Vlad’s sense of wonder did not last long. He and the other three Sky Seed Depravitas gathered their bearings and followed Agamenon and Zalasar along the fortress’s broad, gleaming streets. Their path took them deeper into the innermost district of the Golden Sky Fortress, an area that people like them, without any significant background, would not have been able to enter.
While Agamenon and Zalasar maintained a measured pace instead of running, they still radiated an unmistakable aura of authority. Their posture, the set of their shoulders, and even the rhythm of their footsteps spoke to their noble heritage within the Graecian Empire. In a place as fraught with peril as a Doomsday World, one learned quickly that posture and bearing could be as important as raw power. To show uncertainty was to invite exploitation.
Around them, the few citizens of the inner ring paused to look. Most of these onlookers revealed little about their thoughts. Some offered polite bows to Agamenon and Zalasar—telltale signs of acknowledging higher-ranking nobility. Others observed in discreet silence, curiosity evident only in the flicker of their eyes. News of the newcomers had likely spread quickly: four strange figures, including a monstrous werewolf, a towering draconic warrior, a small yellow cat that pulsed with arcane energy, and a human with white hair and black eyes.
Indeed, the Golden Sky Fortress was predominantly human-occupied, but the empire allowed other races—especially those who had proved loyal or beneficial to Graecia—to live within its formidable walls. Even so, it was rare to see such an odd assortment of allies. The stares lingered, but the onlookers soon turned back to their own affairs. In a Doomsday World, survival overshadowed gossip. People worked tirelessly to train, trade for precious resources, or fortify the city’s defenses.
Vlad and his group paid little heed to the attention. They remained confident, refusing to display any hint of vulnerability. In such a realm, even momentary weakness could invite disaster. By projecting an air of calm readiness, they also signaled that while they might not be enemies, they were far from easy prey.
Jormugandr, perched regally on Vlad’s shoulder, peered around with bright, watchful eyes. Ouroboros, the hulking werewolf, mirrored that vigilance, occasionally letting out a low growl if people glanced at them for too long. Fafnir, still in a partially minimized draconic form, swung his long tail behind him, each step thudding softly against the road’s golden stones.
Agamenon and Zalasar, noting the Depravitas’ firm resolve, exchanged an approving glance. After nearly an hour of weaving through the winding lanes, they arrived at a wide courtyard dominated by an altar. There, a brilliantly radiant flame danced, its golden light casting shifting patterns across the polished ground.
Vlad felt his heartbeat quicken. Even from a distance, the aura of the flame was unlike anything he had ever encountered. It was both ancient and overwhelming, and not even his A.I. Chip could perform a meaningful scan of it.
"So this is the Sacred Flame of Alexandros..." The thought echoed in Vlad’s mind. Even without the help of the A.I. Chip, he could tell this flame was the source of power that infused the sky with golden fire.
Yet there were no visible soldiers or guards. A flame of this magnitude, apparently left unattended, seemed bizarrely unprotected. Vlad wondered if the fortress was truly so complacent or if there was another, more potent system of security in place. He needn’t wonder for long.
As the group closed in—stopping at about a hundred meters from the altar—Zalasar directed a meaningful look at the four Depravitas. They halted in unison while Agamenon continued alone. When he reached the fifty-meter mark, the ground beneath him flared with arcs of golden runes and intricate magical matrices. Each glyph pulsed with lethal energy, and the air crackled with power.
Eyes wide, Vlad exchanged a glance with Jormugandr. Both sensed that these wards could disintegrate an intruder at an atomic level. The puzzle of absent guards was solved. With a security system this formidable, no ordinary garrison was necessary. Agamenon, however, walked ahead unscathed, clearly recognized by the fortress’s wards as someone permitted to approach.
"Ingenious," Jormugandr commented telepathically. "Those wards could reduce us to ash if we charged in recklessly."
"No wonder no one dares to even come near," Vlad replied in kind.
Agamenon, oblivious to their private exchange, continued his solemn march. His face became the picture of reverence as he bowed deeply before the flame for a full three minutes. Rising, he drew a black knife from his spatial ring and, with steady composure, ran its blade from his wrist to his elbow.
Vlad’s brow furrowed, unsure why the young noble would injure himself so severely. Then he watched in fascination as Agamenon’s blood spilled upon the ancient stones, and the Sacred Flame seemed to respond. Threads of golden light stretched down, eagerly siphoning the blood. The flame blazed higher, pulsing with renewed intensity that spread into the swirling aurora overhead.
"What...?" Vlad murmured under his breath.
Zalasar stepped closer so the Depravitas could hear him clearly. His voice retained its usual calm, albeit tinged with respect for the ritual unfolding.
"The Sacred Flame of Alexandros remains stable only through the bloodline of its founder. Lord Agamenon’s mother is a direct descendant of our Great Emperor. Her bloodline is pure enough to feed the flame."
Vlad nodded, piecing the clues together. Agamenon’s identity clearly had to be kept secret during travels. Had the Vorometallicae discovered that he was essential to sustaining the fortress’s central defense, they would have unleashed far more than two Sages in that ambush. Graecia’s shining citadel might be revered, but it was hardly invincible if deprived of its protective flame.
For nearly five minutes, the bloodletting continued. Streams of crimson ran down Agamenon’s arm, enough to weaken any normal warrior. Yet he stood firm, displaying rigorous training that few men possessed. Even Jormugandr found himself impressed. It took more than raw magical skill to maintain consciousness while losing so much blood; it required strict physical discipline, unwavering willpower, and a body refined through years of intense practice.