(PS: Please support me on patreon there 135+ chapters there and there also my new GoT: The True Dragon Fanfiction of Game of Thrones
https://patreon.com/BX_XDS)
Morning sunlight spilled gently over Markos's vineyard, warming the dew that clung to the ripening grapes until they glimmered like scattered, tiny pearls. The air was rich with the scent of damp soil, fresh leaves, and the faint, sweet perfume that always lingered over maturing fruit. Birds chirped lazily in the olive trees, greeting the new day long before anyone else on the farm wanted to be awake.
Inside the small, cluttered farmhouse, the trio—Kassandra, Alexios, and Lukas—gathered around the creaky wooden table, scrubbing the last vestiges of sleep from their eyes. Their weapons rested against the rough, plaster wall, always within arm's reach, and a thin, smoky column rose reluctantly from the small cooking hearth.
Markos bustled around them, his chest puffed out proudly.
"Breakfast is ready!" he announced, presenting the plates as if he were serving a feast to the kings of Sparta themselves.
Breakfast was… emphatically not a feast.
The bread was so hard and stale that Alexios had to hit it against the table twice to break off a manageable chunk. The cheese smelled suspiciously sharp—like it had developed its own independent, challenging personality overnight. And the olives… the olives looked dark, shriveled, and profoundly tired, as if they had lived several difficult lives and were entirely ready to retire.
Kassandra inspected hers with narrowed eyes.
"Markos… truly, how old are these olives?"
Markos waved a dismissive hand, beaming wider. "Old enough to be full of wisdom! And fiber!"
"Old enough to poison someone perhaps," Kassandra muttered under her breath, choosing a safer, less threatening olive.
Alexios, predictably, shoved a large portion of everything into his mouth without hesitation or complaint. "Food is food," he mumbled through a mouthful of hard bread and questionable cheese.
Lukas ate calmly, chewing slowly and methodically, his face impassive. He had silently accepted that this meal was a survival challenge in itself—a necessary prelude to the day's actual danger.
Kassandra took a tentative bite of the bread, winced as the crust scraped her gums, and silently prayed to Hermes that Markos's cuisine wouldn't be the thing that finally killed her before she reached the Lumber Shipyard.
When they finally finished—all three miraculously still alive—Markos appeared in the doorway, waving a dishcloth like he was sending beloved children off to war.
"Good luck, my friends!" he shouted, beaming with a mix of genuine affection and pure relief. "Try not to die! Especially you, Kassandra—you still owe me money!"
Kassandra's glare was so intense that even the nearby cicadas seemed to pause their buzzing.
"Goodbye, Markos," she said, the words forced out through a strained, thin smile.
Alexios snorted, unable to contain his amusement.
Lukas hid a grin behind a hand that looked like a shield.
The morning sun stretched warm and golden across the island as they stepped out onto the open road. The vineyard faded behind them, replaced by fragrant groves of olive trees dancing softly in the warm wind. The dirt path was already warm beneath their sandals, a fine, golden dust rising gently with each synchronized step.
Ahead lay the Lumber Shipyard.
Ahead lay trouble.
But for the moment, the three simply walked—side by side—toward the day's first necessary battle.
The cicadas buzzed in the warm morning air, their steady, soporific rhythm blending perfectly with the rustling olive leaves around them. Sunlight spilled gently across the rocky path as the trio moved downhill, the clean scent of wild thyme drifting on the breeze. Far off in the fields, a few goats bleated loudly, arguing over the best patch of grass—a truly fitting soundtrack for the kind of chaos these three usually attracted.
Alexios was the first to break the easy silence.
"So…" he said, kicking a small stone and watching it bounce off into the bushes, "about this Cyclops problem. How are we going to deal with him and his rat-faced thugs?"
Kassandra stepped over a fallen branch and glanced at him from the corner of her eye, considering her words carefully.
"First," she said, ticking off a point on her fingers, "we take care of the bandits at the Lumber Shipyard near Sami. They're causing trouble for the locals, and that's a direct threat to the Sami's supply lines."
Alexios straightened, nodding with intense, confident focus—the kind that clearly said he understood absolutely nothing of the nuance but would joyfully fight anyway.
"Right. Fast. Easy. Kill everything that moves."
Kassandra groaned, dragging a hand down her face with exasperation. "That is not what I—Alexios, please. Think. There are steps. A method."
Lukas, walking slightly behind them, his massive hammer slung casually over his shoulder, let out a quiet breath through his nose—the closest he ever got to laughing while trying to remain polite and professional.
Kassandra continued, determined to instill a plan.
"After we're finished with the bandits, we head back to Drucilla in Sami and tell her the lumber yard is secured and safe."
Lukas nodded calmly. "Makes sense. She'll want immediate confirmation of the work."
"And then," Kassandra went on, her tone turning cold, "we march straight to the Cyclops's base at Kleptous Bay. It's at the far edge of the island. He'll be expecting a fight, and we'll give him one he won't forget."
Alexios nodded quickly, so quickly it was almost comedic in its eagerness.
"Yes. Good. Great. Mhmm. Perfect. All of this is extremely clear."
Lukas stared at the back of Alexios's head. He doesn't understand a single thing. He knew the sign: Alexios heard the word 'fight' and his strategic brain instantly shut off, replaced by raw eagerness.
Kassandra noticed the same blank focus in Alexios's eyes—the slight, dangerous grin at the thought of imminent violence—but she only sighed and kept walking. Arguing with him about tactics at this hour would achieve exactly nothing.
A warm, distant breeze rustled through the vineyards. Their boots crunched softly on the dusty road, the world peaceful for now.
Meanwhile, a mile or two from the road where the trio walked, in the quiet, dense heart of the forest near Sami…
The first rays of morning sunlight pierced sharply through the heavy canopy, scattering shifting mosaics of gold across the moss-covered, damp ground. Birds called softly overhead, their simple songs blending with the rhythmic, powerful sound of metal slicing clean through wood.
Atlas moved like a machine calibrated with deadly precision for war, but focused now on destruction of a different sort.
Shhhk—THUD. Shhhk—THUD.
His sword cut deep into the trunk of a tall cypress tree. Bark and tough wood splintered with every perfectly aimed blow. The tree trembled violently with each strike, leaves shaking loose and fluttering around him like drifting green feathers.
Atlas inhaled deeply through his nose. His breath came out harsh, controlled, a white mist in the cool air.
He shifted his stance, muscles tightening, and swung with a final, explosive surge of strength.
CRACK!
The final blow echoed loudly through the entire forest.
The tree groaned, a terrible, low sound… then collapsed, slamming into the earth with a thunderous, earth-shaking crash that startled every nearby bird into panicked flight.
Atlas rested the wide, wet blade of his sword on his shoulder, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.
"That should…" he panted softly, "…do for a warm-up."
His entire body was steaming in the cool morning air, radiating heat as if he had been forged in a forge moments before. Sweat dripped from his jawline, tracing down the hard lines of his neck and chest before falling into the damp soil.
He sheathed his sword and rolled his shoulders, the satisfying, deep ache spreading through every muscle. It felt good. Training in his world was constant—but always in sterile gyms, calculated simulations, or specialized arenas. But here, surrounded by raw earth and real, living trees, the exertion felt honest.
Atlas grabbed his pack and followed a thin, hidden path through the forest until the dense trees opened up to reveal a secret haven:
Lake Abythos.
The water was still, profoundly clear, and completely untouched. Morning sunlight danced on the smooth surface, turning the liquid into a sheet of molten gold. Gentle mist curled off the lake like whispering, hesitant spirits.
Atlas exhaled softly, the sight settling the adrenaline in his blood.
He stripped down to his linen pants and stepped into the water. The shock of the cold hit his skin first, sharp and immediate, but was quickly replaced by a profound, soothing relief. He submerged himself fully, resurfacing with a slow, grateful inhale. His hair clung to his face and neck as ripples spread slowly across the peaceful lake.
For a few rare, fleeting minutes, he allowed himself to simply exist—floating, breathing, feeling the unique peace of this ancient, savage world.
Then he swam back toward the secluded shore and grabbed his bag.
Inside were small, discreet reminders of the world he came from: a small bar of soap, mint-scented shampoo, a toothbrush in a sealed case, a compact, disposable towel, and a universal trauma kit.
He washed thoroughly, savoring the faintly familiar, synthetic scents that did not belong to ancient Greece. It was a small, vital spark of modern comfort in a world of primal chaos and raw blades.
After drying himself, Atlas meticulously dressed in his upgraded Greek armor—adjusting the fine leather straps, tightening the custom bracers, and securing the sword at his side. His reflection in the lake showed a warrior of two worlds: ancient bronze covering modern knowledge.
"All right," he muttered under his breath, eyes fixed on his reflection. "Time to find them."
He slung his bag over his shoulder. With long, steady strides, Atlas headed toward the forest's edge. When he stepped through the last line of trees, he found himself on the main road leading toward Markos's vineyard.
The sunlight filtered softly through the thinning canopy as Atlas stepped out of the forest and onto the main dirt road. Morning mist clung stubbornly to the shaded patches of grass, leaving tiny, silver droplets on his boots with every step. Birds chirped somewhere overhead, and the distant, rhythmic crash of waves echoed from the western cliffs.
The air smelled of pine sap, damp earth… and a faint, acrid smoke.
Atlas noticed the smoke—but did not react yet.
Then—
Tap—tap—tap—tap—
Footsteps. Fast. Uneven. The sound of someone running hard, driven by panic, not training.
His battle instincts sharpened instantly. His posture shifted from relaxed to coiled, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. His breathing became shallow and controlled, his senses widening like a predator's.
Then a small figure burst frantically from behind a sharp bend in the road.
A young girl.
Brown hair flying wildly. Eyes red, shimmering with the raw sheen of tears. Her face was pale with deep, immediate fear.
She wasn't looking ahead—only behind, as if chased by invisible dread.
Her small foot caught on a jutting rock.
"Ah—!"
She pitched forward, arms flailing helplessly.
Atlas moved instantly. He was a blur of speed and control, catching her mid-fall as though she weighed nothing. His grip was steady and careful—not too tight, but firm enough to stop her momentum without harming her.
"Easy," he said, his voice low, steady, and unexpectedly gentle. "I've got you."
Phoibe blinked rapidly, completely disoriented by the sudden stop. Her cheeks were flushed from running, and her breaths came in quick, painful, shallow bursts.
"T-Thank you, mister…"
Her voice shook like a leaf caught in a gale.
Atlas knelt quickly, reducing his intimidating height so she didn't have to crane her neck. Seen up close, she looked even younger—barely more than a child, trying desperately to hold onto her courage.
"You're Phoibe, right?"
Phoibe froze completely. Her eyes widened, shocked, as if she had just seen a ghost from a prophecy.
"H-How do you know my name?! Did… did someone tell you I was coming? Did I meet you before??"
Atlas gave her a calm, perfectly natural smile. Inside, he couldn't exactly say, 'I played the game where you died tragically and your character definitely deserved better than the ending she got.'
So he gave her a clean, simple, and believable lie.
"Kassandra mentioned you," he said evenly. "And I've been traveling with Alexios and Lukas."
Phoibe let out a small, relieved gasp, almost tripping again in her surprise.
"You know Kassandra's brother?! And Lukas—the big guy who lifts stones for fun?!"
Atlas chuckled softly, the sound deep in his chest. "Yes. Them."
Phoibe's eyes sparkled with awe and relief—but only for half a heartbeat.
Then her expression completely crumpled. Fear returned like a cold, crushing wave.
"Oh no… oh no no no…" She hugged her arms around her chest tightly, trying to stop her trembling. Her lips began to tremble uncontrollably.
Atlas immediately noticed the rapid, severe shift.
"Phoibe," he said gently, lowering his tone to one of pure concern. "Talk to me. What's wrong? What are you running from?"
She didn't answer at first, her small hands fidgeting, twisting the fabric of her worn tunic. Tears welled up again, clinging tragically to her lashes.
"I—I was supposed to say goodbye to my friend," she whispered, her voice tight and breaking. "Before I left with Kassandra."
Atlas nodded slowly, giving her the space and time to speak at her own pace.
"But when I got there…" Her throat tightened, choking the words. "…her whole family is sick. Burning up with fever. The healer ran away, and people shouted to stay away or we'd get it too."
Blood Fever.
The word slammed into Atlas's mind, and he felt his muscles tense to iron. This was it—the historical disaster he knew was coming.
Phoibe wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist, leaving a streak of dirt.
"The priest came. He said… he said they have Blood Fever. And that the only way to save the island is…" She swallowed hard, struggling to voice the horror. "…to kill and burn them all."
Atlas inhaled sharply, the air burning in his lungs.
"Them…" she whispered, the terror in her voice absolute. "My friend… her parents…"
Atlas placed a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder. His touch was warm, steady, and instantly grounding.
"Phoibe," he said calmly, his eyes holding hers. "You did the right thing coming to find help. You're not alone in this."
She sniffled, looking up at him uncertainly, her hope fragile.
"But… nobody will help them. Everybody says they're already as good as dead."
"I'm not everybody," Atlas said firmly, the quiet strength in his voice undeniable.
She stared at him, confused, unable to reconcile the easy violence he clearly possessed with this gentle certainty.
"You… you're not afraid?" she asked.
"Of helping people?" Atlas shook his head, the movement slow and resolute. "Never."
Phoibe squeezed her hands together. "But it's dangerous," she whispered.
Atlas smiled faintly, a complex expression of sadness and determination. "Most things worth doing are."
Phoibe's breath hitched—but a desperate, vital flicker of hope appeared in her eyes.
"Where are they now?" Atlas asked, his focus now clinical and sharp.
"In the Village of Kausos," she said quickly. "The priest is there right now. He—he said he would…" She couldn't finish the sentence. Her voice cracked like thin glass.
Atlas stood up straight, his entire posture now resolute. "Take me there."
Phoibe blinked at him, stunned. "You… you truly will?" Her voice was barely audible.
Atlas nodded without hesitation. "I will treat them. I know how."
Phoibe stared—then a tiny, trembling, magnificent smile appeared.
She grabbed his hand tightly—her small fingers barely able to wrap around his large palm, but filled with absolute determination.
"Okay! Come on! It's this way!"
Without waiting, she broke into a run, pulling him along with surprising speed. Atlas followed easily, his strides long and steady, letting her guide him toward the looming crisis.
The path curved sharply between rocky slopes, and the moment Phoibe pulled Atlas around the last bend, the full horror of the situation was revealed.
Kausos.
A village that should have been peaceful and quiet at this hour was instead a grave of smoke and silence. Half the houses were burned down entirely. The remaining ones were scorched black around the edges. Thick, gray ash floated through the air like morbid snow.
A sickly, suffocating smell lingered—burned wood… and something worse: the smell of fear and sickness.
Phoibe slowed, her breath hitching as she took in the sight of her ruined village. "They… they burned some of the houses," she whispered, tears immediately returning. "They were scared the sickness would spread…"
Atlas placed a heavy, protective hand on her back, urging her gently behind his frame. "Stay close to me. Do not move."
They walked deeper into the smoking ruins. Chickens darted fearfully into the rubble. A clay jar lay shattered on the ground. A dog barked somewhere, its sound desperate and frightened.
At the center of the village square, the terrible scene unfolded:
Four people knelt huddled on the dusty ground—the sick family. Parents and two small children. Their bodies shook uncontrollably with fever, sweat running down their skin like water. They were tied, wrists bound with heavy rope, cloth gagging their mouths to silence their cries.
Phoibe swallowed a sob. "Rhea… that's my friend…" she pointed shakily at the smallest girl. "She's only six…"
Atlas's jaw tightened, his anger cold and focused.
In front of the family stood a local priest dressed in white robes that were now stained with soot and ash. Six armed villagers stood behind him, holding crude torches and spears, raw terror carved into their faces.
The priest raised his hands dramatically, invoking authority.
"For the good of Kephallonia," he proclaimed, his voice trembling slightly but loud and ringing with fanaticism. "We must purge the sickness from the island! Only fire can stop the Blood Fever. The gods demand this sacrifice—"
"STOP!!"
Phoibe's small voice cracked through the smoke-filled air like a desperate arrow.
Every single head snapped toward her. The guards lifted their spears nervously. The priest scowled, his fear turning instantly to rage at the interruption. Rhea's fever-glazed eyes widened at the sight of her friend.
Phoibe stood frozen, fear gripping her legs—so Atlas stepped forward, placing himself protectively between her and the armed villagers.
His presence was an instant, overwhelming shift in the atmosphere. A stranger. Armored. Impossibly calm. Utterly controlled.
Atlas looked at the bound family, then directly at the priest. "I can treat them," he said, his voice steady, low, and unwavering.
The priest blinked at him, genuinely insulted by the claim.
"No one can treat them," he spat, the fear in his voice covered by religious zealotry. "The Blood Fever is a plague sent from the gods! Step aside, mercenary, or you will join their fate."
Atlas's eyes narrowed just slightly, the only sign of his rising cold fury. "I'm not asking your permission," he said quietly, dangerously. "I'm telling you I will stop this."
Murmurs immediately rippled through the guards. One whispered, "He's not scared at all of the sickness…"
The priest straightened his back, desperately trying to regain control of the mob. "Remove him," he ordered, pointing a shaking finger. "Kephallonia cannot risk its safety on the word of a traveler!"
Two guards stepped forward, spears ready, driven by terror.
Atlas exhaled slowly, a theatrical sound. "I really…" He rolled his shoulders, the sound a soft click of metal and muscle. "…didn't want to do this today."
The first guard lunged with a predictable overhead stab.
Atlas sidestepped so smoothly it looked effortless, caught the man's wrist mid-strike, and delivered a precise, lightning-fast tap to the nerve under his jaw.
The guard collapsed instantly, hitting the ground like a sack of stones.
The second guard yelled and swung his spear downward.
Atlas pivoted, hooked his foot around the man's ankle, and swept him so violently that he flipped sideways and landed with a sickening crunch.
Two more rushed him from behind.
Atlas didn't even need to turn his head.
He took one controlled step backward and lashed out with an elbow, hitting the first man in the ribs—the man's body folding like parchment—then grabbed the second by the tunic and hurled him with quiet, shocking strength straight into a wooden cart.
CRASH! The cart disintegrated.
Phoibe gasped, her eyes huge with terror and awe. "H-how are you doing that?!"
"Practice," Atlas said casually, not even looking at her.
The final three guards hesitated now, fear of the sickness replaced by immediate, profound fear of the man in front of them.
One still tried—thrusting his spear forward in a nervous, desperate stab.
Atlas grabbed the spear shaft mid-thrust, snapped it clean with a twist of his wrist, and flicked the broken, jagged end toward the man's knees.
The guard collapsed with a yelp of pain.
Now only the priest remained, backing up until his feet nearly tripped over an overturned clay pot.
"W—what manner of warrior are you?!" the priest stammered, holding the remaining torch aloft like a useless weapon. "This is madness!"
Atlas approached him slowly, calmly. "I warned you."
"N-no, stay back—!" The priest swung the burning torch wildly.
Atlas ducked the flame, stepped inside the priest's guard, and lightly flicked the side of the priest's neck with four fingers—a precise, controlled pressure point strike.
Tap.
The priest's eyes rolled back and he fainted instantly, collapsing noiselessly onto the ash-covered ground.
Phoibe's jaw dropped completely. "Atlas! That was… that was incredible!"
Atlas glanced down at the unconscious man. "…That was barely anything at all."
Phoibe ran over to the sick family, immediately cutting their binding ropes with a shard of pottery while Atlas quickly checked each of them—feeling for fever, assessing breathing strength, and noting specific symptoms.
"Come," Atlas said to the weakened family, his tone gentle but firm. "We're getting you somewhere safe and secluded."
Phoibe nodded rapidly. "I—I know a place! An abandoned house in the deep forest. No one goes there. It's completely hidden!"
Atlas smiled softly, recognizing the quick, smart thinking. "Lead the way, Phoibe."
Phoibe grabbed the smallest child's hand and stepped ahead, guiding them along narrow deer paths and between thick clusters of trees. Atlas supported the parents on either side, his quiet strength steady and controlled, their weight leaning heavily on him.
The deep forest muffled their footsteps—leaves and pine needles crunching softly beneath them. Birds fluttered above, startled by their quiet passing.
After several minutes, Phoibe pointed ahead through the dense foliage. "There! That one!"
A small, abandoned cottage sat half-swallowed by thick vines and green moss. The roof sagged, the wooden beams were cracked, and the windows were long gone—but the walls still stood firm. It was quiet. Hidden. Safe.
Atlas guided the family inside. The air smelled strongly of damp wood and old soil, but it was shelter.
"Lie down," Atlas said, spreading torn blankets and linen he pulled from his pack across the dirt floor. "Slowly. Tell me where it hurts the most."
The father groaned as he lowered himself, pressing his palm over his sternum. "My head… feels like fire… and my chest… it burns…"
The mother swallowed hard, her voice breaking with worry. "Please… our children… help them first…"
Atlas shook his head gently. "I will treat all of you together." He gently touched the children's foreheads. Their skin burned slightly beneath his careful fingers.
"Good," he murmured, a clinical confidence in his voice. "Early stage. You're lucky. Very lucky to have Phoibe."
Phoibe wrung her hands nervously beside him. "Can they really get better, Atlas?" she whispered.
Atlas stood and stepped outside. "Stay with them, keep them calm."
Phoibe nodded quickly, determination tightening her face.
Outside the house, Atlas scanned the forest floor with intense focus.
Tall green stems… Broad leaves… Purple-tipped herbs…
Perfect.
He gathered specific medicinal plants with practiced, precise hands—crushing some between his fingers to test their scent and potency, sniffing the extracted oils, and discarding the ones that weren't potent enough.
Phoibe peeked anxiously from the doorway. "Atlas? What are you doing out there?"
"Preparing medicine," he replied. "The right combination of herbs can lower fever, clear the lungs, and calm the heart. We need to act quickly to keep the core temperature down."
He knelt and spread the gathered herbs on a flat, clean stone. "And you're going to learn how to help, too."
Phoibe's eyes widened, surprised. "Me?"
Atlas smiled faintly, genuinely. "You want to protect people, don't you? You saved them already by bringing me here."
Phoibe nodded hard, her lips pressed together with fierce determination.
"Then pay attention, little bird." Atlas began working.
He crushed feverfew leaves between two stones to extract the cooling liquid. He sliced bark from a specific willow branch—a natural analgesic. He boiled water in a metal bowl he kept in his modern pack—placed over a tiny fire kindled by dry twigs.
The scent of the boiling herbs soon filled the cottage—earthy, sharp, and intensely cleansing.
The mother watched with her hand covering her mouth, silent tears of profound gratitude slipping down her cheeks as she whispered:
"You… you're a gift sent from the gods…"
Atlas shook his head, focusing on the preparation. "I am just someone who knows what to do, mother. The gods had nothing to do with it."
He mixed the herbs, testing the consistency with a careful eye, then handed the first steaming cup to the father.
"Slow sips," Atlas instructed. "It will cool your body and ease the fever's heat."
He prepared a milder, more palatable mix for the children, speaking softly as he worked.
Phoibe sat beside him the entire time, her anxiety replaced by an intense focus, absorbing every single word like a dry sponge.
"How do you know all this medicine?" she asked quietly.
Atlas stirred another mixture, his eyes thoughtful, distant. "I've studied many things. Medicines. Illnesses. Ways to help people and keep them alive."
He glanced at her, his expression warm. "And now you will learn them, too, Phoibe. Knowledge is safer in more than one pair of hands."
Phoibe smiled—small, warm, and brimming with newfound, vital hope.
As the family drank the medicine, their laboured breathing steadied little by little, their tense bodies beginning to relax.
Atlas felt a quiet, significant shift in the air. The tragedy that had once defined this doomed village—the historical fate he knew awaited it—was beginning to change.
Not because of destiny or prophecy. But because one small choice, one act of courage, demanded a different outcome.
The island's future, one small act of kindness and one precise dose of medicine at a time, was being quietly, profoundly rewritten.
(PS: Please support me on patreon there 135+ chapters there and there also my new GoT: The True Dragon Fanfiction of Game of Thrones
https://patreon.com/BX_XDS)