[Alan’s PoV]

  Alan coughed twice, clearing his throat as the vastness of the moment pressed down on him harder than any battlefield ever had.

  A camera drone hovered in front of him, its lens trained on his face with clinical precision. Beyond it, the stadium rose in layered rings, a colossal structure of steel, glass, and light built to hold more bodies than any single city should be able to gather in one place.

  It was full.

  Tens of thousands sat behind him in packed arcs of seats, their faces turned forward, their eyes reflecting the soft glow of holographic banners and broadcast overlays. Some wore uniforms. Others wore civilian attire.

  Beyond the stadium, billions more watched.

  Across colonies, across orbital habitats, across rebuilt cities and distant outposts that still carried scars of the Ork war and the Empire’s collapse. The broadcast feed stitched them all together. One voice, one stage, one moment shared across humanity’s spread-out heart.

  Alan kept his posture straight and began.

  “Today marks ten years since the founding of the Human United Nations.”

  His voice carried through the stadium’s amplification grid. The words sounded formal, almost ceremonial. Language built for history books and monuments. Still, Alan felt them catch slightly in his chest as he spoke.

  “It falls to me, current president and representative of the Republic of Enceladus, to stand before you all, to commemorate, and to give thanks for the sacrifices made.”

  He tried to keep his face calm, composed, unreadable.

  It was difficult.

  Because in the front row, directly in his line of sight, sat ghosts with living eyes.

  Men he had once fought against.

  Men who had once represented the Empire’s iron certainty.

  Now they sat as allies, at least in public, their presence a reminder that peace was not the same as forgiveness.

  Adrian Meridius and Scipio Sforza sat side by side, arms crossed, their posture rigid in the way old pride tended to remain even when history forced it into a new uniform. Time had softened them. Less sharp around the edges, less certain in the inevitability of their own power. Yet, their gaze hadn’t changed.

  They watched Alan with the same cold scrutiny they had once reserved for enemies.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  In private meetings, they were called: Widows of the Empire.

  Alan’s eyes flicked across that front row and returned to the drone’s lens.

  “In a single day,” Alan said, and his voice carried the measured cadence of a myth being carved into public memory, “a Red Ranger. An unnamed soldier. A Nameless. Faced two of humanity’s greatest enemies.”

  He paused just long enough for the words to settle into the stadium, for the billions listening across colonies to lean closer to their screens and believe again.

  “An Ork Empress,” Alan continued, “and a Human Emperor. Two beings who sought to keep us locked in an eternal war.”

  His gaze stayed fixed forward, but he angled his hand slightly, and the broadcast overlay shifted.

  The cameras cut away from him, revealing the center of the Human United Nations headquarters. A wide plaza of white stone and clean water features, rebuilt where ruins had once stood. At its heart rose two statues.

  Mordred. And the Nameless.

  One was carved in dark metal, posture rigid and defiant, the silhouette unmistakable even in stillness. The other stood beside him with a Ranger’s stance. Weapon lowered, head lifted, the face intentionally left indistinct as if the sculptor had refused to imprison him in a single identity.

  Even as images, they carried weight.

  Alan let the feed linger on the statues for a heartbeat longer than protocol required.

  “Together with our first President,” Alan said softly, returning to the camera, “they laid their lives so that we could keep ours.”

  He forced his face to remain composed as the stadium’s light reflected in the hovering drone’s lens.

  “I wish you all a peaceful Liberation Day.”

  The transmission ended cleanly, the feed rolling into other celebrations. Music, memorial footage, children waving flags in rebuilt streets, ships tracing ceremonial arcs across blue skies.

  The stadium’s atmosphere shifted instantly. The crowd began to stand. Conversations rose like a tide, the sound of bodies moving and chairs folding echoing through the immense structure.

  Alan remained on the podium for a moment, watching as the front rows began to disperse.

  He saw names that had once been headlines, now merely people trying to walk through peace without limping too visibly.

  Nico Dardanus stood and waved from a distance, his wife at his side. Nico leaned on a thin cane, the kind that looked too delicate to support a man who had once carried an empire on his shoulders, but it steadied his steps all the same.

  Near him, familiar faces moved together.

  Isabela and Astrid were already arguing, as if peace had only made them more committed to their usual pattern. Their gestures were sharp, their voices animated; even from this distance, Alan could make out the rhythm of insults and the occasional friendly shove.

  Oliver stood behind them. He was holding Edward in one hand and Katherine in the other. Katherine carried Nina, the child pressed against her like something precious and fragile. Katherine’s posture was still disciplined, still York, yet softened by the way she looked down at the child.

  For a heartbeat, Alan’s gaze stayed on Oliver’s face.

  He had changed. His eyes.

  Eyes that had once belonged to a Red Ranger no one ever saw again.

  Since that day, the Red Ranger had vanished from history’s visible pages.

  The public had statues and stories.

  The survivors had silence and guesses.

  Oliver didn’t need to appear again.

  Not in armor. Not in legend.

  He had a different mission now. One that didn’t require a battlefield or an audience.

  I’ll Be The Red Ranger.