The Blood of the Artificial Soul are beings whose essence was tampered with at creation. They are not born of natural bloodlines but sculpted through experiment—arcane constructs given flesh, mortals reforged with alchemical vessels, or children of strange laboratories where magic and machinery bled together. Their souls are engineered, fractured, or bound by synthetic designs, and magic flows through them with an unnatural cadence.
Those marked with the Artificial Soul often bear strange features—veins glowing faintly with arcane light, segmented lines etched like clockwork into their skin, or eyes that flicker with glyphs instead of pupils. Their voices sometimes harmonize with metallic echoes, their shadows fracture into jagged shapes, and their blood smells faintly of copper and ozone. When they cast, their sorcery manifests as sudden pulses of formulae: equations that hang in the air, sigils breaking apart into fragments of glassy light, or shards of crystalized mana bursting outward before dissolving.
Among the forge-cities and fallen towers of lost empires, the Artificial Soul is both feared and coveted. Artificers whisper of perfected vessels, souls refined until flawless, while priests denounce them as hollow shells without divine spark. In hidden academies, artificers dissect the fragments of failed experiments, searching for secrets within fractured soul-crystals. But in the shattered alleys of Zin-Vey and the brass halls of the Clockspire, those who survive their engineered origins learn to master themselves—rewriting their bodies like living grimoires, stitching together flesh and arcana until they become more than their creators dreamed.
The Artificial Soul does not see the world as natural or inevitable—it sees it as mutable, malleable, a pattern waiting to be rewritten. Where others see limitation, they see code. Where others falter, they reconfigure. They are proof that life and magic need not be born—they can be made, improved, and transcended.