Requiem for Atlas

Chapter five: Requiem for Atlas

The shores of Atlas groaned under the weight of conquest. Warships, immense steel leviathans born of Arcacia's forges, nosed against the docks with a screech of metal on stone. Along their armored hulls, crimson symbols were painted—glyphs of conquest that heralded only ruin. Even before the first boots struck the piers, the cries began.

Soldiers and mages spilled forth like a living tide, clad in black and red, faces hidden behind polished masks. In their hands burned conjured flame and steel. They marched through the city's streets, setting every wooden beam and canvas awning alight. The smell of burning flesh and thatch choked the air.

Children screamed as they fled, their little feet slipping in the mud slicked with blood. Women wailed, clutching infants as the soldiers cut them down without hesitation. Men took up arms in desperation, only to be impaled or immolated where they stood. The sky itself recoiled—the clouds darkening to an oppressive grey as the colossal portal above the city churned and crackled, spitting arcs of sickly white lightning into the storm.

At the heart of the square, framed by toppled statues and broken columns, the King of Atlas stood alone. His body was battered, wounds torn open along his arms and torso. His crown lay discarded in the dirt. Yet his gaze never wavered from the figure across the shattered flagstones—Leo Starford, the Eleventh Arm of Arcacia.

Leo's long black hair clung to his sharp cheekbones. His golden eyes glowed through the mist, unfeeling and ferocious. Ornamental rings glinted on his fingers, each a relic of Arcacia's terrible history. Behind him, the torn cape fluttered as though in anticipation of the violence to come.

The King clenched his fists. All around him lay the bodies of the Wolves of Atlas—his fiercest warriors, slain in ways too brutal to comprehend. He felt as if the world itself were slipping from beneath his feet, but something in him refused to fall.

Slowly, with a guttural cry, he pushed himself upright. His bones protested with each movement. His heart pounded like a war drum. As he lifted his chin, a brilliance erupted in his eyes—white fire that set the very air to quivering. His aura blazed outward, flooding the broken square.

His voice cracked like lightning:

"I was going to face the Twelfth Star… What made you step in, Leo?"

Each word was acid, dripping with exhaustion and fury.

He began to walk—slow, deliberate, as though reclaiming his own right to stand. The other Arms of Arcacia shifted uneasily, exchanging glances. No one moved to stop him.

"You people… you've forced my hand. I should have done this from the start."

And then he vanished.

In a single blink, he crossed the distance between them. His fist struck Leo's chest with an impact that sent a thunderclap booming across the plaza. Leo's body smashed through a row of abandoned houses, their walls collapsing in a plume of splinters.

Cries rose from the other Arms, who lunged forward to intercept. But the King was a phantom—flames of Zone trailing behind him as he danced between their attacks. Fireballs shrieked through the rain. Jagged icicles shattered against cobblestones. Bolts of lightning gouged black scars in the earth. Nothing struck him.

Out of the wreckage, Leo emerged. His hair hung limp, his face a mask of blood and soot. He raised a trembling hand, the air around it pulsing with heat.

"You filthy monkey!"

A sphere of flame erupted from his palm, spinning and growing until it blotted out the sky. Its glare turned night into day.

"Burn to dust!"

The fireball hurtled forward. Everything it touched dissolved into cinders and drifting ash. The wind howled in its wake, tearing roof tiles from distant homes.

The King turned, his eyes twin stars of defiance. His mind filled with visions: the Queen's tender smile, Issac's bright laughter, Klaus's quiet strength, Lena's gentle touch—the faces of all who believed in him.

I can't let it end here… I can't… They're still waiting for me.

His tears sizzled into steam as he planted his feet and raised his scorched arm. As the inferno crashed over him, he bellowed in pain and drove his fist into the searing mass. His skin blackened, his bones groaned, but he would not yield.

"I can't… let… go…!"

With one final roar, he channeled every last shred of Zone through his body into his arm. The flames shot upward into the portal and vanished.

An instant later, a cataclysmic explosion detonated above Atlas. A shockwave flattened what remained of the square. Whole buildings splintered to dust. The King dropped to one knee, panting raggedly. Rain poured down in sheets, hissing against the charred stones.

His left arm was gone—reduced to ash.

Yet still, he rose.

"Even in that state… he still wants to fight," one of the Arms whispered, a nervous laugh escaping his throat.

Leo stepped forward, voice ragged.

"I acknowledge your strength. You are—"

The King interrupted with a hollow laugh. The flames still smoldered across his body.

"Don't give me that crap."

He spat blood at Leo's feet.

"You came for the Cube? Pathetic. What's a weapon to men who don't even understand it?"

The insult spread like poison. Murmurs and curses rippled through the Arms. Only Leo held his composure, though his jaw clenched.

Then a presence descended, as silent as it was ominous. A figure landed softly in the rain. The Twelfth Star had arrived at last: Dale Dragonheart.

Golden hair, immaculate despite the carnage. Cyan eyes that saw nothing and felt nothing. A face like a blank slate, empty of rage or pity.

Leo glared at him.

"What do you think you're doing, Dale? You left after starting this fight, and now—now you come to steal the kill?"

He strode up and seized Dale's shoulder.

"You think you can do as you please?"

Dale's expression didn't flicker. He turned his head, his voice soft as falling ash.

"Get your filthy hand off my uniform. You let this pathetic excuse for a king cripple you. You aren't worthy to lecture me."

With effortless disdain, he brushed Leo aside and approached the King.

"You're right about one thing," he said, voice carrying across the square. "We can't wield the Cube as you can… but he can."

He lifted a pale hand and pointed.

A figure emerged through the smoke—a man in a black cloak. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled back his hood.

Recognition split the King's face.

"Brother…? What are you doing here? I thought—you were dead…"

Before he could finish, the man's eyes glowed with white light. A blur of motion. The cold kiss of steel.

The King's world went dark.

His head fell to the stones, his body following an instant later.

The stranger—his brother—watched him die, his expression hollow.

"Take the Cube. We're done here."

He turned and walked past the king's corpse, stepping lightly over the bodies of the innocents. A smile touched his lips—sharp and unnatural.

"Glory to the Kingdom of Atlas."

In the castle's smoldering halls, Azar staggered backward as a spear of wind slammed into the floor where he had stood. Two Arms of Arcacia advanced: the Wind Mage, whose laughter was high and cruel, and the child—the boy with lightning in his eyes.

Azar's limbs trembled with exhaustion. He had spent hours fighting—evading, striking, shielding the royal children. Yet he felt the King's Zone flicker and fade, and dread gripped his heart.

"Two mages… and I must keep the heirs alive…"

The Wind Mage raised both arms.

"Don't you think this is tiring, old man?"

Spears of wind lanced toward Azar. He leapt aside, pivoting to strike—but too late. A snake of lightning coiled around the Wind Mage and struck Azar's chest, hurling him across the chamber.

Pain exploded in his ribs. He tasted blood.

The Wind Mage's hands blurred, conjuring thousands of wind-forged blades. The boy's lightning gathered into a colossal bow.

"Enough," Azar rasped.

He ducked and wove between the projectiles, but the boy lunged—too fast.

A lightning sword rose, ready to end him—

—but an instant before impact, Issac rushed from the side. His leg collided with the child's jaw, launching him through the ceiling.

Issac stood, body battered, royal garments torn, white flames searing his eyes. His breathing was ragged. Determination burned in him like a second sun.

The Wind Mage tried to conjure another spell, but Idris hurled a broken column across the room. The mage dodged left, only to meet Idris's fist—a blow that sent him spinning away.

Issac rushed to Azar's side.

"It's about time you brats woke up," Azar coughed, managing a tired smirk. He gestured toward Klaus's motionless form. "Fetch your brother. He needs care."

Issac slung Klaus over his back. Idris helped Azar to his feet.

"Listen carefully," Azar rasped, voice hoarse with sorrow. He turned to Issac, his gaze bleak. "Especially you."

They descended the ruined hall to the final stair. Before them loomed the statue of a great panther. Azar raised a trembling hand and triggered his Zone. The statue's head turned with a grinding shriek. A hidden stairway opened below.

"Don't stand there gawking," Azar snapped. "Get in."

The passage led into darkness, lanterns flickering along a damp stone tunnel. They reached an underground waterway. A single small boat waited, tethered at the edge.

Issac's voice broke as he stepped forward.

"No—no, we can't leave. What about Lena? Mother? Father—"

Azar's eyes glistened.

"Your father…"

He swallowed, but the truth choked him.

"No…" Issac whispered, shaking. "Not now…"

Idris seized him by the collar, his own face streaked with tears.

"Snap out of it! I can still feel Lena's Zone—and the Queen's. They're alive. We can save them."

Issac nodded shakily. As he began to lower Klaus into the boat, Azar grabbed his arm.

"No. Klaus stays with me. You must go."

Issac's eyes widened.

"Grandfather, I—"

"Once Arcacia has you, it's over," Azar said, voice firm. "Your father… he passed the Cube's essence to you as an infant. They'll never control its power without you. You are the last hope."

He leaned closer, tears sliding down his weathered cheeks.

"Be brave, my boy. One day, you will rebuild this kingdom."

He lifted Klaus onto his own back.

"Go."

Idris untied the ropes and shoved the boat into the current.

A shattering crash echoed behind them.

"They're coming," Idris said.

Azar triggered his zone and turned to meet the noise.

Issac could only watch, the boat drifting farther into darkness.

Mist thickened around him. Just before it swallowed the tunnel's mouth, he saw a figure—small, watching him from the shadows. The boy with lightning in his eyes.

Issac's hands clenched. His heart thudded with rage.

"I will kill you all," he whispered.

Images of his family flickered behind his eyes.

"On the graves of every soul you've stolen… I will destroy Arcacia."

The little boat drifted into open water. Rain pelted the waves. Atlas, once proud, now lay in ruin.

Then the sky split apart.

A pillar of light erupted from the portal, spearing the broken city. The shockwave hurled Issac's boat sideways. He struggled to rise, heart hammering.

When the light faded, nothing remained of Atlas. No towers. No streets. Only a smoking crater where a kingdom had stood.

Issac stared.

And for the first time, he understood what it meant to be alone.

Tears blurred his vision as he gripped the boat's edge, the ocean swallowing the last echoes of his home. In that moment, in the rain and darkness, Issac became the final heir of Atlas.