The air is thick with the ghosts of fire and rot, the acrid sting of charred remains clinging to my form like a shroud of penitence. I do not belong here—yet I do.  

The figures before me are twisted echoes of survival, their bodies caked in soot, their eyes hollow pools that reflect the embers of a world undone. I see it in them: the instinct to survive at all costs, the quiet suspicion that coils like a viper beneath their ribs. They do not trust me. Nor should they.  

A tremor runs through my fingers—an old habit, the muscle memory of hands that once knew only creation. It is an irony that would amuse me, were I still capable of laughter. Once, I sought to unravel the mysteries of transmutation, to elevate mankind beyond the limitations of flesh and time. I was... ambitious. Too ambitious. And now, I stand among these strangers, a revenant bound by the sins of my past, cast into a realm that does not know my name, but will come to know my work.  

The sky burns above us, and I wonder if it, too, remembers the folly of alchemists.  

Stepping forward, I regard them, my gaze flitting over their wary stances, the glint of steel held with weary hands. [b]"You expect a monster,"[/b], I say at last, voice rasping with the weight of ages.[b]"Perhaps you are right. But if survival is your aim, know this—I do not break, I do not falter, and I do not waste what can be reforged."[/b]

I let the words settle, let them see the unyielding certainty in my stance. If they seek salvation, then I shall mold it. If they seek ruin, then I shall study the remnants of their fall.  

The choice is theirs.