The Broken Paths

A slow, sarcastic chuckle echoed through the void.

The world snapped back, and Masked Atlas loomed over him, his grin twisted in disbelief.

"Not who you are?" Masked Atlas scoffed.

"Are you serious? After everything you've done, that's the line you won't cross? You manipulate. You deceive. You kill without hesitation. And yet—that is what you claim isn't in your nature?"

Atlas met his gaze without wavering. "That's right."

For a moment, Masked Atlas said nothing.

Then—

Laughter. A loud, mocking, hysterical laughter that made the void tremble.

"Oh, that's rich!" Masked Atlas wiped a nonexistent tear from his eye.

"So let me get this straight—you'll scam, you'll lie, you'll execute an entire noble bloodline without blinking, but the idea of taking what was already 'yours' disgusts you?" He clapped his hands, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Wow. Even I didn't expect this level of hypocrisy."

Atlas remained silent, his jaw tightening.

Masked Atlas's grin stretched wider. "Tell me then—if you're not like them, why did you run? Why did you abandon your empire and flee to the Regime of Jin? What exactly are you running from, Atlas?"

The world lurched again, and the memory continued to unfold.

Atlas was running.

His vision blurred, blood trickling down from a deep cut on his forehead, staining his already tattered clothes. His lungs burned with every breath, his ribs screaming in protest, but he couldn't-wouldn't stop.

Because in his arms, Meyu hung limp, unconscious.

The forest around them was pitch black, the only light coming from the distant glow of torches carried by the bandits who had ambushed them. Atlas could still hear their voices in the distance, searching, hunting. They wanted them dead.

His body screamed at him to collapse, to give in. He was half-dead already.

But he forced himself forward, every step fuelled by sheer desperation.

"You're not dying" he muttered, his voice hoarse. His grip on Meyu tightened as he trudged through the thick mud, his legs barely responding.

"You hear me? You're not dying. I don't care how stubborn you are—you're going to survive this."

Meyu didn't respond. Didn't stir.

A flicker of panic lodged itself in Atlas's throat, but he swallowed it down. Not now. Not yet.

Then—

A break in the trees.

Through the gaps, the faint outline of a dock. A ship.

Atlas stumbled forward, his vision swimming. If he could just make it there—

"There! I see him!"

Atlas gritted his teeth and ran.

His legs barely functioned, his body on the verge of collapse, but the moment he reached the dock, he didn't hesitate—

He leapt.

His feet hit the ship's deck just as the crew began pulling up the gangplank. The voices of the bandits roared behind him, but he didn't turn back.

He didn't care where this ship was going. Didn't care what awaited him next.

All that mattered was that Meyu was still breathing.

And that, for now, they had survived.

Masked Atlas scoffed, arms crossed. "Oh, look at that. How noble of you. Running for your life, clutching onto some half-dead girl like a tragic hero."

He let out a low chuckle. "Tell me, Atlas—was that desperation? Or guilt?"

Atlas, still breathless from reliving the moment, said nothing.

Masked Atlas leaned in. "Because if you had never saved her in the first place, she wouldn't have been in that situation to begin with, would she?"

Then he paused.

His grin twitched, his head tilting as if seeing Atlas for the first time. There was more to him than even he realized.

"Oh?" Masked Atlas mused, his painted smile stretching.

"Wait a damn second… you're becoming soft, aren't you? If it's Meyu, you get soft. That's interesting."

Atlas didn't respond, but the way his fists clenched told Masked Atlas everything he needed to know.

"Hahahaha! You—you absolute fool!" Masked Atlas burst into laughter, shaking his head in utter disbelief, almost couldn't understand why

"I mean, really? You, of all people, decided to grow a heart? What, does she remind you of a lost puppy? Is that it?"

Atlas remained stone-faced, his breath steady. Unmoving.

Masked Atlas sighed, dragging a gloved hand down his face.

"I should've seen this coming. Maybe I have gotten rusty after all. But let's not stop here—let's keep this fun. After all, saving one girl? That wasn't where it ended, was it?"

The world lurched again.

Masked Atlas spread his arms as if welcoming an audience. The darkness peeled away, revealing a stage. A twisted circus show. And at the center? Atlas himself—freeing slaves in Jin.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Masked Atlas bellowed, his voice echoing through the void.

"Witness the benevolent merchant, the oh-so-noble schemer, saving the helpless masses!" He flourished his hand toward the scene unfolding before them.

Atlas stood at an auction, disrupting bids, outmaneuvering slavers, and buying entire groups outright.

Masked Atlas strolled beside him, his voice laced with mocking admiration. "Oh, the justification! The excuses! Let's break it down, shall we?"

A group of young boys, barely ten years old.

"These ones? You bought them because they reminded you of yourself, didn't they? Starving, desperate, alone. No one to save them. So you played hero. But was it really for them? Or was it for you? A chance to rewrite your own past, to create a version of yourself that had been saved instead of abandoned?"

A teenage girl, malnourished but with fire in her eyes.

"And her? A fighter, a survivor. You saw the defiance in her, the same defiance you wished you had at her age. Was it pity? Or were you just impressed? Did you save her because you could, or because she reminded you that not everyone breaks?"

A crippled old man, too weak to work.

"Ah, and this one! A true act of charity, wasn't it? You knew he had no value. No return on investment. And yet, you freed him anyway. Tell me, Atlas—was that compassion? Or were you just proving to yourself that you weren't completely heartless?"

A mother clutching her child, barely able to stand.

"Ohhh, this one's good. A classic tragic figure! A mother willing to endure anything for her child. You saw it, and what? Felt a twinge of guilt? Did she remind you of your own two mothers, the one you couldn't save? Or was it just convenient? A story to tell yourself at night to make you feel better?"

A blind man, sold as worthless.

"And what about him? A man stripped of his sight, declared useless by those who owned him. But you, oh noble one, saw potential. How poetic. Or maybe you just liked the irony—helping the blind when you yourself refuse to see the truth?"

A group of silent women, avoiding eye contact.

"These ones were different, weren't they? You didn't see fire in them. No will to fight, no hatred left. Just empty shells. And yet, you bought them too. Why? What did you see in them, Atlas? Hope? Or did you just want to believe that someone like you could still make a difference?"

A young boy who never spoke, just watched.

"And him. This one was interesting, wasn't he? He never begged, never cried. Just observed. He reminded you of yourself in the worst way possible, and yet—you still freed him. Why? Did you think he was salvageable? Or were you afraid he'd turn into someone like you?"

Masked Atlas twirled his cane, whistling. "You really went all out, didn't you? Thirty-six souls, each one an extension of your guilt, your grief, your arrogance. But here's the real question—was it ever really about them? Or was it always, always about you?"

The circus stage flickered, morphing again, and suddenly they were in a forest in Jin. Off the radar.

Atlas stood in the corner of a makeshift shelter, patching up the wounds of a former slave while others huddled together, warming themselves with the scarce supplies he had managed to obtain. Some of them whispered among themselves, wary of their new reality, while others simply watched him in silence.

A woman, once too broken to speak, held a book in her trembling hands, trying to read for the first time. A young boy, the one who never spoke at the auction, was now teaching the others how to write. The blind man, who had been left for dead, was carefully listening to the conversations, learning names, remembering voices.

Atlas didn't just free them. He taught them. He gave them a future.

"Ohhh, and now look at this!" Masked Atlas grinned wide, throwing his hands up in theatrical praise.

"The Great Benefactor of Jin! Not content with merely saving them, you had to nurture them, didn't you? What's next? A heroic speech? A medal? Maybe a nice statue of yourself in the middle of the city?"

Atlas remained silent, watching his past self move through the shelter. He had no words to refute it.

Masked Atlas sighed, facepalming with a crazy grin "I swear, I don't know whether to laugh or cry at you sometimes. You act like you're some untouchable mastermind, but here you are, personally bandaging wounds, teaching the blind, playing the kind-hearted leader."

Then, one by one, the slaves began to leave.

The first left quietly, without a word. Then another. Some thanked him, some bowed, some simply vanished into the night, eager to start their own lives now that they were free. Atlas never stopped them.

Days passed, and the shelter became emptier. The fire pits went cold. The books that had once been clutched so desperately were left behind, gathering dust. The blind man, the mother, the silent boy—all gone.

Until only Meyu remained.

She stood by the dying embers of a fire, her arms crossed, watching Atlas as he silently tended to the last remnants of what once was a refuge.

"Why?" she asked at last, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Why did you do all this?"

Atlas, his past self, didn't answer at first. He continued wrapping the last roll of bandages, his expression unreadable. Then, without looking at her, he exhaled.

"Because someone has to" he said simply.

Meyu's brows furrowed. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

She studied him for a long time, eyes narrowing slightly. She had seen him lie. Deceive. Manipulate. Kill.

But this? This was different. This was the one time he wasn't playing a role. And that—that frustrated her more than anything.

From the void, Masked Atlas watched, his arms crossed, his grin stretching wider. "Ohhh, now this is interesting. You didn't do it for strategy, you didn't do it for power—you did it because you actually gave a damn. What a tragic little contradiction you are. A fucking walking paradox."

Atlas, watching his past self, said nothing.