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The first light of dawn spilled across the island, soft and golden, bathing the clay roofs and the olive groves in a gentle fire. Dew clung to the grass, sparkling like scattered stars, while a faint sea breeze carried the scent of salt and bread from Dimitri's hearth. The Aegean stretched out beyond the cliffs — calm, endless, whispering promises of both freedom and danger.
Outside Dimitri's house, five figures stood on the dirt path — Atlas, Alexios, Lukas, Kassandra, and Dimitri himself. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney behind them, the last traces of the night's feast fading into the cool air.
Dimitri's broad frame looked almost mythic in the morning light — the kind of man the sea refused to break. His rough hands rested on his hips, and his eyes, though weathered by decades of salt and sun, held a rare softness as he looked at the four younger warriors before him.
"So soon, eh?" he said with a crooked grin, his voice carrying the gravel of too many years shouting over waves. "I knew peace wouldn't last long around you lots."
Atlas returned a faint smile — a quiet, tired one. "It never does. Not for people like us."
A brief silence followed — comfortable, yet heavy. The kind that only comes between friends who have shared danger, wine, and the kind of laughter that can drown out death itself.
Then Dimitri exhaled through his nose and suddenly pulled Atlas into a crushing embrace. The sound that escaped Atlas's chest was half grunt, half laugh as his ribs protested. "You always come and go like the tide," Dimitri muttered against his shoulder. "But remember this — this place is home. You all are."
For a heartbeat, Atlas didn't move. He wasn't a man who easily showed emotion, but something about Dimitri's words stirred a faint ache in his chest — an echo of belonging he'd forgotten he still needed. He patted the older man's back once, a silent acknowledgment. "I'll remember."
Behind them, Alexios chuckled, trying to cut the sentiment. "Careful, old man. You'll make us sentimental."
"Bah!" Dimitri barked, releasing Atlas. His grin returned, wild and proud. "I've seen Spartans cry over wine and goats. You'll live."
That earned laughter from everyone — even Kassandra, whose usual smirk softened into something warm and genuine. Lukas rubbed the back of his neck, grinning awkwardly, clearly unused to moments that weren't punctuated by blades or sarcasm.
When Dimitri moved to hug them all at once, it was like watching a bear gather its cubs — rough, suffocating, but full of love. Alexios squirmed, Lukas laughed until he wheezed, and Kassandra tried to push him off but ended up laughing anyway.
"For me," Dimitri said when he finally released them, voice quieter now, "you four aren't guests anymore. You're sons… and a daughter who could probably throw me through a wall."
Kassandra smirked, brushing dust off her shoulder. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"Good!" Dimitri said, eyes crinkling with amusement. "Then we're even."
The moment lingered — just long enough for Atlas to feel the pull of something fragile and human tugging at the edges of his heart. Then he turned toward the horizon, where the sea shimmered under the rising sun. Duty was calling again, and peace — as always — was the first casualty.
One by one, they clasped Dimitri's rough hands, each farewell unspoken but deeply felt.
"Take care of yourself, old man," Lukas said, his grin softening.
"Ha! It'll take more than age or sea monsters to kill me," Dimitri replied, puffing his chest. "Now go on before I decide to keep you here as laborers."
Alexios laughed, slapping the old fisherman's shoulder. "We'll bring you back something worth bragging about."
"Just don't die before that," Dimitri shot back with a wink.
Finally, Atlas lingered a step longer than the others. He looked at Dimitri — the warmth in his eyes hiding the knowledge that this might be their last parting. "Thank you," he said simply.
Dimitri smiled, a rare, quiet one. "You don't owe me thanks, boy. Just come back alive. That'll do."
Atlas gave a small nod, then turned away before the words could settle too deep.
As the four walked down the dirt road that wound toward the harbor, their footsteps fading against the waking island, Dimitri stayed there, a lone figure in the morning light. He raised his hand, waving until the olive trees swallowed their silhouettes and only the wind answered him.
When they were gone, he muttered softly to himself, almost like a prayer:
"May the gods walk with you, my foolish children."
The path wound lazily through the forest, the morning sun filtering down through a ceiling of olive and pine. Cicadas hummed like tiny musicians, filling the air with their endless chorus. The earthy scent of the woods began to give way to salt and seaweed as the docks drew closer — a promise of sails, storms, and the unknown.
The group walked in easy rhythm at first, boots crunching against gravel, the occasional bird darting through beams of light above. Alexios was whistling something vaguely resembling a war tune; Lukas tried to join in and failed spectacularly, earning a groan from Atlas.
"By the gods," Atlas muttered, "if your singing doesn't summon disasters, it'll summon Poseidon himself just to shut you up."
Lukas grinned. "That's the plan. He owes me a drink."
Kassandra snorted softly, shaking her head. For a while, their laughter filled the quiet between the trees
then Kassandra slowed, her steps faltering. She looked off toward the horizon with that faraway mercenary look — the kind that said "I have business," which usually translated to "someone's about to die."
She hesitated, then exhaled. "You three go ahead to the ship," she said at last, her tone calm but heavy. "I have… unfinished business."
Atlas arched a brow, slowing his pace. "Unfinished business, huh?" His voice carried a knowing tone
Kassandra nodded, though her eyes flicked away toward the horizon. "Something like that."
Atlas studied her in silence for a moment. She wasn't nervous — she was resolute. That kind of look came from people who'd already decided what needed to be done. He crossed his arms. "If you need to finish it, then finish it properly. And if you have someone you want to bring along, bring them. We can protect them well."
That caught her off guard. Her gaze softened, and a faint, genuine smile curved her lips. "You'd trust me with that?"
Atlas smirked, a hint of humor in his eyes. "I trust results."
"Fair enough," she said, chuckling under her breath. "You sound like someone who's been disappointed too many times."
"I have," Atlas replied simply. Then, leaning on his spear like a walking stick, "Usually by these two"
"Fair," Lukas said cheerfully. "But we make up for it with charm."
Atlas ignored him completely. "How long will it take?"
Kassandra frowned thoughtfully, tapping her chin. "A day… maybe two. I have to gather my things, kill someone named Cyclops and his men, say farewell to my foolish partner Markos, and ask Phoibe if she's coming with me."
Alexios blinked, eyes widening. "That's your list for a single day?"
"Welcome to my life," Kassandra said dryly, folding her arms.
Lukas burst out laughing. "Gods, and here I thought my to-do list was long when it says 'don't die'."
Atlas sighed, rubbing his forehead like a weary parent. "Two days. I'll give you two days. Make them count."
Kassandra gave him a sly grin. "You really should know better than to give a mercenary extra time."
"Don't make me regret it," Atlas muttered. "And you two," he added, turning to Alexios and Lukas, who were already exchanging excited looks like boys about to start a tavern brawl, "go with her. Help her finish quickly."
Lukas clapped his hands together. "Finally, something fun! I was starting to forget what fun felt like."
Alexios grinned wide, resting a hand on his sword. "Cyclops, huh? Haven't killed one of those yet."
"Don't get too excited," Kassandra said, shooting him a playful glare. "He's more of a thug with an ego than an actual one-eyed monster."
Lukas laughed. "Still counts if we take an eye out, right?"
Atlas pinched the bridge of his nose. "Try not to burn half the island while you're at it."
Kassandra tilted her head, pretending to think. "No promises."
"Of course not," Atlas muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward, "Why do I even remind them?"
As they reached the fork in the road, the group slowed. The path to the docks stretched ahead, glinting with sunlight, while the trail back toward Kephallonia's village wound through the trees.
They reached the fork in the road, where sunlight poured through the trees like liquid gold. The scent of the ocean drifted on the breeze. Kassandra paused and looked back at them.
"Don't wait up if we are late."
"I won't," Atlas said automatically — though the look in his eyes said otherwise.
Lukas stretched his arms behind his head. "If we find any wine on the way, I'm calling that mission essential supplies."
Kassandra rolled her eyes, laughing despite herself. "Gods, I'm surrounded by idiots."
"That's family," Atlas said, a faint smile playing on his lips.
For a moment, all four of them stood there in the dappled sunlight — warriors, misfits, survivors — each heading toward their own battles.
Finally, Kassandra turned, motioning for Alexios and Lukas to follow. "Come on, boys. Let's go kill a Cyclops."
"Lead the way, Marko's Savior," Lukas said, mock-bowing with exaggerated flair.
"Say that again," she warned, "and I'll throw you off a cliff."
"Noted!" Lukas laughed, jogging to catch up. Alexios followed, chuckling under his breath.
Atlas watched them disappear into the forest — their laughter echoing between the trees, bold and alive. For a long moment, he stood alone on the quiet path, the weight of leadership and destiny pressing heavy on his shoulders.
He sighed softly. They look too happy for people about to kill someone, he thought, but a small smile tugged at his lips. Maybe that was the point — to hold on to joy, even in the shadow of war.
With that thought, he turned toward the docks, the sea wind catching his cloak as he walked — another dawn, another mission waiting on the horizon.
The docks of Sami stretched before him, alive with the chaotic beauty of morning. Fishermen shouted over crates of wriggling octopus, gulls screamed bloody murder overhead, and the briny air was thick with salt, sweat, and the faint sweetness of roasting bread from the nearby market.
Atlas made his way down the worn planks, cloak fluttering with each gust of sea wind. Ropes creaked, sails flapped, and ships of every shape bobbed on the tide — some patched together with more hope than timber.
But among them all, one vessel stood proud — the Adrestia, her bronze trim catching the sunlight, her hull weathered but strong. She looked every bit the warship she once was — and a tavern she'd recently become.
Atlas stepped onto the deck quietly, boots thudding against the polished boards. At first, everything seemed calm. Too calm.
Then he heard it — a long, guttural snore that could've shaken Olympus itself.
He followed the sound toward the stern, where he found the source: Barnabas, sprawled across a pile of coiled ropes like a man who had been in a lifelong wrestling match with wine — and lost. A half-empty jar of red hung precariously from one hand, crumbs of bread decorating his beard like battle trophies. His sandals were mismatched, his shirt half-open, and the faint sound of a whistle escaped his nose between snores.
Atlas crossed his arms and stared down at the man. "Barnabas."
No answer.
He sighed. "Barnabas."
Nothing.
He sighed, then nudged the man with his boot and shouted. "Barnabas!"
The old sailor jolted so violently that the wine jar sloshed onto his chest. He blinked groggily, squinting up at the light. "Wh—who's yelling—" His eyes adjusted and recognition dawned. "By the gods! Atlas! You're alive!"
"Barely," Atlas muttered.
Barnabas struggled to his feet and immediately wrapped the younger man in a bear hug so fierce it could've cracked ribs. "You vanished for three whole days! I thought a shark ate you—or worse, you'd finally gotten married!"
Atlas pried himself free with visible effort. "Neither. The others will meet us here in two days."
Barnabas let out a booming laugh, lifting his wine jar like a trophy. "Then we drink to their safe return! The Adrestia misses her crew!"
Before he could take another sip, Atlas plucked the jar clean from his hand and shoved a fresh jar of water at him, along with a small loaf of bread.
"Drink that instead," Atlas said, tone firm. "You need your head sober."
Barnabas made a face like a child told to eat vegetables. "You're no fun, you know that?"
"I know," Atlas replied flatly.
As Barnabas grumbled under his breath — something about "captains with sticks up their armor" — Atlas headed below deck.
The air inside was cooler, filled with the scent of tar, salt, and the faint metallic tang of weapon oil. Lanterns swung lazily with the ship's motion. Atlas knelt beside a locked chest, opened it, and unwrapped his personal weapons: a Spartan-style shield, round and dark as iron night, its alloy strong enough to stop a bullet; a curved bow of reinforced wood and sinew; and a sword etched faintly with Isu markings that shimmered under the light, He forged the shield and sword personally with using mixed metals, Orichalcum Ore and Isu metals he found .
He ran his fingers along the blade — a soundless whisper, a connection to his craft, his discipline, and his past. The familiar weight of the weapons grounded him. With deliberate motions, he strapped the sword to his hip, slung the bow across his shoulder, and fixed the shield to his back.
When he returned to the deck, the sunlight had shifted higher — and Barnabas had, miraculously, finished the water. He sat slumped against the mast, squinting at the bread like it had personally offended him.
"Done sulking?" Atlas asked.
"Depends," Barnabas grumbled, tearing a bite from the loaf. "Is there wine in this bread?"
"No."
"Then no."
Atlas handed him a heavy sack of drachmae. The old sailor raised a bushy brow. "What's this?"
"Supplies," Atlas said simply. "Bread, fruit, meat, wine, water. Plenty of each. And—"
Barnabas perked up. "Did you say wine?"
Atlas's tone didn't change. "—bows and arrows. A lot of them. And hire someone to reinforce the Adrestia with harder wood. The strongest you can find. Don't be stingy."
Barnabas's enthusiasm dimmed a little. "Alright, I understand food and drink — especially drink — but arrows and lumber? We've already got some in the hold, and this old beauty's still afloat after storms, pirates, and my ex-wife's curses."
Atlas looked out toward the horizon, his expression unreadable. "Not for what's coming. The war in Megaris has begun. The seas will turn dangerous soon — full of mercenaries, pirates, and opportunists. We'll need every arrow we can get."
The color drained from Barnabas's face, the last haze of alcohol evaporating faster than spilled wine on sun-heated wood. "Wait, wait, wait. Megaris? As in the war Megaris?"
Atlas gave a small, helpless sigh. "Yes. Straight into the war. We have a mission there."
There was a beat of silence. Then Barnabas slammed his palm against the railing and barked a laugh that startled a flock of gulls. "War, he says! Hah! Alright then! If we're heading for chaos, I'll make sure she's ready for it!"
He turned and bellowed toward the deckhands lazing nearby. "You heard the captain! Move your lazy hides, or I'll toss you to the sharks! We're fortifying this beauty for battle!"
One of the sailors groaned. "But, Captain, it's barely dawn!"
Barnabas glared. "Good! Then you've got more daylight to work with!"
Another one whispered to his friend, "He's sober again… gods help us."
Atlas smirked faintly. "Efficient as ever, Barnabas."
"Efficient?" Barnabas said, already marching off toward the marketplace. "Boy, by the time you come back, she'll be so fortified that Poseidon himself couldn't sink her! …Though he's welcome to try!"
Atlas followed him to the gangplank, watching as the sailors scrambled into motion — ropes flying, crates thudding, curses echoing.
He raised his voice as he stepped down onto the dock. "We will meet here in two days! Don't sink the ship before then."
Barnabas waved a hand, grinning. "Aye, Captain! Two days! And may Poseidon bless us with calm seas—and maybe less bread next time!"
"Less wine too," Atlas called back.
Barnabas pretended not to hear. "What was that? More wine? You got it!"
Atlas shook his head, half-amused, half-resigned. "Hopeless," he muttered, turning toward the city.
Behind him, the Adrestia's crew was already shouting, sawing, hammering, and arguing about the best way to reinforce the hull — which, from the sound of it, involved more wine and fewer nails.
Atlas smiled to himself as he walked toward the market. For all their chaos, they always got things done.
And somewhere in the distance, the sea rolled quietly — waiting.
The marketplace of Sami was a storm of sound and color, Vendors barked over one another, hawking amphorae of oil, jars of honey, and baskets of figs so ripe their sweetness perfumed the air. Donkeys brayed impatiently, carts rattled over cobblestones, and the chatter of fishermen haggling over prices rose like gulls fighting for scraps.
Atlas threaded through the chaos with quiet purpose, the press of humanity around him both comforting and distant. Every world had markets like this — noise, trade, the smell of sweat and life. He'd seen hundreds in his travels across Greece, yet it always brought him back to Earth's memory — the metallic hum of vending machines, fluorescent lights, and the sterile quiet of military corridors. This, by comparison, felt painfully alive.
He passed a stall selling salted fish. The vendor shouted something about "fresh as morning," and Atlas almost smiled. If the man only knew how old his catch smelled. He moved on, weaving through the narrow streets until he found what he was looking for: a modest shebeen, tucked between a pottery shop and a tanner's yard. Its faded sign swayed gently in the breeze, the paint long eaten by salt and sun.
Inside, the air was cooler, heavy with the scent of old wine and burning olive oil lamps. A sleepy innkeeper raised his head as Atlas entered, one eye half-closed, the other suspicious.
"Room?" the man grunted.
Atlas nodded, tossing a few drachmae on the counter. "Quiet one."
"Top floor," the innkeeper mumbled, counting the coins with fingers that moved like snails.
The stairs creaked under Atlas's weight as he climbed. The noise followed him like whispers, every step protesting slightly, as if warning him not to trust this fragile peace.
When he reached his room, he pushed open the door and paused. The space was small, barely wide enough for a bed, a cracked basin, and a single window. Yet to Atlas, it felt enormous — empty, still, unguarded.
He shut the door behind him and let silence settle.
The afternoon light slanted through the window, casting a warm gold strip across the floorboards. Dust motes drifted lazily in it, like tiny constellations suspended in air. Somewhere below, he could still faintly hear the laughter and noise of the market — but here, it sounded like echoes from another world.
He dropped his bag onto the floorboards with a dull thud and sat down beside it, exhaling slowly. His body finally relaxed for the first time since dawn, every muscle releasing its quiet protest.
"Alright," he murmured to himself, rubbing his temples. "Let's see if this really works."
He lay back, staring up at the cracked ceiling, and called to mind the image — that spinning galaxy-like core that had fused within him since Delphi. The moment he closed his eyes, the world around him dimmed. The faint hum of the market faded, replaced by a soft vibration in his mind.
Then it appeared — the Status Window.
It wasn't just words. It was alive, breathing. The glyphs pulsed faintly like distant stars, rearranging themselves in his vision. The Traveler ability shone brightest, a point of golden light pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
His heart quickened.
He stared at the words Origin: Earth 223-RHT, and something twisted deep in his chest — a pull, raw and familiar.
Home.
The sterile white halls of the research base flickered across his mind. The scent of disinfectant. The sound of boots on metal flooring. Laughter from comrades he could barely remember. Then — alarms. Gunfire. The inhuman roar of the humanoid aliens as they breached the gates.
And then the light.
The blinding flash that swallowed everything — his team, his world, his life — and spat him out into another existence.
Twenty years. Twenty years since that day.
Or… twenty years here. Only twenty minutes there, maybe less, if what the System said was true.
His throat tightened. He had seen so many wars in this world, so many dead. But that one — his first — had never left him. He had always wondered: Did anyone survive? Was there anything left of Earth at all?
Now, maybe, he would finally find out.
He reached out with his mind, focusing on the golden sigil. His hand trembled slightly in the air above his chest. "Alright… let's see if you're real," he whispered.
The glyph for Traveler pulsed brighter, almost responding to his words. His pulse synced with it — a rhythm like a heartbeat echoing in the dark.
He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "Origin: Earth 223-RHT," he said quietly, as if afraid the room would hear. "Let's see what's left of you."
The glow spread through him like liquid sunlight. He felt it in his veins, his bones — every atom vibrating, as if the universe itself was tuning him like a string.
Then the air began to bend.
The room around him rippled, the corners folding inward like paper touched by flame. The light dimmed to a dull gold, then to black. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as sound vanished — the creak of wood, the distant laughter, even his own breathing.
Only the hum remained. A low, resonant vibration that wasn't sound but existence itself shifting.
For a brief moment, Atlas thought — or maybe felt — the sensation of falling upward. Then the darkness swallowed everything.
And Atlas vanished into the void.
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