The Broken Paths

The scene shifted violently again. Atlas subconscious state was getting used to this and unbeknownst to even himself, was finding a way to get out of this nightmare.

Atlas was no longer by the dying fire. Instead, he was pinned to the floor, his breath shallow, his muscles rigid, his heart was racing and his body wasn't listening to him. The dim candlelight flickered against the wooden walls of his quarters, shadows stretching like silent witnesses.

Meyu was above him, her top half was naked. Her breast staring at Atlas. Her bottom half was still clothed, her hands gripping his collar but her body trembling—not with hesitation, but with something far more desperate. Her hands clutched his collar in a vice grip, her breath erratic, shallow, panicked. She smelled of damp silk, of cheap scented oils forced on her skin in a past life, of something desperate.

"Stop—Meyu, what the hell are you doing?!" Atlas's voice was sharp, nearly frantic. He tried to push her off, but she clung to him, her nails biting into his skin through the fabric of his robes.

Meyu's eyes burned with something desperate. Something fractured. "You don't get it!" she screamed at him, her fingers tightening around his collar. Her face becoming redder but her eyes were glassy.

"You saved me. You own me. Isn't this what I'm supposed to do?"

Atlas's breath hitched. "What? No—Meyu, listen to me, you don't have to—"

"But I do!" she snapped. Her hands—small, trembling, too cold—moved to his waist. His body locked up as she clawed at his belt, fumbled with his robes, frantic, mechanical.

His chest constricted. A sickness, sharp and unforgiving, churned in his gut.

"That's how it works, isn't it?!" Her breathing was ragged, her entire body shaking. "

That's what they told me! That's what they made me! If I don't—if I don't give myself, if I don't serve you, pleasure you—then what the hell am I worth?! What was the point of it all?! What was the point of me suffering for fucking years if I don't do what I was trained for?!"

Her voice was rising, shattering under its own weight. Her hands were shaking so violently now, it hurt just to watch.

Atlas stilled.

The weight of her words crushed something in his chest. The depth of her scars—how deeply they had twisted her understanding of worth—became painfully clear.

"Meyu" Atlas's voice was quieter now, steadier, wanting to reassure her.

"You are free. I didn't save you to own you. You don't owe me anything. You never did."

She stared at him, her breathing uneven, her entire body shaking as if her mind was waging war against itself. Then, slowly, her grip on his collar loosened. Her fingers curled inward, then clenched against her own chest, as if trying to hold herself together.

"Then why?" she whispered.

"Why did you save me? Why did you—why did you stay?"

Atlas didn't answer right away. Instead, he let her lean into him, his fingers running through her hair, slow and methodical.

His voice, when it came, was quieter than ever. Gentle even.

"I'm so sorry."

From the void, Masked Atlas leaned against an invisible surface, watching the scene unfold, his grin less amused, more curious. "Huh. Now this? This is something new."

Atlas, standing beside his tormentor, said nothing. Because even now, even as the memory played, he wasn't sure how to answer.

Masked Atlas let out a slow whistle, tilting his head as he observed Meyu and stopping the memory.

"Well, well, well. Would you look at that? No longer some half-dead little slave, huh? She's—what now? 17? Either way looking better than half the princesses, queens, and concubines I've seen in my lifetime. And you? You never indulged. Not even once."

Atlas's jaw tightened, but he remained silent.

Masked Atlas leaned in, smirking. "I mean, come on. You had the perfect excuse. She offered herself. Practically begged for it. And yet, you pushed her away. Why, Atlas? Because you're such a saint? Or because deep down, you were afraid?"

The world twisted again, and suddenly, the scene shifted.

Meyu was no longer the desperate girl trying to offer herself as payment. Instead, she sat beside Atlas at a grand table, stacks of documents spread before them. The years had passed—Atlas now 24, and Meyu, now 20 no longer the frail girl he had once saved.

She was sharp now, refined. Her once-starved frame had filled out into something poised yet lethal, a beauty that rivalled queens and princesses, yet carried an edge sharper than most blades. And beside her, Atlas taught.

"If you want to control wealth, you first have to control perception" Atlas said smoothly, tapping a ledger. "You don't just sell a product—you sell a future, a promise, a necessity. The moment a lord believes they need you, the battle is already won."

Meyu leaned in, her sharp eyes absorbing everything. "And if they try to cheat us?"

Atlas smirked. "Then you let them think they've won before they realize they've lost."

Masked Atlas whistled from the shadows. "Oh, now this is adorable! Look at you, the proud mentor, shaping your little protégé. Turning her into another version of yourself. Isn't that poetic?"

Atlas ignored him, watching the scene play out.

It wasn't just business. Over the years, Meyu learned everything. How to read a contract the way others read lies. How to control a room with silence. How to let greed and desperation do all the work for you.

Atlas took his lessons beyond theory. Surpassing Gregor in ways that even if Gregor was alive now, he would get outsmarted by Atlas 20 times over.

He convinced several Jin lords to invest in him, but for the first time, he actually gave them returns—not just empty promises. He played fair, played patient, and let trust do the manipulation for him.

His business, Ryl Trading, was no longer just a scheme. It was becoming an empire. He hired real workers, drafted legal documents, and even sent official records to the Emperor himself.

"Ohhh, now that's rich" Masked Atlas chuckled, twirling his cane. "So you became legitimate? You, the great scammer, decided to play by the rules? Don't tell me—you actually started to believe in this little dream, didn't you?"

Atlas, standing beside him, said nothing. He didn't know himself if he was being honest or playing a long game. Or both.

The scene twisted once more.

A grand hall within the Imperial Court of Jin. Gold and crimson banners adorned the towering pillars, and at the center of the vast chamber stood Atlas and Meyu, side by side, a sealed decree resting in Atlas's hands.

Approval from the Emperor himself.

Meyu exhaled, staring at the document with an expression caught between disbelief and triumph.

"We did it" she murmured, almost to herself.

Atlas allowed himself a smirk. "Of course we did."

They stepped out of the grand hall, the heavy doors shutting behind them, sealing their victory. As they walked down the palace steps, Meyu turned to him, her expression softer than usual.

"How does it feel? Having something real? Something not built on lies?"

Atlas didn't answer immediately. He simply looked at the decree in his hands. For once, it wasn't forged.

It was real.

The scene shifted again—the trading offices of Ryl Trading bustling with life.

Workers moved efficiently, ledgers filled with profit reports, shipments departing on time, contracts negotiated fairly. The once-questionable operation of years had transformed into a powerful enterprise, one that lords, merchants, and commoners alike trusted.

Atlas walked through the halls, employees standing straighter as he passed, not out of fear, but respect.

"Thank you, Master Atlas!" one of the clerks called as he handed in his paperwork.

"The warehouse team finished ahead of schedule," another reported.

Everywhere he looked, his people worked with purpose.

And they pledged their loyalty willingly.

Masked Atlas let out a low chuckle, stepping beside him. "Ohhh, this is precious. Look at you. You actually care, don't you? I mean, I get it. The Emperor's approval? Loyal employees? A real, thriving empire?"

He grinned. "But I have to ask…did you get soft?"

Atlas exhaled, a slow, measured breath, before answering. "No. I got smart."

Masked Atlas raised a brow, his smirk twitching. "Oh? Do enlighten me."

Atlas gestured toward the scene before them—the bustling office, the dedicated employees, the empire he had built not through deception, but through structure and strategy.

"Fear makes people obey. Wealth makes them listen. But trust? Trust makes them follow."

Masked Atlas tilted his head, his painted smile unreadable. "And you think trust is something you can buy?"

Atlas smirked. "No. But it's something you can cultivate. Something you can manipulate just as easily as fear—only this way, they don't even realize it."

Masked Atlas chuckled, shaking his head. "And here I thought you were going soft. Turns out, you're just playing the long game. Clever."

Unbeknownst to Atlas himself, he was deceiving himself.

He wanted to believe it was just manipulation, a long con played over years—an empire built on the illusion of trust. That every life he touched, every person he saved, was nothing more than a calculated move in the grand game.

But it wasn't.

He had taught them because he wanted to. Because for all his schemes, for all the silver-tongued words and twisted half-truths, he did not want to be Gregor. He wanted to be the better, the little boy who lost his family twice, he wanted to give his younger self something to proud of.

He did not want to be the boy who once looked at the world and saw nothing but a battlefield.

Masked Atlas' painted smile never wavered. "Lying to yourself now, are we?"

Atlas' jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

"You act like this is a game of control, but deep down, you know the truth. You don't do this because it's profitable. You do this because you care."

Atlas scoffed. "Care? Now that's a stretch."

Masked Atlas tilted his head, amusement flickering behind those lifeless, painted eyes. "Then tell me, Atlas. Why do you remember their names?"

Atlas' smirk froze.

"The child." The little girl whose hands had once trembled as she took his, not out of obedience, but out of necessity.

"Meyu." The girl who should have been another statistic, another forgotten soul in the abyss of suffering. But instead, she was family to him.

"Daokan." The man who had once dismissed him as just another merchant, but now looked at him with something dangerously close to trust.

"Meilin." The one who saw him for what he was and still played the game. The one who never let him have the upper hand for long.

Atlas inhaled sharply. His fingers twitched.

Masked Atlas leaned in, voice soft, almost pitying. "You remember them, not because you have to—but because you want to."

Atlas said nothing. Because even now, even as the memory played, he wasn't sure how to answer.

Then, the world shifted violently.

He was no longer standing in Ryl Trading's bustling offices. He was in the darkness of a past long buried in his memories. A memory he wanted to forget. One filled with whispers, with chains, with the scent of damp stone and desperation.

A cell. A boy curled against the cold, bruises painting his skin, hunger gnawing at his ribs. Gregor's laughter echoed through the stone walls, his voice sickly sweet.

"People aren't meant to be saved, Atlas. They're meant to be used. You can dress it up however you like, but in the end, the strong take and the weak obey. That's how the world works. That's how it's always worked."

Atlas felt his breath tighten. The weight of iron shackles, long gone but never truly forgotten, pressed against his wrists.

He had survived. He had escaped. And yet, somehow, Gregor's words still clung to him like rot.

Masked Atlas took a slow step forward, his presence suffocating. "You can build an empire, a sanctuary, a future—but at the end of the day, you'll always be fighting ghosts."

He leaned in, whispering.

"Tell me, Atlas. What happens when you wake up and realize you never left that cell?"

Atlas exhaled, steady. "Then I tear the walls down."

For the first time, Masked Atlas hesitated.

The void trembled, the shadows wavering as if uncertain. Atlas felt it—the moment his world shifted. The moment he shifted.

"You—" Masked Atlas began, but his words faltered. The painted smile remained, but there was something beneath it now. A flicker of something dangerously close to fear.

Atlas took a step forward. "I'm not Gregor. I never was. And I never will be."