The light had faded.
The night had returned—but not as it once was. It was quieter. Not peace, not silence. Aftermath.
Ash danced on the wind like burnt prayers. Blood mixed with steam upon the dirt, a battlefield turned crucible. Every soldier left standing dared not breathe. Even the dying halted their groans, waiting to see if the world would crack again.
And from above—Atlas descended.
He did not fall. He floated
Limbs relaxed. Shoulders light. Like a god returning from judgment.
His voice was neither shouted nor whispered, but it carried across the ruins as if the stars themselves repeated it.
"It's over."
A hush followed—so deep, even memories stopped replaying.
His boots touched the ground with a finality that made the soil flinch. The mana coiled at his feet, hissing through cracks in the earth. A prince no longer. A madman no longer. Whatever he was—'he was now the axis the war spun around.'
Until—
A cry.
A flick of silver.
A Prime broke formation.
