a single motion, he pivoted and leapt sideways, the motion fluid and effortless. The red Ork’s blow tore through empty space, the impact creating a crater where Oliver had been a heartbeat earlier.

  The yellow Ork’s strike met nothing but air.

  Oliver landed on one knee as he summoned the weapons gifted to him by Cernunnos.

  Twin daggers materialized in his hands.

  The Ork barely had time to register what had happened.

  Oliver was already moving.

  He surged forward, the world slowing around him. The hum of the battlefield faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The yellow Ork turned, as he tried to defend. Yet too slow.

  Oliver was behind him before he could react.

  A whisper of steel, then silence.

  The Ork froze mid-turn. Wwith a sharp metallic crack, the creature’s head slid from its shoulders.

  It hit the ground with a heavy thud, rolling through the dust and debris before coming to rest beside its twitching body.

  “What?”

  The red-armored Ork’s voice rumbled across the battlefield, filled with confusion. He stared at the headless corpse of his fallen comrade, the yellow glow of its armor fading.

  “He got careless,” the black-armored one grunted, his tone dismissive. “He was always weak.”

  “True enough,” the red one replied. “Those yellow-skins always fight dirty anyway.”

  Oliver couldn’t help himself, he laughed.

  The two Orks froze.

  “Has he lost it?” the black one asked, his voice low, uncertain.

  “No,” Oliver said, the amusement fading into something far more dangerous. “It’s just that you two… aren’t enough.”

  The words hit them, a human answering in Orkish.

  For a heartbeat, neither of the Orks moved.

  In that instant of hesitation, Oliver struck.

  One second he was standing several meters away; the next, he was inside their guard.

  The red-armored Ork barely had time to raise his arm.

  Oliver's blades hit the joints of the armor. Blood erupted. The second cut came before the first finished, carving through the Ork’s forearm. The third was a blur, slicing through the creature’s chest in a perfect cross-pattern.

  Soon came the rest.

  A storm of blades.

  Oliver’s movements were too fast, each swing precise, deliberate, devastating.

  The red Ork staggered backward, his armor splitting open in a dozen places. Blood poured from the wounds.

  A final strike flashed through the air.

  The Ork’s body fell, collapsing into a rain of blood.

  The battlefield went still.

  Oliver stood in the center of it, his daggers dripping crimson.

  He looked up at the last Ork, the one in black.

  The creature stared back, its massive frame rigid, its breathing uneven. For the first time, the fear was visible in its posture.

  Oliver began to walk toward him.

  The surviving Ork’s hands twitched, his instincts screaming at him to fight. Yet his body refused to move.

  Even the other Orks, those still fighting the Hoplites, had paused. The realization settling over them all.

  That human was a predator.

  Oliver’s steps were almost casual. His eyes never left his target.

  He wanted the last one to feel it, to understand what was coming.

  He could see the creature’s pulse racing, struggling to keep up with its panic.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

  “You’re next.”

  The black-armored Ork took a step back, his arms raising in a weak attempt at defense.

  Oliver tightened his grip on his blades. However he never had the chance to attack.

  A single shot cracked through the silence.

  Then another.

  And another.

  https://discord.gg/dnPYbzN974.

  https://www.patreon.com/c/GCLopes.