The alarm rang before sunrise, but Atlas was already awake. He never needed the reminder.
Every morning began the same way — the slap of his palms against cold floorboards, the rhythm of his breathing cutting through silence. One hundred push-ups. Two hundred sit-ups. A five-kilometer run around the empty academy track.
His body had grown wiry, every muscle etched from years of this routine. Pale skin, white hair that shimmered faintly in the dawn light, and crimson lips that made him look almost ghostly. He wasn't built for power, but he moved with the precision of someone who refused to break.
Most students at the Arcane Academy woke up to meditate on their Sigils, drawing in essence from the air. Atlas woke up to fight his limits instead.
By the time the rest of the campus stirred, he had already cleaned up and was walking the long corridor toward class, his uniform collar still damp with sweat. Laughter echoed off the marble walls — bright, sharp, and familiar. He didn't need to look to know who it was about.
"Morning, ghost-boy."
"Still think working out's gonna make the essence love you?"
Atlas kept walking. He'd learned long ago that silence hurt them more than replies
Mr. Arnold's voice was the only sound that ever managed to quiet the room. He stood tall at the front of the lecture hall, his gray coat creased, eyes heavy with years spent watching young talents rise and fall.
"Listen up," he said, chalk scraping across the board. "Tomorrow, you'll be entering your first F-Rank Dungeon. It's a low-risk raid, but don't get careless. Essence beasts may look weak, but they can still kill a rookie."
The chatter picked up instantly — excitement, nerves, bragging. Everyone loved talking about their Sigils: the faint glow on their wrists, the color of their aura, their element. Everyone except Atlas. He didn't have one.
Then came the voice that never failed to find him.
"So what about him, sir?" Drake leaned back in his seat, the faint orange shimmer of his Flame Sigil flickering at his wrist. "Should the unawakened even be allowed to come? Wouldn't want to babysit him in there."
The room chuckled.
Mr. Arnold's expression hardened. "Enough, Drake. A Sigil doesn't make you invincible."
Drake smirked. "Maybe. But it sure helps."
Atlas didn't rise to it. He never did. But he could feel the words digging deep, like hooks under the skin. The unawakened — a label that followed him everywhere.
When the day finally ended, he stayed back in the empty training hall long after everyone else had left. His fists struck the wooden dummy over and over, until his knuckles split and blood streaked the surface. Each blow was a silent answer to the laughter.
By sunset, he was gone from the academy — slipping into the lower districts where lanterns burned red and the streets smelled of sweat, metal, and cheap liquor.
The underground wasn't on any map, but everyone knew it existed. A place where awakened and unawakened fought not for grades or honor, but for money, survival, and pride.
The air down there was thick, humming with the roar of the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" the announcer bellowed, voice amplified by raw excitement. "Your next bout — the Iron Fist versus the White Flame!". The crowd erupted.
The name had been given to Atlas as a joke — a fighter with no flame at all. But he had kept it. Maybe because even mockery, when repeated enough, started sounding like identity.
The Iron Fist stood opposite him — a broad, scar-covered man with skin that glowed faintly gold, veins pulsing with energy. His grin was the kind of grin that came from knowing he had never lost to someone without a Sigil.
"Try not to die too quick," he said.
Atlas rolled his shoulders, wiping blood from his knuckles. "You'll have to make me."
The bell rang
The first punch tore through the air with a low crack. Atlas ducked under it — barely. The shockwave rattled his teeth as the man's fist shattered the wooden boards behind him. Atlas moved fast, sliding inside the man's reach, landing two quick jabs to the ribs and a short hook to the jaw.
The bigger man grunted, surprised by the force. But surprise wasn't weakness — not yet.
"Quick little bastard," he growled.
Atlas circled, breathing steady. He didn't blink. Every muscle in his body screamed from the tension, but he'd learned to fight through pain until it became rhythm.
He waited for the next lunge — then stepped right instead of left. His shoulder brushed past the Iron Fist's arm as he drove his elbow up into the man's chin. The crack echoed. The crowd roared.
For a moment, Atlas thought he saw it — the faintest flicker of respect in his opponent's eyes.
Essence and Sigils
In this world, power wasn't born — it was fed.
Every awakened soul carried a Sigil, the mark of their inner affinity — flame, wind, stone, lightning, and countless more. That Sigil allowed them to draw essence from the atmosphere, refining it through training until their bodies became conduits of power.
Beast Crystals, harvested from monsters, could be melted into weapons or armor, each carrying a trace of the creature's essence. A sword forged from a wolf's crystal howled with speed; armor made from a stone-backed beast could turn aside blades.
Through training, essence absorption, and refinement, the awakened climbed ranks — from F to E, to D, and beyond. Their limits were not fixed. Their will and effort shaped their strength.
Atlas had studied all of it. He knew the theories, the mechanics, the cultivation methods. He simply couldn't do any of it. The essence refused him. It flowed around him like wind around a wall.
So he built his power from pain instead.
The Iron Fist spat blood, wiped his mouth, and laughed. "Not bad, White Flame. You've got the moves. But let me show you the difference between a man who wields essence… and one who doesn't."
Before Atlas could react, the man's body ignited with faint golden light. Reinforcement essence surged through his veins — muscles swelling, skin hardening. The ground trembled beneath his feet.
The next hit came faster than sound.
Atlas blocked — too late. The punch slammed into his ribs, and his world exploded in white pain. He staggered back, gasping, but another blow caught his jaw, then his gut.
He tried to counter — a low kick, a desperate hook — but the Iron Fist was everywhere, every strike heavier than the last.
The noise of the crowd blurred. The lights dimmed. All Atlas could hear was the dull thud of his heartbeat and the crack of his own bones.
He dropped to one knee, blood dripping from his chin. The Iron Fist grabbed him by the collar, lifted him halfway off the ground.
"You've got guts, kid," he said, voice low and cruel. "But guts don't mean a damn thing without power."
Then he drove his fist into Atlas's stomach.
Once. Twice. Again.
The world went silent. The only sound left was the dull echo of the crowd as Atlas's body hit the floor.
The announcer's voice came faint and distant. "The winner — the Iron Fist!"
Cheers. Laughter. A name chanted like a song.
Atlas didn't hear any of it.
He was already drifting somewhere between darkness and the roar of the ring, the taste of blood thick in his mouth.
And though the world blurred around him, on
e thought burned dimly, stubbornly in his fading mind —
If power is born from essence… then I'll find another way to burn.