"You are all merely prisoners in this cage. You think yourselves so clever, yet little do you know that from the moment you fell, everything about you was already under the Jailers' watch and control."
"And you still dream of crossing the boundary and returning?"
The God of Ten Thousand Machines and Sir Awen both turned their heads, their gazes fixed on the enormous eyeball churning within the rift in the distant sky.
The ruler of flesh, an Origin native to this Hell.
"What... did you say?"
Boundless darkness surged in the God of Ten Thousand Machines' murderous eyes.
The eyeball continued to regard them without a flicker of emotion, as though watching a bunch of wretches who could only be toyed with in the palm of someone's hand.
"This is your cage, you pathetic wretches. Have you still not realized that?"
"The reason you have endured here for so long is not that you are fortunate or unfortunate enough, but that you are still useful. Each of you merely represents a system and a body of knowledge."
"Mechanical ascension, flesh ascension, psionics ascension, holy power, nature eternal, titan divine power-you are nothing but specimens left behind by that darkness. Just as, to keep slaughtered beasts from becoming entirely extinct, a few seeds of their kind are always preserved and carefully penned up."
"You think you are facing a bitter winter?"
"No. The Old Order you represent is that bitter winter."
That hoarse, sneering voice was filled with mockery and scorn.
Every Origin stared fixedly at him, but his words struck their minds like knives.
The eyeball regarded them mockingly.
As though watching a bunch of clowns struggling in vain.
His venomous, derisive voice thundered in their ears.
"Some of you must have existed since the New Era first began