The Command Center hadn’t been this quiet since Zordon’s death.

  Monitors hummed softly. Consoles glowed in muted blues and golds. The chamber still functioned—but something vital was missing, like a heart that no longer beat but refused to decay.

  Billy Cranston stood alone at the central console, fingers flying across holographic displays as streams of morphic data scrolled endlessly before him. His eyes were red—not from exhaustion alone, but from nights spent chasing answers Zordon could no longer provide.

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  Then the readings spiked.

  Billy froze.

  The energy signature was old. Older than the Power Coins the Rangers currently wielded. Older than Rita. Older even than Zedd’s corrupted morphic experiments.

  His breath caught.

  “White Tiger…” Billy whispered.

  Across the room, Aisha looked up from her station. “That’s not possible. I thought those designs were theoretical.”

  “So did I,” Billy said. “But this isn’t theory. This is active. Dormant, yes—but waking.”

  He pulled the data closer, enlarging the projection. The coordinates resolved slowly, obscured by interference and geomagnetic distortion.

  Earth.

  A remote jungle region, untouched by modern infrastructure.

  And Zedd was already searching.

  Billy didn’t hesitate.

  “Trini. Rocky,” he said, tapping his communicator. “Report to the Command Center immediately.”