[They're starting]

[We need to talk]

The words appeared across Oliver's vision. As he was reading, something hooked behind his breastbone and yanked. The smell of oil and smoke from Project Zeus vanished.

He landed in a vast chamber that he knew very well. Before him, two thrones rose. One carved from some white stone, and the other made out of vines and wood.

On the left, Athena sat calm and serene. Yet Oliver had learned her mannerisms. The faint tap-tap of her fingers against the arm of the throne. The almost-imperceptible quickness of her breath. The way her Energy leaked without restraint.

On the right, Cernunnos leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, an unruly grin pulling at his mouth. A hand stroked his beard as if it were a familiar animal. He looked delighted, as though the universe had made a joke only he understood.

Once, the raw pressure of their presence would have driven Oliver to his knees. But the last five years had changed him in ways no one could imagine. Whatever "Myth" quantified in his status page, he had more of it now. He didn't yet know what that meant in a fight, but the weight of the Sovereigns no longer crushed his lungs. He could breathe. He could stand.

He took two steps closer before asking. "Did something important happen?"

"A development," Cernunnos said. His eyes sparked with mischief. "Boy, you don't know your luck."

"Five years," Athena said, her tone precisely measured. "While you've built your operation thread by thread, we have worked on our side as well. For you, five years is a long grind. For us, it passes in a blink."

"We worked a miracle," Cernunnos said, clearly pleased to savor the word. "A true miracle."

Oliver's chest tightened. "Then what do I owe you thanks for?"

Athena's gaze met his. "With the evidence of what happened five years ago, we compelled the System to act. It has issued a punishment to the Sovereign of humankind." The words echoed, heavy and formal. "For the next hundred years, he is stripped of his Sovereign status."

For a heartbeat, Oliver forgot to breathe. "He won't govern humanity anymore? Are we free of the Grand Game?"

"Unfortunately, not yet," Athena said. Her composure held; the drum of her fingers ceased. "The Game persists. The board remains. But he is no longer unbeatable. He's mortal."

The word detonated quietly inside Oliver. He tasted metal. "Wait. Mortal? Did I hear that right?"

"Yes," Athena replied. "Strictly speaking, none of us is immortal. But compared to you, it might as well be. We endure. We return. We do not end in ways you understand." Her eyes flickered. "In his current condition, he has fallen as low as one of us can fall. He is as close to mortal as our kind approaches."

"This is good. I guess." Oliver answered. "It fits with what's about to happen."

"Exactly," Athena said, the cool edge of command honed in her voice. "That's why it was urgent. Even if the peace accord fails, he will be forced down into mortal lands. We won't have to wait for a new Emperor to be chosen for him to appear on your plane."

"Right… but a god is still—a god, isn't he?" Oliver asked, the word scraping out of him before he could swallow it.

Cernunnos leaned forward, amusement bright in his eyes. "Boy, we can't fix everything for you. We've made the opening. How you end this war is up to you."

"End it?" Oliver drew a breath that stung his lungs. "The war is just starting."

They both nodded once, solemn and certain, and the chamber began to unravel. Their thrones, their auras, their terrible weight—gone like mist against the wind.

He hit the world mid-step, the thump of his foot echoing from the Tech Center's concrete. Heat, oil, the smoke rushed in. Rows of worktables, scaffolds, and cable runs swung back into focus. The purple crystal in his Gauntlet throbbed once, alive and fighting.

"You okay?" Talos asked, noticing the way Oliver's gaze had drifted, the way his body had frozen for a heartbeat too long.

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"Yes. Yeah," Oliver said, swallowing hard. His mouth tasted like static. "I'm fine."

"You were still for a few seconds," Talos said. "Let's go to the medical ward."

"No," Oliver said, forcing himself to take another step. He managed a thin smile. "A quick dizziness, let's move on. Where were we heading?"

"Command Room," Talos prompted.

"Good," Oliver said, and the word steadied him. He set off between clustered work areas. Sparks fell in soft blue showers, and technicians discussed over oscilloscopes. The Tech floor never slept; it shifted in tone from feverish to focused.

They reached the main elevator. Oliver slapped the call pad. While they waited, he glanced sidelong at Talos. "Any word from the Six?"

"Not yet. Some are still deep cover. Others are mid-mission," Talos said, tone neutral but not indifferent.

The doors sighed open. Oliver tapped the control for the third sublevel. The panel lit with a cool white glow before descending.

"Any reports at all?" Oliver asked, eyes on the numbers ticking by. "Success, failure? How are they?"

"Three have located their targets," Talos said. "One is planning how to acquire. Two are still searching for their items."

"Fucking hell," Oliver muttered, and the words hung hot in the small space. "Time's running out."

"Chill. It'll work. If three of them have already found their targets, that's enough to start the plan," Talos said, voice calm as the elevator came to a halt.

The doors didn't open. Instead, the panel flickered, bathing the cabin in clinical light as a string of prompts cascaded across the display.

[Genetic verification required to enter Command Room]

Oliver set his fingers against the glass. A pinprick burn kissed each fingertip. The old Children of the Past hardware still did its job with blunt efficiency.

[Validating…]

[Validated]

[Welcome, Oliver]

Locks thumped inside the walls. The doors parted to reveal the Command Center.

The whole floor had been carved into a sanctum of control. Silent, air-scrubbed, and entirely off the NET. The only two living beings who had direct access were Oliver and Talos. In the center, a towering cylinder of glass rose from the floor like a vertical tomb, veins of cable and fiber threaded into its base. Pale fluid churned slowly inside, and suspended within it was a boy. Eyes open, skin milk-white under the glow, a rebreather grille strapped over his mouth and nose. He watched them arrive as if surfacing through a dream.

"How are you, Command?" Oliver asked, pacing to the vat's edge.

"Managing," the boy replied, voice filtered through speakers embedded in the rim of the tank. "Trying to track the plan's progress from here, but it's rough without NET access."

"Unfortunately, you're dead to the world," Oliver said, and the apology sat heavy in his throat. "There's no way out."

"Even if I left, I wouldn't last long," the boy said, a short laugh that became a cough shimmering through the liquid. "My expiration date is close. I'm not of the same quality level as you."

Oliver had no answer that wasn't a promise he couldn't keep. He settled for a nod.

"Have they arrived?" he asked instead.

"They're starting to land," Command said. "First ships are entering Earth's atmosphere now. The Yorks are down." He tilted his head, studying Oliver's face as if reading a pulse.

"Tsk." Oliver rolled the tension out of his shoulders. "What's my disguise?"

"No disguise," Command said.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"

"You're going as the Governor of Aquarius," the boy replied. "Atlas Blackwall."

Oliver held the boy's gaze through the glass. "You know that isn't my real identity."

"Until we finish this," Command said, a wry curl in his voice, "it will have to be."

The title sat on Oliver's tongue like an unfamiliar weight. Atlas Blackwall was an identity engineered. It was his to use in official spaces, as the Governor of Aquarius.

"Are you ready?" Command asked.

Almost without thinking, Oliver looked up. The ceiling disappeared into a dark latticework of suspended pods. There were thousands of cylindrical tanks slung like a forest of cocoons. Cords snaking from each one down into the central vat.

"If I return after your expiration, who will be next?" Oliver asked.

"No idea. Leave that to Talos. He will manage." Command replied.

"I'm ready," Oliver said, and set his palm gently against the glass. The tank vibrated with the boy's quiet breath.

"See you next time," Talos said, the hint of a smile in his voice.

The world folded. Teleportation always felt like a fist closing around his spine—the brief vertigo of a step that never landed. The last thing Oliver saw was the boy floating in that column of light, eyes steady, surrounded by a sky of sleeping ghosts.

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