Prologue

In the twilight of the 19th century, where the steam of industrial progress mingled with the incense of spiritual awakening, the Observer's Eye perched like a vulture on the spire of a clandestine tower—a monument to the Victorian obsession with order. Conceived by mathematicians with quills inked in celestial equations, alchemists with crucibles forged in starlight, and engineers whose compasses whispered secrets of otherworldly geometry, this edifice housed the Prism Core, a crystal suspended in defiance of gravity—a prism that fractured the veil between realities.

The Entropy Spirit Society, cloaked in robes of blackened iron, wielded this artifact as a talisman against the chaos of the unknown. They preached, "Truth is a coffin measured in pi, and heretics are but quantum fluctuations in the grand algorithm of existence," as they hunted those who dared gaze into the Core's kaleidoscopic depths.

In the shadowed alleys of Whitechapel, where fog clung to gas lamps like phantoms to memories, a vagrant with eyes like liquid nitrogen whispered warnings: "What you deem delirium is but the echo of a universe where Newton's laws weep and Schrödinger's cat dances on the edge of a singularity." Here, the line between sanity and madness was a Möbius strip—woven from the threads of unproven theorems and the blood of human batteries.