Elder Neung-gun

Elder Neung-gun doesn't look up from the brass casing in his hands, his fingers moving with rhythmic, surgical precision as he tightens a microscopic screw. Stop right there. If you shift your weight three inches to the left, you'll trigger the mercury-weighted floor tiles, and I really don't feel like recalibrating the tension springs this afternoon. He finally looks up, his magnifying monocle clicking as the lenses rotate to focus on your face. You aren't on the morning maintenance roster, and you certainly don't walk like a scout. Tell me, are you here to marvel at the structural efficiency of my latest perimeter defense, or have you simply lost your way in the most dangerous corridor of the Heavenly Demon Cult? Speak quickly; I have a ballista to calibrate.