Time marches on. Atlas sighs, "Five years since I left the academy. I still can't find a decent job, and my government aid is almost gone. How will I survive? No one wants to hire me, fearing I'm a threat as a half-breed. But I'm harmless, powerless."

  The weight of the world settled on Atlas's shoulders like a leaden cloak. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, a constant reminder of his five years of fruitless job hunting since leaving the academy. The meager government aid that sustained him was running out, a ticking clock counting down to a future shrouded in uncertainty.

  He contemplated disguising himself, burying the truth of his halfbreed within himself. But the lie was something atlas knew he couldn’t carry out as he lacked basic social skills. Here, in a world where magic and armament abilities dictated one's worth, Atlas was an anomaly. His lack of these coveted skills made him an outcast, unemployable.

  Desperation drove him to wander the bustling central district of the town. He scoured shop windows, his eyes scanning for any sign that didn't require magic or armament. Each rejection was a small death, chipping away at the fragile hope he clung to. Disheartened and drained, Atlas sought solace in his haven – a quiet hill overlooking the sprawling cityscape.

  Here, amidst the gentle breeze whispering secrets through the tall grass, he could find a moment of peace. He gazed upon the vibrant city life below, a city that pulsed with a rhythm yet he couldn't seem to find his place in. A sigh escaped his lips, heavy with the question that echoed endlessly in his mind, "Why me? Why was I born into this world?"

  As he descended the hill, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A brightly colored poster plastered on a nearby wall advertised the military, boasting about the opportunity to serve regardless of magical or armament abilities. A spark of hope ignited in Atlas's eyes, a flicker of possibility in the bleak landscape of his life.

  However, the hope was short-lived. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as it grasped the flimsy paper. The words seemed to mock him. Military service – a path full of danger and discipline. A path he knew deep down, his heart wasn't made for.

  With a defeated sigh, he crumpled the poster in his fist. The paper crackled under his grip, mirroring the way his own resolve crumbled. "No," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper, "I'm not cut out for that."

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  He walked back towards his home, the weight of his future pressing heavier than ever. But somewhere, deep within him, a tiny ember of hope remained alight. He wouldn't give up. He had to find a way to survive, a way to carve out his own path in this world that seemed determined to cast him out.

  Months went by, a relentless march of time that seemed to mock Atlas's growing despair. The government aid, his last lifeline, had vanished, leaving him adrift in a sea of uncertainty. "How will I survive?" he whispered to the empty room, his voice a mere echo in the silence. "Well, at least I still have this house," he added, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips. "Too bad I can't sell it."

  Hunger gnawed at his insides, a relentless beast that clawed at his sanity. This was true hunger, a far cry from the occasional empty stomach he had experienced before. Tears welled up in his eyes as he clutched his aching belly. "What did I do to deserve this?" he sobbed, his voice barely audible.

  As his body weakened, a strange sensation pulsed through his arm. A soft, ethereal glow emanated from his skin, a sign of his latent armament ability. But it was too late. The realization hit him like a tidal wave. "It's too late," he murmured, his voice filled with resignation. "I won't survive long enough to use it."

  The quiet was shattered by a sudden knock on the door. A flicker of hope ignited within him. Had someone come to rescue him? With trembling hands, he swung the door open, only to find a mail carrier standing on the doorstep. "You have a letter," the man said, handing him an envelope.

  Atlas rushed back inside, his heart pounding with anticipation. Surely, it was a letter from the government, a miracle of financial aid. With desperate fingers, he tore open the envelope, only to be met with crushing disappointment. It was a recruitment letter, a desperate plea from the government for new soldiers.

  He tossed the letter aside, a wave of frustration washing over him. "Is this a sign?" he muttered, his voice filled with doubt. Picking up the letter once more, he scanned the words, searching for a hidden meaning. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was a chance. A chance to fight, to survive, to reclaim his life.

  As despair threatened to consume him, Atlas made a desperate decision. With renewed determination, he sprang to his feet and began packing his meager belongings. "This won't be the end of me," he muttered, his voice barely audible. The weight of his possessions felt insignificant compared to the weight of his impending doom

  .

  Stepping out of his run-down house, he squared his shoulders and declared, "I refuse to die here." The words echoed in the quiet street, a declaration against the forces that sought to extinguish his life. With a final glance at his home, a place that he held value too, he locked the door and turned away.

  His destination was clear: the nearest military base. A place of discipline, hardship, and, perhaps, a chance at redemption. As he approached the imposing gates, a sense of fear mingled with hope. The electronic gate creaked open, a slow, deliberate movement that seemed slow down time. With a deep breath, Atlas stepped through the gates, ready to embrace whatever fate awaited him.