Atlas opened his eyes abruptly.
His golden irises flared for a split second—brighter than any star—then dulled back into something mortal. His chest heaved against the soil beneath him, breathing in the scent of scorched earth, iron, and something sweet—too sweet—like rotting petals soaked in blood. He felt cold.
Then—
Cough! Cough!
He vomited. Violently. A thick stream of shimmering mucus—residue of the fairy dust—splattered onto the ground. The taste of it burned his throat, acidic and floral, like poison that had pretended to be a miracle.
His fingers clawed the dirt, nails curling into the cracked earth as he pushed himself upward. A wind passed over him—dry and hot like the breath of some ancient god watching from above. Something inside him shifted. The virus—no, the evolution—had taken root. He could feel it. Not in pain. Not in agony.
In weightlessness.
His body had no ache, no fatigue, no friction. Only... difference.
