I opened my eyes and found myself lying on a clean bed, the faint smell of disinfectant clinging to the air.
The ceiling above me wasn't bronze, wasn't cracked stone. It was white. Smooth.
I didn't know how I got here. The last thing I remembered was teeth, claws, and blood.
But looking at where I was now, the only conclusion made sense is...
"…The academy… managed to save me."
A flood of system prompts hovered in the corner of my vision, stacking one over another like a wall of notifications. My hand twitched toward them.
But before I could check—
The door creaked open.
Two figures entered.
The first was a tall man dressed in a pristine black uniform, shoulders squared, his steps carrying a weight that pressed on the room itself. His hair was a silvery white, eyes sharp like steel. Even without introduction, I knew exactly who he was.
"It seems you've woken up," he said, voice low, steady, and edged with command.
The West God.
Dante Von Atris.
They called him that because decades ago, when corruption nearly swallowed the western nations, he stopped it with his own blade. A hero of the continent. One of the Three Weapon Masters.
Just being in the same room as him made my throat dry.
I pushed myself up as best as I could, wincing at the pain still lingering in my chest. "Nice to meet you, Principal. I apologize… I can't greet you properly while I'm still recovering."
His expression softened slightly. "It's fine. You're alive, and that is enough."
Then, from behind him, a smaller figure stepped into view. Her presence wasn't heavy like his—it was quiet, deliberate, sharp in a different way. The female principal. The Architect.
Dante tilted his head toward her. "My sister has something to ask you."
Her eyes met mine—calm, but probing, as though she were trying to peel me apart layer by layer without moving a single muscle.
And for the first time since waking up, a shiver ran down my spine.
"How's your left arm?" she asked, voice calm, almost too calm.
"My arm?" I tilted my head. "What do you mean? My left arm is fi—"
The words died in my throat.
Because the moment I looked down, I saw it.
My forearm was gone.
Not wrapped in bandages. Not hidden. Just… gone.
"Oh." I blinked a few times, my mind weirdly slow to catch up. "So… I really did lose it after those monsters jumped me."
The principal didn't flinch. "It's alright. I've already asked Rena Danton to prepare a replacement. You'll have an arm again soon."
That should've reassured me. Instead, the way she said it—like it was already decided—made my chest tighten.
Before I could respond, she stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the faint shimmer in her pupils, like tiny fragments of glass reflecting light. Then, without warning, she pressed her forehead against mine.
Normally, that would've been… intimate. Human. But there was no warmth from her skin. No breath brushing against me. Nothing.
Like she wasn't breathing at all.
"Paralyzed."
Her voice dropped into a whisper, laced with command.
My entire body locked up instantly. I couldn't move a finger, couldn't twitch a muscle. My chest still rose and fell, but even that felt like it was allowed only because she willed it.
Her eyes bored into mine.
"What relationship do you have with that constellation?" she asked, her words sharp and deliberate.
"And how did you meet him?"
It was hard to breathe. My chest locked tight, every inhale shallow.
Then, Barbatos's voice slid into my mind.
["Do not tell her anything. Remember well the pact thou hast sworn with me."]
His tone was calm, velvet-smooth, but I could feel the sharp undercurrent of rage buried beneath. That fury wasn't meant for me—it was aimed at her. The Architect.
I clenched my teeth, forcing the words out.
"I… I cannot tell you anything."
The principal's expression softened instantly. A smile bloomed where suspicion had just been, the sudden shift so sharp it unsettled me.
"It's fine," she said, voice almost cheerful. "After we retrieved you, you were in a coma for eleven days. During that time, I asked Nabila Zahra Al-Nasir to look into your memories."
My stomach dropped.
Wait—what? Don't tell me…
But she continued, calm and steady.
"And what she found was only what happened inside the Gate. Nothing else. Just your time within the bronze city, and the battles you fought there."
Relief and dread tangled in my chest. So… they hadn't seen beyond that. They didn't know I was a transmigrator.
But at the same time—Nabila had seen everything inside the Gate.
Every fight. Every mistake. Every moment of me clawing for survival.
And the thought of her watching all that—watching me—made my skin crawl.
Nabila Zahra Al-Nasir was one of the ten playable characters—famous in the community not only because of her unique kit, but because she was one of the rare dark-skinned heroines in the game.
Her class, [Dreamweaver], was a pure support. She could heal wounds, amplify her allies' strength, and rain destruction from a distance no other class could match. But her strength came with a cost.
Nabila herself could never step onto the battlefield. Her real body remained sealed inside a heavily protected chamber, wrapped in layers of cutting-edge technology that ensured her safety but confined her to isolation.
Players used to joke that she was both the safest and the loneliest hero.
And yet… she was still playable.
The developers had designed her with a special mechanic: a secondary perspective. At any time, you could swap control between Nabila in her chamber and her wandering avatar—a flawless, doll-like construct that carried her will onto the battlefield.
It was one of Atlas Online's most distinctive gameplay systems, and the reason she remained one of the most popular support characters.
"For now," the principal said, voice calm but leaving no room for refusal, "head to the Weapons Facility. Rena Danton will craft you a new arm."
She stepped toward the door with her brother, her long coat brushing the floor with each measured stride. At the threshold, she glanced back.
"Oh—and about your uniform." Her gaze lingered on me for a beat longer than I liked. "The Academy has issued you a new one. It's waiting in your dorm."
"…Yes, Principal."
◇◇◇
I headed out, walking toward the black monolith that served as the Academy's transport system.
"Weird," I muttered, flexing my empty sleeve. "I can still feel my arm… and yet I can't."
Phantom pain. That's what they called it, right?
I slid a coin into the slot, and the monolith flared to life. In the blink of an eye, I was inside a capsule, the scenery warping as the system launched me toward my destination. By the time I blinked again, I was already there—the Weapons Facility.
"You must be Kylen."
The voice caught me off guard. A woman was already waiting by the capsule doors. Tall, sharp-eyed, her hands stained faintly with oil and soot. Rena Danton. Before I could even reply, she grabbed my remaining hand and pulled me along.
"Let's get you fitted for a new arm immediately."
The Weapons Facility smelled of sweat and hot iron, the air thick with the sting of oil and burning metal. Compared to the pristine Academy grounds, it was another world entirely.
As we passed through rows of forges and humming machines, a stocky dwarf with a long, ash-colored beard approached us, wiping his brow with a greasy rag.
"Rena," he rumbled, eyes flicking toward me. "This the lad that needs a new arm?"
"Yes," she answered briskly. "The base is already prepared—I just need his mana signature to finish it."
"Good. Do that. Afterward, we'll begin the prototype weapons your brother requested."
Rena's eyes gleamed with excitement. She turned back to me, grabbing my wrist as though afraid I'd run. "Come on. This way."
Her workshop was cluttered but alive—tables lined with half-finished constructs, glowing blueprints scrawled across transparent panels, and weapons of every kind mounted on the walls.
"Here," she said, thrusting a needle toward me. "I'll need a drop of your blood."
I pricked my finger without hesitation, letting a few drops fall into the small container she provided. She sealed it and slid it into a scanning device, which whirred as it absorbed the data.
"Perfect. Now—insert your arm into that slot."
I eyed the metallic chamber warily. "…Okay."
The moment I slid my left stump into the opening, a cold sensation rushed over me. Metal fibers began weaving around my flesh, crawling outward, knitting themselves into shape. I gritted my teeth against the strange chill, until finally—
—I pulled it out.
A sleek, obsidian arm extended from my shoulder. It wasn't stiff metal, but flexible, lined with artificial fibers that flexed and stretched like real muscle. Black plates layered seamlessly over the surface, giving it the perfect balance of strength and dexterity.
I flexed my new fingers, and the faint whir of gears followed.
"Uuohhh…" I couldn't help it. My lips curled into a grin. "I have a robot arm now."
What can I say? It's every guy's dream to get a robot arm.
"It'll take some time for your nerves and mana flow to sync with it," Rena said, crossing her arms. "Treat it carefully."
I raised my hand like a knight swearing an oath. "I'll make sure it never breaks."
"You can also customize it," she added casually. "Install a weapon or two if you'd like."
My eyes widened. "…Yes."
Oh, hell yes.
To Be Continued...