The ruined capital of Berkiumhum breathed unevenly beneath Atlas's boots, coughing dust and ash like a wounded animal fighting to remain alive.
A wind rolled through the broken pillars, carrying the stale taste of smoke, crushed stone, and the faint metallic whisper of drying blood. The breeze felt too cold for daylight. Too heavy for normal wind. As if the city itself feared the gathering forces and held its breath.
Behind Atlas, thousands assembled.
Demons in cracked armor still stained with Fourth Layer ichor. Fallen angels whose halos flickered like dying lanterns. Mortals—kings, soldiers, refugees—bearing scars that had not yet learned how to heal. And monsters—half shadow, half bone—watching him with intelligent stillness.
They waited for their king.
They waited for the one who walked out of Hell alive and came back holding unity where bloodshed used to reign.
