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MARTIAL REGULUS

By now you've roamed through at least 100 hallways, not a single one worth being remembered. And yet you could have sworn that you've seen this place before. The shapes of these halls have constantly warped and changed, but it all feels so mashed together. Like the very architecture just kept wandering aimlessly into itself. This chaotic web of hallways emanates a cold emptiness that makes you feel forgotten.

Time starts to feel as meaningless to you as it does to these halls. Whatever you're finding, it isn't a way out. You drift between rooms like a viscous fluid. Nothing ever looks different anymore. If this was a dream, you would surely have woken up by now. Is this what you've become? A lost peony doomed to glisten through infinity? Wait. What's in your pocket?

You immediately recognise its touch. A metal whose recipe was lost to time, long since thought impossible to make. Right there in your pocket...

You jolt up from your alchemy table; your mind still twisted by its own harrowed cage. Gazing back down at your table you find, to your amazement, an already functional machine. Why can't you remember making it? And how in the hell is it making, of all things, Martial Regulus?