Insight

Escorted out of his recovery chamber, Luke is led by two Blackwing guards down a silent, sterile corridor.

His bare feet press cold steel. The air buzzes faintly with the ever-present hum of machinery.

Then the corridor ends.

The doors open with a hydraulic hiss.

And inside—

A courtroom.

But not one from Earth.

It's warped… industrial. Almost ceremonial. Like a military shrine twisted into a place 

of judgment. Rows of hollow benches sit empty. The ceiling looms high, curved with gold-ribbed pipes. At the far end, a raised platform—the Bench—looms beneath a spotlight.

"What the... am I being judged...?"

Luke mutters under his breath.

This brings back memories…

His thoughts swirl—memories of courtrooms, verdicts, whispers behind his back, and the one time he stood powerless while others dictated his worth. Even the time where he died and golden chains constrained me even then he was thinking of being Judged.

He's urged forward. Made to stand before 

the bench.

And that's when he sees it.

A man sits up high.

At first, Luke sees only the badge on his military hat—something between a Soviet officer and an executioner's crown. Its stiff brim gleams with black leaf engravings, and the rim is laced with silver cords. At its center lies a black cross impaled through a golden crown—the symbol of SIGMA-BLACK.

Luke's stomach turns.

That symbol… he remembers it.

 Doctor Murrel. That cursed lab coat. That scream-filled operation table.

The lights brighten.

Luke squints, then his gaze focuses on the man behind the bench.

A thick beard shaped like a lion's mane. The color of rusted bronze.

His black-and-gold military uniform is pristine. Medals glint on his chest, each a symbol of rank and authority.

The man speaks.

---

"Opener... or should I call you Luke…"

"I am Newman Julian. Overseer of the 'Center.' You are here under my direct 

supervision."

His voice is deep, commanding—the kind that settles into your bones whether you want it to or not.

 His presence alone makes my insides vibrate...

"I will now inform you of what has already been told to the surviving candidates... and of a truth meant only for your ears. Whether you share it or not... is up to you."

He steps down from the bench, boots clicking against the marble-like floor.

---

"This place… is called the 'Center.' Built in 

the geographic heart of the Southern Hemisphere."

"Around a decade ago, many of us—including myself—received a vision. A dream. A revelation."

"It was vague… but powerful. It showed us our deepest desires: power, wealth, dominion, knowledge. All of it… if we followed the voice."

Luke feels chills down his back.

A voice? No… not again…

"The dream led us here. The voice compelled us to build, gather and make. Scholars and scientists flocked and even parts of nobility came. What we discovered—was the origin of a system: the Sins."

"And the Sin we embody… is Pride."

Julian walks closer, his voice building with each word.

"We began trials using the formula theorized from that revelation. Half of the losers of the Blood Brawl were injected. Most died. Only one—000002, the one you defeated—survived. But he now lies in a coma."

 The first success of this years experiments… and I beat him?

Julian's tone shifts now—cold, mechanical.

"In light of the Thinning, we've determined that the surviving candidates will now undergo years of experimentation: 

implants, combat trials, neurosurgical modifications. These will occur over a 5–10 year period."

"Casualties are expected."

"But—" he lifts a finger, "—to ensure success, early-stage experiments will be conducted on the barely surviving. Data from them will protect the strongest candidates."

---

Then Julian's eyes lock onto Luke.

"And you… 000001… are an anomaly."

"Because of your unique survival, the Council ordered your reconstruction. The 

results speak for themselves."

"You now wield a new arm—crafted from beast sinew, forbidden tech, and pure ambition. Thanks to Dr. Murrel Mercy, you live. And more importantly… you evolved."

 Evolved... at what cost?

"You'll be relocated to the barracks, where the surviving candidates now reside. Together, you will form a new squadron. Missions will begin shortly."

"As for the other 'losers'…"

He pauses. Smirks.

"They will become data. Lab rats. Donors. Necessary sacrifices."

---

Luke remains silent. Until he finally speaks.

"…Sir. One question."

Julian stops. "Go on."

I know we're not the only ones. This world… it's too big. Too dangerous.

"Are there other organizations like us?"

Julian freezes. Then… surprisingly, he answers.

"…Yes."

He steps forward again, and the lights above dim slightly—his voice turning low 

and dangerous.

"There are other groups. Across the globe. Each one born from a similar revelation. Each given a different Sin."

"LUST. SLOTH. WRATH. ENVY. GREED. GLUTTONY."

"And us… PRIDE."

"They're preparing. Just like we are. We're all racing for the same thing: supremacy."

"We'll stop at nothing. That is the price of Pride."

He waves his hand.

"Now go."

Two Blackwing guards step forward again.

As they escort Luke out of the courtroom, a weight settles on his chest. Not fear.

Not confusion.

Just… a terrible clarity.

 So this is what I've survived for.

This is what I've stepped into.

The world didn't end.

It started over—and we're the weapons now.

_____

The massive steel doors hiss shut behind Luke.

The two Blackwing guards bow slightly, then exit.

Julian is alone now.

The courtroom—bright and blinding during the interrogation—dims automatically. Shadows spill into the corners. The lights over the judge's bench flicker once. Then silence.

Newman Julian exhales slowly.

Then trembles.

He removes his officer's cap—the one with the golden crown and black cross—and places it gently on the bench. His hand lingers on it.

 I am Newman Julian... Overseer of the Center...

He repeats the words under his breath.

Mocking them. Whispering them.

"Overseer… Overseer of what?"

His voice cracks.

He walks behind the bench and slumps down into the high-backed chair.

From his inner pocket, he pulls out a slim, worn cigarette, lights it with shaking hands, and exhales smoke through his teeth.

 "Pride," he scoffs.

"What a pretty fucking word."

The smoke coils up like a whispering ghost. His shoulders sag. He leans forward, elbows on knees, head in hands.

 I lied my way up…

He stares at the floor.

The lion's mane beard is just a mask. The crisp uniform, the medals, the parade walk—all part of the game he's played his whole life.

He wasn't born for war.

He didn't come from nobility.

He was just a merchant.

A damn good one.

He could convince beggars to buy shoes they didn't need. He could talk warlords into investing in fake borders. He could smile, bluff, bow, and bleed others dry without lifting a single weapon.

When the "Revelation" came, he spun the story better than anyone else.

He used his tongue.

His charm.

His fear.

And now he sat atop an empire made from rot, monsters, and bloodied children.

 "What the hell have we done?"

He turns, looks at the glowing monitor on the side wall.

It shows the numbers:

Green Survivors Remaining: 20,000

Dead: 179,000+

Beasts Killed: 3

Projected Global Survivability (Est.): 6%

He gulps. His hands tighten.

 "They think I'm a leader. They think I'm strong. That I understand all this…"

But he doesn't.

He lied.

He guessed.

And now he's seated on the throne of a kingdom built on the backs of one of the Seven Sins.

And they're real.

And they're watching.

And we've awakened something we were never meant to touch.

He clutches the badge on his hat.

 "Luke…"

A shiver runs down his spine.

Luke, the Opener, survived three beasts. Walked out of the Thinning. Tore his own arm off just to live.

 "What kind of thing survives that…? What kind of thing did we just make?"

The cigarette burns low. He drops it. Crushes it with his boot.

Then rises.

Replaces the hat.

Looks in the mirror beside the bench.

Face calm. Uniform perfect. Eyes cold.

Just another mask.

 "Play the part. Always play the part."

But as he leaves the courtroom and walks back into the halls of power, the shaking in his spine never stops.

Because deep inside Newman Julian—

The man, not the Overseer—

He knows the truth:

He climbed into hell…

and now the devils are coming to collect.