Just as the prophecy foretold, the earth shudders—and from it bursts a massive drill, splitting the ground like a wound torn open. Soldiers open fire immediately, bullets and artillery shelling the machine. The front of the drill crumples under the barrage.

  But what emerges from the rupture is far worse than metal.

  Figures climb out—men and women enhanced with cybernetic limbs and impossibly perfect physiques. They are eerily calm, moving like dancers across a battlefield.

  The General’s eyes go wide with horror.

  “It’s the Enlightened! ALL GUNS—FIRE! NOW!” he roars, yanking his own pistol from its holster and firing.

  These aren’t ordinary soldiers. They are failed gods—lesser counterparts to the Imperial Arms. Facing one is a death sentence. Ten of them now rise from the earth.

  Bullets rain down, but the Enlightened don’t flinch. One of them opens its mouth and screeches, a sound that distorts the air itself. Several nearby soldiers collapse instantly, dead before they hit the ground.

  “Retreat from the wall!” the General barks, grabbing Chevelle and the Mother Superior by the arms and dragging them toward the barracks.

  “God couldn’t have mentioned the Enlightened?” he mutters, half-panicked, sweat trickling down his temple.

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  Chevelle clutches his coat, trembling. “He said you’d underestimate the threat... no matter the warning.”

  Behind them, screams echo. Metal slashes flesh. The Enlightened scale the walls like shadows with blades.

  The General radios the control tower, desperation in his voice.

  “We need a Valkyrie or Immortan Brit, NOW!”

  “Commander Ingrid’s Valkyrie squad has been alerted. ETA five minutes. Immortan Brit’s unit is over the Channel. Same ETA.”

  “We don’t have that long,” he growls, eyes sweeping across the courtyard—until he spots a prototype weapon left forgotten. Auctoridas, an artillery weapon never field-tested.

  “It might work,” he mutters.

  Turning to Chevelle, he grips her shoulders. “What does God say now, child?!”

  Her lips quiver. “Sacrifice is inevitable. General, man the machine. Mother Superior, please... get to safety.” She turns to the old woman. The Mother nods and runs off to cover.

  The Enlightened breach the inner yard.

  Chevelle walks into the centre of the courtyard. The chaos hushes. Her breath steadies.

  And she sings.

  A hymn. Strange, beautiful—otherworldly. The sound ripples through the air like a balm on fire. The Enlightened halt. They begin to drift toward her, slow and entranced.

  Immaculate faces. Predator eyes. Mechanical bodies drawn like moths to holy flame.

  And she sings:

  Shepherds flock and shackled sky

  Hear the whispers of those who not cry

  The stars ring out, and hope dies down

  Let the sea part

  Let the fire cool

  Void embraces existence and warms a soothing womb

  Let ye thy foe embrace your waiting tomb

  They gather around her like solemn worshipers.

  From above, the General lines up the shot. Auctoridas pulses with dormant power. He hesitates.

  Chevelle turns and locks eyes with him—her expression calm. She nods.

  He presses the trigger.

  Auctoridas roars. The shell lands.

  Impact. Fire. Silence.

  The Enlightened are annihilated in a single instant. The weapon explodes from recoil, tossing the General from the gunner’s seat. He crashes to the ground, one arm mangled beyond recognition.

  When he looks up—dazed, pain flooding his mind—he sees her.

  Chevelle.

  Standing untouched. Bathed in dust and firelight. As if the very storm bent around her.

  He whispers, blood in his mouth:

  “Great God…”

  Then, darkness takes him.