The battlefield was a charnel house, a smoking ruin where the earth bled ash and fairy core dust glittered like the last breaths of dying stars. Number Five stood at its heart, a grotesque mockery of life. His skull glead through shredded flesh, muscles writhing like worms as they knit back together, weaving over bare bone.
His organs, spilled and glistening, pulsed unnaturally, his limbs regrowing layer by grueso layer—at, sinew, skin, until his golden hair sprouted, a crown of defiance. His jaw, once hanging by threads, snapped into place, his blue eyes flaring with cold fury.
The wind howled around him, hissing through cracked earth and shattered bones. The scent of burnt skin, molten steel, and wet iron hung thick in the air, clinging to every breath like a curse.
He rose to full height—naked, steaming, inhuman. Blood and mana stread from his pores, misting around him in a sickening haze. His form shimred with residual power, as if the very explosion that should have annihilated him had baptized him instead.
He gazed at Seven and Ten, their half-dead bodies flung across the crater, burned and broken but still breathing, their second hearts beating faintly. "Losers," Five spat, his voice dripping with disdain, a blade slicing through the silence.
He stalked toward them slowly, his bare feet crunching through broken glass and ash, a result of the explosion, his shadow long and flickering in the molten light.
"Haaa... even their fucking healing is slow," he muttered, cracking his neck. His tone had shifted, from disgust to tired amusent, as if nothing here had been worth the cost of survival. "Why does Doctor Vale even care about them? Not to ntion the Empress."
His fingers flexed, flesh shifting into elongated blades, slick with mana. Without ceremony, his hand plunged into his own chest, pushing past one pulsing heart, then another. He reached the third—hidden deeper, darker—a secret only the highest of Empire Pris carried. It pulsed with purple fairy dust, blood mixed with liquid starlight.
He sliced it.
The dust spilled over his hand, a shimring blend of red and violet, staining his chest. The mont it touched his skin, the wound sealed. Energy surged through his body with a tallic taste, like biting a battery.
Pierce.
His hands, now blades of flesh and will, drove into Seven and Ten. Their bodies arched, convulsed. Mana surged violently. Their eyes flew open.
"Your job isn’t finished yet," Five growled.
.
.
.
"You’re not built for this," Atlas said quietly.
"Then I’ll rebuild," she whispered. Her voice was softer now. Not defiant, just... tired. "I won’t be a fucking chain around your neck like that...."
He looked at her—really looked. Past the blood, past the pride. She wasn’t trying to prove anything to him. She was trying to keep pace with him. Even if it killed her. Her fierce eyes, reminding of a certain soone from the dark continent.
The crater behind them still smoked. Rising to the sky, like a giant Mushroom.
Atlas let out a bitter laugh, low and hoarse. "...We’re a ss."
Claire closed her eyes, head against his shoulder. "...Always have been."
The healer’s staff pulsed again. "She needs rest. If the bleeding resus, she’ll die."
Claire smiled through cracked lips. "What a boring threat."
Atlas staggered to his feet. His bones creaked. His vision pulsed red. [Healing mitigated... process... healing continued... 0.9%]
Every step was a negotiation between his virus and the Yggdrasil seed inside him. His muscles scread, his nerves were static. He slled iron in the back of his throat—his own blood.
But his will didn’t waver. Truth Eyes flared.
He stared across the wasteland. The mushroom cloud still hung like a judgnt. Half the Empire’s fleet was gone, ripped to shreds before his eting with the pris.
And he rembered the engine—the raw core of it—visible for only a second before the light swallowed everything. Atlas had morized its blueprint in a single glance. System engineering was once his domain, before politics stripped him of his license.
"We have the data," Atlas rasped, his voice raw, a sar of blood sliding down his chin. "Half their fleet’s destroyed. That’s enough for now. We head back."
Claire stumbled forward, still trembling from the aftershocks of her spell. Her hair clung to her face, soaked in sweat and soot. Her dress was half burned off, but her eyes—those erald eyes—blazed with undying spite.
"What, you think that rough sketch you scribbled of their engine’s enough?" she snapped, barely able to stand.
Atlas grinned. It was bloody. Crooked. Dangerous.
"I’m no expert in chanics," he said, eyes glittering, "but I held a degree in system engineering... till I got canned for dreaming too big."
Claire blinked. "cha... systam... enginaring? What the actual fuck are you talking about? You crazy or just mad?"
The healer flinched. Her yellow eyes suddenly shifted green, a flicker of alarm sparking in her face. She turned her head sharply toward the crater.
"Th....They’re still alive," she whispered, voice heavy as stone.
Atlas and Claire froze.
"What?" Atlas growled, Truth Eyes snapping open wide.
Claire grabbed the healer’s shoulder, her hand bruising flesh. "They’re alive? Do you know how much I blew on that spell? Eighteen ...Eighteen fucking million gold!"
The healer’s hand trembled on her staff. "They know we’re here. They’re coming."
A mont of dead silence.
Atlas looked to Claire. "You used potions for that stunt... Got any left?"
She nodded, pulling three crimson vials from her cloak. Liquid ruby shimred inside.
"You’ve got enough mana," she said, suspicion growing in her gaze. "What do you need these for?"
"Trying to be creative," Atlas muttered. Then, turning to the healer, his voice sharpened. "How long can you keep healing soone?"
The healer hesitated.
"With that mana... six minutes. At best."
"Done," Atlas said. He took the vial. His hand trembled, but his grip was iron.
Claire’s eyes narrowed. "Wait, Atlas, what the fuck are you planning? I know that look. That’s your ’break everything or die’ look."
He laughed, deep and broken. "Better than your suicide nuke, princess."
He drank the vial.
It was fire in his throat, raw magma in his veins. But he had drank, no, he had ate worse. His heart and organs easily digesting the potion. Mana blood through him, twisting, filling every damaged nerve with light and agony. Yggdrasil flared, barely holding.
[Healing litigated... process... continued... 1.2%...2%]
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