Chapter 1: The Last Roar

The last night of the Liberty era bled into the battered Oval Office.

A cold wind slithered through shattered windows, swirling the room with the distant boom of artillery and the acrid tang of gunpowder. Marcus Whitaker sat hunched at the old desk, visions of Maple Heights torn apart, cannons howling at Lake Poyang flashing behind his eyes. He could still taste the burnt coffee from war-room nights, hear the distant crackle of AM radios broadcasting surrender. The relentless dust storms of the western plains, rivers of blood streaking the Capitol Rotunda—every image pressed in, heavy as lead, leaving the air thick with the scent of scorched earth and loss. It was as if some part of him was still out there, boots caked in mud and ash.

These memories, soaked in blood, surged at him, searching for any weakness, daring him to fall. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest. His heart thudded, uneven and stubborn, as if refusing to admit it was time to quit. The burden of memory was a cruel companion.

The setting sun spilled red across the carpet, blood-bright and cold. Suddenly, Marcus Whitaker barked out a laugh—sharp, raw, startling the room. It rang out like a dare, as if the old man was challenging the sunset to take him. He laughed like a man who’d stared down death and demanded a rematch.

That laughter flashed like a blade, and in its gleam, the old lion at death’s door squared his shoulders, his breath rattling like a broken radiator. He let out a long, ragged breath: “I was just a nobody from Silver Hollow. But I cleaned house, rebuilt this country from the ground up, took out the crooks, bridged North and South. Under the Great Edict, folks could drag their own leaders into court. Even a thousand years from now, I’d do it all again—no regrets, no fear. If I had to do it ten thousand times, I would.”

For a heartbeat, his words hung in the air—defiant, proud, a challenge to the ghosts watching from the corners of the dimming room. His voice suddenly cut off. The room held its breath. The sun spilled across the carpet, red and cold. Inside and outside the doors, the kneeling staffers and cabinet members had already begun to weep. Some buried their faces in their hands, shoulders shaking, while others stared in stunned silence, unwilling to accept the finality.

Marcus Whitaker gritted his teeth, his mind blazing with a single thought: I’m not finished speaking—who dares let me die!

In that instant, it was as if he wrestled Death itself, snatching back a moment of life by sheer willpower. With a hoarse, broken roar, he shouted three words:

“Don’t you quit! Don’t you ever quit!” he roared, voice scraping raw against the silence.