Atlas lounged on the bench, his spine curved like a question mark begging for answers that wouldn't come. The lemon and mint water sat in its crystal goblet, sweating beads of condensation onto the polished wood beneath. He sipped again, slow this time, letting the cool drink carve paths down his throat, a good drink indeed after such a grim training.
"Haaaaa...Sansa," he called out, voice sharp enough to cut glass yet soft enough to sound grateful. "You are indeed my savior."
Gulp gulp gulp.
The water hit his empty stomach like rain on parched earth, reviving something primal inside him. Something hungry. Thirsty not just for survival—but domination.
"System!"
---
[System]
_Name: Atlas Von Roxweld_
_Age: 14 (32)_
_Body Grade: C
_BODY STATS:
_Bone: 8 > 10
_Muscles: 7 > 19
_Organs: 5 > 8
_Brain: 10 > 15
_Heart: 12 > 13
_Mana Nerves: 0 > 30
_SKILLS:_
_Voice Control (C++ grade)_
_Prince's Aura (A grade)_
_Truth Eyes (B grade)_
_Death Decay (B grade)_
_Points Available: 64_
--
"Hmmm…" Atlas muttered under his breath, leaning back against the bench until it creaked ominously beneath his weight. His fingers drummed idly against the armrest, nails clicking like morse code spelling out desperation. "Need a bit more for the hidden class."
He smirked bitterly, eyes narrowing into slits as they scanned the numbers floating mid-air. Progress? Sure. Enough? Never.
"I'm not weird to think this way, right?" he said aloud, though no one answered. "No, shitty Master is a bit the same as me. Always pushing, always clawing forward like there's some fucking finish line worth crossing."
His lips curled upward at the thought of Kury—her fists bruising his ribs, her words bruising his ego. But she wasn't entirely wrong about one thing: emotions. That delicate little bitch of a topic everyone tiptoed around like it might bite them if provoked.
"Despair," he whispered, rolling the word around in his mouth like it was poison meant to kill or cure depending on how much you swallowed. "Every emotion can be viewed with a different angle. Not just some reaction or sum of thoughts but a source of energy."
She must've been dancing around biology without realizing it—dopamine spikes, adrenaline rushes, cortisol floods. This medieval shitshow wasn't advanced enough to understand neurotransmitters, but fuck if she hadn't stumbled upon the truth anyway.
"But she's right about that one," he admitted begrudgingly, tipping the goblet toward an imaginary audience. "Emotions aren't weaknesses—they're weapons. And I've got plenty of those now."
The air shifted subtly, like a breeze stirring ash after a firestorm. Someone was watching him. He didn't turn, didn't flinch. Didn't need to see who it was; malice had a scent all its own—sharp and metallic, like blood drying on steel.
"Ohhh…" he drawled lazily, stretching his arms above his head until his joints popped. "How it feels good to use Mana!" He loudly spoke.
Krank!
The sound of shattered porcelain echoed across the courtyard, forcing Atlas's smirk wider as the stare intensified. Whoever it was—a servant, a guard, maybe even the queen herself—was seething. He could feel their hatred radiating like heat off pavement on a summer day. Still, he ignored them completely, relishing the moment like a cat basking in sunlight while chaos brewed nearby.
"Ohh…" he laughed loudly now, making sure his voice carried far enough to reach whoever hid among the shadows. "…that bitch must be in total shock right now, hahahaha…"
His laughter rang out like church bells tolling doom, each note dripping with mockery so thick it could choke a god. The footsteps retreating quickly confirmed what he already knew—they were scared and frustrated. Good. Let fear fester. It'd make breaking them later so much sweeter.
Atlas glanced down at the sigil ring gleaming faintly on his finger, rubbing his thumb absently over its surface. The metal was warm, almost alive, humming softly against his skin like a promise whispered in the dark.
"Now it's get-back time," he murmured, voice low and dangerous. "I will break her slowly, until she falls down herself." He promised.
His gaze hardened, gold eyes glinting like coins freshly minted. "I know the plot, I know your schemes, I know what lengths you could go to dominate—or even erase me. I know you better than yourself, oh Queen of Birmingham."
Confidence surged within him, amplified tenfold by the ring pressing firmly into his flesh. It wasn't arrogance—it was preparation and he knew Survival required nothing less.
"The ministry will come to find me soon enough," he mused aloud, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the armrest once more. "I need to be ready by then. What's a better way to dominate the field of social hierarchy?"
His lips split into a grin so wide it looked painful, teeth flashing like knives catching moonlight. "Attack. Attack and Attack."
And attack he would. Because staying alive wasn't enough anymore. Staying relevant wasn't either. No, Atlas aimed higher—to burn brighter than any star ever dared, to eclipse the entire kingdom with his shadow. His so called father ignited something within him, which laid bare his whole life. And now he understood, what he needs to do, what he needs to be, and slowly but surely, he would achieve it, a pavement beyond his upcoming death.
Because despair wasn't the end—it was fuel. Raw material used to forge weapons capable of carving paths previously thought impassable.
.
.
.
Crank!
The heavy vase collection worth 100 golds. Broken.
Bang!
The painting of the palace, painted by the talent colora herself. Damaged.
The air in the grand parlor was thick, suffocating—like breathing through wet wool soaked in vinegar. Every shattered vase, every splintered frame of art worth more than a peasant's lifetime earnings, whispered betrayal. The room itself seemed alive, trembling under her wrath like a dog cowering before its master.
Her laughter sliced through the silence—a jagged sound that clawed at eardrums and made even the bravest among them flinch. It wasn't joy; it wasn't amusement. It was fury distilled into sound, sharp enough to cut glass.
"HAHAAAAA!!!!!!" she screamed again, her voice cracking at the edges as if her throat might rip open from the strain. Her hands flew up, fingers splayed like talons, tearing another delicate porcelain figurine from the cabinet and hurling it against the wall. The crash echoed deafeningly, shards raining down onto the marble floor like frozen tears.
Bang!
Another heirloom—a painting by Colora herself, commissioned by the late king—slid off the shelf, crashing face-first into the ground. Its frame buckled, canvas tearing with a groan so faint it almost sounded human.
Isabella stood there panting, chest heaving, her green hair wild and disheveled around her shoulders like Medusa's snakes writhing in rage. She collapsed backward onto the leather sofa, sinking into its plush embrace while her anger simmered just beneath the surface, ready to boil over again at any moment.
"Haaa...hmmmm…" she exhaled slowly, dragging a hand across her forehead, smearing powder and sweat together until her flawless complexion turned blotchy. "How… HOW?! How is that brat still alive?!"
Her question hung heavy in the air, unanswered because no one dared breathe loudly enough to draw attention. Servants pressed themselves flat against the walls, their eyes glued to the floorboards, praying invisibility would shield them from her wrath. Even the nobles—the ones who strutted through court like gods among mortals—were reduced to quivering shadows, their pride stripped bare by fear.
If her gaze landed on you, oh God help your soul. Only divine intervention could save you then.
Clap! Clap!
Two sharp claps rang out, cutting through the tension like knives carving flesh. Instantly, servants scrambled forward, fanning her luscious green hair back into place, dabbing away beads of sweat with silk handkerchiefs embroidered with gold thread. But Isabella ignored them, her mind racing faster than they could move.
She reached for her makeup kit—a treasure trove of powders and creams imported from lands far beyond Berkimhum—and began restoring herself to perfection. Each stroke of the brush calmed her nerves slightly, but not completely. Beneath the polished veneer, the storm raged on.
"Nobody knows, huh?" she muttered darkly, her reflection glaring back at her from the compact mirror. Her lips curled into a sneer, revealing teeth too white, too sharp to belong to anyone mortal. "That witch said his mana nerves would burn dry. BUT WHY THE FUCK IS HE STILL USING HIS MANA?!"
Her shout startled the servants tending to her, making them jump visibly. One dropped the powder puff, earning a venomous glare that sent him scurrying away like a kicked dog.
"Calm down, Isabella," she murmured softly, addressing herself as though speaking to a child throwing a tantrum. "Calm. Down."
But calm didn't come easily—not when Atlas Von Roxweld refused to die quietly like vermin were supposed to. Not when he kept clawing his way back to life, defying fate itself. He was supposed to be nothing more than a footnote in history, erased without ceremony or regret. Instead, here he was, thriving despite everything thrown at him.
And now, thanks to him, her carefully laid plans were unraveling thread by thread.
Isabella snapped the compact shut with a flick of her wrist, setting it aside delicately before turning her attention back to the trembling crowd gathered before her. They looked pathetic—all these proud nobles brought low by fear. Pathetic, yes, but useful nonetheless.
"You useless bunch of trash," she spat, her voice dripping with disdain. "Can anyone here please, and I mean please, permanently disable him? Any volunteers? Anyone?"
Silence again stretched endlessly, broken only by the sound of nervous shuffling feet and labored breathing. Isabella's smile widened, cruel and predatory, as she let the weight of her words sink in fully.
"…..I'm really running thin on patience here," she continued, her tone sweet yet poisonous, like honey laced with arsenic. "So I'll start picking names myself. And trust me, God help whichever family I choose—for I will rain down my wrath upon them personally."
As if on cue, pleas erupted from every corner of the room.
"Your Majesty, please!"
"We know you're angry, but please reconsider!"
"Mercy, Your Highness!"
Their cries grated on her ears like nails scraping chalkboards. Pitiful. Absolutely pitiful. These weren't nobles—they were cowards masquerading as royalty. Weaklings clinging to power they didn't deserve.
With a flick of her finger, she pointed toward an elderly noblewoman standing near the edge of the group. "House Creed," she announced coldly. "Your house shall be demoted to Baron, effective tomorrow."
The woman gasped audibly, her knees buckling beneath her as she crumpled to the floor, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. "B-but, Your Majesty! I supported you from the very beginning!" she wailed, clutching at Isabella's skirts like a drowning sailor grasping at driftwood.
Isabella stepped back sharply, avoiding contact as though the old woman carried plague. Her gaze swept dismissively over the rest of the assembly, daring anyone else to speak out of turn.
"Anyone else?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft.
"Yes! Yes, Your Majesty, it will be done!" shouted a red-haired nobleman, stepping forward eagerly, desperation written all over his face.
"No, no! Let this opportunity pass to me!" another called out, his voice cracking mid-sentence.
"It's me! I am perfect for the job! My connections to the underworld will ensure success," argued yet another noblewoman, her confidence wavering ever so slightly under Isabella's piercing stare.
Isabella smiled then—a slow, satisfied curve of her lips that sent chills down everyone's spines. This was what she wanted: chaos. Bickering. Desperation. Let them fight amongst themselves for scraps of favor while she reigned supreme above them all.
She leaned back against the sofa, crossing her legs elegantly, her posture regal even amidst destruction. For a moment, she allowed herself to bask in the spectacle unfolding before her, savoring the taste of control like fine wine rolling across her tongue.
Still, deep inside, something churned uncomfortably. Atlas wasn't supposed to survive. She'd orchestrated his downfall meticulously, ensuring every detail aligned perfectly to crush him beneath her heel. Yet somehow, impossibly, he endured. Worse, he thrived.
It infuriated her. Humiliated her. Made her want to tear the world apart piece by piece until nothing remained but ash.
'If you want God's wrath,' she thought bitterly, staring into the distance where shadows danced mockingly along the walls, 'you'll get it, Atlas. I will make you squirm. Drown you so deep you'll wish you were never fucking born.'
***
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