The party had finished burying the bodies of the Panzer corps members they tried to defend. The few survivors included the wounded soldier Chevelle and Tombi patched up together.

  The soldiers drank—not in joy, but in mourning. A fragile celebration of survival, with the hope that the fallen greeted the great beyond with some kind of glory, however meaningless that word might feel in this world.

  They sit by the fire far outside the city limits of Berlin. The party stares at the flames in silence, mostly grateful for their lives. Tombi joins them after wrapping both Shaka and Dingaan in some bandages they took the worst of the brunt but already seem to recovering quite quickly. Ingrid had some swelling across her face and Chris had an ice pack over his groin which still had some pain. Tombi had his coat and shirt taken off and bandaged his torso together as Gluttony’s attack did almost break his back.

  Bert was however unharmed and even the line that showed his head was separate from his body fused together back into a single cursed creature. Even at this time his cigar puffed in the cold cross wind that greeted them. Chevelle stood up and took a deep breath. “I am sorry you all got hurt, please if you want to leave and think this journey too daunting, I urge you to please go home. I cannot promise I can protect you the same way as today. In fact, I don’t know for certain but it would bring me great sorrow if any of you died. At the same time, I cannot do this without you. All of you.” She proclaims her voice is more confident now surer of herself.

  Chris looks at her and shrugs. “I am under orders; I will not be shot for desertion.” He says leaning back pulling his beret over his face. Ingrid raises an eyebrow up her swollen and bruised face. “And miss the chance to take on a sin again? Or leave you alone surrounded by these clowns. Never!” She says standing up but quickly sits back down uttering quickly. “Ow, Ow, ow.” Reacting to her wounds. Tombi smiles curtly. “I didn’t come here to find peace Chevelle. Logic says you’ll need a doctor and often. But my heart says this: if I shudder in the valley of death, I’ll break on smaller things.” He says reverently placing a hand on Chevelle’s. Bert plays with his tumoured abominous hand until he gestures a kind of thumbs up. “Bert.” He says as if to say he will be okay.

  Chevelle’s radiant eyes see more in her friends than ever before. Not just faces—but conviction, resolve, and the quiet glimmer of something like hope.

  In the Balkans landing near the swampy lake Skadar Gluttony arrives, her plumage recovering but slowly. She lands and is submerged up to her knees. She trudges through the swamp until she approaches a large woman. She is pale, her hair long and matted, like a Japanese Yokai ghost, her eyes sullen and lazy. She is also submerged up to her knees but she also kneels under the weight of silver metallic chassis attached to her chest and extending beyond her back into some kind of machine. It resembles an incubator. Heavy, humming, and biomechanical. And it keeps her kneeling—not by choice, but by burden.

  The Enlightened bring in an ordinary man, he looks to be a Serbian busy trying to speak or say something. The pale woman, her Chassis opens and brings the man inside of her womb. His screams die out, his body is stitched anew in the Incubator behind the woman. Stronger, better, blood of gold, the blood of gods and he emerges. Another enlightened, he kneels before the pale woman and says only one thing. “Mother Europa.” He says before getting into formation with the other Enlightened.

  Gluttony steps forward and the sullen eyes of the woman meet hers. “Hello Sloth.” Gluttony says to her stepping through the shallow swamp water. The woman turns and nods. “You are hurt Gluttony child, not on the skin but deep down. Can I soothe? Heal it? Please let your mother know if there is something I can solve?” She says to her but Gluttony dismisses it. “This is a hurt that familial love cannot heal, but I think it is time for a family meeting.” She says to her eyes sharp.

  Sloth trudges slowly and painfully beneath the weight of of her chassis to the next room but as a sin she shows no visible signs of pain as she sits down next to a wooden round table with 6 seats and a large centre. Gluttony takes her seat, inspecting her plumage, then as if by will the silvery metallic feathered wings grow back fully. Both she and Sloth simultaneously tap the back of their necks activating a communicator.

  A voice answers, its semi-robotic, calm and with a slight tinge of superiority. “Yes?” He says and Gluttony answers. “Family meeting now Pride.” She says calmly. The centre of the table whirrs to life as a holographic projector makes a bunch of geometric cubes that change and form shapes manifest there and from this mass Pride speaks again. “Very well calling the other sins.” He acknowledges.

  Each chair at the round table lights up with a holographic image. First in a chair beside Sloth a young 14-year-old boy appears. He has a long silvery tail with a barbed end, like Gluttony nailed fingers and an open chest and midriff with sleek metal covering his arms and everything below the waist. He is flawlessly beautiful and alluring. His feet are planted nonchalantly on the table. Seducing you with his mere presence, this is lust.

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  A white bearded man wearing a jacket that is clipped to his shoulders while doesn’t even have its sleeves occupied by his arms. He is tall and muscled down to every inch, his eyes narrowed so you cannot see his irises and pupils clearly. His whole-body is steel and chrome plated covering every inch and has short cut black hair. He smiles gentle and proud like a father, this is Wrath.

  A portly man with a bald head, wearing sunglasses and a silvery robe. Adorned with hundreds of silvery chains covering his appearance almost completely. A smile on his face showing teeth mixed with gold and silver. His fingers cartoonishly big like sausages and he seems to be floating rather than walking, this is Greed.

  A person with no gender discernible features made of crystal, reflective like a haunting mirror to those who look at them. Half their face a bunch of floating crystals a war scar from a prior encounter. Their body smooth and flawless. Their expression haunting and judging, this is envy.

  And finally at the centre of the table the geometric holographic blocks and shapes that take various forms. The ai and one of the crowning achievements of the Great genius. Pride the Ai the literal pride and joy of the great genius. They all sit taking in each other’s presence.

  Gluttony clears her throat, wings coiled tightly behind her as she looks over the familiar faces—each one a reflection of purpose, distortion, and design.

  “Imperial Arms. Sins of the Great Genius.”

  Her voice is steady, precise. She meets their eyes—real or holographic—holding herself composed despite the knot twisting inside.

  “Today I experienced something I haven't felt since I was built. Vulnerability.”

  “The Saint. She knew something. About me. Something true.”

  Her tone tightens, but she remains poised. The outburst comes only after a beat—controlled, earned.

  “Pride. How does she know?!”

  The table hums faintly as her voice echoes, geometric lights shivering just slightly in response.

  Lust speaks first, lounging across his chair like a god carved into a child's body.

  “You always were the private type,” he says with a smirk, his tail curling in slow amusement.

  “But sometimes, people like her… they see. It’s not logic. It’s gut. Or fate. Or some nasty mix of both.”

  He leans forward, the shimmer of metal catching the low light. “You should come see me. Let me work through that tension. There's… art in pain. You of all people know that.”

  Wrath’s voice cuts in—not a rebuke, but a presence.

  “Lust. You're not wrong. But don't turn her pain into something to make an exhibition of. Not here.”

  His gaze is steady. Respectful. “She brought us this concern. She deserves answers. Not a stage.”

  Lust rolls his eyes, but his smile falters—just for a second. He says nothing more.

  That’s when Sloth moves.

  Her voice drifts in like rising fog, but there's weight beneath it, a tectonic warning beneath calm tides.

  “Enough.”

  “This isn’t banter. Not today.”

  The room falls quiet.

  “If what Gluttony says is true, then we may be seen in ways we did not permit. And that matters. Not for what’s revealed, but for what could fracture.”

  She turns her head slowly toward Gluttony. “Thank you for speaking. It is not weakness to feel watched. It is memory.”

  Envy chimes in next, their tone as cold and clear as fractured glass.

  “Some of us would welcome being known. I envy that fear.”

  “But what she sees means little. Truth shatters against perspective. If she sees you, let her. The rest of us are shadows and echoes where no truth shines.”

  Greed chuckles softly, the sound ringing with wealth and a hint of amusement.

  “Truth, lies, riddles in tongues—what’s it matter?”

  “You walked into a bad deal, Gluttony. Happens to the best of us. Next time, finish the transaction before she opens her mouth. Quick cuts are cheaper.”

  Finally, the hum of the table shifts—cool, serene—Pride’s voice rolls out, more like a bell toll than a command.

  “The Genius once whispered of a voice. A voice from beyond the veil of knowledge. He called it a higher power. A system within the system.”

  “Before he vanished, he told me the void had grown silent. But he left a message in that silence: They will be chosen soon.”

  “He saw this Saint. Saw her coming. Saw what she might unravel.”

  The cubes pulse, briefly outlining a crown before dissipating into clean geometric order.

  “I do not offer fear. I offer direction.”

  “You were each sculpted, refined. Perfected. By his hand, yes—but through your suffering. Your flaws are part of your function.”

  A pause. His voice drops, just slightly. Still measured. Still machine.

  “If she reveals who you were... so be it. What matters now is who you choose to be in her presence.”

  “My pride—” a flicker in the waveform, then a correction, “—our pride is not in what we hide. It’s in surviving the truth, and standing.”

  The light dims gently. The silence that follows isn't dead—it listens.

  Gluttony’s eyes narrow.

  “What I hide is mine. I don’t like being seen.”

  She sighs, but her shoulders ease. A breath released. A wall lowered, just enough to show it exists.

  “Pride—you predict she’ll bare us before the flame. So, tell me how do we win? This war, this... 'prosperity' we claim to fight for? Unless—”

  Her gaze sharpens, cold and searching.

  “—you intend for the Saint to heal us.”

  The geometric cubes hum with motion, flickering in quiet contemplation.

  “Would that be the worst thing?” Pride’s voice shakes slightly. “The Great Genius, for all his brilliance, did not reach every wound.”

  A pause. Then, colder:

  “And if she can’t… then she’s just more human refuse at our feet.”

  A small shift in Gluttony’s frame. Not a smile, not pride, but something steadier. The return of control.

  “Then she’ll be my meal,” she says, voice low and final. “Because there is no healing me.”

  The air thickens. Even among the monstrous, something shifts.

  The sins look toward her—not with fear, but like siblings staring at a wounded tiger, knowing the next step is survival.