The Palace – Night
Kury lay defeated on the cold marble floor, her body broken but not yet beaten. The Warrior of Berkimhum, the fire that once burned brighter than any flame in the kingdom, now crawled pathetically toward Lara's feet. Her hand reached out, trembling with desperation, and clutched tightly at Lara's ankle.
"…Let her go, you twat," Kury whispered hoarsely, her voice barely audible over the echo of their collective breaths. She tried to summon mana into her palm, to ignite one last spark of defiance, but it fizzled instantly—extinguished by some unseen force canceling out her mana nerves.
Lara watched her with detached amusement, as if studying an insect struggling beneath her boot. Without hesitation, she kicked Kury hard in the chest, sending her sprawling across the room like a ragdoll. The warrior slammed against the wall, bones cracking audibly under the impact.
"I always hated that whore," Lara spat venomously, pacing slowly toward Sansa, who knelt gasping for air nearby. "Forcing her hands on Atlas. Calling it 'training.'" Her tone dripped disdain, each word sharpened to cut deeper than any blade.
Sansa flinched visibly, her throat still raw from where Lara's fingers had nearly crushed it moments earlier. But despite the pain, there was fire in her eyes—a defiant ember refusing to be snuffed out.
"…and you." Lara turned her attention fully to Sansa now, gripping her neck again with cruel precision. Inches away from snapping it entirely, she leaned closer, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "…you became brave enough to not just touch, but feel him all up and down, in and out…"
Sansa choked, clawing weakly at Lara's unyielding grip. Still, through gritted teeth, she managed to force out a single defiant statement:
"…aaaa…I…am…his…"
Something flickered in Lara's expression then—anger, jealousy, maybe even fear—but whatever it was, it vanished almost immediately. With a growl of frustration, she released Sansa abruptly, letting her crumple to the ground like discarded trash. Sansa coughed violently, dragging in lungfuls of precious air as though she'd been drowning.
"…you…" Lara muttered darkly, glaring daggers at Sansa. "Sadly…you're right. I don't want him getting upset at me. But mark my words—I'll figure out what you did. And when I do…" She paused, her gaze sweeping menacingly over both women before settling back on Sansa. "…I'll deal with everyone involved. Every. Single. One."
Her threat hung heavy in the air, sharp as shattered glass. Then, without another glance, she strode away, barking orders at her ever-loyal butler.
"Call General Denish. Hire every A-rank adventurer available. I want them all present within my quarters within an hour!"
No one questioned her. No one dared. Even with her mother absent and her father incapacitated, Lara commanded loyalty as naturally as breathing. She was the famed warrior princess of Berkimhum—the prodigy whose brilliance knew no bounds—and everyone fell into line behind her like moths drawn to a flame. Like it should. Like nature taking it's course.
The King's Balcony
From high above, the king watched silently as his daughter galvanized the palace into action. His face remained impassive, though his thoughts churned like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
'…the ring must have attracted one already.' He thought grimly, glancing down at the knife strapped to his side. It gleamed faintly in the moonlight, its edge razor-sharp and hungry for purpose.
"Atlas, I thank you for your sacrifice," he murmured softly, his voice tinged with regret. For a moment, he considered drawing the blade—not to harm himself, but to test its resolve. To see if it would fulfill its destiny tonight instead of tomorrow.
But before he could act, a shadow descended upon him. His draconic eagle landed gracefully on his shoulder, talons brushing lightly against his robes. In its beak, it carried a folded piece of paper.
"…it finally arrived," the king muttered, taking the note with trembling hands. His brow furrowed as he unfolded it, dread pooling in his stomach like cold water.
He unsheathed his blade fully now, holding it up to catch the light. Its reflection danced across his face, illuminating the grief etched deeply into his features.
"With this confirmation, my job as king will finally reach its end," he said aloud, though no one was there to hear him. At first, he assumed the message pertained to Atlas—his son, his so called heir—but as his eyes scanned the parchment, they widened in shock.
"For God's sake…" he whispered, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "…so they weren't just plebs from the empire…"
His hands trembled violently, clutching the paper so tightly it began to tear.
"Why? Why?? WHY was someone like 'her' wanted to go in the Dark Continent…?" His voice cracked under the weight of despair, rising sharply in pitch until it bordered on hysteria.
He paced back and forth along the balcony railing, his mind racing faster than his legs could carry him. Everything he'd planned—everything he'd sacrificed—was crumbling before his very eyes.
"…my plans ruined…fucking RUINED!" He slammed his fist against the railing, knuckles splitting open and bleeding freely. Yet he didn't seem to notice—or care.
"No…no, it needs to be ruined. Otherwise…"
Otherwise, war would come. Destruction unimaginable. Chaos unleashed upon the world.
He stopped abruptly, staring out at the distant horizon where Lara had disappeared moments ago on horseback. His expression softened slightly, though only because exhaustion outweighed anger.
"…Atlas, I hope you survive. No—I need you to survive. If you don't…" His voice trailed off, the implication hanging heavily between words. "…she won't."
And if 'she' didn't…
The empire wouldn't stay silent, and War would follow soon enough."
.
.
.
Near the Dark Continent
Drip.
Drip.
The captain felt it before she saw it—warm liquid falling onto her face in slow, deliberate drops. She blinked groggily, the world spinning as consciousness fought its way back into her battered mind. The shoulder carrying her jolted rhythmically with each step, fast and unrelenting like no human should move. Trees blurred past them, their shapes melting into streaks of shadow and moonlight—or what little moonlight could pierce through the suffocating darkness.
"…At... Atlas?" she croaked weakly, her voice cracking under the strain of exhaustion and fear. "Is that you…?"
Drip.
Another drop landed on her cheek, warm but foreign. Her eyes fluttered open fully this time, focusing on the crimson trail painting her skin. Blood. His blood. And then she saw it—the gruesome stump where his right hand used to be, wrapped hastily in a makeshift bandage soaked through with red.
"…your, your HAND!" she screamed, her voice breaking into a hoarse wail.
Atlas glanced behind him briefly, his golden "truth eyes" scanning the horizon for any sign of pursuit. For now, the red light that had haunted them was gone—a small mercy in an ocean of despair. His breathing came ragged, shallow, every breath costing him more than he cared to admit. He'd redistributed half of his remaining attribute points into agility just to keep moving, but even that wasn't enough to outrun his body's limits.
'We need a place to recover,' he thought grimly, his vision swimming dangerously close to blackness. 'My body can't handle much more with such blood loss…'
Thankfully, his truth eyes caught something ahead—a faint glimmer of green amidst the oppressive gloom. A cave. Small, hidden, but enough to offer some semblance of safety.
'God bless these eyes...' he mused bitterly, knowing full well how much he owed his survival to the cursed gift they represented.
Atlas lowered the captain gently to the ground, her weight nearly unbearable at this point. She wasted no time, tearing strips from her tunic to fashion a tighter bandage around his severed arm. Her fingers trembled visibly as she worked, guilt etched deeply into her features. Her pretty face told the story better than words ever could.
"…it's not much worse like yo…" Atlas began, only to let out a guttural growl of pain as she tightened the bandage too aggressively.
"Oou! Ouuu!"
"I'm sorry…" she whispered, tears brimming in her wide, glassy eyes.
"…it's okay," he muttered between gritted teeth. "Just bandage more carefu—"
"No," she interrupted sharply, her voice trembling with emotion. "No, I'm sorry I ever asked or wished to ever be here…" Her hands paused mid-motion, clutching the bloody fabric as if it might anchor her to reality. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks now, unchecked and raw. "I know you must have questions… Why there was a fake prince? Why soldiers from the empire wanted to visit the Dark Continent…"
She hesitated, choking on her own words. "The truth is…"
But before she could continue, Atlas silenced her with a finger pressed firmly against her lips. His gaze darted toward the entrance of the cave, sharp and alert. Far off in the distance, a flicker of red light danced erratically among the trees, taunting them like a predator circling prey.
He held his breath, watching intently until the light finally faded away, swallowed by the night. Only then did he exhale slowly, relief washing over him in waves.
"Haaaaa…" he sighed, slumping slightly against the cold stone wall. "…I know you must have your own secrets. But this isn't the time for asking forgiveness or feeling guilty. This is time for survival. Fucking survival. You hear me?"
She nodded mutely, swiping furiously at her tears with the back of her hand. He was right. Absolutely so. There was nothing left to say—not about the past, not about the future. For them as of now. There was only now or never.
Survival or Death...