A few moments before.
Atlas tore through the battlefield like a storm unchained from heaven's leash. The ground screamed beneath his steps, split open by the weight of his blows.
Blood sprayed in arcs of crimson mist as titan after titan fell before him—colossal beings of flesh and divinity, their organs bursting under his fists, their bones turning to dust beneath his heel.
He felt them die through the vibration in his knuckles, through the crunch of matter breaking, through the heat that rolled over his body like a second skin.
His faith points fluctuated like a pulse—rising, falling, then rising again—as if the universe itself couldn't decide whether he was to be punished or rewarded. He could feel it, that ebb and surge within the depths of him, like twin tides colliding in a single heart. He should have felt triumph. But unease crept in—slow, deliberate, like frost forming on warm steel.
It was too easy.
