CHAPTER 271: CHAPTER 272: FIRST WE FEAST

Atlas didn’t need to be told who the man was. His instincts screamed the truth the instant his gaze caught that towering frame.

Not a demon lord. Not a petty ruler of some hidden quarter. But a king. A king of a fiefdom, one of the crowned tyrants who reigned over the third layer of Hell itself.

The man stood at the corner of a busy street, casually buying fruit as though he were no more than a villager. A basket of spiked oranges weighed in one hand, his other counting coins with an oddly human clumsiness.

Seven feet of muscle, no hint of softness. A red beard fell heavy, braided and knotted down to his waist, while his head bore the weight of a horned helm. His clothes were plain, unadorned. He dressed like the market folk, yet everything about him resisted simplicity.

Atlas’s gut turned cold. He felt it, as plain as breath—within that frame lurked a mountain. A mountain bigger than cities. Something ancient, patient, dangerous.

A shiver crawled through him. His instincts, dulled for so long, churned awake, gnawing at his spine. Something was different here. Something that made the air thick, the crowd blur, his heart race without rhythm.

And then the man’s gaze found him.

Those eyes—yellow, fever-bright, burning like a sun—locked with his. For the briefest second, Atlas forgot he had lungs. His body trembled in ways he hadn’t known it still could. A warning threaded through his skin, urging him: be careful, be safe, step lightly.

But he didn’t.

Step.

The giant king moved, heavy boots pressing against stone.

Atlas answered in kind, each step echoing in rhythm, closing the gap.

Step.

Step.

Step.

The crowd hushed, eyes darting between them, whispers slithering through the market. Lidia remained behind, her jaw set in irritation as she turned to glare at the bold spies who dared to watch. She didn’t notice the shadow curling around Atlas’s resolve.

Closer. Closer. Until they stood face to face, a single feet between them. Atlas, looking up. The king, looking down.

And Atlas felt it—like staring up at a titan. No, more than a titan. Greater even than Loki, whose weight he had once endured. The same eerie air, the same terrifying vastness. Like when he had faced Ousorous, Thor’s monstrous son.

The king spoke first.

"...you look... like you are not from here."

His voice carried the roughness of gravel, deep and hoarse, straining as though he tried for casual tone. But it failed. Authority bled through no matter how he shaped the words. He could not pretend to be peasant. He was built for command, and every syllable bore the edge of it.

Atlas knew his name before he was spoken. Orcus. The giant king. The ruler of this fief. His presence was impossible to mistake.

Atlas tilted his head, letting a smile curve his lips. "...I greet the king."

Orcus narrowed his gaze. "...you know me?"

"Of course." Atlas let his voice slip into ease, though the weight pressing against him nearly stole the breath from his chest. "Lidia, the former ruler of this fief, told much about you."

Orcus’s gaze flickered, briefly, to her. He had forgotten her presence. The sheer tension of Atlas’s aura had swallowed his awareness. Now, as he studied her, he saw change—her energy calmer, stronger, refined in ways unfamiliar. But still no threat. Not to him.

His attention returned to Atlas. His eyes narrowed further, burning. "...I hope she told good things about me." His voice lowered, the casual facade breaking. "But I will ask again. Who are you? And why are you here?"

Atlas’s smile sharpened, a sliver of danger showing through. "If I tell you... then we will have to fight. Are you sure you’re ready for that?" His hand swept lazily, gesturing to the bustling stalls, the voices, the fruit-sellers and cloth-draped merchants. "This place looks... peaceful."

The air between them thickened. For a moment, it seemed even the smoke above had stilled, waiting.

Orcus let out a long breath. A sigh like stone grinding against stone. His gaze turned slightly, scanning the lively market around them. Mothers ushering their children away, merchants pretending not to listen, soldiers disguised among civilians, their hands itching toward hidden blades. All of it delicate. All of it fragile.

"The worst outcome," he muttered low, more to himself than anyone, "has walked here."

He returned his stare to Atlas. "So in the end, must we fight for some reason hidden, or is it only you who desires battle?"

Atlas chuckled, low, dangerous. "...yeah. You got me. I just want to fight in the end."

The words landed like a hammer. And yet Orcus’s lips pulled back, a sound cracking from him—first a chuckle, then a laugh.

"Ha..."

"HAHAHAHA!"

The sound shook windows. The crowd froze. His laughter rumbled like thunder down the market’s veins, both terrifying and relieving.

"Very well," he said finally, tone softer but no less heavy. "Why don’t we eat something before we..." His hand lifted, gesturing to the mountain that loomed beyond the market square. A city carved into its skin, houses stacked upon houses spiraling upward into the clouds, and at the very peak, the black castle whose spires speared into smoke-darkened sky.

"Before we fight."

Atlas’s golden eyes gleamed, his smirk widening. "...I’m honored. But I don’t do walking."

The ground beneath him shuddered as the air hummed. Dust stirred, then vibrated as his body lifted slowly from the earth, feet leaving the stone. He rose higher, cloak stirring, hair dark against the sunlight that pierced the smoke.

"I prefer soaring." His voice boomed upward, rattling shutters and spooking horses. He twisted mid-air, looking down at Lidia. "Lidia! Come!"

The cry cracked through the sky. Its sheer intensity ripped across the marketplace like a whip. Glass rattled. Merchants cowered. Children screamed.

Panic flashed across Lidia’s face as she unfurled her wings, launching upward. But she struggled, her speed pitiful compared to the effortless rise of the man beside her. Her wings beat hard, her body trembling to match his ascent, but Atlas moved as though the world itself carried him.

A shadow pooled at Orcus’s side. A whisper rose within it. {...what the fuck was that?}

Orcus exhaled through his nose, the weight of his sigh bending the air. "Haaa... I smell doom."

The voice in shadow slithered tighter. {Is he that dangerous... for us?}

Orcus’s eyes followed Atlas’s ascending frame, watching how the sky bent faintly around him, how the air seemed to worship his presence. "No. Not for us." His jaw set. "For the entire Hell."

He lifted his hand, fingers curling. His shadow bent and darkened as another presence joined it.

"You lot!" His voice boomed, commanding the hidden watchers, soldiers cloaked as common men. "Clean this mess."

And then, with no further word, Orcus’s colossal body sank into the shadow itself. One moment, he stood. The next, the street was empty, save for the trembling echoes of his laughter still clinging to stone.

The marketplace was left as it was—silent, shaken, reverberating with the sense that the ground beneath them had just shifted forever.

Above, Atlas rose, higher and higher, chasing the smoky sky, while the eyes of Hell’s king still burned in memory.

And in that silence, something lingered—a question unspoken, heavy as the mountain itself.

"Finally...a worthy opponent." He muttered with glee.