Chapter 319: Chapter 318: I am what I am.
Atlas opened his eyes to the priest’s face and, of course, Aurora’s. She reached out and helped him to his feet, her hand warm and steady.
"What happened?" he asked. His memories were a blur.
"...you were fighting Ureil, up in the clouds," she said, gesturing toward the other side of the clearing where Ureil lay unconscious. "Your fight shook the sky like thunder for a few minutes, and then—" She nodded toward him. "—you fell."
As Atlas’ gaze snapped to the priests, memories resurfacing, fury rose like a tide. Aurora slid between him and the nearest men, her voice soft but firm.
"Aurora?"
"They don’t think we’re enemies, Atlas. You proved them wrong, you proved all of them wrong." She looked him over, gesturing to his singed, naked body that had survived the holy fire. "You’ve grown. People would be amazed to learn you’re only sixteen—considering your... stature."
Atlas glanced down and blushed; he was, indeed, completely naked.
Samiel stepped forward. His eyes found Atlas not with scorn but with something like recognition—like a man who had at last found what he had long searched for.
He bowed and handed Atlas a white robe. The priests beside him bowed, then the warriors, then the rest in a ripple of reverence that spread away from them.
Atlas’ notification pinged again and again, light as snow falling on still water. Hundreds of priests and warriors bowed; a hundred small beeps marked each new worshipful glance.
Ureil, one of the few who remained standing, rolled over and sat up; confusion crossed her face as she took in the scene.
"What the—what happened to me?" she demanded, shocked to find herself protected by the very one she’d been set against.
She beat her wings and flew closer to Samiel. "Samiel," she called.
"My holiness, Ureil," he answered.
Ureil landed and studied Atlas with narrowed eyes. "Are you certain he’s the one?"
"I would sell my soul to the One Below All if this man isn’t," Samiel said with absolute conviction.
Ureil paced toward Atlas. "Strength alone does not make a prophet," she said. "A prophet proclaims sacrifice, leadership, virtue. Are you ready to fulfill that, Atlas?" Her voice carried across the silent assembly.
Atlas had refused them a thousand times—refused the demons, refused the fate they described. The more he resisted, the more they believed. But...
He checked his notifications again:
[+1 faith point]
[+1 faith point]
[+1 faith point]
[+1 faith point]
[+1 faith point]
...
They kept adding up, like footsteps on a long road.
The system inside him declared him a Genesis human, tied to Adam and Eve, a focal point of this new faith. He took a slow breath.
"I cannot be your prophet of virtue."
Atlas’s voice fell like iron into water—measured, heavy, unavoidable. The words rippled outward, and the silence that followed was not absence but pressure, pressing into every ear, every chest.
The crowd clung to the sound as if virtue itself had just been buried.
Ureil’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of doubt breaking the war-mask of her face. She glanced toward Samiel. He lifted a single hand and the priests obeyed instantly, their chants choking into stillness. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
"Let him finish..."
"...I cannot be your prophet of sacrifice."
The second denial struck harder. Each word was deliberate, like footsteps echoing down a long corridor that had no end. The priests shifted uneasily, their faith colliding with their expectations.
Sacrifice was the marrow of prophecy, the blood-price every savior was meant to pay. To hear it denied was to feel the ground tilt.
"I cannot be your prophet of leadership."
This time the silence did not just fall—it crashed. The air felt thick, heavy as molten glass, and no one dared to move. Leadership had been the crown they were ready to set on his head; now the crown lay shattered at his feet.
Even Aurora—steady, sharp-eyed Aurora—looked shaken. She had seen Atlas fight, bleed, break. She had seen him withstand storms of fire and Fate itself. But never had she seen him claim his truth with such unyielding defiance. She watched, wide-eyed, as if seeing him anew.
Atlas raised his head, golden eyes burning with a light that did not belong to the void, nor to heaven, nor to hell.
"But I can be your prophet."
The words fell not as denial, but as declaration, reshaping the silence into something vast and waiting. A murmur rolled through the priests like the first tremor of an earthquake.
"A prophet who will protect." His voice surged, not loud, but carrying the weight of command that made the very bones of the assembly shiver.
"A prophet who will create." His hand clenched at his side, the mark of thunder burning bright on his arm like a seal of defiance.
"A prophet who will destroy—" he turned, gaze sweeping the crowd, lingering on Ureil, on Samiel, on Aurora, on every bowed head trembling before him "—if you force me to."
The final words cracked like lightning across the void. Not a plea. Not a promise. A verdict.
And for one heartbeat, it seemed as though the world itself paused, waiting to see if such a prophet could exist—one forged not of virtue, sacrifice, or leadership, but of defiance, creation, and wrath.
He thought of the way they’d burned Aurora, of the helplessness that had washed through him before fate intervened. Anger alone would not make him stronger; vengeance would not teach him restraint.
Humility—bitter but clarifying—had snapped into place. He glanced at the mark on his arm, the same mark that had saved—or bound—him. He did not know which. Only one thing felt certain: he had to grow. Beyond fate. Beyond death. Beyond even the gods.
Ureil stepped forward, her anger softening into a smile. She had thought, the prophets before like Isaiah, Simon. Whome everybody wants, prophet of ritual kindness would not help them reach the one above all.
She was a warrior who had stood on the front lines; so she believed a savior, should not be what they want, but what they need, and what they need was someone raw, someone uncompromising, a blade in human form.
So she accepted his speech, accepted him. she bowed, her four wings trembled in a reluctant tribute, and the crowd followed suit. Those who had not bowed before now dropped to their knees.
Aurora let out a soft laugh. "...and I thought Lara was the main character."
Atlas gave a small, genuine smile for the first time in a long while. "She still is," he said. "Don’t worry."
If the world insisted on loading that mantle onto him, then he would carry it—gladly, and on his own terms.
He folded the robe around his shoulders and felt, for the first time since opening his eyes, that he had chosen something, instead of being chosen one.