Arcadia City always sounded alive, even in the dead hours of night. The clock towers breathed with gears behind glass faces, elevated rails hummed between brass-rimmed platforms, and the enormous central chronometer at Epoch Square chimed every quarter hour with a tone so deep it seemed to roll through the stones beneath the streets. On ordinary nights, Cole Beckett found the sound soothing. Tonight, however, the square was bringing him a whole new problem.

It floated above the cobblestones like a wound cut through glass, its jagged edges pulsing with time pressure. Beyond it, Cole could see a battlefield. Burning towers rose in the distance. Soldiers ran beneath torn standards. A storm of green lightning crawled through black clouds above a ruined plain.

Ty Mercado walked up beside him holding a burrito that he subsequently dropped. His tropical shirt was already soaked at the shoulders, his hair clung to his forehead, and his eyes kept darting between the fissure and Cole’s face, searching for any sign of just how bad this was.

Ty Mercado: Cole, buddy, I need you to use words that are going to make me feel better about whatever this is.

Cole did not look away from the fissure.

Cole Beckett: I don’t have those words.

Ty Mercado: Then lie to me with confidence?

The wind pouring out of the rupture intensified, sending rain sideways across the square. One of the clock towers groaned as its hands spun backward, stopped, and then began moving forward too quickly. Cole watched it happen and felt the cold settle deeper into his bones than the rain ever could.

Cole Beckett: This isn’t a normal fracture. I mean what fracture is normal, but this is something new.

Ty Mercado: You're the guy that almost turned into time itself...and this is...new?

There was something about this fissure that felt different. This wasn't like anything that had attacked Arcadia before.

A shape moved behind the battlefield image.

Cole’s fingers tightened near the Driver.

Cole Beckett: Ty, get behind me.

Ty immediately stepped behind him, then leaned around his shoulder to take a look.

Ty Mercado: You got me shaking, hermano! What's going to happen?

The fissure pulsed.

The air collapsed inward as the square warped, stretching forward and backward simultaneously. Cole grabbed Ty by the arm and tried to activate the Chrono Engine Driver, but the device sparked violently, as it hadn't been working right since the final battle against the Maestro of Axis Nova.

Cole’s eyes widened.

Cole Beckett: Oh no.

Ty Mercado: Oh no what?!

Purple light swallowed the square.

Cole felt the ground vanish beneath his feet. Ty screamed beside him, though the sound stretched backward before it reached Cole’s ears.

Then they fell.

Cole slammed shoulder first into mud hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Rain pelted his face, colder and harsher than the city storm. He rolled onto his side and immediately heard screaming, but not the panic of civilians. These were battle screams. War cries. Horses. Steel. Thunder. Fire.

Ty landed in a hay cart fifteen feet away, broke straight through the rotten boards, and vanished into the heap with a miserable groan.

Ty Mercado: Maybe the third worst landing I've ever made.

Cole forced himself upright, coughing as mud slid down his sleeve. He looked around and felt his stomach drop. They were no longer in Arcadia City. They stood at the edge of a military encampment stretching across a rain-soaked valley, where thousands of tents, siege wagons, banners, cooking fires, and wounded soldiers filled the muddy ground beneath a gray sky. Beyond the camp, a fortress city rose against the mountains, its towers marked with the ancient emblem of Avalon. Farther still, on the horizon, green lightning flashed over a blackened battlefield where monstrous silhouettes moved through smoke.

Cole knew about this place. He had read about it. Books of ancient history. Tales of long ago. He had studied enough of Avalon’s history to know exactly which past.

Ty staggered out of the hay with strands of straw stuck in his hair and a deeply offended expression.

Ty Mercado: Okay, I’m alive, but is that a good thing? Where are we?

Cole stared at the banners.

Avalon.

Magnus Foundation.

Nightrook Society.

The Zauberers.

The Church.

And among the soldiers, the name passed from mouth to mouth like a prayer.

Mercer.

Cole swallowed.

Cole Beckett: We’re in the Great War.

Ty stared at him.

Ty Mercado: THE Great War? Ay Dios Mio.

Before Cole could answer, a horn blared from the nearest watch post. Soldiers turned toward them. At first, confusion marked their faces. Then suspicion. Cole realized too late how badly they stood out. His navy hoodie, Ty’s soaked tropical shirt, the Chrono Engine Driver, the modern sneakers half-buried in medieval mud; everything about them screamed wrong era, wrong place, wrong problem.

A soldier in dented chainmail pointed a spear toward them.

Avalon Soldier: Worzol infiltrators!

Ty immediately raised both hands.

Ty Mercado: I would like to strongly object to being called whatever that was!

Second Avalon Soldier: They speak strangely!

Ty Mercado: I speak just fine, dude!

More soldiers drew weapons. Cole shifted his stance, trying to calculate how to de-escalate without transforming and making the timeline even worse. He could fight his way out, but every move here risked becoming history. Every person he knocked down might be someone’s ancestor. Every decision could ripple forward into catastrophe.

A soldier lunged.

Cole sidestepped, caught the spear shaft, and redirected the thrust just enough to send the man stumbling past him instead of breaking his arm. Another came from the left. Cole ducked beneath the swing and shoved him backward into a pile of shields. Ty, meanwhile, grabbed a wooden bucket and held it like a weapon.

Ty Mercado: Back! I have medieval Tupperware and I’m not afraid to improvise!

A third soldier charged him. Ty yelped and hurled the bucket. It struck the soldier’s helmet with a hollow thunk, and the man dropped to one knee more from surprise than pain. Ty looked at his own hands in astonishment.

Ty Mercado: I have discovered my war calling.

Cole grabbed Ty by the sleeve.

Cole Beckett: Don’t celebrate. Move.

They ran through the camp as soldiers shouted behind them. They soon found themselves surrounded.

Ty Mercado: You sure you can't transform?

Cole Beckett: We...we surrender!



Ty Mercado: I don't think they're taking prisoners today, hermano.




Episode 22: Through the Portal of Time

Back in Arcadia City, the Kishirangers arrived on motorcycles, their engines cutting through the panic like a battle cry. Trace Mercer led the formation, red light reflecting across the wet road as he leaned low over the handlebars, his longer hair whipping in the rain behind him. Ashlyn Westbrook rode close beside him, her black motorcycle throwing sheets of water behind its tires, while Roland Vander, Miles Rowan, and Lena Solis followed in tight formation. They braked together at the edge of the square, tires skidding across polished stone before the five of them dismounted and stared upward at the impossible tear in the sky.

For several moments, no one said anything.

The fissure showed them Avalon.

Not modern Avalon, but the Avalon of the Great War. Rolling green hills stretched beneath a sky choked with smoke. Fortress walls stood proud in the distance, banners snapped in violent wind, and far beyond them burned a battlefield marked by siege fires, marching armies, and the sickly emerald glow of the Worzol Dimension.

Trace stepped closer before he seemed to realize he had moved. The rain ran down his face, but his eyes were fixed on the hills beyond the fissure with a softness Ashlyn had almost never seen in him. He looked younger somehow, not in body, but in spirit. The guarded weight that had followed him since his return from captivity eased beneath the sight of a world that no longer existed, and yet there it was.

Ashlyn noticed his hand find hers before he did.

His fingers closed around hers instinctively, like a man reaching for the one thing that made the impossible bearable. Ashlyn looked down at their joined hands, then up at him. Trace remained transfixed by the fissure until the warmth of her hand registered. He blinked, realized what he had done, and turned faintly red despite the rain.

Trace Mercer: Sorry. I didn’t mean to—

Ashlyn tightened her fingers around his before he could pull away.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Don’t apologize.

That silenced him instantly.

Miles Rowan pushed wet green hair out of his eyes and stared into the fissure with a mix of awe and extreme inconvenience.

Miles Rowan: So that is definitely a time hole, right? I’m asking because I’ve only seen, like, none....ever.

Lena Solis stepped forward, holding her hand near the fissure. Yellow light flickered across her Oathlink. Her expression tightened as Zauberer instinct seemed to help her understand.

Lena Solis: The Sanctum current is being pulled through it, but it isn’t natural. It feels like something punched a tunnel through time and left the wound open.

Miles Rowan: You're getting REALLY good at the whole Good Witch of Avalon thing, I must say.

Lena Solis: ...Miles.

Miles Rowan: Well, I don't HAVE to must...but I'd like to.

Roland Vander examined the fractured edge with the calm intensity of someone mentally building and dismantling several bad possibilities at once.

Roland Vander: If that wound continues expanding, it could destabilize more than Arcadia City. A fissure this large may eventually affect the surrounding region, perhaps even Avalon.

Trace finally let go of Ashlyn’s hand, though he did so slowly, as if he regretted losing the anchor even for a moment. He stared into the ancient hills beyond the fracture.

Trace Mercer: Whatever caused this is on the other side.

Ashlyn nodded, her eyes still on him more than the fissure.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Then we go through, find the cause, and stop it before this thing grows enough to swallow Arcadia.

Miles gave a strained smile.

Miles Rowan: Yes. Let's do that. Jump into a historical disaster. That's the Great War, mind you! The thing we're still dealing with today!, all because of this Grail!

Roland Vander: You brought it with you?

Miles Rowan: I could not help it! It's muscle memory!

Lena looked toward Trace.

Lena Solis: Are you sure you’re ready for this?

Trace’s answer came after a long breath.

Trace Mercer: No. But I know that place.

Roland looked at him.

Roland Vander: Then you lead us.

Trace’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. The five Kishirangers stood together beneath the storm, modern warriors staring into the age that had forged the first shape of their legacy. Then Trace took one step forward and jumped into the fissure. Ashlyn followed immediately, then Roland, Miles, and Lena, each disappearing into the purple-blue crack as the time wound pulsed brighter over Arcadia City.

The passage through the fissure was nothing like ordinary travel. It was pressure and memory, like being dragged beneath the surface of a river. Then they fell onto a hillside outside Avalon.

They landed in tall wet grass under a gray morning sky, far enough from the main road that no soldiers immediately spotted them. The air was cold and clean in a way the present never felt, carrying the scent of rain, horse leather, woodsmoke, damp earth, and distant iron. The hills rolled down toward a fortified city in the valley below, where enormous stone walls wrapped around towers and banners that snapped in the wind. Beyond those walls, fields stretched toward the dark line of a distant battlefield where smoke climbed into the sky in thick black columns.

Trace stood slowly, mud clinging to his boots. His expression changed with every second he looked across the land. The hard edge of the modern world fell from his face, and for once he did not look like a displaced relic trying to understand a future that kept asking him to adapt. He looked like a man who had found his way back to the language of his own soul.

Ashlyn stood beside him and watched that realization settle over him.

Ashlyn Westbrook: This is really it.

Trace nodded.

Trace Mercer: Avalon. My Avalon.

Lena stared toward the city, her eyes wide.

Lena Solis: The Ehrvolt energy here is unreal. It’s everywhere. The ground feels alive.

Miles looked down at his own clothes, then at the distant road where several riders passed in chainmail and cloaks.

Miles Rowan: Not to ruin the majesty of the moment, but we are dressed like we are not dressed for this. We're really standing out.

Roland glanced at his own modern suit, which had survived the trip remarkably well and still looked absurdly pristine considering he had just fallen through time.

Roland Vander: He is correct. We need period appropriate clothing immediately if we intend to avoid unwanted attention.

Trace looked toward a cluster of abandoned supply shelters near the tree line.

Trace Mercer: Scouts used those during rain rotations. If this is where I think it is, there may be spare cloaks, tunics, and travel gear inside.

Miles gave him a look.

Miles Rowan: You remember all that stuff?

Trace started walking.

Trace Mercer: I was responsible for keeping people alive. I remember.

The shelters were exactly where Trace remembered, built from rough timber sealed against the weather. Inside, they found old but usable clothing, woolen tunics, leather belts, cloaks, boots, spare trousers, travel wraps, and simple armor pieces meant for messengers and lesser retainers rather than knights. Trace immediately took charge, sorting through the supplies with a familiarity that made the others realize just how much of his life had been spent in conditions like this. He gave Roland a blue-gray cloak and a plain leather jerkin to dull the obvious richness of his presence.

Trace was adjusting his belt when he heard a frustrated sound from behind a hanging canvas divider.

Ashlyn Westbrook: How do I put this thing on?

Trace turned without thinking.

Trace Mercer: The inner lace goes beneath the side—

He stopped dead.



Ashlyn stood behind the half-open divider in the middle of changing, her modern outfit folded beside her and the borrowed clothes not yet pulled into place. His eyes widened, his face went red, and he stepped backward directly into a bucket.

The bucket rolled.

Trace’s foot went with it.

He fell backward into a stack of wooden shields with a crash loud enough to startle birds from the trees outside.

Ashlyn yanked the canvas shut.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Trace! Trace? Trace, are you alright?!

Trace lay buried under three shields, one cloak, and his own humiliation.

Trace Mercer: I saw nothing!

Miles Rowan: You absolutely saw something because you fell like you got smote.

Lena covered her mouth with both hands, failing miserably not to laugh.

Lena Solis: Are you alive?

Trace stared upward at the shelter roof.

Trace Mercer: I really need to pay more attention. I'm a little...out of it.

Miles Rowan: Homecomings can be like that.

Roland, from the doorway, looked as though he was trying very hard to be dignified about the entire situation and losing by degrees.

Roland Vander: Perhaps everyone should face a wall until she's changed.

Ashlyn’s voice came through the divider, mortified and irritated in equal measure.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Sorry everyone, I'm working on it!

Trace slowly sat up, one shield sliding off his chest.

Trace Mercer: I am going outside.

Miles grinned.



By the time they finished changing, they looked convincing enough to pass at a distance. Trace wore red-brown traveling armor with a weathered cloak. This wasn't a disguise to him. They descended toward the city carefully, avoiding the main road when possible. As they walked, Trace’s expression grew more serious. The closer they came to Avalon’s walls, the more frequently they saw signs of war. Refugees moved in groups beneath guard. Wounded soldiers were carried toward the inner gates. Messengers rode hard along the roads, while priests, healers, and supply workers moved between camps with practiced urgency. This was not the polished legend of the Great War that had been written about in books. It was the living disaster that legend had grown around.

Ashlyn walked close to Trace.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Your younger self is somewhere here, isn’t he?

Trace nodded without looking at her.

Trace Mercer: If this is time I think it is, yes. He would be alone. The rest of the team had been betrayed and slain. He would be working to hold the alliance together before the final battle.

Ashlyn Westbrook: That must feel strange.

Trace’s mouth twitched faintly.

Trace Mercer: Most things lately have been quite strange. This certainly ranks highly.

Ashlyn laughed despite the tension.

Lena, walking behind them, suddenly slowed.

Lena Solis: Wait. If young Trace is here, then Jeanne Ark is here too.

Ashlyn stopped walking for half a breath.

The name hit her like a bell.

Trace glanced at her, concern softening his face.

Trace Mercer: She may be.

Ashlyn looked toward Avalon’s gates.

Jeanne Ark. The ancestor she had only recently learned belonged to her bloodline. The woman whose legend stood behind so much of what Ashlyn was becoming without her ever knowing it. The possibility that she might be walking somewhere beyond those walls, breathing the same air and carrying the same war, made Ashlyn’s chest tighten with something she could not easily name.

Ashlyn Westbrook: I don’t know if I want to see her or if I’m terrified of seeing her.

Trace’s voice was gentle.

Trace Mercer: That's understandable.

They entered Avalon City near midday, blending into a stream of travelers, soldiers, merchants, refugees, and camp workers moving through the western gate. The city was vast and alive, less polished than modern Avalon but richer in texture and noise. Smiths hammered armor in open workshops. Children carried water between stone houses. Market stalls sold bread, dried fish, wax tablets, knife belts, charms, and small carved symbols meant to ward off Worzol corruption. Above it all rose the royal citadel, golden banners snapping from its towers beneath the watch of a clouded sky.

The crowd drew them toward a broad square before the citadel steps, where hundreds of people had gathered to hear the conclusion of a royal address. At the top of the steps stood King Aurelius Arcturus, even more resolute than the heroic statues in modern Avalon made him look, and no less commanding. He wore a heavy crown, a dark blue cloak lined in gold, and armor that had clearly seen battle rather than ceremony. His face was marked by exhaustion, but his voice carried across the square with a strength that made even the restless crowd quiet.

Behind him stood two figures.

Trace Mercer.

Young, resolute, and unmistakable in his Kishi Red armor.

And beside him, Jeanne Ark.



Ashlyn stopped so abruptly that Lena nearly bumped into her. The sight of Jeanne at Young Trace’s side did something to her. Jeanne looked neither distant nor unreachable now. She looked human. Strong, yes. Radiant in presence, yes. But human, with worry in her eyes as she watched the crowd with the full knowledge that inspiration came with the burden of being believed.

King Aurelius lifted one hand, bringing the crowd to silence.

King Aurelius Arcturus: We have lost villages, fields, and good souls to the armies of Vantrex. We have buried sons and daughters beneath banners that should have flown over weddings, harvests, and homecomings. I will not stand before you and pretend the road ahead is gentle, because every person in this square has earned the truth. The Worzol Dimension marches against our world with hunger in its heart, and if we stand divided, it will devour us one death at a time.

The square remained silent.

King Aurelius Arcturus: Yet look around you. Avalon does not stand alone. Magnus has sent its best. The Zauberer have joined us. The Church has brought faith into the mud and blood where faith is needed most. We do not gather because we are the same. We gather because the darkness believes our differences will make us weak, and by God, by crown, by spell, by steel, and by every promise ever made to the children who will inherit this world, we shall prove it wrong!

The crowd erupted.

Ashlyn barely heard the cheers.

She was watching Young Trace.

He smiled at something King Aurelius said quietly after the speech ended, and the expression was so familiar and so different at once that it made her ache. The man beside her, the Trace she knew, watched the same moment with a complicated softness. He did not look jealous of his younger self. He did not look afraid. He looked as though he were standing outside a memory and finally seeing why someone else might have believed in him.

Ashlyn glanced at him.

Ashlyn Westbrook: You were good at this.

Trace kept his eyes on the steps.

Trace Mercer: I just stood there. I was just a rallying point.

Ashlyn Westbrook: No. You were more than that.

He did not answer, but she saw the words reach him.

Miles, who had been scanning the crowd with the instincts of a former thief, suddenly tilted his head.

Miles Rowan: I hate to interrupt the historical feelings, but I hear a fight.

Lena frowned.

Lena Solis: Where?

Miles pointed toward a side street leading away from the square.

Miles Rowan: That way. Shouting and running.

They pushed through the crowd and followed the noise into a narrower street where several soldiers had cornered two very out of place men near an overturned produce cart. Cole Beckett stood with his hands raised. Ty Mercado stood beside him, holding a turnip defensively.

Ty Mercado: I am warning you, I'm deadly with a vegetable.

An Avalon soldier leveled his spear.

Avalon Soldier: Sorcerers from the Worzol ranks!

Cole’s eyes flicked toward the Chrono Engine around his waist, then toward the soldiers. He clearly did not want to transform. Trace understood immediately. The clothes, the confusion, the restraint, the way Cole kept trying not to hurt anyone. Future. They had to be from the future.

Trace stepped forward before the others could stop him, lowering his hood and deepening his voice just enough to disguise himself from anyone who might have heard Young Trace speak at the square.

Trace Mercer: Hold your steel. I’ll test them.

The soldiers looked him over. In this era, confidence carried weight, and Trace wore the posture of a battlefield commander whether he meant to or not.

Avalon Soldier: Who are you?

Trace did not hesitate.

Trace Mercer: A soldier who knows evil when he sees it, and these two are too confused to be spies.

Cole looked at him sharply.

Trace quickly lunged.

Cole reacted instantly, dodging the first swing and blocking the second with his hands. Their movements looked violent to the soldiers, but Trace spoke as they grappled against a wall.



Trace Mercer: Future?

Cole’s eyes narrowed.

Cole Beckett: Yes. You?

Trace Mercer: Same. Sort of. Keep up.

Cole Beckett: I was about to say that to you.

Trace almost smiled.

Then the duel became spectacular.

Trace forced Cole backward into the street, and Cole responded with a burst of speedy footwork that made him seem to appear half a step ahead of himself. Trace adapted immediately, making each strike wide enough to look painful but controlled enough to avoid forcing Cole into a real defense. Ty dove out of the way as they crashed past him, still clutching the turnip.

Ty Mercado: I don't even like turnips!

Miles appeared beside him.

Miles Rowan: Here, let me help you up.

Ty looked at him.

Miles looked at Ty.

Something immediate and terrible passed between them.

Ty Mercado: Thanks. Finally a friendly face from the past.

Miles Rowan: I get the feeling we're from the same place. Love the tropical shirt by the way.

Ty Mercado: We’re going to get along.

Miles Rowan: Obviously.

Meanwhile, Trace and Cole leapt over the overturned cart, exchanged three fast blows, and landed in the center of the street. Trace let Cole drive him back just enough to impress the watching soldiers, then twisted, locked Cole’s arm, and slammed him harmlessly against a wooden post in a move that looked like a decisive victory.

Cole gave a dramatic grunt.

Cole Beckett: That was rude.

Trace Mercer: Sell it better.

Cole let his knees bend slightly.

Cole Beckett: Agony. Betrayal. My pride is in ruins.

Trace turned toward the gathered soldiers.

Trace Mercer: Enough. These men are not Worzol spies. They are strange, yes, but courage often comes in unfamiliar forms. This one fights with restraint when he could have maimed you, and that one defended himself with a turnip rather than a blade, which is either mercy or madness.

The soldiers murmured.

Ty raised the turnip slightly.

Ty Mercado: It can be both.

Trace ignored him with heroic effort.

Trace Mercer: They are warriors from a far-off land, drawn here by the same darkness we all seek to crush. If they have come to help us break Vantrex, then I say we welcome every blade, fist, and questionable vegetable willing to stand against him.

That landed exactly as Trace intended. Soldiers cheered. Someone clapped Cole on the back. Someone else raised Ty’s hand, turnip and all. Ty looked deeply confused.

Trace turned toward Ashlyn across the street, clearly meaning to signal that the deception had worked.

Then he froze.

Jeanne Ark stood beside Ashlyn.

Close enough to touch.

Trace’s eyes widened in absolute panic.

For one instant, Ashlyn saw the ancient warrior who had faced monsters, curses, and armies become a man terrified, and it befuddled her.

He turned and walked away very quickly.

Almost ran.

Ashlyn stared after him.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Trace?

Jeanne turned toward her, eyes narrowing slightly.

Jeanne Ark: Forgive me. Did you see where that soldier went? I thought I heard a familiar voice.

Ashlyn’s entire body went stiff.

Lena stepped in immediately, smiling with desperate brightness.

Lena Solis: He went that way.

She pointed confidently in the opposite direction.

Jeanne looked that way, then back at Lena.

Jeanne Ark: My thanks.

Ashlyn could barely breathe.

Jeanne’s gaze lingered on her for one moment longer than expected. A flicker of curiosity, on her face, before she walked away.

Ashlyn exhaled hard.

Ashlyn Westbrook: I almost died.

Lena nodded solemnly.

Lena Solis: Historically, emotionally, and possibly genealogically.

They regrouped at a crowded inn near the edge of the market district, choosing a back room where the noise of soldiers, travelers, and merchants would cover their conversation. The inn smelled of stew, wet wool, woodsmoke, and spilled ale. Trace returned through the rear entrance. Ashlyn gave him a look that promised questions later. He avoided it with skill.

Cole and Ty were now in proper attire for the time period and sat across from the Kishirangers at a rough wooden table. Ty had already acquired bread, stew, and a suspicious cup of something that Miles told him not to drink unless he wanted to see God sooner than later.

Cole studied the group carefully.

Cole Beckett: So you’re from the future too.

Trace nodded.

Trace Mercer: Like I said, sort of. They are definitely from your time, while I took the long way around to get back to the time I'm originally from.

Cole’s gaze flicked over him.

Cole Beckett: You’re Trace Mercer.

Trace hesitated.

Trace Mercer: Yes.

Cole looked toward the street, where the younger Trace’s banners still flew in the distance.

Cole Beckett: Yeah not the right one for this time though.

Miles Rowan: Great observation.

Ty leaned toward Miles.

Ty Mercado: Is this normal for you guys?

Miles considered that.

Miles Rowan: Lots of things have become normal, but not time travel. This one is new.

Ty Mercado: That's great, hermano. Glad I'm not the only one panicking.

Roland sat upright, hands folded.

Roland Vander: We came through a fissure in Arcadia City. It appears to have been opened deliberately, and unless we find the source, it may expand enough to destroy the city.

Cole’s expression hardened.

Cole Beckett: I saw a symbol while inside the fissure before it fully pulled us in. I believe I recognized it. Axis Nova.

Lena frowned.

Lena Solis: Those guys? That strange company that tried to do business with Worzol?

Cole leaned forward.

Cole Beckett: Axis Nova is an organization from further ahead in the timeline. They want control over all time and space. They rewrite causality until history itself serves them. Kamen Rider Tempo and I defeated the Maestro of Axis Nova and wiped out the timeline he was trying to force into existence. At least, that’s what I thought happened.

Ashlyn’s eyes narrowed.

Ashlyn Westbrook: But someone escaped?

Cole nodded.

Cole Beckett: Praetor Null. I don’t know his name because I met him. I know it because the fissure showed me fragments, and to make a long story short, I once almost became time itself, so some things are still rattling in my head. He survived the collapse of an erased timeline and dragged himself backward through broken history. If he’s here, then he’s trying to make sure the future that defeated him never happens.

Miles Rowan: Did you just say you almost became time itself?

Trace looked down at the table, jaw tightening.

Trace Mercer: He's going to change history by helping Vantrex win the Great War.

The room went quiet.

Even Ty stopped eating.

Cole looked at Trace.

Cole Beckett: If Vantrex wins, what happens?

Trace’s answer came quietly.

Trace Mercer: The world ends, swallowed by the Worzol Dimension.

Miles Rowan: I did hear right that he almost became time? Right? Anyone?

Later that night, the seven of them moved through the woods east of Avalon under cover of darkness. Lena could feel the energy leading them, while Cole used his Chrono Engine to try and assist in tracing a path to a person who should not be in this time. All of them were giving off a signature, and this one was a major difference. Cole called it a paradox. Trace led them along old scout paths he remembered from campaigns long past, avoiding patrols with unsettling ease. For all his confusion in the modern world, here he moved with calm familiarity. Ashlyn watched him become more himself with every mile and felt both happy for him and afraid of what that meant.

The trail led them to a hidden encampment beyond a ridge where Dreadlings and human collaborators gathered beneath black banners marked with Worzol symbols. The human traitors wore scavenged armor and painted their faces with green ash, while Dreadlings crouched around fire pits, snarling and scraping claws against stone. At the center of the camp stood Praetor Null.

His armor was not medieval, not Worzol, and not modern. It was angular and black, marked by pale lines that glowed like cracks in dead starlight. The Axis Nova symbol burned across his chest, and around him time behaved incorrectly. Sparks froze midair. Flames reversed into wood and then burned forward again. Shadows arrived before bodies moved. His helmet was shaped like a broken crown, and behind him floated fragments of circular machinery like pieces of a clock that had forgotten what time meant.

He addressed the camp with a voice that omit before he spoke.



Praetor Null: I have seen the future you were denied. I have seen worlds chained to order, empires perfected by Axis Nova, and time itself made obedient beneath the will of those strong enough to command it. Then I saw that future murdered by rebels, Riders, and the diseased chaos they call freedom.

Cole’s fists tightened.

Praetor Null raised one hand.

Praetor Null: I survived the erasure. I crawled through the collapse of my own history and found the first wound. Here. This war. This fragile alliance. This age of heroes that becomes the root of every rebellion yet to come. Vantrex shall have his victory, Axis Nova shall have its correction, and together we will build a paradise of chaos!/b]

Trace’s eyes narrowed.

[b]Trace Mercer: He caused the fissure.

Cole nodded grimly.

Cole Beckett: Not just one. He probably ripped through multiple time periods to get here.

Roland looked toward the camp.

Roland Vander: Then we definitely have to stop him to erase those fissures.

Miles Rowan: So we hit him now.

Ty looked from Miles to the heavily guarded camp.

Ty Mercado: Just so I understand, the plan is seven people attacking that monster army and that big dude in the middle?

Trace drew Oathrender.

Trace Mercer: Yes.

Ty nodded slowly.

Ty Mercado: Clear. I Hate it, but clear.

Cole Beckett: It's going to be six. You stand back, Ty. We don't have Clockwork Runner with us.

Ty Mercado: I can't let you do this alone!

Ashlyn Westbrook: He's not alone.

The Kishirangers stepped forward together. Their Oathlinks ignited in muted light.

Trace Mercer: Oath forged.

Ray Matthews: Knowledge guarded.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Courage sworn.

Miles Rowan: Wild heart awakened.

Lena Solis: Truth shone.

Together, they raised their arms.

All Five: Kishiranger, arise!

Colored light erupted across the ridge. Red, black, blue, green, and yellow armor formed beneath the medieval night. Cole gripped the Chrono Engine Driver as sparks burst across its face. For several seconds, the device resisted him, damaged by the time displacement and Praetor Null’s interference. Cole clenched his teeth, forcing his own temporal pressure into alignment.

Cole Beckett: Come on. You dragged me here. Now work.

The Driver clicked.

Steam burst from the side vents.

Golden clockwork light spun around his waist.

Cole’s eyes sharpened.

Cole Beckett: Calibrate. Lock. Ignite. RIDE THE PRESSURE! HENSHIN!

The Chrono Engine lit up.

The transformation was violent. Steam erupted around him in a circle, forming a glowing ring of light. Plates of bronze and black metal clamped onto his limbs like shackles, twisting into segmented armor. Gear teeth spun across his chest as the red gauge on his belt slammed into place.



Ty stared at them.

Ty Mercado: I am both inspired and wildly underdressed.

Then the heroes charged the camp.

The first impact scattered Dreadlings like leaves in a storm. Red Kishiranger cut through the front line with Oathrender. Black Kishiranger moved beside him with Gravebrand, the black blade carving through corrupted armor in arcs. Blue Kishiranger drove forward behind Shield Vanguard, protecting their flank as enemy arrows and Worzol blasts slammed uselessly against his barrier. Green Kishiranger moved through the chaos in flickers of afterimage, Gungnir striking from all angles. Yellow Kishiranger brought Aymr down with enough force to crack the earth, sending waves of Sanctum energy through the camp. Gauge fought differently from all of them, using timed bursts of acceleration, pressure vents, and counters to appear where enemies least expected him.

Praetor Null watched them approach without fear.

Praetor Null: Cursed Paradox, I see you followed me, and brought some friends.

When Trace and Cole reached him together, the villain finally moved.

His first strike hit both of them at once.

Trace blocked with Oathrender, Gauge crossed his arms defensively, and the force still drove them backward across the dirt. Praetor Null followed without seeming to hurry, his blade forming out of nowhere.

Praetor Null: Red Kishiranger. Kamen Rider Gauge. Two errors standing side by side.

Gauge lunged.

Praetor Null parried and fought him off with ease.

Cole Beckett: Careful, he's ready causality.

Trace Mercer: He's what?

Cole Beckett: He's got a feeling of what we're going to do before we do it. Trust me!

Trace attacked from the opposite side, but Praetor Null twisted through the strike and slammed a gauntlet into Trace’s chest hard enough to crack sparks from the armor. Ashlyn immediately intercepted the follow-up, Gravebrand colliding with Praetor Null’s blade in a burst of black and violet light.

Ashlyn Westbrook: Stay away from him.

Praetor Null tilted his head.

Praetor Null: Attachment. The driving force of history. It's a mistake.

Ashlyn Westbrook: It's my mistake to make.

Before the fight could press further, a grotesque Worzol lieutenant lumbered from the back of the camp. It was massive, hunched, and covered in layered bone growths, with four arms ending in jagged hooks and a mouth split too wide across its face. Green fire burned inside its ribcage. It roared and charged directly toward Lena and Roland, forcing the team to turn their attention as it began tearing through both heroes and its own allied humans without care.



Praetor Null looked toward the distant battlefield where Vantrex’s main army gathered.

Praetor Null: The final battle nears. I have no need to waste this night finishing you.

Gauge tried to pursue, but Praetor Null stepped backward into a fracture of violet darkness.

Cole Beckett: Null!

The villain’s voice lingered after his body vanished.

Praetor Null: On the battlefield, Rider. The future dies there.

The fracture closed.

The Worzol lieutenant attacked again, forcing the heroes into formation. Trace and Ashlyn exchanged one glance and moved together.

Trace Mercer: Final Vow!

Ashlyn Westbrook: Twin Judgment!

Their red and black energy spiraled together into a devastating blast that struck the lieutenant square in the chest. At the same moment, Gauge’s Driver vented steam and golden light wrapped around his leg as he launched himself upward.

Cole Beckett: Steam Spiral Kick!

Gauge came down through the center of the Twin Judgment blast, his kick drilling into the weakened monster with clockwork force. The Worzol lieutenant screamed as the combined attack tore through it, and the creature exploded in a wave of green fire that lit the encampment like dawn.

For a moment, the battlefield fell quiet.

Then hoofbeats thundered from the ridge.

A white horse emerged from the trees, carrying Jeanne Ark beneath a rain-dark cloak, her banner strapped across her back. She reined in hard at the sight of the five armored Kishirangers standing among the ruins of the Worzol camp.

Her face went pale.

Ashlyn froze.

Trace’s entire body went rigid.

Jeanne looked from Red to Black to Blue to Green to Yellow, disbelief and pain colliding in her eyes.

Jeanne Ark: The Kishirangers?

The words were barely above a whisper.

She dismounted slowly, staring at them as if ghosts had stepped out of fire.

Jeanne Ark: Trace, what is going on? The other four are dead. Slain by the traitor who shattered the oath.

She looked toward the black armor.

Her voice became cold.

Jeanne Ark: Mordred Vander.

Roland went still.

Miles looked sharply toward him.

Ashlyn turned.

Trace said nothing.

The rain fell harder around them as the name echoed through the broken camp, and somewhere in the distance, the armies of Vantrex began to march toward the final battle.

To Be Continued...