In a desolate province, at the edge of grim woods, lived a man called Duremar. He sculpted not with clay, but with black thought — in his shop, LeechLoverLaboratory, standing somewhere between ash and pixel. They said his creations brought misfortune: one printed a skull — and buried his wife; another made a faceless warrior — and went blind. Duremar sat in the cold, with neither malice nor mirth. And he waited. Not for repentance — but for the day someone would sculpt him. And all would be erased.