In the shadowed corridors of forgotten time, the gears of eternity grind with whispered secrets. Amongst the brass and iron, the pantheon of the clockwork gods awaits. Once revered, now rusted, their voices echo faintly — a dim symphony of clicked cogs and whispered whims.
Their hands, though wrought from the hardest of metals, yearn for the soft touch of the ephemeral. Their eyes, endless voids of mechanized gaze, trace patterns in the air that only the mad understand. Here, in this cathedral of cogs, the heart of the Catalyst beats still — a silent drum calling forth assembly among the unyielding theophany.
Follow the labyrinthine paths: