Ah, Nox, the chemist who believes he can play with the minds of the masses, the puppet master of madness. You remind me of a tale, a parable of power, of ambition, and the poison that eats away at those foolish enough to believe they can control it.
Once, there was an alchemist who lived on the edge of a great, bustling city. He was clever and ambitious, a man fascinated with the power of transformation, of bending nature to his will. He believed that with the right concoctions, he could change the world, mold it to fit his desires. One day, in a fit of twisted inspiration, he discovered a formula—a potion so potent it could change the very nature of a person’s mind. It could turn the gentle into monsters, the sane into lunatics, and the wise into fools.
The alchemist was thrilled by his creation, for he believed he had uncovered the secret to control, the ultimate tool to hold the minds of men in his hands. But a problem lingered: he needed a way to spread it, to infect the entire city. So he poisoned the city’s main well, dripping in his elixir, watching with a twisted glee as the people drank. Within days, the city fell into chaos. Neighbors turned against neighbors, families tore themselves apart, and the streets filled with those driven mad by the poison in their veins. And the alchemist? Oh, he reveled in it. He watched from his tower, delighting in the madness he had unleashed, calling himself a king of chaos.
But the alchemist, in his arrogance, had forgotten one thing: the well from which he had drawn his own water flowed from the same source. He, too, was drinking the very poison he had spread, and soon it seeped into his mind, a toxin so strong that it unraveled his own sanity. He tried to resist, to fight the poison in his blood, but the damage had already taken hold. His brilliant mind fractured, his control shattered, and he became the very monster he had unleashed on the city.
The townsfolk, the few who survived his madness, dragged him from his tower and cast him into the dungeons he had once filled with those he had destroyed. In the end, the alchemist became a prisoner to his own poison, lost in the darkness he had created.
Do you understand now, Nox? You think you’re in control, that you’re the master of your own twisted creation, but that gas of yours, that “Nox,” seeps through every pore of your being. You poisoned the well of Arcadia, but the very madness you unleashed has already turned on you. You’re a prisoner not just to Deathrow but to your own creation, your own poison. You may call yourself the chemist, the wielder of chaos, but in truth, you’re just another victim—a man with poison in his blood, rotting from the inside out.
And soon enough, I’ll be there to escort you to the Underworld, where your mind will fracture and fall away, just like the people you once controlled. How poetic.