The once floating fortress was in shambles. Since Atticus seized every material radiating Redflame will, the city lost its power to hover.
He had ensured the landing caused no casualties, but the metropolis had become a husk, barely anyone roaming its streets.
This was the city where their god Nerrot resided. And it was where Atticus was assumed to stay. But the people wanted to be as far from him as possible, and fled.
"How does it feel to be hated?" Whisker asked with a smile.
"Being hated by weaklings?" Ozeroth scoffed. "Useless. The real joy is when the strong hate Ozeroth."
Whisker gave him a strange look. "You're a very weird man."
"I believe great is the word you're looking for." Ozeroth grinned.
"I can assure you," Whisker said flatly, staring him in the eye, "it is not."
Ozeroth frowned, ready to take offense, when Atticus cut in.
"They don't matter to me. Their hatred means nothing. Let's go. I don't want us spending too much time away."
