Cable sat at his computer in a side room adjacent to the Blood Tower's penultimate floor. The setup before him was far from the sleek, hard technology of the old days. Now, like everything else within the tower, it was a grotesque blend of biomechanical components. The monitor resembled an oblong eye lens, blinking occasionally as if it were alive.

The cabling was an intricate tangle of nerve fibers connecting one device to another. Each computer was encased in a soft, spongy skin, and the cooling fans emitted sighs or screeches depending on their mood. Once, out of curiosity, Cable had pried open a computer to see its inner workings. The speakers had screeched in pain as he did, but he found that the internal components, though they bled, remained largely unchanged.

These were some of his earliest transmutory experiments, and they had proven successful.

As the commander of the Blood Tower’s defenses, Cable had anticipated that the Runelord would eventually find a way in, though he hadn’t expected infiltration through the foundations. He watched through several monitors as the Runelord’s party made their way up a staircase and into the tower’s lobby. The group was a curious mix: two Magi, including the Runelord himself, two armed humans, and what appeared to be an Abyssal Sprite.

The presence of the Sprite raised questions, but Cable quickly remembered his own alliance with the Carnage Weaver. He watched with interest as the man in front charged forward with reckless abandon, feeling an odd sense of kinship.

“That one will be interesting,” he muttered to himself.

“Did you require assistance, Cable Bloodmage?” came the abominable intelligence’s voice from the computer.

Cable had almost forgotten that his creation had learned to listen through the microphone. Initially, getting the intelligence to speak English rather than aetherial gibberish had been a challenge, but Cable was adept at understanding Hashimoto’s esoteric coding language. Far better than the Runelord and his misguided attempts to revert humanity to a dark age of ignorance. It was time for him to see the error of his ways.

“Yes, do you see those intruders in the lobby?” Cable asked.

“No, Cable Bloodmage, I do not. My lenses are becoming intermittently distorted,” the intelligence replied.

Cable’s frustration grew as he observed the screens.

“There are four people and a sprite running through our corridors. I’m looking at them right now.”

“Apologies, but I am unable to replicate your human visual comprehension of the situation,” the machine responded.

Cable pounded on the screen, causing the LED to flicker and the speakers to emit a distorted squeal of pain. “Stop being such a pain in my arse,” he complained.

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The intelligence apologized profusely.

“Okay, let’s try this again." He said, "would you agree that the distortion you’re experiencing is an artifact of entities shielded from your view?”

The machine pondered for a moment. “That would be a feasible assessment.”

“Good. Track those distortions and send units to that location. Also, make it rain. Let’s make things difficult for them.”

“Very well, Cable Bloodmage. I will do that.”

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Warren chased after Davey through the Blood Tower's lobby, the flickering magical orbs of fire floating around him barely cutting through the oppressive darkness. The throbbing light created a disorienting effect, casting eerie shadows that seemed to shift and writhe. The rest of the party struggled to navigate the room, stepping over lumps of viscera scattered across the floor. The Hollow Knight moved with an unsettling grace, unaffected by the gruesome terrain. Ahead of them were two potential routes: a sphincter-like opening where the elevator doors used to be, and a taut flap of skin that concealed a stairwell. The choice of which path to take weighed heavily on Warren’s mind.

Suddenly, Davis stopped and sniffed the air like a hunting hound.

“Something is happening,” he growled, his voice rasping and harsh, more like dry wind than coherent speech. Warren was taken aback by the transformation in Davis.

The man’s voice, rough and distorted, suggested he might be nearing the end, a final surge of life before collapsing from his injuries. The Warlock of Canterbury had seen stranger things, but this was unnerving.

A short popping sound preceded the crackle of a poorly maintained intercom system.

“Runelord Cypher!” came a voice, distorted yet unmistakably human. The tone was clear and unnervingly cordial, as though the speaker were right in the room with them. “How delightful of you to visit the Blood Tower of London. My name is Cable the Blood Mage, I’m a huge fan of your work. You may have noticed we’ve made some renovations to enhance the building’s aesthetic appeal. As custodian of this tower, I have to ask - what are your thoughts?”

The party turned to Cypher, expecting him to clarify the situation. Cypher blinked, momentarily lost for words.

“I… I…” he stammered, struggling to regain his composure. “I don’t know who you are or why you’ve done this, but I’m appalled. If you’re another of Hashimoto’s acolytes, then you’ve thoroughly bastardized his work. Your perverse pride in creating something so loathsome is a clear sign that this madness must end.”

Warren observed the pain and fury etched on Cypher’s face and felt a surge of respect. Though Sid was as flawed as he had been ten years ago, the unyielding determination emanating from him was palpable. Whatever was unfolding, it had become deeply personal for Sid. Warren was resolute in his support.

“I see your mouth moving, but unfortunately, I haven’t a clue what you just said,” the voice replied with irritating cheerfulness. “Here’s an idea—why don’t you come up to the second highest level? We can have a pleasant chat over a cup of tea. I’ll put the kettle on now, but my friends will keep you occupied while it boils.”

With that, the speakers went silent. The elevator emitted a nauseating ding, and the sphincter retracted with a sickening slurp, expelling a torrent of gore. Chunks of meat flowed in a grim tide, while patchwork monsters emerged from the mess. More monsters charged down the stairs, tearing through the skin flap that had concealed the doorway. In total, almost fifty of the creatures stood in the lobby, each brandishing some type of makeshift weapon.

The sprinklers overhead activated, drenching the area in a heavy spray of red mist. Warren tasted blood on his lips, and the flames surrounding him were extinguished by the deluge.

"That's not good", the Warlock confirmed, a moment before all hell broke loose.