The halo pressed into Atlas's skull like a burning hand.
The world vanished in a slab of white. Light. Pressure.
Heat sharp enough to carve bone.
And then—
A scream.
Not from the arena.
Not from any Elder.
From inside him.
{{{{ STOP. STOP. STOP. }}}}
The Guide's voice tore through Atlas's mind—raw, primal, furious in a way he had never heard.
{{{{ THEY CANNOT NAME ME.
THEY CANNOT NAME US. }}}}
Atlas staggered, knees buckling as the halo completed its descent.
He tasted metal—like blood turning to lightning.
The air shook.
The arena, moments ago a roar of worship, fell into stunned silence.
The Elders froze—every hooded head snapping toward Atlas.
Something was wrong.
The halo, instead of settling, began to spin.
Slowly at first.
Then faster.
Then violently, the light distorting into a burning ring.
Cracks spidered through the air itself.
The crowd gasped.
Some demons collapsed as if struck by invisible hammers.
Fallen warriors clutched their temples.
