Atlas opened his eyes.
The sunlight bled through the slit in the thick velvet curtains, painting slow golden bars over his bare chest. His breath exhaled steadily, but his mind raced. For a mont, he didn’t move. Just laid there, staring at the ceiling, blinking slowly.
Then he looked to his side.
Empty.
The pillow still carried the warmth of her, slightly sunken where her head had rested. A strand of silver-white hair clung to the edge of the pillowcase, glinting faintly in the morning light like a thread of moonlight unwilling to let go.
He smiled.
But it wasn’t a bright smile. It was a quiet one. A crooked twist of the lips that carried too much knowing, too many weights hanging behind it. His body felt light, spent. His... nuts, well, very much empty. But his chest—his chest was full of sothing far more complicated.
He sat up slowly, wincing a little as the bruises along his ribcage ached in protest. A chuckle escaped him.
"Well... we’re both strong humans," he muttered aloud, surveying the wreckage of the room. The heavy oak table had splintered at the edge. One lamp was crushed into the floor like a mangled insect. The torn sofa leaned to one side like it had been punched by a god.
"Claire will surely ask questions..."
The words left his lips before he could second-guess them. And they hung in the air, heavier than he ant them to be.
He stood, walked barefoot across the marble floor, the cold biting into his toes. As he stepped into the bathroom, the scent hit him like a mory—her.
Faint jasmine oil, the sweat of passion, the iron-thread undertone of magic. It clung to the steam still thick in the air. Her nails had clawed lines across his shoulders. Her voice—her moan—echoed briefly in his mind, like a sacred confession whispered at the edge of ruin.
He stood under the running water, letting it crash down his back like a waterfall trying to erase evidence. But it couldn’t. It was etched now—in skin, in scent, in soul.
As he dried off, a glance at the wooden dresser brought his eyes to his dark clothes, folded and waiting. The familiar black-on-black of his disguise. His shirt, his armor. But his mind drifted elsewhere—back to the screen that had blinked in his vision yesterday.
The system. His silent companion. His jailer. His gift.
He reached inward, almost instinctively, willing the panel to appear.
It was still there.
[Updating... 38%]
A flicker of annoyance crossed his brow. "Still?"
He narrowed his eyes.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. The system was ant to guide him, impose rules. But lately, it had felt the opposite. As though it had begun bending around him. Not as a master, but as a witness.
There were no missions. No neatly packaged quests. Just... points. Points that gathered like dust whenever he pushed fate too far, whenever he interfered with the narrative. It was as if the system didn’t care what he did anymore—just that he did sothing irreversible.
He whispered, "...Now I’m getting curious about this thing."
Just as he turned away—
[New Notification Received]
He blinked.
[Pregnancy Detected]
Silence.
His heart slowed. He swallowed, blinked again. A thousand things ran through his mind, but he could only manage one dry whisper:
"Wait... what?"
He tapped the panel.
[Active Catalysts:
—Elizabeth
Compatibility: 68%
Status: Pregnant
(Override pregnancy for developnt of life seed)
—Isabella
Compatibility: 78%
Status: Life Seed Processing: 89% ]
He froze.
The word pregnant didn’t feel like a status update. It felt like a blade sliding between his ribs.
Elizabeth.
A long, slow breath left his lips. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the screen that now glowed like a divine sentence.
Pregnant.
He chuckled bitterly, rubbing his face with both hands. "It’s too early... right?" he muttered. "Or are my seeds just that potent now?"
But no—he wasn’t even fully human anymore. Not by a long shot. Even he didn’t understand what he was evolving into. Death had touched him. The system no longer dictated his path—it observed it. Whatever he was becoming, he doubted any manual existed to explain it.
Still, the weight of the truth sat heavy in his chest.
He loved Elizabeth. That much was clear.
But love was no longer enough.
Not when the kingdom and empire stood on opposing cliffs, staring down into the abyss of war. Not when Atlas—the man, the prince, the shadow—was supposed to vanish, while Aiden—the mask, the myth—remained.
"...I’ll talk to her. Eventually," he said softly. "I won’t run. Not from her. Not from this."
He clenched his fists lightly and stood. A beat passed. And for the first ti in longer than he could rember, he felt sothing warm settle in his chest.
The idea of being a father.
Not a title. Not a mission. A ’father’.
His own parents were ghosts. His "father," the King, hadn’t seen worth in him until Atlas had beco sothing useful. Sothing sharpened.
But he would be better. If he had a child... if she carried his child... he would protect it with everything he had. And love it more than he’d ever been loved.
He left the room, his mind whirring. His steps were steady, though. Controlled. His thoughts a storm, but his face calm.
In the corridor, he spotted a familiar figure.
She walked with a gentle sway, wrapped in cream-colored robes embroidered with golden threads. Her mana shimred subtly around her—a soft aura like morning mist.
The healer.
She had been critical during the war. Powerful, focused, consistent. Always there when he and Claire needed soone who could nd not only wounds, but morale.
He raised a hand, opening his mouth—then hesitated.
"...Wait," he thought, frowning faintly. "I never asked her na...?"
A sudden wave of guilt pinched him. He had depended on her, and never once had he—
She turned, catching his gaze. Her eyes were a deep moss green now, calm and unwavering.
"Oh. It’s the prince," she said, bowing slightly. "Good morning, Your Highness."
Her voice was soft, lodic, like spring water gliding over stones.
"...The pope told wonders about you."
He offered a nod. "Good morning to you too," he said. Then, a pause. "Sorry if this is rude, but... what was your na again?"
She smiled.
"No need for soone of your stature to rember it."
"No, no. I insist."
She tilted her head slightly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
"...It’s Qin."
The sound of the na struck him like a bell tolling through fog.
He blinked. A trickle of cold sweat slid down his spine.
"Sorry—what was it again?"
She chuckled, unbothered.
"Qin. Qin Don Vulcous."
He staggered back half a step. Not visibly, perhaps. But sothing in his spine flinched. Like a wire being plucked, deep in his mory.
He stared at her.
The air around her had shifted.
Still soft. Still calm. But... too perfect.
Like a painting hiding blood behind the brushstrokes.
He rembered that na.
Qin the Baptizer.
A title whispered in the blood-drenched Chapters of the ga’s final arc. The saintess who bathed in unholy scriptures, who united the demon races under one banner, who shattered the Holy Cathedral with her own hands.
She was a boss. A final boss like him. But now—now she stood here, blinking at him with eyes full of peace and light.
’It’s the beginning of the ga,’ Atlas thought. ’She’s still in her making...’
She hadn’t awakened yet. She hadn’t broken. Not yet.
But it was her.
The purity. The kindness. The healing magic that seed inexhaustible. All of it was the seed. The mask. The holy shell that one day would burn and leave behind sothing monstrous.
Qin tilted her head. "Is sothing wrong?"
Atlas smiled.
But it was cold.
"No. Just... you remind of soone," he said.
She smiled back, innocent. "I hope it’s soone kind."
He nodded slowly. "The kindest."
And deadliest.
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