The border was a charnel house, the crimson sky torn by dragon roars and the wreckage of imperial airships, their mana engines burning like fallen stars. Smoke twisted like dying prayers, black and sulfurous, heavy with the iron scent of blood and the sour stink of burnt flesh. Fairy core dust swirled through the air—a plague of shattered souls, each speck a whispering wail, voices caught between death and memory.
Atlas stood on grass, his golden eyes narrowed to razors, his black hair glued to his skull with sweat, blood, and ash. His body was a ruin—nerve endings frayed, bones cracked like brittle glass, virus and Yggdrasil clawing at his core.
[Healing mitigated... process... healing continued... 36.1%]
He ignored it.
Pain didn't matter. Not now.
