Atlas One Punch Man Mga Nobela at Kwento

Fuck. But before he can strike, a blur crashes into him, Shaun, teeth bared, fists like hammers. He tackles the rogue off his feet and slams him to the ground. "Get your own damn fight," he growls at Sofia, who just smirks and dives back in. Atlas has positioned himself between me and the worst of it, keeping me shielded. He’s a storm, every strike measured, brutal, efficient. But it’s not enough. And I should do more, I just dont know what.

He arched his brow and looked at Pete like he was a stain on the glass, then he calmly mouthed; “Eat my ass.” “The nerve of him, he’s lucky there's glass between us,” Pete muttered, spinning back toward his crew. “He’s lucky you like him,” Marlo, his dance partner, teased, sipping from her water bottle. “I don’t,” Pete snapped too quickly. “I don’t like ballet boys. Especially not that stiff-ass Ken doll.” “Keep telling yourself that,” Marlo smirked, “and maybe one day you'll eventually believe it.” Pete glared at her, but she winked at him and backed off chuckling.

I knew which one Dario was as Dario had a black shirt on, while Atlas had a white one on. I stood there in fear, my eyes just stuck on Dario as Atlas sprinted towards him landing a punch on his jaw but just in time Dario dodged the punch and kicked Atlas in the face making him fall to the ground. Dario smiled as he circled around his body. Atlas snapped his angry face towards Dario giving him a menacing glare as he stood up again as the two circled each other.

Atlas continued, running his hands through his hair. He snapped his fingers and a guard stepped forward. “Take out the trash.” “Mr. Volkan, you can’t do this, I—” “Wait.” Atlas turned and the guard paused, “He’s right! How can I send him away like this?” he gestured at the man, his eyes darkening. The man nodded frantically. He couldn’t read social cues. What was Atlas up to now? “Let’s fix this,” Atlas announced and I gasped as his fist connected with the man’s face again. In a moment, he was on the ground, feet pressed against his face.

It was not what everyone actually saw. ​The fist, moving like a projectile, came right for me, so quick it was nothing but a blur. Powering those knuckles was two hundred pounds of muscle. As quick and heavy as he was, a single blow would likely put me in the hospital. Mira was shrieking, the bartenders were shouting. Atlas was yelling as he shoved through the throng. And then my own hand lashed out and caught his fist right out of the air.

Except this time, I wasn’t alone. Atlas was already there. His silhouette moved like a shadow against the faint glow of dawn, his fists slamming into the padded post with a rhythm too controlled to be casual. He’d been here for a while, I could tell by the way his shirt clung to his back, drenched with sweat. “Couldn’t sleep?” I called out as I approached, rolling my wrist and testing the stiffness in my knuckles. Atlas glanced at me briefly, his expression unreadable, then returned his focus to the dummy. “Sleep’s overrated,” he muttered, his strikes never slowing.

I like how they look and they’re much more manageable than the afro I have naturally. Butterflies start gathering at the pit of my stomach as I enter the gym, and suddenly I don’t feel like hitting the bag anymore. However, I still walk towards it. God, what if he’s mad about me missing our not-date? “Come on, people, move it, I don’t hear any punches-“ Atlas walks in and our eyes meet for a second. His face is clean shaven, and he smiles a little when he sees me. Okay. That’s good, right?

The tall guy growls, reaching one hand towards me and extending claws, probably trying to hurt me or some shit. Atlas, for once, remembers he has shit to do. Before the claw can reach me, Atlas roars inside my head and my arm catches on fire, the hellish claw replaces my arm and catches the tall guy’s claw, gripping it so painfully his bones snap and another pain-laced scream echoes against the walls around us. “Not a mortal, not a mortal, I understand,” the tall guy repeats frantically, desperately trying to pull his claw out of Atlas’ grip.

Ah yes, Peter. Darkous counted Atlas’ next attack, catching his un-coordinated brother with an abrupt slice to the upper chest. Although not deep enough to cause serious harm, now that would be too easy. Plus a lot less enjoyable for Darkous. Atlas stumbled back, shocked by the sudden pain that erupted through his body. Blood began to slither from the wound in Atlas’ chest, distracting him momentarily. This gave Darkous time to prepare for his signature baton attack, his favourite and most frequently used technique to render his opponent unconscious. Placing his katana carefully back into its holder, Darkous removed both of his batons from the inside of his black leather trench coat.

I demand, embarrassed, as I sit up. “A takedown,” Atlas says. “If I were a werebear, you’d be dead right now.” “Lucky me,” I mutter, putting up my hands as I try to remember what Oscar said to me this morning on the way here: Get out of the way, find an opening, pin your opponent. He made it sound so simple. Licking my lips, I lunge forward, trying to get in close enough to strike. Atlas smoothly ducks out of the way, sending me reeling off balance. “You’re gonna have to do better than that,” he tells me.