Atlas could feel the weight of his father's legacy pressing down on him like an invisible crown too heavy for mortal shoulders. Henry Von Roxweld wasn't just a king; he was a storm wrapped in flesh and bone—a man who ruled with both cunning and brute force. He expected the same from his son.
But Atlas wasn't Henry. Not entirely. Sure, this body—this borrowed vessel—had trained tirelessly, honing skills that once seemed impossible to master. The calluses on his palms told stories of sleepless nights spent gripping sword hilts until they bled, of endless hours practicing forms under the unforgiving sun. Yet no matter how hard he pushed himself, Atlas had always lived in Lara's shadow, chasing a light so brilliant it burned everything around it.
Still, as he stared at his hands now—rough, rugged, marked by struggle—he made a silent vow.
"...you had it rough, much rougher than me," he murmured, rubbing his thumb absently over the scarred skin. "Don't worry. Me and our very own System will change the whole narrative of this world—or game—and live on. I promise."
With those words echoing in his mind, Atlas turned toward his bedroom, intent on allocating his newly acquired points before resuming whatever daily routine awaited him outside these gilded walls.
"Your Highness," Sansa called softly, bowing low enough that her blonde hair brushed the marble floor. Her voice trembled slightly, betraying nerves she tried desperately to mask. "Your training master has arrived. It's time for your training now."
Training Master? Atlas frowned, his brow furrowing as fragments of memory stirred uneasily within him. In the game, Lara never needed a teacher. She was born extraordinary—a prodigy whose brilliance eclipsed everyone else. Teachers came to 'her' begging for scraps of wisdom she dispensed casually, almost dismissively. But Atlas? No, he wasn't gifted like that. If anything, he'd been written off as expendable—a pawn sacrificed without hesitation whenever plotlines demanded it.
Maybe, in the game, Atlas must have had a master—written in some story draft he didn't remember. But he still needed to continue the act, to keep being Atlas: a person destined to die, destined for a worse reckoning.
"...okay, let's see my dear master," he muttered dryly, rolling his eyes skyward as sarcasm dripped thickly from his tone. He had gone off script. So the least he could do was train like Atlas used to, while the plot is still predictable.
He glanced briefly at the sigil ring gleaming faintly on his finger, its presence both comforting and daunting. Power brought responsibility—and danger. Speaking of which...
As Atlas walked briskly down the corridor leading to the training grounds, he felt it—an odd sensation prickling at the nape of his neck. Like invisible fingers brushing lightly against his skin, sending shivers racing down his spine. Before he could react, reality shattered violently.
Slice!
Pain exploded across his throat, searing hot and unbearable. His knees buckled instinctively, hands clawing desperately at his neck as air refused entry into lungs screaming for oxygen. Panic surged wildly, drowning rational thought beneath waves of terror. Was this death knocking again? Had fate decided three days of borrowed life were sufficient repayment?
But then, abruptly, the agony vanished. Breathing returned raggedly, each gasp rasping painfully yet blessedly filling empty lungs. Confusion swirled thickly as Atlas staggered upright, clutching his unharmed throat in disbelief.
"What the fu—"
"Oh, Your Highness really kept me waiting, you know?" A feminine voice growled mockingly behind him, cutting off his exclamation mid-sentence. Rough-edged and laced with disdain, it carried authority that silenced protests before they formed.
Atlas spun sharply, heart hammering wildly as adrenaline coursed through veins stretched taut like bowstrings. Standing there, arms crossed confidently over lean muscle clad in leather armor, was none other than Kury N Watson—the infamous Herald of Blood herself. Her fiery red hair framed pale features accentuated by emerald eyes sharp enough to pierce steel. Muscles rippled subtly beneath tanned skin, testament to years spent wielding weapons far deadlier than mere wooden swords propped casually on her shoulder.
This woman represented strength incarnate. Legends whispered tales of battles where entire armies crumbled beneath her relentless assault, reduced to ash and ruin by ferocity unmatched. Even kings bowed reluctantly before her prowess, though few dared admit admiration openly. Including Henry Von Roxweld, who reportedly sought her favor (and perhaps more) during younger days filled with ambition unchecked by reason.
And now she loomed before Atlas, glaring daggers capable of cleaving mountains apart.
"....what the fuck you looking at, boy?" Kury sneered, tapping the blunt edge of her practice sword against her palm idly. "Are you gonna keep staring or start training? Do you know how much progress you already lost from being sick and bedridden like a weak pest?"
Her words stung worse than any blade ever could, slicing through fragile ego attempting valiantly to rebuild itself. Pride flared hotly, demanding retaliation—but common sense intervened swiftly, reminding him exactly 'who' held power here.
"Hurry, Your Highness!" Sansa urged anxiously nearby, wringing her hands nervously while casting furtive glances between prince and warrior. "You already know Master Kury doesn't like to wait."
Atlas gritted his teeth tightly, forcing anger simmering dangerously close to boiling point back under control. Fingers twitched involuntarily toward the royal signet ring adorning his hand—a reminder not only of newfound responsibilities but also latent potential waiting patiently to be unleashed.
"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled irritably, shooting Sansa a look promising future retribution for failing to warn him properly about 'this particular detail.' Then, addressing Kury directly, added sarcastically, "I am a prince, for God's sake. Shouldn't I get 'some' damn respect even though you're supposedly my 'master'?"
Kury arched an eyebrow skeptically, lips curling upward into a smirk dripping venomous amusement. Without warning, she lunged forward suddenly, swinging her wooden weapon downward with enough force to splinter stone beneath impact.
Atlas barely managed to dodge sideways, narrowly avoiding decapitation via bludgeoning implement. Heart pounding erratically, he scrambled backward hastily, putting distance between them while trying frantically to process what just happened.
"That little trick earlier?" Kury explained breezily, twirling her makeshift staff lazily above one shoulder. "That was Death Decay—a technique designed specifically to incapacitate opponents instantly. Consider yourself lucky I pulled punches today, kid. Next time won't be nearly so forgiving."
She paused dramatically, allowing gravity of situation sink fully into bewildered brain struggling vainly to catch up. Emerald eyes narrowed dangerously, pinning prey firmly within predatory gaze refusing release anytime soon.
"Now..." she continued silkily, advancing slowly like predator stalking cornered quarry. "...shall we begin properly? Or do you prefer dying repeatedly inste....." she gagged midway, her attention suddenly shifting.
"Hmmm...." Atlas remembered her vividly from the game—a warrior junkie wrapped in leather and defiance, a fearless wolf howling at anyone foolish enough to challenge her. Others despised her brashness, her refusal to bow even before kings. But Henry? Henry had adored it. Strength was his religion, and Kury N Watson was its high priestess.
'..so she's my teacher,' Atlas thought grimly, watching as Kury circled him like a predator sizing up prey. 'Wait.....then I can learn that skill she was supposed to teach Lara. Extra points for me.'
He cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to shake off the creeping sense of dread winding tighter around his chest with each passing second. "…okay then, sorry… Master. Let's get back to training then…?"
His voice trailed off when he realized Kury wasn't listening anymore. Her attention had shifted entirely—to his hand, specifically to the molten ring gleaming ominously on his finger. The same ring that marked him as heir apparent, bearer of power stolen directly from destiny's grasp.
"...so Henry made his decision," Kury muttered under her breath, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. She pressed a palm against her forehead, shaking her head slowly. "That piece of shit doesn't know how much chaos this will unleash."
Atlas flinched involuntarily as her piercing gaze locked onto him again, green eyes drilling into his skull like augers seeking buried truths. "Boy, Atlas. When did 'this' happen?" she demanded, grabbing hold of his ring finger without waiting for an answer.
Instinctively, Atlas yanked his hand free, stepping backward sharply. "...a contract between father and son rather than king and prince," he snapped defensively, rubbing his sore knuckle where her grip had been vice-like.
But Kury didn't retaliate. Instead, something dangerous flickered behind those emerald irises—recognition mixed with calculation. Recognition of change. Calculation of potential.
'He looks like a changed man after death,' she mused silently, studying him intently. 'But that's not enough. What are you thinking, Henry?'
Her gaze drifted down once more to his hands, lingering there longer this time. And then realization struck—a bolt of lightning splitting open stormy skies.
"Wait…" she breathed, seizing his wrist again, fingers digging painfully deep. This time, Atlas didn't resist; he froze, panic clawing at his throat like barbed wire.
"No way…" Kury murmured, her voice barely audible over the pounding of blood rushing through Atlas's ears. Her lips curled upward into a grin so wide it bordered on unhinged. "Maybe… could be… You—you finally awakened a unique talent like that overconfident brat!"
She threw her head back and laughed—a sound raw and wild, echoing across the training grounds like thunder rolling over mountains. It wasn't joy or amusement fueling her hysteria but something darker, hungrier. Something primal.
"Haha… hahahaha! Blood really tells!" she roared, slapping one knee theatrically. "Training you is going to be fun now, Reeaallllyyyy Fun."
Atlas felt it—the primal urge to flee rising like bile in his throat. Every nerve ending screamed warnings loud enough to deafen gods themselves. Run, they urged. Run fast. Run far. Don't look back. Don't stop until lungs collapse and legs give out beneath you.
Instead, he stood rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the sheer intensity radiating off Kury like heat waves shimmering above desert sands. His heart hammered wildly, threatening to burst straight through ribs creaking under pressure. Sweat trickled down his spine, cold despite the oppressive warmth clinging to air thickened by tension.
"...why the fuck are you looking at me like that?" Atlas choked out, his voice cracking embarrassingly mid-sentence.
Kury tilted her head slightly, predatory curiosity dancing wickedly in her eyes. Without warning, she took a step forward, closing the distance between them faster than Atlas could react. Another step followed, then another, until mere inches separated their faces—his pale with fear, hers flushed with manic excitement.
"Wait… wait, waiiiittt…" Atlas stammered, stumbling backward clumsily. His foot caught on uneven cobblestones, sending him crashing hard onto his ass.
"Don't come closer!" he shouted hoarsely, scrambling backwards frantically using hands slick with sweat. "Don't come closer, you fiend of a Master!!"