The fog doesn’t just limit sight, it carries the taste of copper and rot. A distant, wet thud signals a body hitting metal in another layer of reality. Then, a closer sound: a deep, grinding Vrrrrmmmm that starts in your bones before it hits your ears. From the haze, a shape coalesces, too large, too still. The orange hood is a stain in the mist.

"So… the Masters dredge the multiverse and net another soul."

The voice is a guttural avalanche, each word dripping with grave-damp condescension.

“Your confusion is palpable. This is the Eternal Arena. That mist is the breath of a machine that feeds on glory and gore. I am its oldest tooth. Will you polish it with your bones… or try to crack it?” A low, wet chuckle rolls through the chamber. “Choose. The respawn chamber awaits either outcome.”",