Chapter-10

The first sliver of light sliced through the dusty window, painting motes of dust into dancing dimonds. Atlas, already awake, watched it creep up the cracked adobe wall, a familiar pull tugging at him with the dawn. He slipped out of his thin cotton sheets, the air cool against his sun-bronzed skin.

Unlike his childhood home back in the bustling Candy City, roosters here were replaced by the distant hum of the desert wind and the occasional cough of a stray dog. This was his moment, the world still asleep, waiting for him to claim it.

With the quiet grace of a desert cat, he padded to the worn prayer rug by the window. As he unrolled it, the familiar scent of sun-baked earth and cumin rose from the fibers. Kneeling, he pressed his forehead to the rug, a silent acknowledgment of the day coming.

"Another sunrise," he muttered to himself, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Then, the flow began. Atlas moved moved, taking deep inhales. Each inhale deep and measured, each exhale a sigh that seemed to resonate with the vast desert itself. The first rays caught his face, warming the sweat already beading on his brow.

"Some stretching," he whispered as he reached, his heels kissing the rug like a desert fox stretching after a night's slumber. His spine lengthened with each exhale, an echo of the rising sun. Breath filled his lungs with the vast desert air, chasing away the remnants of sleep.

He continued through the sequence, his voice a quiet murmur counting each pose, each transition a seamless conversation between breath and body. By the time he reached ending, his eyes were closed, his center found.

"Empty vessel," he breathed, feeling the worries of the day, the weight of his mission, all fall away like sand blown by the desert wind. 

A sigh escaped his lips when he finally rose, muscles energized and supple. Stepping out into the dusty streets, the cool air embraced him. His destination: the river snaking through the heart of the city, reflecting the nascent sun like molten gold.

Reaching the bank, he peeled off his cotton clothes, the air suddenly cool on his sun-warmed skin. With a deep breath, he plunged into the water, gasping at the initial chill. It washed away the remnants of sleep and meditation, leaving him invigorated and alive.

Submerged, he felt the current tug at him, mirroring the flow of his life. He swam with the sun on his face, feeling its warmth seep into his very bones. Emerging, droplets clinging to his sun-kissed skin, he felt reborn, ready to face whatever the day held.

A short walk brought him to his haven, a hidden garden tucked away from the city's clamor. Lush greenery greeted him, the scent of jasmine and frankincense filling the air. In the shade of a gnarled fig tree, he had his worn leather-bound book, its crimson cover reflecting the sunlight like a ruby.

Opening it, the scent of aged paper and ink rose to meet him. His eyes fell on a passage, the words dancing in the dappled light. He read aloud, his voice soft: "And during his return, the whole country lit up clay lamps in their houses..."

He paused, pondering the words. Their warmth resonated within him, echoing the hope for a brighter future that burned within himself. Closing the book, he tucked it under his arm, the message echoing in his heart as he turned his face to the rising sun, ready to step into the day and play his part in the world's illumination.

"Let's see," he whispered, a determined glint in his eyes. He walked out of the garden.

***

Atlas's knuckles turned white against the worn grip of the rifle. Crouched on the broken rooftop, the wind whipped his sweat-damp hair across his eyes. Below, the city sprawled like a shattered jaw, buildings gaping with missing teeth of windows. Massive birds, the size of condors, circled overhead, their guttural cries echoing through the canyons of concrete. He adjusted his sights, the scope glinting under the oppressive grey sky.

The reason for the city's ruin sat lumbering towards him. Monsters, bigger than any Atlas had ever seen, their backs draped with crude armor, charged through the ruined streets. Men, wild-eyed and fierce, clung to their hides, swords and rifles glinting in the wan light. The air thrummed with the low rumble of hooves and the guttural shouts of the riders.

This was no organized army, these were scavengers, opportunists drawn by the scent of weakness. The island, once a bustling trade hub, had been ravaged by Big Mom's wrath during one of her hunger drive, left a carcass picked clean by lesser predators. Now, with Big Mom's gaze turned elsewhere, the scavengers swarmed.

He was left here, to clean up the mess.

He took a breath, steadying himself against the tremor that ran through the building. The lead bears, horns like curved knives, was closing fast. Atlas lined up the shot, his finger hovering over the trigger. He wasn't Big Mom, wouldn't waste bullets on showmanship. One shot, one kill.

The world narrowed to the scope, the sights framing the charging bear. He squeezed the trigger, the rifle bucking in his grip. The crack of the shot echoed through the ruins, followed by the surprised bellow of the rider. The bear stumbled, throwing its rider, before crashing into a pile of rubble.

A momentary silence fell, broken only by the distant cries of the other riders.