Vlad, Jormugandr, Ouroboros, and Fafnir walked alongside the caravan, taking in the sights. Despite the frantic, often brutal nature of the Land of the Three Calamities, there was a sense of vibrant order here. It felt as though the fortress's magic and architecture worked in tandem to protect and nourish its inhabitants, warding off the chaos outside.
Thousands upon thousands of men and women thronged the fortress streets, ranging from those in the prime of youth to the gray-haired and battle-scarred. Despite their varied appearances, they all shared the same cold, sharp light in their eyes—a glimmer that betrayed a feral resolve, as though each one were a lone wolf poised to tear apart anyone foolish enough to cross them.
The nature of the people inside the Golden Sky Fortress came as no surprise to Vlad. In a Doomsday World, there was little room for the weak or naïve; they would inevitably perish, and their remains would be devoured by the monstrous hordes roaming the land.
