Atlas started biting his nails, the faint crunch echoing through the broken hall. Dust clung to his fingertips, iron tang still staining his teeth from earlier battles. His gaze locked on the blue glow hovering before him:
[Upgrading: 81%]
The numbers pulsed, slow, mocking, like a heartbeat that refused to quicken.
He sat on the shattered throne, the once-grand seat of demon king Orcus reduced to jagged stone and ash. Shadows crawled up the walls where torches had long died out. The broken throne of the broken castle—it suited him almost too well. His back pressed into its cracked spine as his eyes narrowed on the cursed system screen.
The bloody system only spat out notifications. No commands worked, no options lit. No skill windows opened. It was as if someone had nailed his arms behind his back and whispered: Wait.
Oh, how he hated waiting.
