Chapter 311: Chapter 310: System upgrade
"I don’t give a flying fuck about fate," Atlas beloud, the words bursting from him like sparks from a smoldering forge.
And it seemed he had said it aloud.
The priest who had been droning his sermon—his lips wet with sanctimony, his tone steeped in authority—suddenly faltered. His eyes widened, a ripple of confusion passing through the congregation like a tremor under stone.
"Fate?" the priest echoed, his thin voice trembling with offense and bewilderment. "If it is about your own fate today, I truly want you to care, prophet. Care—because this purification ceremony will endow a new life onto you, give you the path you were meant to take."
The word meant twisted like a blade in Atlas’s gut.
The road stretched before him once more, cruel and unchanging. His arms were pulled behind him, bound to the heavy cross strapped across his back. Each step sent fire through his shoulders and spine. Dust coated his lips, and the iron scent of blood dripped down from the crown that was not just set upon him—but fused into him.
The halo above him was no longer luminous but monstrous. No divine ring of gold, but a spiked circlet that dug deep into his scalp. The thorns pierced through flesh and bone, rivulets of blood running hot down his temples. It was less a symbol of holiness and more an instrument of torture.
He staggered under its weight, every step echoing with the sound of dragging wood against stone, every breath shallow against the noose of pain tightening his skull.
"One of our high pristine prophets once wore that crown," the priest said, voice quivering with pious pride. "It was not planned for you. But I... I beseeched them. I begged for this one favor. Now you truly walk the road of the prophet as in the past."
The old man’s eyes glimmered with something Atlas could not name. Devotion, madness, cruelty—they had all melted into one expression, sickly and cold.
Atlas’s heart slammed in his chest. He had walked this road before. He knew what lay at its end. The newly built temples lined the cliffs, their marble facades gleaming in false purity. At the precipice, the zealots gathered again.
He saw their faces—the same hollow-eyed bastards, the same twisted smiles, the same old cunts cloaked in righteousness. They called themselves priests. In truth, they were executioners, burners of flesh in the name of purification.
And there—just as before—stood Aurora.
Alive. Bound. Terrified.
Her eyes met his, and something inside him cracked. His throat tore as he screamed her name. His voice broke, a sound closer to an animal’s wail than a man’s plea. His teacher. His guardian. His parent figure. His anchor in a world that tore at him again and again.
But no matter how he strained against the cross, no matter how he dug his heels into the earth, the scene rolled out like a play he had no power to rewrite.
They dragged her to the pyre.
They lit the torches.
They burned her alive.
Her screams seared themselves into his ears, blistering his heart as surely as the fire blistered her skin.
And then they turned to him.
And again, the fire consumed.
And again, agony swallowed him whole.
And again, silence.
When sight returned, when breath crept back into his lungs, he was back. Back in the cage.
The stone walls pressed around him, damp with shadow. His hands trembled, the smell of charred flesh still clinging to him. He could not tell whether it was hers or his own.
But he was steady. He had to be.
The voice in his mind whispered—The Guide. Cold. Patient. Eternal.
"{{{{{{Do not use it to save a single life. Let her die!!!!.}}}}}}"
Atlas’s jaw clenched until his teeth ached.
"{{{{{{The more you use this power, the more you bend the threads, the more you tug at her notice. Fate will gaze upon you, and you are not ready for it.}}}}}}"
"I don’t care," Atlas spat, voice trembling between fury and despair. "I will watch her burn again. Until—"
"{{{{{{You think you are strong because you resisted me. Because you no longer allow me to possess your body as before. Yes—you are stronger. But not strong enough. Not to face Death. Not to face Fate.}}}}}}"
The words echoed like a tolling bell, each syllable reverberating in the marrow of his bones.
Atlas pressed his forehead to the cold iron of the bars. His skin was clammy with sweat, his breaths shallow and ragged. He wanted to fight. He wanted to break. He wanted to end this endless cycle.
But still, the whispers continued.
"{{{{{{I was there to fight Dracula—the Lord of Dreaming. And I could barely keep the tide at bay. You walk willingly into storms that are older, crueler, hungrier than he.}}}}}}"
Atlas’s hands shook, but his eyes hardened. He had burned once. Twice. A hundred times. If it took a thousand, he would endure.
[Upgrade: 96%...]
The numbers blinked at the edge of his vision. The System’s voice was flat, mechanical, yet it filled him with something dangerous. Hope.
He said nothing. He watched. The numbers climbed.
[Upgrading: 97%...]
Dragged on the road again.
The cross digging into his back again.
The crown tearing deeper into his skull again.
The torches.
The chanting.
Aurora’s screams.
His flesh blackened.
His bones split.
The pyre consumed.
And once more, he was back.
The cage swallowed him whole. His breaths shook. His vision blurred. His throat raw.
[Upgrading: 98%...]
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each repetition gnawed at the edges of his sanity. He clung to himself by threads—thin, fraying strands woven of Aurora’s face, Aurora’s voice, Aurora’s warmth.
The Guide murmured still, patient, relentless: "{{{{{{Every time you push, the gaze turns closer. Every time you defy, she stirs. Fate is not a priest you can curse. She is not a demon you can slay. She is the storm, Atlas. And storms do not kneel.}}}}}}"
Atlas closed his eyes. He saw Aurora’s face again. Not burning. Not screaming. But smiling, as she once had. The memory pressed against the horror like a balm and a blade at once.
"I don’t care," he whispered. "I don’t care. Let her see me. Let her storm. Let her rage. I will not lose her again."
The Guide sighed. "{{{{{{Then so be it. But you will pay. You will always pay.}}}}}}"
[Upgrading: 99%...]
The road. The fire. The screams. The agony.
And again.
And again.
Until at last—
[Upgrade Complete: 100%]
The numbers flared, brilliant and final, like the strike of a hammer upon steel.
Atlas lifted his head in the cage, eyes hollow yet burning golden. His body trembled, broken by repetition, but his soul—his soul roared with something vast and terrible.
The halo above him pulsed, its spikes glowing faintly crimson, blood and light entwined.
The cage was the same. The priests would be the same. The fire would be the same.
But he was not.
Not anymore.