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The moment Atlas activated the Traveler ability, the world fractured like shattered glass.
Light twisted around him — blue, white, and gold swirling into a storm that swallowed sight, sound, and thought.
He couldn't tell if he was falling, flying, or being torn apart. His chest tightened, his breath vanished, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears like distant drums.
For a second, he thought he'd made a mistake — that the Traveler ability would scatter him across the void between worlds.
Then everything stopped.
The light dimmed. The air returned, And the smell hit him first.
Smoke. Blood. Gunpowder. The thick, metallic stench of death that he hadn't breathed in twenty years.
Atlas staggered forward, boots scraping the dirt.
He blinked against the haze — once, twice — until the blurred world took shape.
He was back.
The same tent. The same scorched fabric. The same cries outside, Even the same bloodstained table.
He had returned to the exact moment — the exact place — where he had died.
For a long moment, Atlas couldn't move. His mind, hardened by years of fighting gods and men in Greece, faltered at the cruel symmetry of it.
After twenty years… I came back to the same place I started.
The canvas above him burned and sagged. Flames licked at the corners of tables. Outside, human voices shouted orders over the whine of plasma fire.
Through the din, he heard something else — a faint, wheezing breath behind him.
Atlas turned.
The soldier he had been treating before — the one who'd begged him to leave — lay half-conscious on the cot, his chest rising shallowly. The wound was bad. Grenade shrapnel. Infection setting in.
Yet he was alive.
Atlas's body moved before his brain caught up. He was a doctor before anything else — before the sword, before the shield, before the wars of Sparta. His hands acted on instinct, precise and calm.
"Still alive…" he muttered, crouching beside the man. "Alright, soldier. We're doing this again."
He checked the pulse — weak, irregular — then reached for the nearby supply table. Half of it was charred, but some of the kits had survived.
Atlas tore open his clothes that were covering the wound , poured alcohol onto the wound, and the soldier flinched even in unconsciousness. Atlas ignored the sting in his own hands as the blood slicked across his gloves.
"Easy… breathe," he murmured, though the man couldn't hear him. "You've got another shot."
He cleaned, disinfected and wrapped. Gauze, pressure, dressing. The motions came naturally, almost eerily so — as if his body remembered every movement his mind had long forgotten.
The tent shuddered as an explosion boomed nearby, knocking loose a cascade of ash from the rafters. Atlas didn't look up. His eyes stayed on the wound, his focus unbroken.
When it was done, he leaned back, chest heaving.
He stared at the soldier — pale, barely breathing — and allowed himself a breath of relief.
"Still got it," he whispered.
But the moment of calm didn't last.
Outside, the gunfire intensified. Screams. Orders. The unmistakable metallic shriek of alien weapons tearing through armor.
Atlas's instincts kicked in — not as a doctor, but as the survivor who'd fought through Greece's wars. His hand went to his waist automatically, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword.
He froze.
A sword.
A bow.
A shield.
He stared down at himself, stunned. He was still wearing the bronze armor of his second life.
Isu-forged steel glinted in the orange firelight — completely foreign to this place.
He couldn't help but laugh, low and incredulous.
"Right… ancient weapons in a modern war. Perfect. Just perfect."
He looked toward the tent flap where the shadows of aliens flickered through the smoke. They were close — maybe twenty meters.
The thought of charging them with a sword almost made him grin. Almost.
No, he thought quickly. I'd last ten seconds at most. They'd melt me before I even swing.
He exhaled and scanned the tent. There — half-collapsed against the wall — his old locker.
Atlas crossed to it and ripped it open. Inside, beneath a layer of dust and grime, hung his old combat uniform.
The sight of it hit harder than he expected.
The name tag still read: A. Li. MEDIC.
His old self — the man who'd died here — was staring right back at him.
He stripped off the Greek armor piece by piece, setting them carefully inside. The bronze plates gleamed faintly, the metal humming like it resented being hidden away again.
The sword and bow followed. But the shield — he hesitated with that one.
He traced a hand along its surface, the faint Isu engravings glowing like embers beneath the soot, "This thing saved my life more times than I can count," he murmured. "No point leaving you behind now."
He slung the shield onto his back, feeling its reassuring weight.
Then he changed into his old combat gear — the sand colored fatigues, sand colored vest, and brown boots. The material felt strange against his skin, lighter than the armor of Greece, yet familiar in all the right ways.
When he glanced at the cracked mirror beside the locker, he froze.
The reflection staring back at him wasn't the same man who'd died here.
He was taller — broader — his face sharper, eyes colder. His hair longer, darker. The twenty years in Greece had reshaped him entirely.
If anyone sees me like this… they might believe I'm the same person, right?.
He exhaled, shaking his head. Hell, I'm not even sure I believe it myself.
Pushing the thought aside, he opened the weapon rack beside his locker. The rows of rifles and shotguns gleamed faintly under the emergency lights.
He ran his hand along the grips, his muscle memory guiding him.
He stopped at a familiar favorite — the Mossberg 590. A 12-gauge pump-action shotgun. Reliable. Durable. It could survive sand, blood, and stupidity — everything a medic-turned-soldier needed.
He loaded it swiftly, each click echoing through the burning tent.
Nine shells. Steel shot. Perfect for close quarters. If it moves, it dies.
Next came the SIG P226, sleek and dependable.
He slid the magazine in, checked the chamber, and holstered it. Two spare mags fit neatly in the vest pouches.
He added a combat knife, a medkit, and two grenades. He couldn't help but smirk.
"Now I look like I belong here again."
He adjusted the shield's strap on his back. The contrast was absurd — a modern shotgun on one shoulder, bronze shield on his back and a pistol on his waist — yet somehow it felt… right.
A bridge between two lives. Two worlds.
Outside, the shouts grew louder. The gunfire closer. The shadows of alien silhouettes flickered through the canvas, distorted and tall.
Atlas paused by the bunk, glancing at the soldier he'd just saved. The man's chest rose steadily now. Alive. Stable.
Atlas let out a slow breath, something between relief and resignation.
"Hang tight, kid," he said softly. "I'll buy us both a little more time."
He chambered a round in the Mossberg. The click-clack echoed like thunder in the chaos. The smell of burnt air filled his lungs.
And for the first time in two decades, Atlas felt truly alive again — not as a lost soul, not as a doctor, but as both.
He pushed through the tent flap, the blaze of war spilling over him.
The night sky above the base was crimson and black, tracer fire arcing like dying stars. The screams of men and the shrill alien wails merged into one horrible, familiar song.
Atlas squared his shoulders, shield on his back, shotgun in his hands.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath, a grim smile tugging at his lips. "Let's finish what we started."
And with that, he stepped into the fire.
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