Time had been unkind to this place. Its once vibrant energy is now swallowed by the weight of abandonment. Dust dances in the ethereal light that filters through shattered windows, casting ghostly shadows upon the broken remnants of machinery.

The group's eyes are drawn to a colossal contraption that dominates the warehouse's heart, a monument to engineering ingenuity long past. Its purpose remained elusive, its intricate gears frozen in perpetual stillness. A labyrinth of pipes and valves connect the machine to the world below, their surfaces aged and cracked, betraying the passage of centuries - but what is most eye-catching is that it all feeds into one enormous, massive glass tube that sinks beneath the ground. It is impossible to tell how far it reaches from their vantage point; the tube is coated with thick residue, presumably from the smoke that had once been funneled through it.

Amongst the debris of the foreman's office on the topmost floor, a stack of faded documents may catch their attention. Carefully preserved from time's cruel touch, they revealed fragments of correspondence between the Church of Helios and an individual whose name cannot be read; some faded magical interference disrupts the reader's eye, causing physical pain. The letters speak of a precarious balance, a looming deadline when demand would outpace supply - and how the city would inevitably teeter on the edge of an uncertain fate. Patches of the text are faded and unreadable, but it becomes increasingly clear that the situation was dire. The last letter reads:

"I have been forced to begin... recycling... material.

You have three months before we hit critical mass."