Despite the horde of men rushing towards him, he held his ground firmly. However, it wasn't just him facing the onslaught, as another horde of men stood behind him with their weapons clanging against their shields.
The battlefield was littered with signs of horses, which stood in stark contrast to the technological advancements that the world had achieved.
Despite this, the eight-year-old boy's worn-out body was covered by a large rectangular shield adorned with intricate designs.
Next to the boy stood a man with flowing black hair, holding a spear in his hand and sporting a wide grin on his face.
He sat atop the most magnificent horse, possessing a strength and power that even the other horses seemed to lack.
However, in contrast to the men behind him, he did not hold a shield, as he had a person designated to hold it for him.
It was surprising that among such a complex and bloodthirsty group of people, having a bannerman was enough to validate an individual's strength and position at the top of the group's hierarchy.
Despite their sophistication in battle tactics and weaponry, they still held on to the simple tradition of having a designated bannerman to represent their leader.
The simple validation of having a bannerman was further bolstered by the deep scars that ran across the man's body.
These scars, earned in battle, were a testament to his tenacity and strength, and coupled with his evident state of good health, they only served to solidify his position as a fierce warrior.
Such scars were not uncommon among the people of the "Desolate Continent" of Afrik and were considered a symbol of the terrifying laws of survival that governed their way of life.
Atlas, the little boy who stood behind the shield as the bannerman of Gunnhild the Devil Saint, was just one of the many examples of the harsh reality that every individual faced, from the youngest child to the oldest person.
This fate was further worsened by the inability to use power, the ability to awaken a mana signature, and wield nature's favorite subjects: the elements.
The power of the elements was a coveted ability that only a select few possessed.
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In a world where the rule of strength was paramount, Atlas was born into a relatively sheltered life. His father was a stone mason and his mother was a magic instructor in their small village.
Growing up in his village, having parents who could only awaken Grade F mana signatures was already a source of pride for Atlas.
Fuelled by this pride, Atlas seemed to possess unlimited confidence as he went around bullying some of the newly awakened mages.
From a young age, he gradually awakened the physique of a beast, which only made him more confident in his abilities to overpower others.
Atlas derived unlimited joy from tanking the mana-reinforced punches of the weak mages, as it only further fueled his unrestrained nature.
However, his villainous behavior was cut short when his parents welcomed a new addition to the family: a little sister named Reina.
Despite his usually rough and ruffian-style demeanor, Reina became the pride of Atlas.
With Reina's arrival, Atlas sobered up from his violent tendencies and cut back on his usual training.
He spent all of his time playing with his adorable sister, finding fulfillment in her company. As a result, everything went back to normal for Atlas.
Just as Atlas began to appreciate the importance of a peaceful life, a loving family, and above all, his precious little sister, it was all cruelly taken away from him.
After a year or so of bliss, tragedy struck without warning, plunging Atlas into a dark and painful world of loss and despair.
The memory of that horrific day would forever be etched in Atlas' mind. The cold, dead eyes of the man who had plunged his spear into his parents' hearts were burned into his memory, haunting him day and night.
The sound of Reina's head being crushed under the man's foot as he laughed in absolute bliss at the rush of being in control of their lives was like a never-ending nightmare.
Atlas' usual heavy punches and clawing were useless against the man's strength and skill. With a mere slap of his backhand, the man sent Atlas' lean but thick body flying through the air, crashing through the stone wall surrounding their cottage.
Though his body was mangled and broken, Atlas refused to give up.
With only the singular thought of revenge echoing in his head, he clawed his way toward the man, his vision blurred with pain and rage.
His bones creaked and snapped with every movement, but he pushed through the agony, fueled by his burning desire for vengeance.
Blood dripped from his wounds and his breath came in ragged gasps, but he refused to let the pain stop him.
He would not rest until the man who had destroyed his family was brought to justice, no matter what it took.
But alas, there was so little a six-year-old could do against such overwhelming odds. The sudden reality of the brutal world he lived in, and the pain and blurry images of the events that had taken no more than twenty minutes to unfold, were overwhelming.
His small body crashed into the concrete floor of their now-destroyed cottage, and his consciousness was lost.
The perpetrator, a man with a twisted grin, stood amidst the rubble of the destroyed cottage, his body pulsing with excitement.
He rummaged through the debris, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he picked up Atlas, his mangled body still clinging to life.
The man then proceeded to tie up Atlas, his living but destroyed body now in his grasp. With a callous disregard for human life, he exited the burning ruins of the cottage.
Outside, his companions, similarly muscled and menacing, sat atop their horses, surveying the destruction with cruel amusement.
The group wasted no time in selecting those who were viable for labor, ranging from working men to children like Atlas, who showed potential for manual labor.
Laughing at the ease of their latest raid, the group swiftly made their way back to their base, leaving behind a trail of destruction and shattered lives.
The bandits' journey was abruptly halted by a ruthless attack from a band of "slave-freeing" nomads.
They overpowered the bandits, destroying their organization, and freeing the few surviving victims of their vicious raids.
The nomads offered some Grade F pills to the wounded, but their relief was only temporary.
Atlas, who had long since succumbed to the darkness that had taken root in his soul, viewed the world with a cynical eye and refused to blindly trust the nomads.
As days passed, he discovered the truth about these supposed saviors - they were nothing more than a depraved group of cultists.
Their twisted beliefs dictated that sacrifices were needed to appease their dark deity, and they saw the villagers as nothing more than expendable pawns.
The nomads' intentions were far more sinister than anyone could have imagined. They planned to lure the villagers into a false sense of security, building their trust, all while secretly plotting their ultimate demise.
The sacrifice must be perfect, and the meat must not sour - this was their twisted ideology.
The villagers would be nothing more than fresh meat for their perverse and unholy ceremony, and Atlas couldn't help but wonder how many others had already fallen prey to their evil scheme.
Atlas contemplated making a run for it, leaving behind the villagers he practically grew up seeing and the nomads who were revealed to be nothing more than a twisted cult.
However, before he could act on his impulses, a group of zealous fanatics, who claimed to bathe in "holiness," arrived on the scene intending to eradicate the evil cult.
The ensuing chaos was a bloodbath as the zealots unleashed their fury on the unsuspecting nomads.
Atlas, who had now grown used to the violence and brutality, watched on in horror as the fanatics ruthlessly butchered their enemies.
The ownership of Atlas, a mere pawn in this violent game, was transferred into the hands of this new group once again.
As they took him away, Atlas couldn't help but wonder if he was merely trading one group of oppressors for another.
The darkness in his young but now hardened heart grew, and he couldn't shake off the feeling that he was merely a puppet in a never-ending cycle of violence and suffering.
Today was just like any other day in the wasteland, a violent and unforgiving place where the strong preyed on the weak.
The war between two groups of Raiders had escalated, dragging every nearby village or clan into the conflict.
Sandwiched between these two forces of depraved individuals, the innocent residents found themselves caught in the crossfire, fighting for survival in a world ruled by the thrill of slaughter.
But just as the battle was about to commence, a hulking figure with black locs appeared on the battlefield.
The very sight of this imposing figure sent a chill down the spines of the Raiders, who quickly realized that they had met their match.
The man's body appeared to be coated in a thin layer of greenish metal, reflecting the light around him in an otherworldly way.
His face was twisted into a wide grin, the same expression that one might expect to see on the faces of those who relished in violence and bloodshed.
And yet, there was something different about this man's smile - a hint of innocence that seemed to contradict his menacing exterior. It was as if his joy came not from causing harm, but from some other source entirely.
And the Raiders knew that this was no ordinary warrior. He moved with the grace of a panther and struck with the ferocity of a lion.
He was a force to be reckoned with, and the Raiders knew that they had never faced an opponent like this before. The black-haired warrior tore through their ranks, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.
The once-confident Raiders were now filled with fear, and their morale quickly crumbled. They retreated, running for their lives as the warrior with black locs stood tall, victorious.
For a moment, the wasteland was silent as everyone watched in awe at this extraordinary display of power. And at that moment, it was clear that a new legend had been born.
Do not mistake the significance of this moment as merely the birth of a legend.
For the legend of the man sitting upon a pile of Raider corpses had already taken Earth by surprise.
His name alone sent shivers down the spines of the most hardened warriors, and his reputation preceded him wherever he went.
At present, the man's gaze was fixed on Atlas, the solitary survivor amid the bloodshed. He was the only child among the men on this brutal battleground
He stretched out his hand towards Atlas, a smile on his face, and asked, "How would you feel about becoming my son?"
The offer seemed illogical, even absurd, given the circumstances. But there was something about the man that inspired a deep sense of loyalty and reverence in those around him.
His charisma was palpable, and his strength was undeniable.
Atlas had always harbored a deep-seated hatred towards violence, even though he had been forced to practice it to survive in the harsh wasteland for the past years.
And the man before him, however, was the embodiment of this very violence - a living, breathing contradiction.
Despite this, something about the man's presence and aura told Atlas that this encounter was far different from his previous hellish two years that had left a permanent frown etched on his face.
There was a sense of hope and possibility that he had not felt in a long time, and it was borne into his original childish but now hardened heart.
Without even realizing it, Atlas found himself reaching out his hand to grasp the man's, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
As Atlas reached out his hand to grasp the man's, a glimmer of hope and uncertainty danced in his eyes.
Perhaps, he thought, there was a chance for him to embrace his violent past and, with the help of this enigmatic figure, find a way to move forward.
The idea of finally being able to love himself and lessen the guilt of being weak that had been implanted in his very being brought a flood of emotions to the surface.
For the first time in years, Atlas cried, tears of relief and fear mingling on his cheeks as he allowed himself to feel the weight of his past.....
(A/N: This brief account spans three years and concludes with Atlas, who is presently eight years old at the end of the account. Though not all details are included, the events of this period are consistently marked by violence and wickedness as their primary themes.)