-Balance is a lie—a pretty word whispered by cowards to justify their hesitation. True strength doesn't waver between light and dark; it consumes both until nothing remains but the raw will to survive.
"Balance is overrated," she spat, pacing back and forth with her wooden sword slung carelessly over one shoulder. "Yin with the yang, mind with the body—being spiritually awakened to become some enlightened warrior? All fucking bullshit." She stopped abruptly, turning sharply on her heel to glare at him. "What a 'true' warrior is—and always will be—is known through his utter unadulterated violence." she proclaimed.
Atlas lay sprawled on the dirt floor, chest heaving as sweat dripped from his disheveled hair into the dust beneath him. His hands trembled faintly, blistered and raw from gripping the wooden practice blade so tightly that splinters had embedded themselves deep in his palms. Each breath came out ragged, puffing up tiny clouds of dirt around his nose and mouth. For a moment, all he could do was stare blankly at the ground, too exhausted even to lift his head.
But Kury didn't let silence linger long enough for comfort. Oh no, this woman thrived on chaos—and she intended to drag Atlas kicking and screaming right into its heart.
"Nobody," she continued, her tone venomous yet strangely reverent, "I mean 'nobody,' is unaware of it. From simple insects to animals, from monsters to us humans—our sheer brutality defines us. Our capability to bring chaos with nothing more than a whim. That's what makes a true warrior. Not peace treaties, not diplomacy, not balance. Pure fucking destruction."
Her green eyes locked onto Atlas like twin emeralds blazing under sunlight, burning away any illusion of safety or reprieve. "That's the kind of warrior your father used to be before he tangled himself up in politics and rules and 'peace'. The last word rolled off her tongue like bile. "He understood the language of violence—the first language ever created. Before there was peace, before there were kingdoms and laws and pretty little lies about coexistence, there was war. Wars won not by peacemakers but by warriors who devastated the battlefield until nothing remained standing. Only then could peacekeepers step in."
Atlas wanted to listen. Gods above, he 'wanted' to listen—but every muscle in his body screamed rebellion. His legs felt like jelly, his arms weighed down by invisible chains forged from fatigue and humiliation.
"Forget your damn sister," Kury growled again, snapping Atlas out of his haze. "She's walking the path of balance, trying to dance between shadows and light like some delicate little flower. But you?" She jabbed a finger toward him, sneering. "You don't have the luxury of balance if you want to catch up to her. No, you need what I just preached—destruction. Your hands need to sow chaos."
His ears rang faintly, echoing Kury's earlier declaration about choosing him as her disciple because of the fiery jealousy and chaos simmering within him. At the time, those words had sounded absurd—ridiculous even. But now, lying here broken and beaten, they resonated differently. Like a bell tolling doom or salvation; he wasn't sure which.
'Fuck,' he thought bitterly, gritting his teeth against another wave of pain. 'Is she going to keep preaching or teach me that move already?'
His knees shook violently as he forced himself upright, muscles trembling with effort. Standing should've been easy after countless repetitions, yet each attempt felt heavier than the last. It wasn't supposed to make sense—getting back up repeatedly when the world kept knocking you flat.
In his old life, it had seemed pointless, stupid even. Bullies pummeled him whenever he stood his ground, managers berated him when he dared speak up. He'd convinced himself that persistence was stubbornness masquerading as courage.
But Henry… Henry had called it something else entirely. A recipe for greatness. A foundation built upon resilience and defiance. And Atlas wanted—no, NEEDED—to believe it. Because without belief, without hope that rising again mattered, then everything he endured became meaningless.
So despite the trembling in his legs, despite the fire licking at his lungs with every labored breath, Atlas pushed himself fully upright. This time, he faced Kury directly, meeting her gaze head-on. His jaw clenched painfully, lips pressed into a thin line as sweat trickled down his temples. Pain radiated outward from every bruise, every scrape marking his skin, but none of it compared to the resolve solidifying within him.
Kury smirked approvingly, though her expression remained predatory. "There's my disciple," she said, almost fondly. Then, without warning, she lunged forward, swinging her wooden sword downward with brutal force. "Death Decay!"
Atlas barely managed to block the attack, raising his own weapon just in time to intercept hers. Wood cracked ominously under pressure, threatening to shatter entirely. The impact sent shockwaves rippling through his arms, jarring bones already strained beyond endurance. Yet somehow, he held firm, refusing to collapse under the onslaught.
Again and again, Kury struck, relentless and merciless. Each blow landed harder than the last, driving Atlas further into the dirt until he could taste blood mingling with grit coating his tongue. Panic clawed at the edges of his consciousness, urging flight over fight. But deep down, buried beneath layers of doubt and despair, a spark ignited. Fear surged wildly through his veins—not paralyzing him but propelling him forward instead.
"A warrior's job," Kury barked mid-swing, her voice slicing through the cacophony of grunts and impacts, "isn't to control emotions or suppress them. It's to use them—to channel every ounce of rage, grief, and terror into sharpening your blade. Fear isn't for enemies alone; it's also for yourself. To remind you why you fight. Why you survive."
Atlas staggered backward, narrowly avoiding another devastating strike aimed squarely at his ribs. His vision blurred momentarily, exhaustion clouding focus until instinct kicked in reflexively. With a snarl born of pure frustration, he swung wildly, forcing Kury to retreat briefly.
"Again!" she shouted, advancing once more without hesitation.
"...Again!"
". . . Again!"
"AGAIN!"
While Atlas and Kury clashed violently on the training grounds, their movements a blur of chaos and precision, Sansa stood quietly at the edge of the courtyard. Her presence was unobtrusive, almost invisible—yet her gaze never wavered from the battered prince sprawled once more in the dirt. She watched with an intensity that bordered on reverence, her eyes tracing every bruise marring his skin, every bead of sweat dripping into the earth beneath him.
For nine long years, she had served Atlas—not out of duty or obligation, but because she saw something others refused to acknowledge. The servants whispered cruelly behind closed doors, mocking her loyalty to a man who treated her worse than a stray dog. Why waste time caring for someone destined to fail? Someone so broken they couldn't even stand upright without toppling over?
But Sansa knew better. She'd seen the darkness lurking within Atlas—the same darkness that clawed relentlessly at his soul, threatening to consume him whole. The world had turned its back on him, leaving him no choice but to turn against it. Yet despite everything, Sansa clung stubbornly to hope. Hope that one day, Atlas would rise above the pain, the anger, the hatred festering inside him like poison.
And now, watching him stagger back onto trembling legs after yet another brutal blow, she realized her faith hadn't been misplaced. He wasn't just surviving—he was thriving an she was merry because of it.
"...soon, Your Highness," she murmured softly, clutching the folds of her apron tightly between white-knuckled fingers. "Soon I will be by your side always—and hopefully forever."
Her lips curved upward into a smile, faint but undeniable. A smile not meant for herself, but for the man currently bleeding and bruised yet refusing to stay down. It wasn't pity driving her devotion—it was admiration, admiration for a survivor. Pure, unrelenting admiration for a warrior forged in fire and tempered by despair.
"Oh…" she added suddenly, snapping out of her reverie. "It's already medicine time for His Majesty. Need to prepare his favorite soup—and also… some lies."
With those words, she turned and fled toward her quarters, footsteps light and hurried. Behind her, the sound of wood striking flesh echoed sharply across the grounds, accompanied by Atlas's ragged breathing and Kury's impatient growls. But none of it mattered right now. All that mattered was ensuring Atlas remained strong enough to keep fighting—not just physically, but emotionally too.
Because Sansa understood something fundamental about survival: sometimes, lies were necessary. Sometimes, feeding false truths to kings kept them alive long enough for real victories to take root.
.
.
.
Three days later, the air crackled with energy unlike anything Atlas had experienced before. Every pore in his body screamed exhaustion, muscles protesting violently against each movement. Yet amidst the agony, there was clarity. A spark igniting deep within his core, burning brighter with every strike exchanged between master and student.
Then it happened—a breakthrough.
[Congratulations! You have learned the skill Death Decay.]
[Congratulations! You have learned a skill before the MC. You have gained 15 points.]
Atlas froze mid-motion, chest heaving as euphoria surged wildly through his veins. For a moment, all he could do was stare blankly at the notification flashing vividly before his eyes. Then reality crashed back in full force, dragging him kicking and screaming into the present.
"OOOHHHH YEEESSSSS!!!" he bellowed triumphantly, throwing his head back and letting loose a primal scream loud enough to startle birds nesting high above the castle walls.
Slam!
Before the echo of his celebration faded entirely, Kury delivered a swift kick to his ribs, sending him sprawling backward once more. Dust billowed around him as he hit the ground hard, coughing painfully while trying desperately to catch his breath.
"Who the fuck told you to scream like that, cunt?" Kury roared irritably, rubbing her ears exaggeratedly. "Now my eardrums are ringing. Go get some fucking rest ."
She stalked off without waiting for a response, muttering darkly under her breath about students who didn't know when to quit. "This kid seriously doesn't understand boundaries…"
Meanwhile, Atlas lay sprawled across the dirt, grinning ear-to-ear despite the throbbing ache radiating outward from where her boot had connected solidly with his side. Pain? Minimal compared to the sheer elation coursing through him. After countless hours spent enduring relentless beatings, he'd finally done it. Mastered a technique powerful enough to rival anything Lara possessed.
Kury might believe his ultimate goal involved catching up to his sister—but she couldn't be further from the truth. Catching up wasn't enough. Not anymore. Atlas aimed higher—to surpass Lara, to eclipse the entire kingdom, to transcend every limitation imposed upon him since birth. Because staying alive required nothing less.
He'd danced with death once before. Felt its icy grip tightening around his throat until vision blurred and lungs burned for oxygen. Others might interpret such encounters as signs of weakness, indicators of impending doom. But Atlas knew differently now. Death wasn't an enemy—it was fuel. Raw material used to forge weapons capable of carving paths previously thought impassable.
As understanding dawned fully, Atlas allowed himself a rare moment of introspection. The answer had been staring him in the face all along:
"Despair was the key to unlocking unparalleled success."
-