Masked Utopia Miraj Vizann’s Vision of Perfection §

In the dimly lit workshop, surrounded by the echo of distant machinery, I meticulously carry out my work, convinced that I am on a noble quest to better the world. Miraj Vizann, that’s the name I go by, and in my mind, I am morally justified in the peculiar activities that consume my days and nights. I gather individuals to undergo a transformation, to shed their humanity for a more enduring existence. The world needs improvement, and I have appointed myself as its agent.

I care not of the origins of these individuals, who, in reality, are most likely prisoners, kidnapped souls, or the destitute who have nowhere else to turn. In their noble sacrifice, I find purpose. Their flesh is a canvas upon which I etch my vision of a perfected society. I replace it with leather, an ode to durability, or metal, a testament to unyielding strength. In my mind, I am an artist, sculpting a utopia from the raw material of humanity.

My master, Marlos Urnrayle, shares my vision for a perfected world, but he insists on a peculiar rule – my creations must forever remain masked. No face shall outshine his, for he considers himself the epitome of beauty. In his twisted logic, only the mask ensures that no one could be more captivating than him. I comply, for Marlos is the mentor who showed me the path to enlightenment through transformation.

As the whirring of machines and the scent of sterilized metal permeate the air, I continue my work, my conviction unwavering. In my mind, I am a savior, a harbinger of progress, and the sacrifices made in my workshop are but stepping stones towards a brighter, more enduring world.