Path of Obscurity

First off, I want to thank everyone for all the power stones. Imagine my surprise when I woke up to see more than 30 power stones! Next, I'd also like to thank everyone who commented; you guys are keeping me on my toes. Feel free to reach out! Have a great day!

-XvX-

By the time the sun rose the next morning, the village was transformed beyond recognition.

Atlas had worked through the night, his powers flowing through him like a limitless river, shaping the village into something extraordinary. The once dry and barren fields were now vibrant and fertile, filled with rows of wheat, carrots, and potatoes that swayed gently in the early morning breeze. The animals—cows, sheep, and pigs—roamed in newly built pens, and their numbers multiplied as Atlas brought more livestock from his dimension. They would never go hungry again.

The crumbling houses, once barely standing, were now sturdy and well-built. Using wood, stone, and whatever resources he could summon, Atlas had reinforced each dwelling, making them strong enough to withstand any threats that might come. The roofs no longer leaked, the walls no longer sagged. Smoke rose from chimneys, the warmth of freshly lit fires filling the village with life.

Most impressively, a fortified wall now encircled the entire village, standing tall and imposing. Built from sturdy stone and reinforced with wooden beams, it was a defense strong enough to keep out not only the wild predators that roamed the land but also any other dangers that might come. Guard towers stood at intervals along the wall, offering a view of the surrounding plains. Ishmael, along with the other men, had already begun patrolling the perimeter, their spirits lifted by the newfound sense of security.

As the villagers awoke and stepped out of their homes, they were greeted by a sight they could scarcely believe. Children, who had gone to sleep in a dying, withering village, ran through the streets, marveling at the changes. The elderly, who had seen the village at its lowest, wept with joy, unable to comprehend the miracle that had taken place overnight.

Auto, standing in the middle of the village square, was the first to approach Atlas, who stood at the center of it all, watching the villagers' reactions with a quiet smile. "You... did all this?" Auto asked, his voice barely a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the illusion.

Atlas simply nodded. "I told you, I can help."

Auto shook his head, still in disbelief. "This is more than help. This is... I don't even have words for it."

The villagers began to gather around, their faces filled with gratitude and awe. One by one, they approached Atlas, thanking him, offering whatever they could as a sign of their appreciation—small tokens, handmade trinkets, and heartfelt words. Even Ishmael, the stoic gatekeeper, gave Atlas a respectful nod as he passed by.

"You've given us a future," Nara the village chief said, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't know who you are or where you came from, but you've saved us. We're in your debt."

Atlas tilted his head, pondering what the villagers could offer him in return. Just as Atlas started contemplating how these poor villagers could offer him repayment, he finally became aware of all the villagers encircling him.

 Atlas couldn't help but start to feel the weight of what he had accomplished. Overnight, he had turned a dying village prosperous, with enough food, shelter, and protection to last them for years. But by helping the villagers came a responsibility he hadn't fully thought out. These people now looked to him as their savior, their protector. They trusted him, relied on him.

Atlas stood frozen, his mind grappling with the unfamiliar warmth flooding through him. Praise—real, heartfelt praise—was something he had never expected, let alone craved. His life had been a series of motions, a constant hum of duty, expectation, and routine. Never before had his efforts been met with anything more than silence or the occasional nod of acknowledgment. And yet now, as the words of admiration lingered in the air, he felt as though the ground beneath him had shifted.

A strange feeling churned in his gut, unfamiliar and almost unsettling. Was it pride? Or fear? He couldn't quite place it. His chest felt tight, as if the weight of the praise itself was pressing down on him, his throat feeling as if he had stones inside it. He swallowed hard, trying to force the sensation away, but it lingered like a burden he wasn't sure he wanted to bear.

Admiration. The word echoed in his mind, foreign, distant. Could this really be what it felt like? To be seen, truly seen, not for the things he had done out of obligation, but for something more? His hands twitched at his sides, unsure how to react, to accept the praise, or to reject it as quickly as it had come.

Atlas laughed shortly, even with all the potential Atlas has he was still momentarily caught off guard by hopeful smiles and genuine praise.

Atlas straightened his posture the villagers were safe for now, but he knew that wouldn't last. In a universe like Warhammer, peace was fleeting strife inhabitable.

Being happy in the Warhammer universe is basically a death flag.

Instinctively, Atlas began to consider the most probable threat. Nobels, authority was often wielded by the corrupt. His transformation of the village would not go unnoticed, and soon, figures of power—whether they be imperial forces, warbands, or even local nobles—would come. They wouldn't come with offers of peace or trade. They would come to take what they believed was theirs: the land, the resources, the people.

Atlas clenched his fists. War, he thought grimly. It was the only language anyone in this universe understood.

"Words won't matter here," he muttered to himself. "They never will. Not to those who take power through fear and violence."

He knew the village couldn't defend itself if a real threat emerged. The walls were strong, the people had hope, but that wasn't enough in a world dominated by endless conflict. If nobles, planetary governors, or worse, forces of Chaos, came, the villagers would be little more than sheep for the slaughter.

There was only one solution.

"I need an army," Atlas whispered, his voice cold, his mind calculating. "And I need to be the one to lead it."

He glanced back at the village. They were strong now, but they weren't warriors. They didn't have the mindset for war. They would need training, weapons, discipline—and above all, they would need leadership.

And who better to guide them than Atlas, the one who had already brought them back from the brink of ruin?

Atlas summoned the interface in his mind flipping through pages of its vast recipes. Weapons, armor, tools—all of it was within his reach. With his power, he could arm the villagers with weapons far superior to anything locals could muster. He could fortify the walls even further, and build traps. But he also knew that wasn't enough.

"This world doesn't just need soldiers, It needs people who are willing to fight, to kill, and to die for something greater."

Although Atlas is opposed to the idea of indoctrination, he also recognizes that if he refrains, someone else will do it or something worse. One only needs to take a glance at the future imperium of man to get an idea of what I'm worried about.

His gaze hardened. He would learn the art of war. He would build an army—not just from the villagers, but from any who would rally to his cause. Men and women who sought freedom, who were willing to fight for their future. He would gather them, train them, and forge them into a force that could stand against any who dared challenge them.

But there was more. Even with an army, they couldn't just wait for the enemy to come. Atlas knew he would have to strike first. Wipe out the corrupt nobles, the would-be tyrants, before they ever had a chance to step on him. He would need to root out any threat, destroy any force that dared try to oppress me or mine.

And if that meant starting a war—so be it.

Narrowing his eyes in thought, an idea surfaced in his mind—a guardian. A protector that could watch over the village when he couldn't, something tireless and relentless, immune to fear. He smirked as he recalled a memory from his Minecraft world, a powerful and infamous sentinel made to guard villagers: the iron golem. It was like a walking tank, a creature of sheer brute force, able to crush any threat with its iron fists and shrug off attacks that would fell a man in one blow.

"If I can craft them," Atlas mused to himself, "they could serve as the village's guardians. Defenders that never sleep, never rest, and never falter." His hands twitched as he imagined the towering golems patrolling the village walls, keeping watch while the people trained and worked.

But first, there was the more immediate concern of the villagers themselves. Even with weapons and armor, they were still fragile. Their bodies were weak, susceptible to fatigue, hunger, and disease. They needed to be made stronger—resilient enough to survive the coming trials. Atlas knew that no amount of training alone would make them battle-ready fast enough.

Potions. The thought struck him as he remembered the alchemical wonders he could make. In his dimension, he had access to all kinds of resources, including ingredients to brew powerful potions. If he could craft potions that could heal the sick, mend broken bones, and fortify their strength, the villagers could be transformed rapidly. He envisioned potions of regeneration, instant health, and even strength—just enough to turn the tide for those who needed a quick boost.

Atlas nodded to himself, pleased with the idea. "I'll brew potions to restore them—heal all their hidden ailments and cure any weakness they have," he muttered. "

Confident in his plan, Atlas felt at ease with the idea of returning to his dimension to begin gathering the potions required for the next phase. Before proceeding, he considered whether it would be better to take the villagers with him rather than going alone. Quickly deciding, Atlas concluded that having more people to handle the minor tasks would allow him to concentrate on the more complex tasks.

However, before Atlas takes all the villagers to his dimension he must determine how he spent hours in his dimension when only a moment had passed upon his return to real space.

Time, in the grand scheme of the universe, was such a malleable concept. If he remembered correctly in Minecraft, time moved 72 times faster than it did on Earth. A full day in this world equated to 72 days in the other, excluding any space magic or warp nonsense. That meant he could spend a whole year in his dimension, gathering resources, strategizing, crafting armies of golems, all while only about 5 days passed in RealSpace.

But that kind of manipulation of time could do strange things to a person's perception of reality. He could live lifetimes in the Minecraft realm, shaping worlds and preparing for war, and yet return here with barely any time lost.

Atlas pondered it for a moment. Would this imbalance change him? How would it feel to spend weeks or months building in the fast-paced world of Minecraft, only to come back to the creeping pace of Realspace? Would he feel out of sync? Would his mind slowly fracture, his sense of time dissolving into nothing? Or, would he learn to thrive in that gap, becoming more efficient, and more adaptable than anything this universe had seen? Considering adaptation was one of my wishes, surely I'd be alright.

He smirked at the thought.

"What does it matter?" he muttered to himself, dismissing the concerns. The galaxy was full of beings that had lived and thrived for millennia, beings whose grasp of time was as foreign to humans as the stars themselves. The ancient Necrons, who had slept in their tomb worlds for tens of millions of years, could rise at any time and continue their conquests as if no time had passed at all. The Eldar, with lifespans tenfold that of humans, have endured ages of suffering and conflict, their understanding of time stretching far beyond mortal grasp. The Chaos Gods, timeless entities, moved and shaped the galaxy at their own whims, unconcerned with the passing of mere centuries.

Atlas understood now that time was only a tool, a resource to be wielded in his favor. Whether a day or a thousand years passed, it didn't matter. What mattered was what he did with that time. He had a gift—a way to manipulate time through the two worlds—and he would use it to his advantage.

"I can build an empire in days," he thought, his eyes glinting with ambition. "While others rise in the morning to partake in their morning rituals, I'll be crafting armies, forging weapons, gathering knowledge."

The thought of being out of sync with the rest of the galaxy didn't scare him anymore. In fact, it gave him a sense of superiority. Time, once a constraint, was now his greatest ally.

Atlas looked back toward the villagers, frail, sick. He could spend months healing and training them in his dimension, crafting them into a true fighting force, and yet return to this world with barely a moment passing.

War is inevitable, he reminded himself. The forces of the universe, whether they be Humans, Xenos, or even dark Gods, would come for what he was building. And when they did, they would not find scattered fragile humans, but an army—one forged in the fires of countless days and nights in his world.

"I'll outpace them all," Atlas said softly, his resolve hardening. "No matter how ancient, how powerful, or how ageless they think they are, I'll be ready. And I'll have all the time I need."

With that, Atlas made his decision. He would return to his dimension with the villagers, spending months preparing, gathering, and crafting. The villagers would be trained, the iron golems built, and his base built then strengthened. And when he returned to the Warhammer universe, perhaps only a few weeks would have passed.

But when he came back, he wouldn't just be leading a village—he'd be leading an army.

Atlas turned and strode toward the village, his eyes already distant, focused on the battles to come. Time was his weapon now, and he would wield it with precision.

Let the galaxy brim with entities millions of years old. Atlas Telamon will carve his niche in this universe and his own.

As Atlas lifted his gaze, blue eyes gleaming. The villagers continued their praises, unaware of the internal shift happening within him. His mind, once cluttered with the usual concerns of survival and strength, felt clear—no, sharper, more expansive. The voices of the villagers seemed distant, as if the world had slowed down around him, giving him time to process everything with astonishing clarity.

Could this be what the tales spoke of—the supreme intelligence of the Primarchs, the legendary figures whose wisdom and foresight were said to surpass mortal comprehension?

Atlas had heard stories, but he had never dared imagine he could possess such abilities. The Primarchs were myth, their power something out of reach for someone like him before. Yet here he stood, his mind flooded with knowledge, ideas, and understanding that stretched beyond anything he'd known before. Strategies for ensuring the village's survival formed effortlessly in his mind, each plan more intricate than the last. He could see Invision paths of prosperity, safety, and growth unfold before him, like an invisible map only he could access.

He stared at the villagers, still thanking him, but now, their words echoed differently in his mind. He wasn't just their savior; he was evolving into something more. A being capable of guiding, of leading not just by strength but by intellect far beyond what any ordinary man could fathom.

Atlas blinked, his eyes still glowing with that deep, brilliant blue hue, and realized that this gift—this supreme intelligence—could change everything. But as with all power, it came with a price. The responsibility he felt earlier was now magnified. How would he balance this newfound wisdom without losing himself? 

Atlas shook his head, casting aside the fleeting doubt that had tried to creep in. Losing himself? That was weakness, and weakness had no place in his path. If he couldn't handle this, then he didn't deserve the power at all. He chuckled darkly to himself—if it came to that, he might as well end it. But that wasn't an option. Atlas wasn't one to shy away from the complicated. He thrived in it.

For now, his greatest strength wasn't just his newfound intelligence or even his raw power—it was his anonymity. No one knew who he was, what he was capable of, or where he had come from. His obscurity was his shield, his greatest defense. Without knowledge of his true potential, no one would seek him out, no one would move against him.

Atlas glanced around the village once more, this time with a calculating eye. These people saw him as a savior, but to the world outside, he was nothing more than a wandering soul. He would keep it that way for as long as he could. Power in secrecy was power unchallenged.

As long as no one knew of his origins or the extent of his abilities, he could navigate through the world unseen, preparing, learning, and growing without attracting the attention of those who might seek to destroy or control him. His eyes dimmed slightly from their glowing blue as he returned his focus to the present, but the fire within them remained.

In the shadows, Atlas would thrive. And when the time came for him to step into the light, the world would be blindsided.

Atlas's voice cut through the murmurs of gratitude with calm authority. "You say your people are in my debt, Village Chief Nara," he began, his eyes locking onto the older man. "Well, I know exactly how you can repay me."

The crowd fell silent, hanging onto every word. Chief Nara, a man with sense and humility, bowed his head respectfully. "We owe you more than we can ever repay, Atlas. Whatever you ask, we will give."

A mysterious smile tugged at the corners of Atlas's lips as he continued. "I have no need for money, nor for land," he said. "What I offer is far greater than what this village can provide me here." He let the weight of his words settle over them before speaking again. "I will take you all to a distant land—one where you will have everything you need and more. A place where you can thrive without fear, where your children will know prosperity beyond anything you've ever imagined."

The villagers exchanged uncertain glances, some whispering amongst themselves, while others simply gazed at Atlas with a mix of awe and disbelief.

"Where is this land, Atlas?" Chief Nara asked, his voice betraying both curiosity and hesitation.

"It is far from here, across lands that few have traveled," Atlas replied, his voice filled with a quiet confidence. "There, you will not only be safe, but you will flourish. All I ask is that you trust me."

The silence deepened, the villagers weighing his words. Atlas knew that the idea of leaving behind everything they had ever known would be daunting. But he also knew that their current life, though improved, would never compare to what he could offer them in the land he spoke of.

"This is not a command, but an invitation," he continued. "It is a choice that each of you must make. Those who choose to come with me will witness a future unlike any other. Those who prefer to stay may do so, and you will still have my protection; however, when I am gone, I cannot protect you. You must make this choice soon."

His mysterious smile lingered as he watched the villagers' reactions, knowing that the seeds of curiosity and hope had already been planted. He had given them a glimpse of something greater, and now all they had to do was follow.

With a sigh, Chief Nara glanced at Ishmael, who nodded in agreement then Auto how did the same. It seemed Chief Nara had anticipated this consent. He looked over the newly refurbished village and its livestock with a sense of regret.

"We agree to accompany you, Atlas, but what of the village? After all the hard work you invested last night, are you truly willing to abandon it all?"

Atlas stood at the center of the gathered villagers, his eyes scanning the uncertain yet hopeful faces before him. The newly refurbished village, the livestock, the crops—they were all a testament to his power and determination. Yet, Chief Nara's question lingered in the air, heavy with concern. All the hard work, the transformation from a dying settlement to a thriving one, would be left behind if they followed him.

But Atlas was impatient. He didn't have time for nostalgia or second thoughts.

"Don't worry about that," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "I'll take care of it."

The villagers exchanged confused glances, unsure of what he meant. Atlas, however, wasn't going to waste time explaining. He had bigger plans, and he needed these people in his Minecraft dimension, where time was on his side and resources were infinite. There, they could truly become strong.

Impatient and driven by his eagerness to proceed, Atlas commanded, "Everyone, hold hands. For this to work, we all need to be touching."

Slowly but surely, the villagers obeyed. They linked hands in a long chain, the nervous energy palpable as they glanced at each other for reassurance. Ishmael took his place near Chief Nara, and with a brief nod from the chief, they silently communicated their readiness to Atlas.

The young Primarch took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he summoned the power that allowed him to teleport between realms. He had transported animals and objects before, but people? He wasn't entirely sure it would work. Still, he reasoned, if he could bring a cow or a sheep, surely a person wasn't much different. His connection to his Minecraft world seemed limitless. All it required was focus.

Atlas concentrated, feeling the air around him shift as he visualized the village fading away, replaced by the familiar, blocky landscape of his otherworldly realm. His mind reached for that connection, and slowly, he felt the pull.

In a surge of willpower, Atlas opened his eyes, and the ground beneath them shimmered. The air crackled with energy, and for a brief moment, everything seemed to warp. The village, the walls, the livestock—it all began to fade from view, replaced by the vast, open fields of his Minecraft dimension.

The villagers gasped in astonishment as the scenery around them transformed in the blink of an eye. No longer were they standing on the familiar ground of their village; now they found themselves on the fertile plains of Atlas's realm. The air was different, the sky brighter and clearer, and in the distance, they could see forests and mountains, untouched and waiting to be explored.

Atlas grinned, pleased with himself.

The villagers, still reeling from shock, released each other's hands and surveyed their surroundings with awe. Everything was square-shaped, altered.

"This is where we'll build something greater," Atlas said, stepping forward to address the group. "Here, we'll have the resources, the time, and the power to become stronger. No one will starve, no one will be left behind."

Ishmael, Chief Nara, and the others remained speechless. The sheer scale of what Atlas had done was beyond their understanding. To be transported into an entirely different world, It was like stepping into a dream.

Chief Nara finally found his voice, though it was laced with amazement. "This... This place... it's not like anything I've ever seen."

Atlas nodded. "It's mine. And now, it's yours too."

As the villagers began to explore their new surroundings, Atlas turned his attention to the horizon. He could already picture it—a thriving kingdom, built from the ground up, with an army strong enough to face whatever this universe threw at them.

In his Minecraft dimension, time was on his side, and he had all the tools he needed to shape these villagers into warriors.

"Let's get to work," Atlas said, his voice filled with determination. The villagers might not fully understand what lay ahead, but he did.

Atlas blinked, staring at the system interface in front of him. The list of names and occupations from the villagers scrolled across the bottom left corner of his vision. It was an unexpected but welcome surprise. So, he mused, this happens every time someone enters my Minecraft universe.

looking closer to the interface closer. There, standing out in bold letters, was a big red button labeled (kick). Atlas couldn't help but smirk. The idea that he could eject anyone from his world at any moment filled him with a surge of confidence. It was like holding the key to ultimate control—not just over the villagers, but over anyone who dared to step foot in his domain.

"This will be essential," Atlas whispered to himself, "No one can enter without my knowledge, and no one can stay unless I allow it."

Feeling the excitement pulse through him, he grinned. Every waking moment, I'm learning more about my powers. The sheer possibilities of what he could do were intoxicating. Atlas felt himself teetering on the edge of obsession—exploring his abilities and unlocking more potential, but also realizing that the more he indulged, the more he might lose focus on his original goals. He had to be careful not to get sidetracked.

Then, a soft ping echoed through his interface, snapping him out of his thoughts. A quest notification appeared in the center of his vision, the bold letters catching his eye:

Quest: Equip your visitors with stone tools.

Reward: Iron Claws

Atlas's smirk returned. The quest system seemed to be integrated into his powers, offering him challenges in exchange for rewards that could further enhance his capabilities. The idea of receiving iron claws intrigued him. He could already imagine their sharp, deadly potential—tools not just for defense, but for combat. A prize worthy of his effort.

Stone tools, huh? Atlas thought. It was a small, manageable task—nothing overwhelming, but a good first step in equipping the villagers. He knew these tools were just the beginning, and with time, the rewards and quests would only grow more complex.

Rubbing his hands together, he looked over at the villagers, who were still in awe of their new surroundings. I'll give them what they need to survive, but I'll also test them. Strengthen them. Make them ready for the future.

"Alright," Atlas said aloud, his voice carrying authority. "First things first—tools."

He quickly opened his interface going to the crafting menu, the familiar grid appearing before him. In no time, he gathered the stone and sticks he needed to create an assortment of stone tools—axes, pickaxes, hoes, and shovels. The villagers, still somewhat disoriented, gathered around as Atlas laid the tools out before them.

"Take these," he instructed, his tone firm but reassuring. "You'll need them to build, to survive, and to defend yourselves. This world is full of resources, but you'll have to work for them."

The villagers cautiously approached the tools, picking them up with a mix of curiosity and reverence. For them, these simple stone implements were like gifts from a god, and in a way, Atlas was becoming that to them—an all-powerful being who could shape their reality with a thought.

As they accepted the tools, another ping sounded in Atlas's interface.

Quest Complete.

Reward: Iron Claws

Atlas experienced an odd sensation coursing through his hands as the reward took form. Flexing his fingers, he watched as sharp, gleaming iron claws sprouted from his fingertips, resembling the lethal nail claws of a certain man from Marvel. He regarded them with a sense of awe; the claws were streamlined, menacing, and unexpectedly lightweight. He had anticipated claws similar to those found on power armor; yet, these seemed equally, if not more, effective. In his mind's eye, he saw their potential in battle, slicing through armor, flesh, and bone with frightening ease.

Atlas chuckled softly to himself. This is only the beginning. He looked out over the villagers, now armed with tools, and envisioned their future—an army of loyal followers, ready to fight and die at his command.

The universe was vast, and war was coming. But with his newfound abilities, the power of time, and now these quests, Atlas knew he had the tools to reshape this world—and beyond—into something far greater.

He required nothing but time now, and fortunately, he had plenty of it.