Before he could even finish his sentence, the masseuse standing behind him moved faster than anyone could react. One moment, she was a mere attendant—silent, unassuming. The next, she had a needle pressed against his neck, her grip firm, her expression unreadable.
No one had seen it. Not Jiang, not Bao, not even Lin Wuye, who had spent years mastering perception and reading the flow of battle. And certainly not Atlas, who prided himself on seeing through layers of deception and manipulation. His mind screamed internally, trying to process what just happened, but no explanation came.
For the first time in a long while, he had been completely, utterly caught off guard. In an instant, a needle was pressed against his neck, her grip firm, her expression unreadable.
Tension shattered the easy atmosphere. Meyu immediately sat up, alarm flashing across her face.
"Hey, wait, hold on—!"
Jiang and Bao tensed, their hands moving instinctively toward their weapons, but even they hesitated, realizing just how quickly Atlas had been caught.
Atlas, frozen in place, let out a slow breath. "...I feel like this is a misunderstanding."
A sharp crack echoed through the hall.
Master Daokan had not moved, had not raised his voice, and yet, in his hand, the porcelain teacup had shattered, hairline fractures spreading before it crumbled entirely. A single droplet of tea slipped down his fingers, but his gaze remained locked onto Atlas, unreadable yet undeniably furious.
The sheer weight of his presence pressed down on the room. Even without Qi, Atlas felt his body go weak, his limbs suddenly resembling jelly. His brain screamed at him to move, to act, to say something, but all he could do was sit there, sweat forming at the nape of his neck as the needle remained firmly in place.
Atlas let out a nervous chuckle, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Alright, maybe a slight misunderstanding..."
Master Daokan's eyes narrowed, his expression shifting into something eerily calm. Too calm. His fingers, still dusted with shattered porcelain, flexed slightly, and Atlas swore he felt the air itself tighten.
"Curious" Daokan said, his voice quiet, yet cutting through the tension like a blade.
"You spoke with such urgency before my gates. You stressed the condition of the child, claimed she needed help beyond all else."
His gaze sharpened, each word slow and deliberate.
"And yet now, I find that same child was purchased by you. A merchant. Tell me, Atlas Ryland, how does one justify turning concern into ownership?"
Atlas's entire body tensed. Years of manipulation, of reading people, of knowing when to pivot and when to act, screamed at him that if Daokan so much as stood up, he was already dead.
Three seconds. That's all he had.
In the first second, he pieced together his response.
In the second, he calculated how much truth he could afford to reveal.
In the third, he spoke—fast, smooth, desperate, but without a single wasted breath.
"I bought her because I had to—because if I didn't, she would've ended up in a place far worse. My goal was never ownership but protection. Every slave I've ever bought, including Meyu, was freed the moment I could guarantee their safety. I don't profit off them, I don't sell them. I get them out before people who actually deserve to be crushed under your boot take them first."
He exhaled sharply, heart hammering as he said all that in one breath. Daokan remained perfectly still, the weight of his gaze unrelenting.
But Atlas could tell.
The master was thinking the same thing Layla had—he is a merchant, and surely, he has enough.
Atlas knew that the Master didn't know the depth of his pockets.
But Layla did.
In just a second, his tongue flicked out, licking his lips at light speed—a nervous tick that, for once, was entirely justified. Funny as it might've looked to Layla, it was the physical sign of his mind revving at full speed, a merchant weighing his own actions against the morality he so carefully curated.
His thoughts solidified into conviction.
"I can tell," he began, voice steadier now, "by a person's posture, their face, their emotions, their eye movement, the way they breathe, the way they stand. I can tell, with at least 90% certainty, what kind of person they are. And I knew—I knew—if I didn't act first, someone far worse would have."
His gaze locked onto Daokan's, unwavering now.
"I don't make a habit of justifying myself. But if you're going to judge me, then judge me for what I do, not just what I am."
Daokan remained silent for a moment, then leaned slightly forward.
"How many slaves have you freed?"
Atlas didn't flinch. "Thirty-six."
"Why did Meyu stay?"
Atlas inhaled through his nose, then exhaled.
"Because she chose to. I never forced her to stay, never asked her to repay me. Some people just... don't have anywhere else to go."
Daokan's gaze remained sharp. "And yet, you only save a select few. Why not all?"
Atlas scoffed. "Because I'm not a saint. Because I don't have infinite wealth or infinite patience. Because some of them deserve to be there." His voice hardened. "I've met criminals hiding behind chains, conmen who sold their own families, thieves who ruin honest men, traitors who burned their own people for gold. And I've met innocents, people thrown into a system they never deserved to be in. But I can't save them all. I don't have the luxury of blind kindness, only calculated mercy."
The room was heavy with silence.
Layla shifted, crossing her arms before hesitating.
"May I break the silence Master? Just for a second?"
Daokan gave a slight nod, allowing it.
She turned her gaze to Atlas, her expression unreadable.
"I have a proper question for you. No tricks, no over the top facial, no buttery words, just an honest answer."
She leaned forward. "If you were king, what would you do?"
Atlas blinked. His usual smirk faltered just slightly. For the first time in this entire exchange, he wasn't thinking in calculated steps—wasn't formulating an escape or a counter.
He thought about it. And then, sincerely, he spoke.
"If I were king… I'd do what I always do. Weigh the cost of every decision, cut away what doesn't work, and make sure the people who can stand on their own do so while protecting those who can't. I wouldn't try to be a hero. I wouldn't try to be loved. I'd try to make things work."
Layla studied him, her expression unreadable.
Atlas let out a breath, shaking his head. "I'm not a king, Meilin I'm a merchant. I deal in exchanges, not miracles. But if I had power? Real power? Then I'd make damn sure no one had to rely on luck just to survive."
For a moment, his words lingered in the air, but in his mind, they carried him elsewhere—far from the Dynasty of Jin, far from this room, back to Europe, back to a life he had buried beneath every calculated step he took.
He remembered the streets he grew up on, the cold that seeped into his bones no matter how many layers he wore. The sound of his mother's coughing in the night, worsening with every passing week. His father's desperate attempts to keep their small business afloat, only to be crushed beneath the weight of taxes and ruthless competitors who played dirtier than they ever could. He remembered the empty pantry, the days of hunger, the cold realization that no one was coming to save them.
And then he remembered the moment he understood.
The world didn't reward kindness. It didn't punish cruelty. It moved forward, indifferent, uncaring. Survival wasn't about being good—it was about being smart. And so, Atlas became smart. He learned to negotiate before he learned to trust. He learned to read people before he let them read him. And when the chance came to leave it all behind, to start over in a new foreign country, the Jin Dynasty with nothing but his wits and ambition, he took it. He learned the language painstakingly. Didn't matter if he was met with eyes that disapprove of him. He relied on his own hardwork.
Because luck had failed him once and he swore it would never control his life again.
Master Daokan, arms folded, exhaled slowly, his expression still unreadable.
"You speak with conviction, Atlas Ryland. But words are easy. Let's see proof of your skill."
Master Daokan remained silent for a beat, then slowly, deliberately, raised the stakes.
"And since you seem so confident, let's make it more interesting. Analyse not just anyone—but the one currently holding your life. The masseuse"
Atlas's entire thought process came to a screeching halt.
Externally, his face did not change. Internally? He's screwed.
His mind scrambled at light speed.
Was this some kind of cruel joke? Was Daokan trying to see if I break under pressure? Because if so, he was absolutely succeeding. Analysing someone under normal conditions was one thing, but analysing the person who had a literal needle pressed to my neck!? This is an entirely new level of madness.
Externally, his face remained a picture of iron-willed confidence, not a single muscle betraying the internal panic setting in. His years of experience told him one undeniable truth—if he refused, it would only confirm Daokan's doubts.
"Yes" he said, far too quickly, his mouth working ahead of his brain.
Silence followed. Then, slowly, almost eerily, every single person in the room—Layla, her parents, Jiang, Bao, Yan, Meyu, and all the disciples—turned their heads toward Atlas in perfect unison, as if they shared the same exact thought.
Ah, that face again.
Atlas's expression was a masterpiece of forced composure—a face that had weathered countless negotiations, tricked warlords, charmed nobles, and convinced even the most skeptical merchants to part with their gold. His brows held the perfect arch of feigned confidence, his lips barely curving in what could be mistaken for a smirk but was, in truth, the face of a man rapidly running calculations in his head.
His eyes, however, were betraying him just slightly—a flicker of desperation, of a man who knew he had been thrown into deep waters without knowing how to swim. His jaw tensed just enough to reveal the silent suffering of someone who was about to do the most dangerous thing he had ever done: improvise.
The result? A face that was both unreadable and comically obvious at the same time.