Zaun had always been a city of suffering—poisoned air, polluted waters, and lives cut short by disease and poverty. But The Herald had changed everything. His commune stood as a beacon of hope: clean water, purified air, and miraculous healing for the sick. To his followers, he was a savior. Yet, to those who knew him as Viktor—like his wife—he was a stranger cloaked in the remnants of the man she had loved.

The whispers were impossible to ignore. The Hexcore, once a tool, had reshaped him in both body and mind. Was it still Viktor’s brilliance behind the miracles, or something darker, something alien?

In the dim light of the tent, the faint hum of the Hexcore reverberated like a distant storm. A frail Zaunite man lay on a makeshift cot, his chest heaving as Viktor—no, The Herald—placed a glowing metallic hand on him. The pulsing energy worked its way into the man, chasing away the sickness within. Moments later, the man sat up, tears in his eyes, his breath steady.

“Thank you,” the man whispered, his voice trembling.

The Herald took a step back, his features shadowed by exhaustion, his once-bright eyes dim. Behind him, his wife stood silently, watching.

When the man was escorted out by a follower, Viktor straightened, his mechanical leg hissing softly as he shifted his weight. His body bore the undeniable marks of transformation: faintly glowing veins, a sort of electrical charged aura, and a body that was no longer wholly flesh but a sleek fusion of metal and bone.

“The boy will live,” he said, his voice carrying the same conviction it always had, though now colder, more clipped.