The warriors listened to General Tiberius’s words with solemn expressions. Their faces were still blood-smeared, armor dented and scorched, their weapons dulled by repeated killing.
The thrill of victory lingered in their hearts, but none were deluded enough to believe this war would be easy. The overwhelming triumph over the Vorometallicae had not been some stroke of luck—it was the result of careful preparation, layered strategy, and an advantageous position.
They had battle formations sharpened by constant drilling, seasoned commanders who knew the terrain and maximized its potential, and, most importantly, a fortress that wounded the enemy before the first blade even clashed.
The fireball barrage, the tight Sage formations, and the surprise blitzkrieg unit had all been perfectly timed, releasing a wave of destruction and defensive power that surpassed the enemy’s capabilities to react.
By contrast, the Voroe had walked blindly into the jaws of death. They hadn’t even known who or what they were fighting, much less the scale or strategy of the defense they would encounter. Being a fierce warrior race, they thought that it would not matter and could overcome anything the humans put in their path.
Their arrogance had cost them dearly. But that would not happen again. Now the Void Heart Fortress knew exactly who stood within the Korokor Stronghold. The next attack would not be so clumsy. Next time, they would come prepared.
Taking deep breaths, the Graecian warriors tended to the wounded, retrieved the bodies of the fallen, and honored their dead. Only then did they return to the stronghold.
Most made their way to the central plaza—a large, open area surrounded by white-stone towers—where they took a moment to decompress, wash off the blood, and finally allow themselves a few moments of rest.
Despite the heavy atmosphere, the battlefield had birthed new champions. Many eyes scanned the crowd, quietly taking note of the warriors who had distinguished themselves in the chaos. But no one drew more attention than the Depravita of Wrath.
Though his raw strength was not necessarily beyond comparison—other young titans like Janus Solarius and Prince Agamemnon could match him in terms of destructive power—it was his control over the Law of Space that placed him in a league of his own.
Everyone could sense it: Vlad had only recently entered the Sage Tier, yet his command of the Law was already so advanced, that it felt etched into the very structure of his being.
He had carved through the battlefield like a phantom blade, eliminating a Half-Step Legend and nearly a dozen Sages before the Vorometallicae’s elites were forced to intervene.
"Ha! You’re really popular, Boss."
Perched comfortably on Vlad’s shoulder, Jormungandr grinned with amusement. As for the fact that many eyes were also focusing on him, the small yellow cat did not care.
Vlad didn’t reply with words. He merely gave a soft smile. He wasn’t one for the spotlight. But attention, in this case, brought opportunities. It gave him the chance to approach people and groups who would otherwise be closed off.
They were off to the side of the plaza, some sitting, others bandaging their wounds, drinking healing potions, or polishing their axes. They were a rough group, known for not being too friendly with outsiders, so no one approached them. Yet when Vlad and Jormungandr approached, the warriors lifted their heads—not with hostility, but recognition.
Vikings respected power and courage. And Vlad had shown them plenty.
"It was an impressive battle," Vlad said, offering a warrior’s salute—clasped fists and a slight nod. "I’m sure Odinvaldr will cherish the sacrifices made in his name. The Old One would be pleased to see warriors of darkness struck down by your hands."
The grizzled warriors grinned wide, teeth gleaming like wolves beneath their battle-worn beards.
Though Vlad had no real interest in the Totem Path, he had learned much about it from Freya. Enough to show respect.
"You two fought well too," said the man who had led the Vanguard charge. He was tall, muscles like iron cords, his short golden hair damp with sweat, and his eyes the pale blue of glacial lakes. "You’d make good Vikings. Name’s Angelo. And these are my brothers and sisters."
He gestured around the circle, naming each warrior one by one, all of them saluting Vlad. Soon, what began as an introduction turned into a casual conversation, small at first, but growing warmer with each word. There was laughter, even some teasing. Walls were falling.
Then a voice broke through the chatter.
"Oh? You’re not from Graecia?" The speaker was a young woman named Nadia, golden-haired, with a wicked scar running down her left cheek. Her tone wasn’t accusatory—just surprised. All of them had assumed someone like Vlad must have come from a powerful Graecian noble house.
Vlad shook his head. "Actually, I come from a small, fairly new plane. My companions and I... we tend to travel a lot."
He gave no further detail, and the Vikings didn’t press. They understood that secrecy meant survival. A small plane too exposed could easily be invaded, its resources plundered, its people enslaved.
"I was surprised to see Vikings here," Vlad continued. "I didn’t know Valhalla had a presence in the Lands of the Three Calamities."
Angelo shrugged. "We don’t. Valhalla has its own Doomsday Worlds. We’re mercenaries, bound by contract to the Atlantik Stronghold. They sent us as reinforcements to help defend the Golden Sky Fortress."
A flash of understanding crossed both Vlad’s and Jormungandr’s faces.
That made sense. According to the cosmic maps Vlad had studied, Valhalla and Graecia were separated by multiple folds of space. While there were some alliances, the idea that both would participate in the same Doomsday Campaign seemed odd—until now.
Vlad’s expression grew still, and he leaned forward slightly.
"There’s someone I’d like to ask about," he said carefully. "During my travels, I met a young Viking princess named Freya. She returned home after our journey. I was wondering... how is she doing?"