Atlas's POV
With the unending pain of being burned alive —his flesh charred, regenerated, and burned again—combined with the crushing force of the dark elf's relentless stomps, Atlas found himself drifting in and out of awareness.
His body screamed, but somewhere beneath the agony, a strange calm began to surface.
Ironically, amid the chaos and torment, he felt an inexplicable pull —a whisper urging him to listen.
Even while his nerves writhed with unbearable pain, Atlas forced himself to focus. He silenced the noise of the world, the crackling flames, and the mocking laughter of the dark elf. And then, through the roaring agony, he heard it.
His blood was crying.
"I'll help… I'll help… I'll help…"
The words echoed inside him like a thousand voices speaking in unison —some weeping, others pleading, yet all bound by one will: his. The sound wasn't just heard; it was felt—resonating through every atom of his existence.
Atlas's eyes widened as divine energy surged through him, violent yet empowering. His veins glowed crimson and gold as his body erupted with a force that transcended understanding. His divine power didn't merely grow—it evolved.
He felt himself ascend beyond the bounds of Deity, his consciousness expanding until it brushed against the infinite —a realm few ever reached.
He had crossed into the dominion of Constellations.
"Oh? What's this?" the dark elf muttered, his arrogance faltering for the first time. A flicker of unease crossed his face as he sensed it —Atlas's divinity, burning brighter, heavier, more immense than before.
He squinted, studying Atlas like one inspecting a dangerous weapon. "You've ascended… into a High-tier Constellation, perhaps? No… something close to it."
For a moment, uncertainty wavered in his tone —but then, he smirked.
But that's only divinity, he thought, his confidence slithering back like a serpent. In combat, he's still weak. His body can't yet handle the power he wields. So in the end… it won't matter.
He clenched his fist, shadows writhing around him once again —ready to strike.
The dark elf lunged forward, his shadows coiling around his arm like serpents, his fist aimed directly at Atlas's skull.
But this time—Atlas didn't flinch.
The elf's eyes widened. Something's different.
Atlas caught the strike mid-air. The sheer force of the impact cracked the ground beneath his feet, sending fractures outward, yet his stance didn't waver. His eyes—once deep and calculating —now glowed with a feral crimson radiance. His expression was void of reason, his lips curved into something primal, hungry.
"What the hell…" the dark elf muttered, pulling his arm free and stepping back instinctively. The presence before him was no longer that of a deity—it was something untamed, chaotic.
Atlas's head tilted slightly, his breathing heavy yet rhythmic. Blood dripped from his nose, but instead of weakness, there was fury in the rhythm of his heart. He muttered softly, "You hurt me…" His tone wasn't normal —it was guttural, layered with divine resonance and the voice of a predator.
Then he moved.
In a single heartbeat, he vanished from the elf's sight. The dark elf barely had time to summon a barrier of black flame before a fist smashed into his ribs, cracking them. Another hit followed—a backhand, then an uppercut, then another blow to the gut. Each strike was reckless, brutal, but impossibly fast—faster than the naked eye could follow.
Atlas was a blur of crimson and gold, a storm of violence given form. His fists weren't guided by martial grace; they were wild, fueled by raw instinct and bloodlust. Every punch shook the air, carrying divine weight behind the ferocity.
"A Berserker…" the elf whispered in disbelief, blocking another strike with his arm as the flames around him flared violently.
He countered with a burst of dark fire that exploded against Atlas's chest, sending him skidding backward through molten debris. "So that's what you are now—a beast pretending to be divine!"
Atlas's head lifted through the smoke, his grin splitting into something unnatural. The skin around his mouth twitched, his canines extending into sleek, sharp fangs that glistened in the dark light. His voice was deeper when he spoke, almost distorted by the blood boiling within him.
"Pretending?" he asked. "No… remembering."
The dark elf scoffed, rushing forward again, weaving through his own inferno, his strikes now measured, each punch burning with refined power. "You're fast," he said between blows, "but I've danced with berserk Deities before!"
Atlas met him blow for blow. The ground beneath them shattered, the air screamed as shockwaves tore through the dimension. Every movement of the elf's dark flame met Atlas's fists like thunder meeting lightning. Yet, slowly, the dark elf began to push Atlas back—his technique sharper, his precision honed by centuries of battle.
"You're losing control, Deity!" the elf snarled, delivering a knee to Atlas's gut followed by a spinning backhand of fire. "Power without focus—"
He never finished his sentence.
Atlas caught the flaming arm mid-swing, his hand searing but unflinching. His other hand shot forward and clamped around the elf's neck, squeezing until the bones began to creak beneath his fingers.
The elf roared, dark flames bursting from his body in a desperate attempt to burn himself free, but Atlas only smiled—a monstrous, blood-drunk grin that made the elf's heart quiver.
Without hesitation, Atlas raised his left hand—and ripped off his own finger. The sound of tearing flesh echoed between them, a grotesque symphony of madness and resolve. Crimson liquid gushed from the severed wound, thick and luminous, burning through the air like molten rubies.
The dark elf froze, instinctively recoiling, but Atlas was faster. He forced his regenerating hand forward, shoving the bloodied finger between the elf's teeth.
"Eat," Atlas growled, voice layered with distorted divinity and fury.
The elf gagged, struggling, but Atlas's strength was absolute. His other hand crushed the elf's jaw shut until bones cracked, forcing him to swallow. The blood slid down his throat like liquid fire, scorching everything it touched.
For a moment, silence.
Then the elf stumbled backward, eyes wide and unfocused. "Wha—what did you—" His voice broke off as his body convulsed violently. His pupils dilated to the size of pinpricks, veins bulging and darkening beneath his skin, writhing as though alive.
"What's… happening to me?!" he screamed, clawing at his throat. His voice cracked into a shriek of terror as his flesh began to ripple. The veins pulsed erratically, blackening before splitting open, leaking dark smoke and ichor.
Atlas watched silently, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. His crimson eyes flickered like twin suns—cold, merciless, and alive with primal delight.
Inside the elf's body, Atlas's blood was alive. It wasn't mere essence—it was a predatory will, a parasitic entity born from his wrath. It slithered through the elf's veins, consuming him from within, devouring organs, rewriting cells, burning through bone.
The elf fell to his knees, howling. "Get it out! GET IT OUT!" His voice dissolved into incoherent screams as steam poured from his mouth and eyes. Every heartbeat only accelerated his destruction.
Atlas stepped closer, the ground trembling with each step. His gaze never left the writhing creature before him.
When the screaming turned to gurgles, Atlas reached out. His blood-soaked hand gripped the elf's skull, fingers digging into flesh. For a heartbeat, they locked eyes—the elf's pupils dilated with terror, Atlas's glowing with insatiable fury.
Then—he pulled.
A wet, violent rip filled the air. Blood erupted in a scarlet geyser, spraying across Atlas's chest and the fractured ground. The elf's head came free from his neck, his expression forever frozen in agony and disbelief.
The body twitched once… then fell still. The parasitic blood within it writhed for a few final seconds, rippling beneath the darkened skin like something alive, before consuming what remained entirely.
The flesh collapsed inward, the bones disintegrated, and within moments, the once low-ranked Constellation dark elf was reduced to ashes—fine, dark dust carried away by the faint stir of wind in the broken dimension.
Yet, not everything was devoured. Amidst the scattering ashes, two objects remained.
The first—a white, glowing core—hovered slightly above the ash, pulsing softly with ethereal light. It radiated a strange purity that clashed violently with the corruption that had once filled its owner.
The second—a black bracelet, forged of an unfamiliar metal—fell heavily beside it with a muted clang. Embedded within the bracelet was a jet-black gem, its surface swirling with dark smoke that moved like sentient shadows. It exuded a malevolent aura, so potent that the very air around it began to warp.
Atlas stood over the remains, holding the head by its hair. His breathing was heavy, animalistic. The crimson light beneath his skin pulsed rhythmically, each beat echoing with unnatural hunger.
He let the head drop. It hit the ground with a dull thud.
For a long moment, Atlas simply stood there—his blood still seething, his body trembling between godhood and monstrosity. The berserk hadn't left him. It whispered through his veins, urging him to hunt again, to feed, to destroy.
And beneath it all, a distant feeling stirred—
not rage, not pain… but hunger.