The province of Whisper was a land of constant, gnawing unease—a place where sound was a treacherous ally and silence was a predator. The very air seemed to vibrate with a life of its own; a careless murmur in the dead of night could be carried by the restless winds to ears miles away, while in other districts, the atmosphere became so thick and oppressive that it swallowed screams whole.
In this twisted acoustic landscape, paranoia was the only universal currency. Every word spoken was a calculated risk, and every silence was a fragile shield that could shatter at any moment. The Aethelgardian ruling powers had mastered this aberration, turning the province into a crucible for interrogation. In the hands of patient inquisitors, the shifting echoes became tools to extract truth and crush dissent.
It was a realm for the subtle—spies who communicated in the silent language of gestures. The loud and the foolish rarely survived their first night.
Saturday, one of the seventeen elite spies of the rebellion, moved through the Tetrarch's palace like a ghost. He had navigated the shifting silences of the corridors with expert caution, his eyes scanning the gloom. But as he approached the threshold of the throne room, the acoustic treachery of the province struck. A single step, no heavier than the others, caught a "carry zone." The sound echoed off the stone walls like a sudden death knell, amplifying until it roared through the chamber.
The guards' eyes snapped toward him, hands tightening on their hilts with practiced lethality. Saturday froze, his heart hammering against his ribs, as he met the gaze of the Tetrarch of Whisper: Zo.
Zo sat atop her dais, her expression unreadable, her eyes boring into Saturday's soul. "Ah-ah! It seems we have an interesting guest," she drawled, her voice dripping with a silk-wrapped amusement that seemed to come from everywhere at once. "The Prince of the Vylonian Empire himself. The son of Absalom. What brings royalty to my quiet territory?"
Saturday's eyes widened, his pulse spiking with shock. "Have we met?"
Zo's smile was a cold, calculated curve. "No. But stories travel far in Aethelgard. I've heard plenty about the seven weak sons of Emperor Absalom. It is only natural, I suppose—weaklings beget weaklings. Absalom was so weak, and his seed reflects it."
Saturday's frame went rigid. His anger starting to boil over
Zo's smile didn't waver. "Oh, I know enough. I know your people infiltrated my province and disturbed the peace. It was so noisy I had to step in myself. They are currently locked away in the silence cells. Would you like to join them? I loc—"
She never finished. A massive rock, torn from the masonry by a sudden surge of Hera, went whistling through the air, narrowly missing her head and smashing into the throne behind her.
"Take it back!" Saturday shouted, his aura flaring wildly, the restraint of a spy snapping under the weight of his fury.
Zo didn't flinch; instead, she let out a peal of laughter that sounded like discordant music. "Oh," she whispered, her eyes sparkling with sadistic delight. "It seems I hit a nerve."
While fury brewed in Whisper, the province of Cadence offered a different kind of nightmare. Orion navigated the streets, his mind reeling as the temporal dissonance tugged at his senses. Here, a step forward could feel like a year, and a glance behind could span a second.
He eventually reached a plaza where a group of Chronohelix soldiers lay bound and humiliated. Standing over them was the Tetrarch of Cadence, Tim.
"Oh, you're finally here," Tim said, checking a pocket watch that seemed to run at three different speeds. "Rescue mission? Your people took mine hostage first, so I had to intervene. Please, don't take it personally."
Orion's expression remained ice-cold, his eyes moving over his captured allies with utter indifference. "It doesn't matter to me if they got themselves captured," Orion stated flatly. "They lost because they were weak. That is the only law I follow."
The captured rebels looked up in protest, but Orion began to pull off his robe, revealing a physique built for war. "I care only about the strong. I love the thrill of the fight more than the cause itself. Tell me, Tetrarch… are you strong? You'll have to prove it."
Tim erupted into a cacophony of laughter, his eyes widening. "I love the way you think! But don't hold it against me if you die by my hands before the minute is up—or an hour, depending on how strong you are."
Back in the liberated province of Nexus, the air was finally still. Luisa stood alone, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon where the sun met the scorched earth. She was approached by Lord Ozai, whose eyes were filled with a profound, quiet gratitude.
"I haven't properly shown my appreciation," Ozai said softly. "For everything you've done to ensure our freedom… I am grateful, Queen Luisa."
Luisa turned, her expression serene but tired. "It is nothing, Lord Ozai. I did it for Lord Ozan."
Ozai nodded, his eyes clouding with nostalgia. "Ah, Ozan. I'm sure he's happy right now, wherever his spirit rests." He paused, looking at the former Queen. "What of your sons? Are they faring well in this storm?"
Luisa's serenity flickered, replaced by a shadow of maternal concern. "When I created Overdrive, I was only able to fully train Athena and Sunday before my banishment. I managed to teach the others the basics just before we arrived here… but I am worried about Saturday."
Ozai tilted his head. "Why him specifically? Do you fear he lack the strength to win?"
"No," Luisa whispered, her voice tinged with a deep, aching worry. "He was the closest to Absalom. He was his father's favorite. Absalom's death didn't just break his heart; it unhinged his restraint. I'm not worried that he might lose, Lord Ozai. I'm worried that he will get angry… and pour all that grief into a destruction the world isn't ready for."
Ozai placed a reassuring hand near her shoulder. "I see. In times like these, Luisa, you must trust the blood you gave him. Believe in him."
The battle In the heart of Whisper had become a grim, one-sided spectacle. Saturday was broken, his body heaving as he gasped for air—the ragged sound of his lungs amplified by the province's treacherous acoustics until it was the only thing anyone could hear.
"Hahahahaha!" Zo's sinister laughter rippled through the hall, her eyes glowing with a predatory confidence. "What was it you asked me to do? Oh, right—take back my words. But why should I? Just as I thought, Absalom's sons are nothing but weaklings, exactly like the man who sired them."
With a roar of defiance, Saturday launched a desperate barrage of jagged metal shards at the Tetrarch. Zo didn't move. Black, obsidian-slick thorns erupted from her very skin, lashing out like vipers to pierce the incoming metal and pin it to the walls before it could touch her.
With a casual flick of a single hand, she formed a sign. The floor beneath Saturday groaned as massive thorns burst from the stone, impaling his clothes and tearing at his flesh. He collapsed, blood staining the floor.
"It is a terrible sin to be weak," Zo mocked, her voice booming.
"Shut up," Saturday spat, his face pressed against the cold stone.
"It's adorable that you can still use your mouth," Zo sneered. "Now, let's end this."
She wove a complex sign with both hands. A coil of black, enchanted rope whipped out of the shadows, binding Saturday and hoisting him into the air. Beneath him, the floor groaned and parted, revealing a yawning chasm—a dark pit bristling with long, poison-tipped black thorns. Saturday hung suspended over certain death, a fly caught in a web.
In the suffocating silence of that moment, Saturday's mind drifted. He saw the faces of his seven siblings, laughing in the sunlight of a home long lost. He saw his mother's smile, and finally, he saw Absalom. He remembered his father's kindness, his warmth, and the brutal way it had been extinguished.
A single tear, heavy with grief and fury, rolled down his cheek. It fell through the darkness of the pit, landing directly on one of the thorns below.
The world screamed.
The earth began to shake with a primal, tectonic violence. Zo stumbled, her confidence evaporating as she struggled to remain upright. "What's going on?!"
The black rope snapped like brittle thread. Saturday began to plummet into the pit, but as his feet neared the thorns, the earth didn't just break—it erupted. Molten stone and ash surged upward, filling the chasm and obliterating the thorns.
The shaking ceased. A heavy, sulfurous heat filled the palace. The people of Whisper watched in silent horror as Saturday stood perfectly still, balanced atop a churning, miniature sea of volcanoes that had birthed themselves from the palace floor.
"He's… he's standing on volcanoes?" a spectator whispered in disbelief.
Zo's eyes narrowed, her knuckles white as she gripped her weapons.
"Overdrive: Magma King," Saturday's voice was low, resonating with the weight of the earth itself. I didn't understand it then… how Lysandra destroyed our home so easily. But it was Hera. It was the second stage. It turns out the Overdrive phase of Earth Hera isn't just rock—it is the living fire of the world. It is Magma.
Zo bared her teeth, refusing to show fear. "Alright, weakling! You've freaked us out, but what now? You're still just a boy!"
Saturday didn't answer with words. He raised his arms, and the miniature volcanoes responded as if they were extensions of his own limbs. Pillars of white-hot magma surged into the air, melting the very ceiling of the palace. With a violent gesture, the molten tide crashed down, surrounding Zo in a ring of inescapable heat.
She screamed, conjuring a massive dome of black thorns to shield herself, but the defense was useless. The magma was an absolute force; it incinerated the thorns in a heartbeat, turning them to ash before swallowing the Tetrarch whole. Zo was gone in a flash of blinding orange light, reduced to cinders alongside those of her guards who were too slow to flee.
Saturday stood amidst the cooling stone, the silence of Whisper finally returning—but this time, it was the silence of a grave. He marched to the dungeons, tearing the steel doors from their hinges with his bare hands to free his Chronohelix comrades.
Soon, the flag of the rebellion flew over the silent spires of Whisper.
In the shifting, unstable reality of Cadence, the battle had reached a brutal impasse—or so it seemed to the onlookers. The Tetrarch Tim stood perfectly poised, his regal attire untouched by a single speck of dust. In stark contrast, Orion was a map of violence; deep gashes crisscrossed his torso, and blood pooled in the creases of his battered armor.
But as Orion spat a mouthful of crimson onto the warped cobblestones, a sound erupted from his throat that chilled the bones of every citizen watching: laughter.
"What is going on here?" a citizen of Cadence whispered, clutching their head as time skipped a beat. "Tetrarch Tim has dominated every second of this. The rebel is covered in wounds—he looks like he could drop dead at any moment—and yet… he's enjoying this?"
Orion didn't answer with words. He lunged, his massive axe whistling through the air in a horizontal arc. Tim didn't even seem to move; he simply wasn't there when the blade passed. With a blurred motion, Tim appeared at Orion's flank, his sword flashing. A new spray of blood erupted from Orion's shoulder.
"Hahahahaha!" Orion roared, the thrill of the pain fueling his momentum. "This! This is how a fight should feel!" He swung again, the sheer force of his desperation cracking the pavement.
Tim's eyes widened. He parried the blow, the vibration traveling up his arms like an electric shock. He pushed off, performing a series of graceful backflips to reset the distance. "Hey! What is wrong with you?" Tim demanded, his composure finally fraying. "Do you truly enjoy this? You are dying!"
"Yes," Orion said, a jagged, honest grin splitting his face.
"Why? It makes no sense," Tim countered. "The risks… the end of your life…"
"People think I'm a freak because I love the meat-grinder of battle," Orion said, his voice dropping to a gravelly low. "Thorenzia, Aethelgard, Vylonia… centuries of politics and borders. None of that matters to me. I don't care who sits on a throne. I just want a strong opponent. I want to feel my heart beat against the edge of a blade. That's all there is."
Tim's expression hardened. He pulled off his gloves, letting them flutter to the ground, and dropped his sword. "Fine. If it's a 'strong' opponent you want, I'll stop playing. I'm going all out."
"Give me everything!" Orion bellowed.
Tim moved with a speed that defied the local timeline. Orion raised his arm to block, but Tim didn't strike—he simply reached out and pressed his palm against Orion's forearm.
"Age!" Tim commanded.
In an instant, the skin on Orion's hand withered. Muscles atrophied, veins turned brittle and blue, and the flesh wrinkled into the parchment of a hundred-year-old man. Orion's eyes widened in genuine shock. He swung his axe, but Tim danced away. As the contact broke, the localized time distortion snapped back, and Orion's hand returned to its prime state.
"I see," Tim said, his confidence returning tenfold. "Even you fear the end. You can't have 'fun' when you know your death is a certainty, can you? Empires fall to age. Mountains crumble to it. Humans—no matter how many gods they claim to serve—age and die. Age is the absolute!"
Orion lunged again, but as his axe neared the Tetrarch, Tim reached out and touched the wooden handle. The wood didn't break; it rotted. In a fraction of a second, the handle turned to sawdust and the heavy iron blade rusted into orange flakes that scattered in the wind.
Orion stood there, gasping, holding nothing but the memory of a weapon. He wasn't smiling anymore. The laughter had died.
"Looks like the joke is over," Tim taunted, his voice a sinister purr. "Now, let's end this."
Orion closed his eyes, a strange stillness settling over him. "Yeah," he whispered. "You're right. Let's end it."
The earth didn't just shake; it groaned as if the very foundations of the world were melting. Pillars of white-hot magma erupted around Orion, incinerating the warped grass and melting the stone into slag.
"Volcanoes?" Tim mused, stepping back from the intense heat.
"Overdrive: Magma Warrior!" Orion yelled.
The liquid fire didn't just surround him; it surged toward him, coating his body and hardening into a suit of glowing, red-hot plate armor. He stood before Tim not as a man, but as a living furnace—a knight forged from the core of the planet.
"What is that?" Tim stammered, the heat beginning to singe his eyebrows.
"Overdrive," Orion's voice echoed from within the molten helm. "The second stage of Hera. Saturday is a King, but I… I am a Warrior. This is the magma of the earth given form."
Tim snarled and lunged, his hand reaching out to touch Orion's arm. "Age! I'll make your armor turn to dust!"
As soon as Tim's fingers touched the magma, he screamed. The heat was beyond anything physical; it was the concentrated fury of the planet. Tim recoiled, his hand blackened and blistered.
"I guess even Time is susceptible to heat," Orion taunted, his voice a low rumble of shifting tectonic plates.
"Why you—!" Tim snapped, losing all reason. He threw himself at Orion, pressing both hands against the armor, screaming in agony as he forced his "Age" power to its absolute limit. He began to sink his hands into the molten plating, the armor beginning to crack and grey under the temporal weight.
Orion didn't flinch. He reached out and wrapped his massive, burning arms around Tim in a horrific, crushing embrace. He increased the heat, pouring every ounce of his Hera into the contact. Tim wailed, his power desperately trying to age the man before the man burned the life out of him.
But a human body cannot outrun a volcano.
With a final, desperate gasp, Tim's strength failed. The heat consumed him, turning the Tetrarch of Cadence to a fine grey ash that vanished in a plume of steam.
Orion stood alone, the magma armor cooling and flaking off as he deactivated the Overdrive. He fell to his knees, gasping for air as the temporal distortions of the province finally began to smooth out. The air grew still. The "skipping" of time stopped.
He looked up at the Chronohelix prisoners, their chains melting away in the residual heat. "Secure the province," Orion ordered weakly. "Cadence belongs to us now."