The battlefield was a slaughterhouse. Ash and blood slicked the ground in overlapping layers, as if the earth itself had been painted in grief. Atlas Von Roxweld stood at the center of the carnage, the butcher in a waltz written by war.
His golden eyes blazed with too many emotions layered into one expression: rage, exhaustion, clarity. His black hair clung to his scalp, soaked in sweat and gore, the ends crusted with dried mana that hissed faintly whenever it brushed the dust-laced air. His limbs screamed with fatigue, his skin hummed with fever. The virus clawed through his blood, whispering death in every heartbeat. But his will—
His will was a crucible.
Number Seven and Number Ten lay broken before him, twitching in the dirt, battered but breathing. Their prime-tier resilience clung to them like a curse, forcing them to endure. Above, the airship flickered, its illusion spell unraveling like old cloth, and Number Five's presence descended like frost across Atlas's spine.
