Atlas was sweating profusely. His breathing was heavy and ragged, but this time, it wasn't from the impact of the blows or his tormentor's relentless assault. It was because he was fighting back. His stance had changed, becoming subtly more threatening, and his gaze had grown sharper. Nothing fundamental had ostensibly changed, but over the span of a few days, his mindset had completely metamorphosed.
Although his jailers training methods were far from academic, proving, in fact, to be exceptionally cruel, Atlas had to acknowledge their terrifying efficiency. In barely ten days, he had gone from an absolute novice to a man who had mastered the basics of hand-to-hand combat. His footwork had gained agility, at least, as much as the little time allowed, and his strikes now carried genuine impact. Against all odds, his physique had slightly developed, filling out with lean muscle fed by some unknown variable, given the starvation rations he was provided.
Atlas was in the middle of a sparring session with Burn-Face. They were alone in the vast gladiator training room. The air was still heavy and freezing, but this atmosphere no longer had the same hold on Atlas's body; he had adapted to it. Sweat dripping down his forehead, he leapt backward, landed perfectly on his right foot, and slid fluidly to the left, cleanly dodging the staff strike that whistled past his ears.
Though the fight remained profoundly unequal, because despite his brutality and monstrous face, Burn-Face knew how to fight exceptionally well, or at least, Atlas deduced as much from his distant memories of movies, Atlas was managing to anticipate him. It was undoubtedly for this killer's instinct that Isaac had placed him at the head of the guards and entrusted him with breaking in the new recruits. Yet, Atlas was now succeeding in dodging the assaults and, at times, even replying with his own counterattacks. This shift had a knack for infuriating his tormentor.
For his part, Burn-Face couldn't fathom how a complete neophyte, no matter how valuable to the boss, could learn at such a terrifying speed. It pissed him off to the highest degree. His sadistic little game wasn't working anymore: Atlas had learned in record time to read his trajectories and avoid the most painful impact zones.
'So this is it… the anomalies… tsk.'
The guard had been on the Old Man's payroll for a few years now. Rare were those on Odyssey who would have agreed to hire a man with a mug like his. Only Isaac had, and Burn-Face harbored a tacit gratitude toward him for it. Forged by a violent past, he knew how to fight, making him the ideal candidate to break in the high-value gladiators.
But this was the first time he had handled a specimen like Atlas. Though he was one of the weakest runts to ever cross this threshold, constantly looking on the verge of breaking, the boy never showed the slightest irritation. At the very beginning, he had seemed panicked, but that was it. Never a fit of rage. Never an outburst of anger. This total absence of emotional friction drove Burn-Face crazy.
And to top it all off, the guy learned at a monstrous pace. He was already dodging almost all of his strikes. Of course, the guard wasn't going all out and held back his attacks; Isaac wanted his precious pup intact for the arena at all costs.
Frustrated at no longer being able to land a hit, Burn-Face pushed the pace. He feinted and delivered an incredibly violent staff strike behind his knees. Knocked off balance, Atlas tipped over, and the guard cleanly swept him with a low kick. The young man crashed heavily onto the freezing stone, the wind knocked out of him, half-dazed.
"Alright, that's enough for today," the jailer spat dryly. "Tomorrow, you fight. I bet on your death in under five minutes, so don't disappoint me, dog."
He crouched next to him, a manic smile splitting his face. With the twisted flesh of his burns, the expression made him look absolutely terrifying in the gloom.
Atlas, meanwhile, struggled to slow his heart rate. He placed a hand on the damp floor and with difficulty pushed his torso up. He didn't even react to his tormentor's provocation; it merely echoed in the void.
In truth, his mind was completely elsewhere. A silent shockwave was rippling through his thoughts.
'What the hell was that?! 'he thought, staring blankly ahead.
Right before being swept, he had felt a strange shift. As if his consciousness had brushed against a hidden switch. He had felt it with absolute certainty: for a fraction of a second, he could have ignited. Released something buried deep within, a latent force ready to erupt.
"Tch... Still no reaction," Burn-Face grunted as he stood up, clearly disappointed. "We'll see tomorrow if you stay so icy when you set foot in the Rohar arena. Isaac didn't do you any favors for your first match."
He turned on his heel and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor before fading out. Usually, it was the second guard, whom Atlas had internally nicknamed "Squish" due to the unbearable, clammy sound of his soles on the stone, who came to escort him back to his cage.
But this time, no one crossed the threshold.
Atlas remained alone in the middle of the vast training room, still struggling to catch his breath.
Now what? he thought, his eyes fixed on the exit.
He was tired of the beatings, the futile threats, and the endemic malice that ruled this place. The saying went that human beings could get used to anything. It was factual. Atlas had adapted much faster and far more radically than anyone else, but these little mind games were beginning to drain his cognitive reserves.
He stood up with difficulty, fighting against the sharp pain radiating from the back of his struck knee, and limped slowly toward the door. He pressed his hand against the cold metal. Locked. He tried to push a little harder, throwing all his scrawny weight against the heavy panel, but it didn't budge an inch.
He was completely locked in.
A deep silence fell over the freezing room again. Atlas stared at the door without flinching. Fortunately, he was no longer capable of feeling anger; a normal human in this exact situation would already have their blood boiling. Instead, Atlas settled for coldly analyzing this new problem. He tried circling the room to find another exit, but to no avail. He didn't understand the objective of all this. He had nothing left to give.
The room's silence was suddenly shattered by an unbearable metallic grinding. The heavy echo of rusted gears began to reverberate through the stone. Atlas pivoted slowly, instantly forgetting the locked door behind him.
At the other end of the hall, a heavy iron portcullis that he had never noticed in the wall was slowly rising with a grating screech.
The smell hit him first. An acrid stench, a sickening blend of rotting blood and wild beast.
Then, a shape emerged from the darkness of the tunnel.
It was a dog. At least, its skeletal structure suggested as much, but the creature no longer had much in common with the canines from Atlas's old life. The beast was the size of a massive wolf, its grayish, hairless skin dotted with protruding bony plates that seemed to have pierced the flesh from the inside. Its striated muscles bulged with an abnormal, almost deformed power. Its disproportionate, unhinged jaw drooled a thick, dark saliva onto the freezing tiles.
Atlas did not step back. His heart rate remained chillingly steady, his face a blank page devoid of the slightest ounce of panic.
'Isaac' he deduced, narrowing his eyes, his azure gaze fixed on the beast.