Far beyond the shattered gates of the Wall of Torment, rising like a jagged wound across the horizon, stood a colossal fortress. The black stone citadel stretched for thousands of kilometers, its towers piercing the smoke-choked sky like spears. Around its perimeter, tens of thousands of broken bodies hung impaled upon vast spikes of iron and bone.
Such sights might have seemed like warnings, a grotesque tactic meant to intimidate enemies or deter intruders. But in Hell, this was mere decoration. Here, pain was art, death was adornment, and agony was beauty. The fortress was not made to repel visitors; it was made to announce to all who approached that this was the dwelling of one who reigned in terror.
