Atlas awakened in the center of what seemed to have been a ritual, highly likely the kind of summoning he had always seen in isekai anime. Glowing inscriptions burned faintly on the ground beneath him, the air heavy with the residue of magic.
His body hadn't changed one bit. The same hands. The same form. Which meant… he hadn't been reincarnated. He had been transported.
Figures surrounded him, clad in ceremonial robes, their faces alight with joy. Though he couldn't understand their language, their excited expressions and lively gestures painted the picture well enough—they were thrilled at his arrival.
Atlas tried to move, but the rattle of chains froze him. He looked down. Shackles bound his wrists and ankles, glowing faintly with an ominous seal.
The room fell silent. The echo of heels clicked across the stone floor, drawing closer with deliberate rhythm. Every robed figure bowed low as a woman approached—a woman whose very presence demanded obedience. She smiled, but it wasn't warmth. It was something sharp, unsettling, a predator savoring her prize.
Her lips parted, releasing words Atlas couldn't understand. The foreign syllables washed over him like static. He barely heard them. His focus was on the chains. He tugged at them, panic flashing across his face. The moment he tried to resist, a searing bolt of pain exploded through his body, forcing a strangled gasp from his throat.
The woman's smile widened, almost delighted by his struggle.
Atlas' eyes darted across the circle, his breath uneven. The weight of the chains clinking against stone cut deeper than the ritual glow. His voice cracked as he shouted, "What the hell is going on?! Why am I chained like some prisoner?!"
The woman tilted her head ever so slightly. Her smile remained fixed, a too-perfect curve of her lips that never touched her cold eyes. Her tone was polite, but the politeness felt hollow—creepy, deliberate, like the gentleness of a predator coaxing prey closer.
"Please… calm yourself," she said softly, her voice sliding through the chamber like silk hiding blades. "It would be better for you… otherwise…"
Atlas snarled, the fear in him finally tipping into anger. "Don't 'otherwise' me! Get these things off! Right now! Maybe then I'll calm myself!"
The woman's smile twitched. Then, with a snap of her fingers, a surge of agony tore through him. The chains pulsed with light, and Atlas screamed.
The pain wasn't sharp or fleeting—it was suffocating, blistering, a fire that ate through his very bones. It lasted only five seconds, but every heartbeat stretched into an eternity, hours compressed into moments.
When the pain finally withdrew, Atlas slumped, gasping, sweat dripping down his face. His fists trembled against the cold shackles. He wanted to speak but could only manage a broken rasp.
The woman stepped closer, her heels echoing ominously with each step. She looked down at him, smiling as if his torment had been the most natural response in the world. "That is better. Now you see the importance of obedience."
She clasped her hands together and bowed her head, though the gesture was empty of true reverence. "I am Cardinal Mage Selphira Vaeltharis, keeper of this sacred temple of the Goddess of Fate. Through Her command, I now stand as your custodian."
Atlas' vision sharpened through the fog of lingering pain, his fury burning hotter. "Custodian? You mean jailer!" His voice cracked with rage. "You chain me up, torture me, and then talk like this is normal?! What the hell is this supposed to be?"
Selphira's smile widened, but not in amusement—it was the kind of smile that said you don't get to choose what's normal.
"You will understand soon," she replied. "For you are no mere man. You are the vessel marked by the Goddess's blood. And here, you shall fulfill your role… whether you accept it, or resist."
Atlas's breaths were shallow, his chest heaving with the aftershocks of pain. He glared up at Selphira, his voice coarse but filled with venom. "Then tell me. What exactly is this 'role' you keep talking about?"
Selphira leaned forward slightly, the glow of the ritual circle reflecting in her pale, polished eyes. Her smile sharpened.
"Your role is simple, blessed one. You are the property of this temple—no more, no less. A divine accessory, sent by the Goddess of Fate herself. You carry within you her blood, and that makes you our most sacred relic. With you displayed at our side, the temple will prosper. Worshipers will flock. Her name will ascend higher than ever before."
The words rang in his ears like poison. Property. Accessory. Not person. Not chosen hero. Just a tool, to be owned, paraded, and used.
Rage flared through Atlas, drowning reason. His chains rattled as he lurched forward, closing the gap between him and Selphira. His teeth clenched, his fist aimed straight at her smug, smiling face.
But his strike never landed. A force field shimmered into being before her, invisible until the moment of impact. The barrier sent a violent shockwave up his arm, forcing him to stumble backward, the chains biting into his neck and wrists.
Selphira's laughter was soft, chilling. It wasn't mockery—it was amusement, as though she were watching a child throw a tantrum.
"You have the nerve to bare your teeth at me?" she said, her tone both curious and delighted. "How… entertaining."
Her heels clicked as she turned, her robes swaying behind her. "Take him away," she commanded, her voice ringing across the chamber like a bell of judgment. "The underground dungeon will suit him better."
The robed figures obeyed without hesitation. Two knights in plated armor stepped forward, gripping Atlas by the chains. He struggled, but every tug ripped into his skin. The shackles dragged against the stone as he was pulled through the temple halls, leaving faint trails of blood and bruises where they cut into him.
The dungeon was damp, lit by flickering torches that smelled of smoke and rot. They threw him into a narrow cell, iron bars slamming shut with finality. Before stepping away, the knights descended on him with fists and boots.
Each blow was punishment, each strike delivered with the satisfaction of enforcing divine hierarchy. Atlas tried to shield himself, but bound and broken, he was little more than a ragdoll. His lip split, his ribs screamed, blood slicked his skin.
Finally, one of the knights spat at him, voice dripping with disdain. "That's for daring to touch the Cardinal. For even thinking you could hurt her."
Their laughter echoed as they left him crumpled in the corner of his cell.
Atlas lay there, bloodied and broken. Pain roared through him, but it was nothing compared to the fire kindling in his chest. His hatred for the Goddess of Fate, for the temple, for Selphira herself, coiled tighter, deeper.
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Atlas sat slumped in the corner of his cell, bruised up and bleeding. The metallic taste of iron lingered in his mouth, his lip still split, his ribs aching with every shallow breath. The pain was overwhelming—foreign.
His life on Earth had been peaceful, untouched by cruelty, untouched by this kind of raw, unrelenting agony. He had seen blood in fiction, had read of broken bones in novels, but living it… this was something else entirely.
He gritted his teeth, trying to endure. His body trembled, not from cold but from shock, his mind unwilling to believe pain could feel this suffocating. He had wanted adventure, but not like this. Not chained, not beaten, not reduced to a spectacle for sadistic zealots.
Hours crawled by, the silence of the dungeon broken only by the dripping of water somewhere far down the corridor. No matter how much time passed, not even a flicker of tiredness touched him. His mind was awake, painfully aware, forced to stew in misery.
Then, something extraordinary happened.
Atlas blinked and looked down at his torn arm. The gash there, jagged and swollen, began to knit itself shut. The blood dried and flaked away as fresh, unmarred skin pushed through. Slowly, effortlessly, his body repaired itself. His ribs ached less with each shallow breath; his lip sealed, leaving no trace of the split.
He stared in disbelief, his chest heaving. Regeneration? The thought was almost absurd, yet undeniable. The wounds vanished before his eyes as if he was never injured at all.
And though the injuries were gone, the pain lingered like a phantom. The memory of fists, of chains cutting into flesh, of boots slamming into his ribs—it haunted him, still fresh in his nerves.
Atlas sat in silence, clutching his chest, caught between awe and dread. This must be her blood…
The silence ended with the faint echo of footsteps, deliberate and slow, drawing closer through the dungeon hall. His breath caught. The wounds were gone, yes—but he still looked like the prisoner they had left broken.
The question burned in his mind. Who is coming for me now?