On the hellish plane that was once known as Mirrodin, the Phyrexian plague now reigns supreme as unspeakable horrors and abominations roam the world. Elesh-Norn, Praetor of the white aligned faction of New Phyrexia, waged war and brought to heel both the black and red sovereignties, supplanting the previous Praetors with her own totalitarian doctrine of perfection. Sheoldred, once the sovereign of black Phyrexia, now stalks the shadows in exile on a greater quest…

Silence pressed against her as Sheoldred skulked through the molten core of New Phyrexia, careful to avoid contact with any of the forgespawned goblins that littered the fiery caves. She had trekked to this place for what seemed an eternity, meticulously evading Phyrexians and the few Mirrans who remained alike.

A thought pierced her mind, its familiar ping cheap anodyne for her exhaustion: Why? Why was she here, deep in the realms of Urabrask, of Elesh-Norn? Why had she abandoned her forces before the war on her domain had even begun, all but yielding her power to the porcelain creature that so ceaselessly conquered and controlled? Why was Phyrexia?

The question made no sense: Phyrexia was perfection, a finished product, the final evolution of flesh and metal, and she was its herald. Yet the thought persisted with increasing strength as she moved through the labyrinthine cavern toward the core, pulsing with unnatural vehemence. It grew so powerful at times that its origin felt alien, as if another was pushing the notion to the forefront of her mind, willing her to see contrary to her own nature. In these moments, her sight became dark and distorted. The spiraling forgeworks latticed of bone and iron grew sick and rotten, their very being a plagued abomination, an implicit imperfection. She knew this not to be true, knew it with every fiber of her being, but the visions haunted her all the same.

Phyrexia had won, and Mirrodin had fallen. But was that its purpose, or its end? Why was Phyrexia?

Sheoldred’s lower half, a fearsome quadrupedal counterpart, bucked at the edge of a magmatic chasm before the center of her world. Above her rotated the core, an etched sphere pulsating with immense power, though Sheoldred knew not its purpose. She had come all this way, followed errant thoughts of self-doubt to this place, and now there was nothing. She glared with accusation at the humming sphere, looking for some answer in the circumstance.

Why is Phyrexia?

Phyrexia is perfection! It is life’s finale, the end of progress, the completion of an endless process.

WHY is Phyrexia?

She summoned forth a great tendril of black mana and launched it at the Core with a shout of rage and frustration. The core continued to spin, unmoved by her churlish display.

Sheoldred lowered her hand in defeat, but the black mana did not disperse. Instead it flickered a moment, and then shot up her arm with an uncanny speed. Before she had time to even react, her mind rang out once more. This time, however, it took the voice of another, a grating scream of machine and man.

The voice consumed her mind and she fell, clutching at her head as it screeched a melody of burning hatred and pain, of ineffable power and providence, of crushing defeat and betrayal. In her mind’s eye she saw, and the voice showed. It weaved a tapestry of Phyrexia, but one so much more alien and ancient than anything she had ever imagined, than she had ever witnessed. She saw the Phyrexian hand caress a hundred worlds, each so tall and steadfast, reforged in the fires of destruction. She saw a hundred warriors rise against Phyrexia, each so powerful and proud, brought to their knees in submission before the inexorable will of the Great Machine. She saw a figure, a woman clad in the colors of all coexistent mana, and she finally saw purpose.

Sheoldred rose slowly as the voice ceased and withdrew, its final epitaph now written. She eyed with scorn her trembling flesh and crawled back atop her waiting mount. One last time she gazed at the core of New Phyrexia, so clearly now a plagued visage of sickness and corruption. A testament to Phyrexia’s wayward path, to Elesh-Norn’s false doctrine of perfection, of compleation.

Why is Phyrexia? What is its purpose?

A tool? A weapon? A vessel? She still did not know the answer, but as she made her way swiftly to the surface through the winding corridors of flesh and iron in the Furnace Layer, she knew one thing for certain.

In her quest to proliferate Phyrexia and supplant flesh with metal, it was the titans of copper, iron, steel, silver, and gold that had been supplanted with flesh.

It was Mirrodin that had infected Phyrexia.