It was the day. Atlas bent over his desk, quill slashing through parchment, sealing plans to hold the kingdom together while he was gone. Each document was a stake in the ground—new projects, bold, risky. He slammed the final seal down, wax pooling red. Outside, the palace buzzed with schemes and hungry eyes, but here, he fought to keep control, his pen and his ring keeping it at bay.
Claire's footsteps announced her before her voice did. Sharp, deliberate, each click of her heels a dagger sheathed in velvet.
"So, you're really going?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe. Her tone swung between ice and lava, a storm he'd memorized but never learned to weather.
He didn't look up. "Someone has to babysit the vultures while you play queen."
"Aunt Claire," he corrected, sharper than intended.
"Just call me Claire!" she snapped, her composure fracturing. Her hands trembled—whether from rage or something softer, he refused to guess.
The room felt smaller suddenly. Atlas set the quill down, his gaze lingering on her and her. "You're angry I'm leaving," he said flatly.
"Angry? Don't flatter yourself." She stepped closer, her perfume—a cloying mix of jasmine and smoke—invading his space. "I'm thrilled you're abandoning your post to play hero. By all means, chase your little drama. See how far it gets you."
He finally met her eyes. They were too bright, too wild. She's terrified , he realized. Of what, he couldn't say. Maybe of being left behind. Maybe of being seen.
Sansa arrived then, her entrance a whisper compared to Claire's tempest. The maid bowed, her neck marked with fresh marks—Atlas's work, no doubt —and announced the guest. Atlas thanked her, his voice softer than before, layered with unspoken things. Claire's lip curled seeing the atmosphere vhnge so sudden.
"Get a room," she spat. "And stop wasting time. They're waiting."
Atlas smiled as he walked off, his outfit already prepared. On his way to the guest room, he pondered his father's words—there might be royalty among the visitors for some unknown reason.
But he would know for sure once he saw them himself. He was confident he could identify the prince.
'Maybe it's him. His sister is at the academy, and he's the only one with enough free time to wander around and pick a fight with the Demon King.'
He remembered from the game that the empire's prince was hot-headed, easily falling for Lara like a lovesick fool. It had been an easy route.
As he gestured to the servants, he noticed their demeanor had shifted slightly. His efforts were finally paying off—now, everyone showed the respect a prince truly deserved.
When he finally entered the royal guest chamber, his gaze immediately settled on those waiting for him. They had been meant to depart hours ago, but Atlas had deliberately kept them waiting. After all, his presence as both prince and guide shouldn't be given so freely.
The guest chamber reeked of pretense. The prince stood at its center, red hair gleaming under chandeliers that hadn't been lit in years. His smile was all teeth, no soul.
"The Mad Prince of Berkimhum," he drawled, extending a hand. "A pleasure."
Atlas stared. Not the Red Prince. Not even close. His mind raced. What the fuck? a decoy? Why?
.
.
They were finally in the carriage, and Atlas's suspicious eyes lingered on the so-called Red Prince. The boy sat across from him, his posture stiff as if he'd swallowed a rod. His lips moved too quickly for comfort, spilling formalities like water over an overflowing cup.
"...a prince to a prince," the imposter began, his voice trembling slightly but still dripping with rehearsed charm. "I appreciate your highness's company towards the dark continent. We are extremely joye—"
"—can you please stop with the act already?" Atlas interrupted, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. He leaned back against the plush seat, crossing one leg over the other. "As a prince to a prince—you know how tiresome it gets. Manners and all."
He waited. Not long. A heartbeat passed before the air shifted. The guards around them didn't say a word, though their expressions hardened into masks of displeasure. Only Atlas's own men looked uneasy, shame flickering in their eyes. So they knew , he thought bitterly. They all knew.
The imposter faltered, his smile cracking at the edges like old paint. "...ye...yes. Yes, Prince Atlas is indeed correct. No formalities among fellow royalty." His words stumbled out like stones skipping unevenly across a pond.
Atlas sighed, leaning further back into the cushion. Here he had hoped—just once—that fate might hand him something easy. Something manageable. That maybe this journey wouldn't spiral into chaos before it even began. But no. His hopes sank faster than lead weights dropped into the ocean.
His gaze drifted toward the royal guard marching ahead, guiding the horses through the winding path. Her armor gleamed faintly under the moonlight, her helmet tucked neatly under her arm. Her hair, golden as wheatfields kissed by dawn, flared wildly in the wind. She caught his eye briefly, her lips hinting at a smirk beneath the shadow of her helm.
She was the captain? Atlas frowned. He didn't recall her from the game—or perhaps he'd overlooked her, distracted by bigger players. Either way, she intrigued him now. Dangerous ground, but intrigue always pulled him closer.
The days blurred together like wet ink smudged on parchment. By dawn, camps sprawled out like wounds across the landscape, tents pitched haphazardly, fires crackling softly against the chill of morning. They were only a third of the way there, yet the weight of travel pressed heavily on everyone's shoulders. Atlas felt it too—a gnawing ache that clawed its way up his chest whenever his thoughts wandered back home.
"Ohhh... I miss Sansa..." he thought, his fingers absently tracing patterns on his thigh. Memories of her flushed face, her trembling hands, her quiet gasps invaded his mind unbidden. It wasn't just lust—it was connection. For the first time since waking up in this world, he felt tethered to something real. Until then, everything had felt hollow, like NPCs frozen mid-motion until Lara arrived to push the story forward. But now?
Now he understood. He already knew they were all people but his brain still played games with the system in hand but it changed after that night. These people weren't waiting for anyone like Lara or him. They lived. They loved. They hated. They lusted. Just like him.
And that realization sparked something within him—a need to leave behind more than scars or fear.
So he reached into his bag, pulling out small leather-bound books. Each one carried knowledge painstakingly gathered from battles fought and monsters slain during his gaming days. Knowledge about the Dark Continent—their destination—and the horrors lurking within.
"Here," he muttered, tossing the books to his guards. Their hands fumbled awkwardly, caught off guard by the sudden gesture. "Take these."
One of them flipped open the cover, scanning the pages with wide eyes. "...such bundle of precious knowledge, your highness," another murmured, awe thick in his voice. "We are but mere peasants..."
"—just read and keep me safe. That's an order," Atlas snapped, cutting him off. His tone softened as he explained further.
"These contain information about the monsters we might face. Weaknesses, strengths, strategies. Everything I've learned—from experience and... elsewhere."
He paused, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. "I've already decreed the royal order to publish these books to the masses. Adventures Guild, Slayer Guild—all will have access. Author unknown."
The guards exchanged glances, stunned silence hanging heavy between them. One man clutched the book tightly to his chest, as if afraid it might vanish if he let go. Another whispered prayers under his breath, thanking whatever deity watched over fools daring enough to tread the Dark Continent.
But it was the captain who stepped forward, her presence commanding without effort. Her boots crunched softly against the gravel as she approached, the firelight casting dancing shadows across her face. Her hair framed her features like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, and her red lips curved upward in a knowing smile.
"What do we have here... your highness?" she asked, holding up the book. Her voice dripped with curiosity, tinged with mockery. She paced closer, far too close for Atlas's liking—or comfort. Close enough that he could see every freckle dusting her pale skin, every fleck of amber in her irises.
Atlas cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus. "...umm, yeah. I was just giving my guards these." His regal demeanor slipped back into place, though his pulse betrayed him.
The captain tilted her head, studying him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. "Oh? How rare. Giving precious knowledge to your guards—and us, as well?" She raised an eyebrow, flipping through the pages with practiced ease. "Such detail...hmmm..... it's akin to treasure for us. Our goal is the Dark Continent, after all."
Atlas shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of how long his gaze had lingered on her earlier. "Yes," he managed, his voice steady despite the turmoil brewing inside. "It'll surely be helpful to the prince—and for you all when you reach the Dark Continent."
He hesitated, searching her face for familiarity. A strong urge that felt he had seen the woman somewhere, but "...umm, what was your name again? I think we've met before."he asked.
The captain laughed, a sound both warm and distant, like echoes bouncing off canyon walls. "Haha. My my, Prince Atlas. You're still young to ask out a lady of my age." She answered, unbeknownst to his view.