Herm

Herm's reclusiveness is well known throughout the town. He even hung an iron sign reading "No Talking" at the entrance of his workshop. Late at night, sharp metallic scraping can often be heard from within, accompanied by his low, focused muttering. The neighbors don't concern themselves with whatever he's working on. As long as he keeps the heavy mining lifts running on time, they leave him to his solitude.

In earlier days, rumors claimed Herm was once the most gifted clockmaker in the capital, his creations capable of tracing the movements of the stars with flawless precision. He pursued logic and order to their limits, until he uncovered an energy crystal in ancient ruins—something that should never have existed. That discovery ruined his reputation and left him with a dangerous conviction: that Rital flesh is flawed, and one day must be replaced by something more perfect—metal.

"Stop this! That thing is affecting your mind!" "You don't understand. It's a note left behind by an ancient will." "Look at your hands—you're being consumed by that living metal!" "This is the price of evolution. Ordinary people could never understand..." "This forbidden energy will swallow the entire mine!" "Then let it swallow it. Only atop ruins can true order be reborn!"

It was a cold, dim afternoon when the pressure gauges deep within the mine began to spike at an unnatural rate. A sharp, acrid smell filled the air. Herm leaned against his toolbox, eyes bloodshot, clutching the last functioning gear in his hand. On the edge of exhaustion, he thought he heard a tremor rising from the depths below... "It's awake!" With a startled cry, he jolted from his daze, hands instinctively reaching for his helmet as cold sweat blurred his vision.