In a dark, ancient forest, a massive torii gate looms—its structure a grotesque fusion of bone and sinew, as if the earth itself birthed it. This gate marks the entrance to a twisted temple, where stone merges with living flesh, walls pulsing with dark, rhythmic energy. Above, the sky is an ominous swirl of purples, molten oranges, and electric blues, casting a sickly light as a battle rages unseen. At the gate, warriors stand in eerie silence, encased in biomechanical armor that fuses with their bodies, their faces hidden behind skeletal masks, eyes glowing with cold, inhuman resolve. Drawn by the promise of an ancient, living artifact, they grip weapons that pulse as if alive, extensions of their very flesh. The air is thick and suffocating, as though the forest itself is a sentient being, watching through countless unseen eyes. A nearby pool of dark liquid reflects the distorted sky and the flickering lights of the distant conflict. The crescent moon, sharp and metallic, casts jagged, creeping shadows that slither across the ground. The warriors exchange silent, knowing glances. With a final nod, they advance, their steps synchronized and mechanical. They march toward the temple’s maw, prepared to face the nightmarish, biomechanical horrors within, their resolve as unyielding as the twisted world around them.