Atlas dropped.
No, he fell—not merely through air or battle, but through something deeper. Reality itself shuddered around him as though trying to hold onto his existence, to keep him from dissolving into the abyss that howled beneath.
The force of his strike had been meant to unmake Asmodeus, to sever the demon king's name from history. It was more than power—it was law given motion, command given flesh. But as his knuckle collided with the shimmering veil of Asmodeus's defense, the world cracked, and Atlas felt something wrong.
The law hesitated.
His body trembled mid-strike, the pulse of reality faltering. For the first time since he had touched the mantle of the Guide, his will hitched. But it was his will, but of Atlas.
The shock echoed through every thread of his being, from the marrow of his bones to the glyphs that burned along his skin. His heart thudded faster, too fast, and each beat carried a whisper not of triumph—but of panic.
