Chapter 6

The helicopter descended smoothly, its rotors kicking up a whirlwind of dust as it hovered over a private landing zone near the Pentagon. The moment the skids touched the ground, the side doors slid open, and a fresh wave of hot, muggy air rushed inside.

Orion barely had time to unbuckle before Carter and Monroe were already moving. He followed them out onto the tarmac, squinting against the bright afternoon sun.

Waiting for them were more men in suits—Secret Service, no doubt—flanked by armed military personnel in full tactical gear. The tension was palpable. These weren't just people doing their jobs; they were on edge, like they were one wrong move away from drawing their weapons.

A man in a dark blue suit stepped forward, his expression unreadable. He looked to be in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of sharp, assessing gaze that could probably peel back a person's soul if he stared long enough.

"Agent Carter, Agent Monroe," the man said, giving them a curt nod before shifting his gaze to Orion. "And you must be Orion Graves."

Orion straightened instinctively, unsure if he should salute or shake the guy's hand. He settled for a nod. "Yeah. That's me."

The man studied him for a moment before speaking. "I'm Director Franklin Rhodes, National Security Advisor to the President."

Orion hesitated. "Uh, nice to meet you?"

Rhodes didn't react. "Walk with me."

Carter, Monroe, and the other agents fell into formation as they crossed the landing zone, heading toward a sleek black SUV waiting near the entrance to the Pentagon. Soldiers stood at every checkpoint, their gazes locked onto Orion with an unsettling intensity.

They knew who he was.

They knew what he was.

And some of them, Orion realized, were afraid.

Inside the Pentagon

The moment Orion stepped inside, the atmosphere changed. The hallways were buzzing with activity—staff members hurrying between offices, phone calls being made in frantic whispers, documents being shuffled with a kind of urgency that made it clear the world was hanging on a thread.

They passed through multiple security checkpoints, each more thorough than the last. Orion had to submit to a retinal scan, a palm scan, and two different ID verifications before they were finally allowed through a set of massive double doors leading into a high-tech conference room.

And that's when he saw them.

The most powerful people in America.

At the head of the table sat the President of the United States, flanked by the Secretary of Defense, the Director of National Intelligence, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and a dozen other officials who controlled the country from the shadows.

The President—a tall man in his sixties with graying hair and sharp blue eyes—gestured for Orion to take a seat at the far end of the long, polished table. The air in the room was thick with unspoken tension.

"Mr. Graves," the President said, his voice calm but firm. "Welcome."

Orion sat, his back straight, trying not to show how out of place he felt. He was seventeen. The people in this room made decisions that shaped the world. He had barely decided what he wanted for breakfast that morning.

But he had to play this right.

"Thanks," he said, keeping his voice level. "Though I guess I didn't really have a choice, did I?"

The Secretary of Defense—a heavyset man with a military buzz cut—grunted. "None of us did, kid."

The President steepled his fingers. "We won't waste time. You've been chosen to represent this nation, and we need to know exactly what you know."

Orion blinked. "Wait—you guys don't already know everything?"

Rhodes, the National Security Advisor, exhaled. "We have some information. The entire world does."

The President nodded. "Everyone on Earth can say 'rules' and see them. That was the first thing we confirmed. But there was another rule—one that only became visible after the announcement."

The room fell silent as a large screen at the front of the conference room flickered on. The tournament rules appeared in bold text.

T O U R N A M E N T R U L E S

• Fighters cannot be harmed outside the tournament arenas.

• A fight takes place every multiple of 7 days. (7 days before the first match, then 14, then 21, and so on.)

• Battles continue until one combatant dies or is unable to fight.

• Fights take place in a parallel dimension created by the Voice. The terrain is randomized.

• 196 nations, 196 champions. Some have received a bye, meaning only a portion will fight in the first round. The rest will fight in 21 days.

• Opponents are randomly chosen each round until only one remains.

• Additional information will be revealed after the tournament ends.

Orion stared at the final rule. "Wait… so we won't know everything until it's all over?"

"That's right," the President said. "We don't know what this tournament is really about. Not yet."

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs leaned forward, his expression grim. "Which means we're fighting blind."

Orion exhaled. "Yeah. No kidding."

The President gestured toward him. "Now. What about you? You have a power, don't you?"

Orion hesitated.

The entire room was watching him now. He could feel it—the weight of their expectations pressing down on him like a mountain.

"…Yeah," he admitted. "I do."

The Chairman's eyes sharpened. "What is it?"

Orion swallowed, glancing at his hands.

"It's called Imperium."

Murmurs spread around the table.

The President narrowed his eyes. "And what does Imperium do?"

"Honestly? I don't know exactly."

The room tensed.

Orion took a slow breath, focusing. He reached out—not physically, but mentally.

The air bent.

The room shifted.

Every glass of water on the table trembled. The overhead lights flickered. The air thickened as if reality itself had turned to liquid.

Some of the officials instinctively recoiled. A few of the military personnel tensed, their hands hovering near their sidearms.

The President, however, didn't move.

Orion clenched his fist. And then—

The pressure vanished.

Everything returned to normal.

Silence.

Orion exhaled, his pulse steady but his mind racing. "I can control things. Not just move them. I think… I can manipulate reality itself."

Murmurs spread around the table. Some voices were tense. Others were intrigued.

Finally, the President leaned back, his fingers tapping against the table.

"Then we have work to do."

Within the hour, Orion was moved to a high-security military base outside D.C., escorted by an entire convoy of armored vehiclesz

And then—

The training began.

Orion had seven days before his first fight. Seven days to understand his power.

Seven days before the world would watch him either win—

Or die.