Whoosh.
Croak.
Two sharp, unfamiliar sounds cut through the air in rapid succession.
Oliver flinched and forced his eyes open, expecting to see the robot's fist descending.
Instead, he saw a smoking hole carved clean through the machine's shoulder.
The robot turned its head sharply, processing the impact.
Behind it… a hand emerged from the dust.
Wearing Black gloves.
Holding a compact Beretta 950.
Except the entire weapon was painted bright red — almost toy-like, absurdly out of place in the darkness of the ruin.
"Who…?" Oliver whispered, dazed.
Before he could finish, the statue-robot twisted around, sensors shifting.
"Get down!" a man's voice barked from behind the machine.
Oliver didn't argue.
He dropped as low as the rubble allowed.
BOOM.
A beam of blazing red light tore through the air, clean and precise.
A heartbeat later, the robot's entire head exploded, fragments scattering across the ruined chamber like shattered glass.
Silence followed.
A heavy, stunned silence.
Oliver stared, wide-eyed, as the figure responsible stepped into full view.
And for a moment, he genuinely wondered if he'd hit his head harder than he thought.
The man — or whatever he was — looked like someone who had stitched together a uniform from five competing fashion catalogs.
Red pants.
Black shirt.
A short red blazer layered under a longer red coat that hung down to his knees, both lined with metallic gold trimming.
Even his grey tie gleamed with gold accents.
His helmet was entirely red as well, smooth and glossy, with two stylized purple cross-shaped markings etched over where the eyes should be.
In his right hand, he casually rested a black sniper rifle against his shoulder, its gold trimmings catching the light like jewellery.
In his left, he held the fully red Beretta 950, still humming faintly with residual red energy.
The entire ensemble was so bizarre, so theatrical, so outrageously mismatched that Oliver genuinely doubted his own eyesight.
He blinked hard, trying to process the sight.
The red-clad stranger lifted his left hand, the crimson Beretta 950 still humming faintly in his grip.
A shimmering distortion formed beside him, spiraling outward until a full portal materialized — a circular tear in space, pulsing with controlled energy.
His voice was calm and certain. "Off you go..., to the thirty-first century..., Droid."
The headless robot twitched, its body drawn upward as if gravity had shifted.
The ruined chassis floated toward the portal, pulled into the swirling light.
As it crossed the threshold, the man added almost casually, "Tell your creator..., I sent regards."
The portal sealed shut instantly, swallowing the robot and leaving nothing but empty air behind.
Oliver stared, stunned.
Before he could breathe out a word, the stranger tapped the sniper resting against his shoulder.
In a flash, it dissolved into thin air. He repeated the motion with the red Beretta 950; it vanished as well.
Two glowing gold symbols appeared along the sides of his pants where the weapons had been, as though marking their storage locations.
Oliver's heart hammered.
He'd never seen technology like this — not in textbooks, not in Union briefings, not anywhere.
The red figure lifted one hand and made a sweeping gesture.
The rubble crushing Oliver suddenly rose off him, suspended in the air as if weight meant nothing.
It drifted aside and settled neatly against the broken wall.
Oliver pushed himself upright, bracing a hand on the stone as his legs trembled beneath him. His eyes never left the masked man.
"W-Who… who are you?" he asked, voice cracking despite his effort to sound steady.
The stranger tilted his helmeted head.
The purple visor shaped like crossed eyes gave his smile — or the suggestion of one — a chilling, almost mocking quality.
"I'm someone who knows far more than you're capable of imagining..., Oliver."
"That's… not an answer," Oliver shot back, the fear in his chest tightening.
Then something clicked.
"And how do you even know my name?"
"Another trivial question?" the red-masked man replied, tone dripping with disappointment.
"I expected more from you."
Oliver's jaw clenched.
"More? You want more?" he snapped, anger rising hot in his throat.
He stepped forward, voice cutting through the dusty chamber.
"Do you even know who you're talking to?"
"I'm Oliver Pierce — the chosen successor of Emperor Malus."
He gestured around the ruin, breath shaking with conviction.
"This place holds the true history of our world — the kind of technology people can barely imagine in their sleep."
"And it's mine."
"I'm the one who found it."
"I'm the one who inherits it."
"And you have the nerve to expect more from me?"
The stranger's fingers curled, a quiet crackle of irritation passing through his posture.
"The awe in your voice," he said flatly, "is almost painful to listen to."
His tone sharpened.
"Books are the easiest place to craft a lie."
"Anyone can write a legend, Oliver."
"Anyone can create a fantasy version of the past."
"You'll eventually learn not to trust pages — only what you can witness with your own eyes."
He gave a short, dry laugh.
"Still… considering the watered-down nonsense you've been fed your whole life, I suppose this ruin would look like a banquet."
Then the angle of his helmet shifted as if he were smiling behind it — not kindly, but with an unsettling curiosity.
"So let me ask you something simple," he said.
"Would you rather read about history… or be the one who writes it?"
Oliver didn't hesitate. The answer tore out of him.
"Are you kidding? That's the only thing I want."
His voice thickened with something between frustration and longing.
"This world is hollow. Like it's running on fumes. Like nothing in it has weight anymore."
He lifted his chin.
"I want everything it refuses to give."
"I want more."
The red-masked man smiled—an unsettlingly human expression framed by an otherwise inhuman presence.
Through the helmet's lower gap, Oliver caught a flash of white teeth.
"Good," the man said quietly, yet the word carried a weight that pushed the air itself tighter.
"You're ready."
"Now… ask it again."
Oliver swallowed, fear and awe twisting inside him, but something steadier rose beneath it—determination.
He lifted his chin.
"…Who are you?"
The man lifted both hands to his helmet, fingers brushing the edges with deliberate patience.
"The kind of question," he murmured, "that carries a million answers."
He turned his head slightly as he listed them:
"The Chronarch."
"The Conqueror."
"The Immortal."
"The God people prayed to when they didn't understand the world."
"And also..."
"Khalid al-Sultan."
Each title dropped like a stone into water, a ripple of meaning behind every syllable.
"I've worn more names and roles than you can count," he continued.
"More identities than you've ever studied."
"I've stepped into all of them once… and eventually, I will wear them all again."
His fingers tightened on the helmet's sides.
"But only one answer ever mattered."
Slowly, deliberately, he lifted the helmet away.
Dust settled.
The man's face emerged—middle-aged, sharp features framed by an unkempt black beard.
His hair was streaked in an unnatural shade of violet.
And his eyes… they glowed with a quiet, impossible red that felt like they could burn through time itself.
He met Oliver's gaze directly.
"In the end," he said, voice steady, resonant, terrifyingly calm, "I am Czar."
A beat passed—just long enough for Oliver to breathe.
"And at the beginning," Czar added, softer now, almost intimate, "I was you, Oliver Pierce."