Atlas rose.
The fire guttered from his body like dying stars, not because it had conquered him, but because it had bent, knelt, and surrendered.
His system chimed in his mind, a series of cascading notifications that blazed across his inner vision like the tolling of celestial bells.
[Faith Points +987]
[Faith Points +465]
[Faith Points +41]
The numbers climbed with each heartbeat, the faith from the city of Babylon until here, a flood of belief pouring into him, the priests' awe feeding the system, their fear transmuted into power.
But Atlas did not care.
He didn't even look.
His golden eyes—no, burning suns—were fixed not on himself, not on his newfound glory, but on the image that had carved itself into his bones across endless cycles of torment: Aurora, burning, screaming, unraveling before his helpless gaze. Again and again and again.
