An old man appeared, his age somewhere past fifty. He wore mage clothes—not the oversized robes Atlas expected from fiction, but garments that fit neatly, sharp and practical.
The steel cell door opened on its own. The man's face showed no emotion, no explanation for his visit. He simply raised his right hand.
Atlas felt his body jolt. Against his will, his legs straightened, and he stood. His arms moved stiffly at his sides as though pulled by invisible strings.
Without a word, the old man turned. Atlas's chained body followed, step for step, leaving the cell behind.
Atlas tried to speak, but no sound came. His lips wouldn't part, his throat refused to obey. His body marched stiffly behind the old mage, each step taken against his will.
They left the prison cells behind and entered another chamber. It was colder, darker, and filled with tools that Atlas instantly recognized—not for worship, not for study, but for torture. Shackles lined the wall, rusted and stained.
With a flick of the mage's hand, Atlas's chains lifted him, fastening tightly at his neck, wrists, and ankles against the wall. His body strained, yet he couldn't fight it. The old man remained silent, his face blank as he pulled a small notebook from his robes.
The hours dragged. Torture began, though Atlas soon realized there was more to it. The old man was not tormenting him for cruelty—he was observing. Recording. Researching.
The first discovery came quickly. When the mage sliced through Atlas's skin with precise wind blades, the wounds sealed before his eyes. The old man finally spoke, his tone flat but faintly intrigued.
"Regeneration."
That single word seemed to decide everything. The subject of the week.
Day by day, the experiments escalated. Each morning began with new methods of pain, and each night ended only when Atlas's voice broke from screaming. On the first day, it was brutal slashes, the mage layering wind blades across his arms, chest, and legs, studying how fast they healed.
The next day, the tests grew harsher. Blades cut deeper. The mage slowed the pace, calculating the exact speed of recovery, scribbling notes as Atlas's body knitted back together again and again.
A day in this world felt longer than on Earth. Every hour stretched endlessly, a cycle of agony and recovery.
Atlas hung from the wall, his body restoring itself no matter the wound. He should have been grateful for the healing, but all it did was make the torment unending.
The mage never once looked at Atlas as a man. Only as a subject. A specimen.
Day One
The old mage raised his hand. Thin blades of wind carved into Atlas's arms and legs, shallow but sharp. Blood spilled, only to dry and vanish as the skin pulled itself back together. The mage scribbled notes without expression.
"Regeneration confirmed."
For the rest of the day, he repeated the same cuts—dozens, then hundreds—measuring the speed of each recovery.
Day Two
The blades struck deeper, splitting muscle and leaving wounds that should have crippled Atlas. They closed again, slower this time, but still certain. The mage leaned closer, observing carefully, then wrote in his notebook.
"Duration shortened. Recovery accelerating."
He slashed slower, then faster, marking the exact pace of regeneration. The day stretched long, every cut a test, every scar erased.
Day Three
The mage's methods grew crueler. The blades targeted Atlas's torso, his stomach, and even his chest. One strike nearly punctured his lung—Atlas felt himself suffocating, gasping—but moments later he could breathe again as the wound sealed. The mage's pen scratched furiously.
"Organ regeneration confirmed. Speed increasing."
Atlas's screams filled the chamber until his voice cracked.
Day Four
The old man set aside wind blades and focused instead on precision. He began with Atlas's hands, slicing each finger clean off, one by one. Atlas shrieked, watching them fall to the floor… only for new fingers to sprout, trembling and raw, before hardening back to normal.
The mage muttered aloud for the first time, almost impressed. "Excellent… fascinating."
When the fingers regrew, he repeated the act, timing each regrowth.
Day Five
The mage pushed further. He cut off Atlas's entire hand. Then both hands. Each regrew faster than the day before. Atlas trembled, his body drenched in sweat, his mind unraveling from the sight of himself being torn apart and rebuilt endlessly.
The mage's notes grew longer, more detailed. "Acceleration continues. Limits not yet found."
For Atlas, the day felt endless, the pain reborn with every hand.
Day Six
The mage struck with brutal creativity. He sliced open Atlas's stomach, removing what should have been vital organs, yet the body restored itself before his eyes. He carved flesh from his chest, even split him at the waist—and still, Atlas regenerated.
The mage's voice carried the faintest thread of excitement now. "Self-repair is improving exponentially. Subject demonstrates increasing efficiency."
Atlas, broken, realized the truth: the more he healed, the more eager the mage became. His gift had become his curse.
Day Seven
The final day of the week began without a word. The mage's expression was calm, but his eyes burned with curiosity. He raised his hand, and this time, instead of a cut, he severed Atlas's arm completely.
Atlas screamed as the limb fell, but within moments, flesh surged forward. A new arm formed, cleaner, quicker than the last.
The mage froze, then wrote one line: "Full limb regeneration achieved. Subject continues to accelerate."
Not long after, he cut the other arm. Then both legs. Each regrew faster than the last, the agony stretching endlessly.
The door creaked open. Atlas's head hung low, his body trembling against the chains. His limbs had grown back countless times, only to be taken again.
A woman's heels clicked across the stone floor. That chilling, polite voice cut through the silence.
"Bishop, I trust the week has not been wasted?"
The old mage bowed his head.
"Not wasted, Lady Selphira. Quite the opposite." He adjusted the neat folds of his robes, opening a worn journal. "Subject demonstrates accelerated regeneration. What began as hours now resolves in minutes. By day seven, limbs regenerate fully in less than two minutes. Organs, bones, and even nerves reform without flaw. The process only improves the more it is forced."
Selphira's eyes narrowed with a curious gleam. "So the Goddess's gift was not exaggerated after all." She turned, her gaze lingering on Atlas. His breathing was ragged, his face pale yet defiant.
The Bishop—his name revealed now, Bishop Corvane—continued, voice calm, as though reporting on a laboratory animal.
"There is no sign of exhaustion in his body. His blood circulation, pulse, and magical capacity remain stable despite trauma. I suspect there are deeper mysteries hidden within him—he is evolving."
Selphira's lips curved in amusement. "Evolving, you say?" She stepped closer to Atlas, tilting her head with mock sympathy. "You poor, wretched thing. And yet… how magnificent."
Atlas, through gritted teeth, spat out:
"Go to hell…"
Selphira smiled wider. "Still fiery. Good."
Without warning, she raised her hand slightly—yet no light, no gust, no ripple of mana revealed her spell. Atlas only felt a sudden emptiness, followed by unbearable agony. His arms and legs fell to the floor at once, as though reality itself had cut him apart.
The chamber echoed with the wet slap of flesh hitting stone. Blood exploded outward, painting the walls, the Bishop, and Selphira's immaculate robes.
For the first time all week, Bishop Corvane did not stop it. He simply stared, his calm mask breaking into astonishment.
Something was happening.
The blood, instead of pooling or drying, shimmered faintly as though alive. The crimson liquid crawled across the floor, etching glowing patterns into the stone itself. Strange symbols—none from any known language—burned into the ground where the blood touched.
Atlas gasped, his pain drowned beneath a sickening realization: his blood was doing this.
The glowing patterns pulsed once, then again, as if breathing. The walls trembled. For a brief instant, the entire dungeon felt as though it had been pulled closer to something vast and otherworldly.
Selphira's eyes widened—not in horror, but delight.
"…Oh. Oh, this is beyond what is stated in the prophecy."
Bishop Corvane, shaking for the first time, scribbled furiously in his journal. "Subject's blood interacts with reality. Unknown phenomenon. Possible divine resonance."
Selphira crouched low, staring at Atlas like he was a priceless artifact. "Do you know what you are, Atlas? You're not a prisoner. You're a revelation."
Atlas bared his teeth. "I'm your damn experiment…"
Selphira chuckled softly, ignoring his rage. She dipped a gloved finger into the glowing blood, watching the light ripple at her touch.
"No… you're much more. The temple will worship what you are, long before they release what you could become."
The floor still pulsed with the strange markings, refusing to fade.