Unbeknownst to Atlas, his daily routine was about to change drastically. Bishop Corvane fetched him from his cell as usual, but this time they did not head to the torture chamber.
The steps felt longer, the air different. For the first time in weeks, Atlas left the suffocating dungeon. Though still within the same building, it became clear to him what he had long suspected—it was a temple. The halls were lined with statues of women, each resembling the Goddess of Fate in figure, but never in face.
So… they don't even know what their Goddess looks like, Atlas thought bitterly. Pathetic.
Finally, they arrived at a room unlike any he had ever seen. Luxurious, almost reverent, like a shrine meant only for the most sacred of displays. Marble floors glimmered in the candlelight, and towering shelves held relics that radiated power.
A platinum goblet studded with jewels. A silver sword that exuded the same divine aura Atlas had seen from the Goddess herself after his death. Countless treasures lined the room, each humming with ancient mystery.
But what caught Atlas's eye was at the center: a massive transparent tube, connected to a strange, rune-etched machine.
Standing beside it was Selphira. She was grinning, and for the first time Atlas noticed her beauty—not with admiration, but with cold awareness. Perhaps it was because of the vision he had for her… a puppet, his perfect plaything.
Selphira barely glanced at him. She carried on a casual conversation with Corvane, unbothered by Atlas's presence, as if he were little more than a captured animal.
The Bishop gave his report on the past month, noting that the results had aligned with their expectations. "The subject is ready," he said finally.
Ready? Atlas's brow furrowed. Ready for what? He would never get the chance to know.
Selphira snapped her fingers. Atlas's body collapsed instantly, his consciousness smothered like a candle flame. Another snap followed, and the filthy rags he wore turned to ash. In their place manifested rich garments of medieval luxury—robes laced with gold thread, cloth so fine it almost seemed alive.
Corvane stepped forward, raising a hand. With telekinetic grace, he opened the lid of the transparent tube. Atlas's limp body floated into the air and was gently lowered inside.
The Bishop whispered an incantation. The machine whirred to life. Runes blazed. The lid sealed shut.
Water flooded the tube, wrapping Atlas in its cold embrace. Then, like fangs, thin metal pipes slid forward from the walls and pierced his back. Needles sank deep, and the extraction began. His blood was siphoned from his veins, drawn into the hungry machine beside the chamber, flowing like liquid fire through glowing channels.
The tubes pulsed with steady rhythm, dragging Atlas's blood into the machine beside the chamber. From there, it was siphoned into crystal vessels etched with the crest of the Goddess of Fate.
Attendants carried the containers out in procession, their steps measured, reverent. The destination was always the same: the grand worship hall, where nobles, priests, and common pilgrims gathered beneath the towering likeness of their Goddess.
There, Atlas's blood was distributed as though it were divine wine. Devotees drank it with trembling hands, tears streaking their cheeks. The crippled walked, the sick found health, the weary felt vigor return to their bodies. To them, it was nothing short of a miracle — the Goddess herself answering their prayers.
Selphira's decree was absolute: He is never to awaken again.
And so Atlas did not feel the praise. He did not sense the adoration. His mind was bound in an endless, enforced slumber, cut off from sight, sound, and pain. The boy who once screamed against his chains, who once cursed his tormentors, no longer existed in the waking world. Only the vessel remained.
But his blood lived.
Within every drop drawn from him, something stirred. Not awareness, not will — but a residue. A trace of Atlas's hatred, burned so deep into his being that even unconsciousness could not erase it. His blood carried with it a quiet resolve, a venom disguised as divinity.
And so, though the miracles spread, so too did something else.
It worked slowly, imperceptibly. A whisper at the edge of thought. A faint twisting of dreams. A seed of doubt, of corruption, planted in every soul who drank from him.
Without Atlas's guidance it was sluggish, dormant for years if it had to be. But time was abundant. The blood would wait.
The temple rejoiced, never realizing the truth. In chaining Atlas, they had created not a blessing, but a poison. One that seeped into their flock, drop by drop, cup by cup, until one day the devotion they praised would rot from within.
Months passed.
At first, Atlas's chamber was nothing more than a sterile vault for blood extraction, a place of utility. But soon, the devotees began whispering. The miracles were too great, too consistent. Each vial of his blood worked where prayer alone failed.
So, his chamber was decorated. Incense braziers were brought in, golden drapes hung across the walls, and marble floors replaced the rough stone. Where once he had been hidden like livestock, now he was displayed like treasure.
Atlas did not know. His eyes remained closed, his body floating in that silent tube of water.
Half a year later.
The temple closed its doors for a full month. Nobles wept. Pilgrims clawed at the gates. Ordinary townsfolk became restless, their bodies craving the crimson elixir that had mended them, strengthened them.
When the doors opened again, it was with grand fanfare. The temple had expanded —an entire wing had been built.
This new wing was Atlas's sanctum.
What was once a hidden chamber had been transformed into a lavish hall, gilded with silver and adorned with statues. At its center stood the transparent vessel, lit from beneath so that his slumbering figure glowed faintly, almost angelic.
The faithful called it the chamber of the divine being.
Soon after.
The blood was no longer only distributed in vials. Pilgrims could now stand before the vessel and watch as attendants filled cups directly from the pipes connected to Atlas. The experience itself became ritual: to kneel before the sleeping "god," to drink from him under the watch of the temple priests.
Whispers spread.
"Such a kind being."
"He sleeps so that we may live."
"A child of the Goddess herself."
The priests did not deny it. In fact, they encouraged it.
A year passed.
Devotion took shape. Murmurs turned to prayers. Inscriptions appeared on walls, small carvings left by trembling hands. Atlas was still nameless, but already he had become something more.
The Goddess of Fate remained supreme, untouchable, but Atlas was regarded as her son —the son of a Goddess sent to dwell among mortals. To many, he was not a man but a minor god in his own right: the god of blood, of healing, of miracles.
Some knelt before the vessel longer than they did before the Goddess's altar. Some prayed to him in secret, asking for what they dared not beg of the Goddess.
The irony was cruel: chained, unconscious, and stripped of will, yet Atlas was worshiped by the very people who chained him.
And through it all, the corruption seeded in his blood crept onward, slow and patient.