The battlefield was a wound in the earth, oozing ash and the sharp tang of burnt mana.The ground hissed under the weight of energy, molten veins cracking through the charred soil. Overhead, the clouds spun into themselves, grey and furious, as if the sky itself resented what had just transpired.
Number Seven's eyes, wide and anxious, locked onto him, her spear trembling in her grip. She'd never seen someone like him—an enemy who didn't just fight but danced through her attacks, his black hair a shadow, his golden eyes a storm. Her spear, infused with enough mana to shatter stone, had met his bare palm and stopped. Iron Palm should've been a joke against her force, a B-tier skill crumbling under her prime-tier might. But Atlas wasn't just skill. He was a foundation forged in blood and will, his system amplifying every muscle, every organ, every inch of skin into something more. Something other.
