CHAPTER 222: CHAPTER 223: LARA TIME

No one spoke. But it didn’t matter. Their stares were weapons. Claire’s was colder—judgment and disappointment worn like perfume. Lara’s? Something worse.

Jealousy.

It hung in the air, faint but unmistakable. Like the scent of overripe roses—it *clung*.

Gods, he hoped it wasn’t about Eli.

He took one more step forward.

Claire’s voice cut the air like a thread snapping.

"You went alone...."

Atlas raised an eyebrow. "Would you have stopped me?"

"...I tried but you went anyway...: she replied.

Lara scoffed. "You didn’t even ask."

His mouth twitched. "You weren’t supposed to follow."

Claire stepped forward. "And what if you....."

He stopped. Silence again. The tension pulled taut.

Atlas looked at them—really looked. The way Lara’s fingers curled slightly against her hip. The way Claire’s breathing faltered at the top of her ribcage. They had waited. For hours. Maybe longer.

That mattered more than they wanted to admit.

He ran a hand through his hair, rough. "It was just an interrogation..."

Lara stepped closer now, eyes narrowed.

"That’s ....debatable."

He held her gaze. The bitterness in her voice wasn’t just jealousy. It was fear, painted over with anger. She’d watched too many leave. And now even Atlas was beginning to feel like a ghost.

He softened. Just a little. "....."

That made Claire’s expression flicker. "....You....you still care about her even after what she did to you.."

Atlas sighed. His hand on his forehead. He wasn’t going to Play these games.

"Claire...I know you hate her...but she is still an essential political tool." He voiced.

Claire stared at him. Watching his eyes. Her churning with every lie he spoke.

".....You should have just killed her..." she asked.

Atlas paused. "....."

A beat passed. Wind stirred through the courtyard, brushing against his coat. For a moment, the scent of ash clung to it—remnants of the god’s breath, of the battle, of something unspoken.

Claire’s eyes softened. Barely. Just enough to let silence be mercy.

Lara tilted her head, she didn’t know much like claire...but she didn’t like the silence. "....You didn’t tell us everything....About the god."

Atlas shrugged. "No. I didn’t."

"Why?"

"Because I’m still trying to understand what I saw."

And deep down, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

What he faced down there—what looked through him—it hadn’t seen a man. It had seen potential. And that terrified him more than death.

He turned to leave.

"You Changed...," Claire said quietly, behind him.

He didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

He stepped into the hall’s shadows, the torchlight behind him flickering like a dying heartbeat. Something inside him shifted—slow, irreversible.

As if the god had left a handprint on his soul.

And it hadn’t washed off.

He checked his system again.

A quiet moment. Bare, anxious. As if the panel might not show this time. As if whatever divine thread had been linking him to this unreal gift had snapped while he wasn’t looking.

But there it was.

[Updating...]

A small flicker of text on a faint blue pane hovering in his vision. The font pulsed gently, steady as a heartbeat. Somehow.....that almost unsettled him more than if it had vanished.

"...Huh? What’s gonna come out...System 2.0?" he muttered, trying to make light of it. But the humor rang hollow.

He stared at it for a second longer. Waiting. Nothing else changed.

Eventually, he dismissed it with a flick of his thought and made his way down the hallway. His boots felt heavier than usual, though he wasn’t sure if that was physical exhaustion or something deeper. The kind of weight that came not from his muscles, but from everything that had happened.

The war. The twisted, too-fast victory. The god’s visit. The shattered sky. The unification. Loki’s wound. Veil’s questions. The Empress. Eli’s silence.

And, most pressing of all—the strange feeling in his own chest.

His evolution.

He wasn’t just stronger now. He knew that. But what did that mean? What was he capable of now? Where did it end?

Could he face a god again—truly face them—and win?

Could he stop it this time if another crossed the veil?

Would he even remain himself?

They said a god coming to the mortal realm was a once-in-a-thousand-lifetimes event. A tear in reality. A cosmic aberration. And if it did happen, it was said to bring either divine blessings...or absolute destruction.

No middle ground.

And what followed him—what stared into him with hunger and disdain—was no blessing. He could still see it in his memory. Ouserous. The god of thunder.

The land scorched in his wake. The air itself screaming. The soil turned to ash. The trees weeping fire. Grass never grew again on the path where he stepped. That land had died a permanent death. Like the breath of the god erased the idea of life.

Atlas dragged a hand down his face as he entered his quarters. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality.

The room was dim. The glow of the wall lanterns flickered gently. The sofa by the corner window welcomed him like an old friend.

Finally, he collapsed onto it.

A full, deep sigh left his lungs, dragging weight with it. Not just fatigue. Not just tension. It was something older. A release held back too long.

Rest. The most dangerous thing to seek.

Because when he stopped moving, the ghosts had a chance to catch up.

He leaned back, head tilted toward the ceiling. The soft light danced across the carved wooden beams, some of which were still scorched from the attack weeks ago. No one had fixed them yet.

He didn’t mind.

It was honest.

He glanced at his palm, flexed his fingers. There was something in them now. Not raw power—but density. As if reality responded just a little more to his will and he could ignore it just a little bit more.

He wondered if that meant he was closer to them now.

Closer to the gods.

A thought he did not enjoy.

Then—

Knock. knock.

His brow furrowed. He hadn’t called for anyone.

Before he could rise or even ask who it was, the door opened without permission.

Lara stepped in. Fast. Unhesitating. The tension in her shoulders was loud even before she said a word.

"Lara—?"

She didn’t let him finish. She was already across the room. In two strides, she was in front of him. And then she sat. On his lap.

Just like that.

His arms, instinctively, caught her by the waist. She pressed her head to his chest. Said nothing.

"...Lara... what happened?"

"....Nothing," she said, voice small. Too small.

A pause.

Atlas blinked. He could feel her heartbeat through his shirt. It was fast. A little wild.

"Haaa... say it, Lara. I know your mind is ticking again. I can hear the gears clearly," he said.

That got her to smile, barely. Her breath was warm against his collarbone.

"You...you always know..." she murmured. Then her voice changed. Stiffened. "It’s just... You seem so cold lately. And that bitch of an Empress said something about making me her sister-in-law. I just got...unnerved..... Sorry."

He stared down at her. There was a flicker of something behind her words—jealousy, yes. But it wasn’t that simple. It was fear wrapped in sarcasm. Vulnerability dressed as spite.

She wasn’t angry about the Empress. Not really.

She was afraid of being left behind.

Again.

His hand found her blue hair, slow and gentle, weaving through it like threads of water. She smelled faintly of lavender and iron.

"Don’t worry, Lara," he said softly. "I’d be cold to others. But never to you. Rest assured."

There was a moment of silence. Then her fingers tightened around his shirt.

She smiled, faint and tired. "...Okay..... I believe you."