[Oliver’s POV]

  “Then it’s decided,” Oliver said, his voice sharp with finality. “We go after Adrian. His squad is wounded from the crash. They’ll be the easiest to go against.”

  With the decision made, the two men moved eastward, weaving back through the outer ring of cabins that marked the edge of the Oasis. The air grew harsher as the shelter of the great Tree fell behind them.

  At the city’s edge, a handful of guards lingered, stationed at the threshold where civilization turned into the desert. Some stood in tight groups, whispering nervously, their eyes darting toward the endless dunes. Others stared out in silence, their hands restless on their weapons.

  Lucaz stepped forward, raising his voice. “We’ll need two bikes.”

  Oliver’s head snapped toward him, his tone cutting. “What are you doing?”

  Lucaz gestured toward the guards. “If we take the bikes, we’ll move faster. We can reach them before anyone else.”

  “No.” Oliver’s response was immediate, absolute. “We go on foot.” His eyes narrowed beneath his veil, his words deliberate. “Speed means nothing if we’re seen. We’ll shadow them from a distance. Watch. Wait. Strike only when we find the right moment.” He paused, his gaze sweeping toward the horizon. “Besides, they have no mounts. We move as they move.”

  Lucaz hesitated, frustration visible even behind his wrappings, but he gave a reluctant nod. He turned back to the nearby soldier, dismissing him with a flick of the hand. The guard, who had been listening far too closely, quickly looked away.

  Oliver was already moving, his boots crunching into the sand as he ascended the first dune beyond the Oasis. The wind howled louder here, carrying with it the faint shimmer of the storm still circling high above. Lucaz, Six, followed close behind.

  “Six,” Oliver said evenly, eyes fixed on the map. “Can you track them?”

  Lucaz gave a short, dry laugh. “Six? Not calling me Lucaz anymore?”

  “We don't need to disguise ourselves anymore,” Oliver replied, his tone pragmatic.

  Lucaz sighed, his shoulders sinking. “Damn shame. I was starting to like being a trader.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “Bet One and Two don’t get missions as miserable as mine.”

  Oliver exhaled through his nose, his patience thin. “Six. Can you track them, or do we keep them in sight?”

  “I’m not the best at it,” Six admitted, his voice reluctant. “But yes… I can track them.”

  The sun hammered down on the desert, its heat pressing against the fabric of Oliver’s robes until sweat clung to his back. Each step sank into the shifting dunes, the sand swallowing his boots as if trying to drag him under. Still, their rhythm never ceased.

  Ahead, Six moved with sharp focus. His eyes scanned the ground, catching details invisible to most. From the faint scuff of a boot half-buried in sand, the subtle ridge where weight had pressed into the dune, the tiny scatter of displaced grains marking a hurried step. Each clue painted a trail, and Six followed it with uncanny precision, leading them eastward across the endless golden sea.

  Above them, the storm loomed.

  It hung in the stratosphere like a wall of iron and ash, a colossal curtain of dust and fury stretching from horizon to horizon. Though the winds did not reach them on the surface, the sight of it was enough to keep tension tight in their chests. One command from the entity, one whim, and that storm could descend, swallowing them whole.

  The dunes rose and fell in endless rhythm, an ocean of sand frozen in motion. Their march was measured not by distance but by time. Oliver glanced at the clock periodically, the glowing digits counting down the hours. One hour and a couple of minutes remained. When they had left the Oasis, they had just under four.

  Four hours to find the Jailer. Four hours to kill it. And that was without factoring in the interference of the other “players.”

  Oliver pressed forward, boots sinking deep, each step a battle against the desert’s grip. Then, Six stopped.

  He raised a fist, asking to stop. Oliver froze, his gaze snapping to the top of the dune ahead.

  “Enemies?” Oliver asked, his voice low, calm.

  Six shook his head slightly. “No. But they think they’re being followed.”

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  Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “Drones?” He scanned the skies, searching for the glint of metal, the faint hum of machines. Nothing.

  “Maybe,” Six muttered, crouching low. His fingers traced the sand, brushing across half-erased impressions. “Their pace has shifted. They’ve slowed down. The footprints are tighter, closer together. And look here—” he pointed to a patch of disturbed sand, “they’re trying to cover their tracks.”

  Oliver’s frown deepened. “Why slow down? We’re still far from the Jailer.” His voice was sharp, analytical. “Unless…” He glanced toward the horizon, then back to the sand. “They’re wounded.”

  Six straightened, giving a small shrug. “Could be.”

  “Let’s climb one more dune. From the top, we’ll get a better view,” Six whispered, already hauling himself up.

  Oliver followed, each step sinking into the shifting slope until, near the crest. Both lay flattened against the ground. The sand was hot beneath their robes, the wind carrying faint grains that stung their faces, but neither flinched. Their eyes narrowed, focusing on the scene unfolding below.

  A few hundred meters ahead, the dunes broke.

  There, in the middle of the endless sea of sand, lay something unnatural. A patch of exposed earth, its surface littered with scattered bricks. It was as though a fragment of some forgotten ruin had been revealed, a tiny island of stone adrift in the desert.

  The soldiers of House Meridius had formed a circle around it, their weapons raised, their movements cautious. At their center walked Adrian Meridius, his posture proud even in exhaustion, his uniform torn and streaked with dust. Together, they advanced slowly toward the heart of the strange stone patch.

  “The Jailer?” Six muttered, his voice laced with unease.

  Oliver glanced at the glowing map projected against his gauntlet. “No. According to this, we’re still kilometers out.”

  Six’s lips twisted beneath his veil. “He never said the map was exact.”

  Oliver’s jaw clenched, his voice a low growl. “Bastard. If I’d known, we would have shadowed them closer.”

  Below, Adrian’s squad crept forward. Then, one of the soldiers placed his boot on the first brick.

  The desert answered.

  A low tremor rippled outward, vibrating through the sand, carrying with it a sound like stone grinding against stone. The bricks shuddered, dust rising in plumes.

  From the farthest dune, the sand erupted.

  It cascaded down in torrents, spilling in all directions as something massive forced its way upward. A shadow writhed beneath the surface, then broke free. A colossal form slithering out of the earth.

  The soldiers raised their weapons. But the rifles and sidearms they carried looked pitiful. There were no Ranger Weapons among them, no Armors to level the odds. Only standard-issue steel and plasma rifles.

  The sand stirred first with a subtle vibration, so faint it could have been mistaken for the sigh of the desert wind. But then the ground split. An immense black segmented leg tore through the surface, scattering cascades of golden grains in every direction. Another followed, and another, until the dunes gave way to a nightmare clawing its way out of the earth.

  The creature emerged in full, a scorpion of colossal size, its armored body glistening beneath the sun. Its exoskeleton shimmered like obsidian.

  But the terror did not stop at its monstrous body.

  From the scorpion’s back rose a grotesque figure, the twisted parody of a man. At a distance, one might mistake it for humanoid. Still, closer inspection revealed the horror of its malformed proportions. The shoulders were far too broad, arms stretched unnaturally long, its torso warped and uneven.

  In one of its oversized, gnarled hands, it clutched a bronze spear. Its head was worse still: a maw split wide, tusk-like fangs curving upward past its face, so massive they seemed to cage the creature within its own body. It looked like a prisoner of its flesh, a mockery of humanity fused forever with the beast below.

  The man-scorpion reared back, and its roar shook the air. It lashed its arms outward, the bronze spear whistling through the air before it leveled its weapon toward the nearest soldier.

  And then it struck.

  “Level?” Oliver asked, his voice calm, though his eyes narrowed as he studied the nightmare.

  Six raised his gauntlet, its sensors humming as it scanned. “Analyzing…”

  Below, the soldiers opened fire. Lasers streaked through the storm, red and white lances of light slamming into the creature’s carapace. Bullets sparked and ricocheted off the black armor, scattering uselessly into the sand. Nothing pierced. Nothing slowed it.

  “Spread out!” someone screamed.

  “Encircle it!” Adrian’s voice cut through the panic, sharp and commanding. He moved to the front of the formation. “On me!”

  “Bishop,” Six finally said, his voice grim.

  Oliver’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Not that hard,” he muttered. His eyes never left the monster, calculating, dissecting its movements.

  Six’s voice carried a sharper edge. “Without Ranger Armor, it might not be that easy.”

  Oliver’s silence was heavy. His gaze lingered on the creature’s malformed body, on the way it moved. Something was bothering him. 'This thing… this is supposed to threaten an entire city? This alone?'

  The soldiers tightened their circle, weapons raised, waiting for Adrian’s order. The scorpion twitched, its tail arching high, venom glistening at its tip.

  Adrian’s voice rang out. “Now! Attack!”

  The desert exploded into chaos.

  [Let the first phase begin.]