Another two months had passed since I last wrote in this log. I hadn't had time for anything, as something urgent had arisen in my schedule that practically paralyzed all my research on "the Root" and "the Source," forcing me to focus all my efforts on creating the essential industries needed to sustain a faction at war.
If the above wasn't clear enough, what I meant was that I am in a damn war against something whose very essence I wish I didn't know—but I do. And that's why I've been so restless.
Chaos. Chaos demons. Followers of profane pleasure cults dared to harvest the souls of my creations. It all began when I thought I had finally solved the constant attacks on my factory by local fauna and flora. But no—it was just the beginning of all this madness. The death of one of the homunculus teams... I realized it almost immediately because I had a dedicated consciousness in charge of managing all human resources under me.
That consciousness initially believed they had encountered a high-ranked creature, one capable of wiping out a group of ten trained homunculi, all equipped with the latest versions of the Root and the Source. This information was instantly shared with the rest of us. A supervisor was sent to investigate what had happened and to assess the threat level of the creature.
But what it found caused every single one of my consciousnesses to stop what they were doing—just to focus on what that one supervisor was seeing.
Beings of violet hues, twisted bodily mixes between man and woman, tongues like ropes dangling from their mouths, pleasuring themselves or others of themselves. Twisted horns sprouting from irregular parts of their bodies. Arms more like crustacean pincers clicking with pleasure as they delighted in the lifeless bodies of my creations. Servants of the dark gods, walking in my own backyard.
For the first time since arriving here, I felt a trace of rage. The fact that someone had killed what belonged to me. The fact that they interrupted my progress. The fact that they rejoiced over the corpses of my creations—it all enraged me. The fact that they ended MY creations, MY test subjects, MY property—this struck something deep in my soul.
My hand trembled as I held the body of a newly born being from the latest homunculus batch—barely alive, barely ready for knowledge transfer, barely a finished product.
My attention focused on what that small fragment of my consciousness saw.
They witnessed the supervisor's arrival and, as if mocking me, destroyed it instantly—a cut to its artificial joints so fast I could barely register it, severing everything, leaving behind only a mechanical torso made of refined metal embedded with alchemic stones.
I watched through the eyes of the Supervisor Golem, not expecting those creatures to mock my broken form even further. I began moving the runes of the golem directly. Not even a second later, an explosion shook reality. The connection was lost, but all my consciousnesses were now racing to understand the implications of those aberrations being real—not their power, but what they represented.
I immediately went to work. The supervisors took charge of rapidly expanding the factory. Day and night, I assembled the necessary industries, starting with upgrading surveillance—drones powered by magic began mass production, alchemic firearms filled the storage units, logistic drones swarmed the workflow like worker ants. The harvesting of local fauna and flora ceased, to prevent further losses of "human" resources. Every action outside the factory walls was now under direct monitoring from my watchful eyes. The homunculi were given new directives: "Attack anything not from the factory." "The factory is everything." Militarization became the norm. Endless training became the daily bread for the homunculi—for a war awaited them beyond the metal walls.
More industries had to be built. War vehicle models were designed by my consciousnesses. Machines of war built under my guidance. Weapons meant to damage the mind had to be considered—something that could break the soul in battle needed to be created.
"In the grim future, only war is constant," I sometimes repeated that phrase, reminding myself how lucky I had been to have at least a year and a half to grow in power. I looked at the black smoke rising from my factory, how it climbed into the sky, how the heat of fire was used as fuel, how the runes glowed and altered reality through calculations far beyond what a single mind could understand. How the mechanical was assembled with only a few of my orders. I observed how biology twisted under my designs—how new beings emerged with the sole purpose of serving in a war that might never end. I heard whispers where there were none before.
Liberty screamed—she wanted the blood of those who had forced us into this way of life.
Friendship wanted more corpses for her collection of "friends," wanted to see their faces twist under her whims.
Hugs wanted to see the Daemonettes writhe beneath her embrace, wanted to hear the crunch of their bones.
Caresses wanted to see skin torn from bodies beneath her slow touch.
Heartbreaker wanted to see them impaled and their sadistic pleasure turned into real pain.
Formín wanted to transfigure their immortal forms into machines that were actually useful—into something truly worthy, not those horrid things.
I wanted to see my goals fulfilled.
And if that meant eternal war—so be it.
Log written by the High-Ranking Mage, Adrian of Elohim.