Atlas endured the routine of training and hunting for an entire week after that.
Every single day repeated the same pattern.
He woke up before sunrise, when the sky was still dark and the air felt cold against his skin. Without armor, without equipment, he began by running laps around the floating island. The terrain was uneven, filled with slopes, thick roots, and rocky edges near the cliffs. The wind at that altitude was fierce, pushing against him constantly as if trying to slow him down.
He ran anyway.
Hours passed before noon arrived.
This routine had become something deeply engraved into him. There was a time when running like this would have tortured his body. Back then, his lungs would burn, and his legs would feel like they were tearing apart. But now it was different. He could run fast. Faster than he once believed possible.
By midday, he shifted his focus entirely to hunting.
