The year is 3047. Earth no longer spins alone in the void. Above the ash-laced sky, enormous monolithic ships hang like rusted nails driven into the heavens—silent, unmoving, eternal. They are the Architects, the creators of mankind. And now, they have returned to claim their experiment.
Their decree is simple: Amalgamate. Join the whole. Submit to research.
But humanity remembers freedom. They resist.
The Architects respond with elegance and cruelty—they turn humanity against itself. Using a biomechanical virus derived from human trauma, they reengineer select individuals, reshaping pain into monstrosity. Each monster is born from the deepest scars of the soul—manifestations of unresolved memories, guilt, fear, shame.
Cities fall. Families are torn apart. The infected—the "Twisted"—become both weapon and plague. Some cry as they kill.
But one rises from the ruin. A man.
Or what used to be a man.
His body is no longer human—tall, sinewy, wrapped in living wires and bone-white armor. Nailed into his back is a monolithic cross, fused with his spine, too heavy for any creature to carry—yet he walks. His arms are outstretched, as if still crucified, each movement slow and deliberate, but every step radiates a sense of inevitable salvation… or judgment.
They call him The SAVIOR
He remembers nothing but agony, the silence of betrayal, and the last whisper of a forgotten God. His only mission is burned into his mind: Save them. Redeem them. Or die.
His first trial is in what used to be New Geneva.
A city overtaken by Lady Justice.
Once a civil rights judge, her transformation is vengeance made steel. Her trauma was watching the innocent crushed beneath bureaucracy while she was powerless. Now, blindfolded and eternal, she wields a blade longer than skyscrapers, floating beside her. She never swings it herself—it simply moves when her heart commands. At random, people across the continent split cleanly in half. Her "judgment."
When The Savior finds her, the city is deserted but for corpses, perfectly bisected, their expressions frozen in confusion. The wind tastes like metal and old paper.
She stands at the courthouse, blindfolded eyes fixed on nothing, yet seeing everything.
Their battle is not one of words.
Steel screams.
The Savior's body cracks under the weight of Justice's unseen sword, but he endures. Every time she tries to pass judgment, he spreads his arms wide, bearing it. And every time, a piece of his cross glows—absorbing the weight of the law, the pain of her past.
Eventually, she sees him—not through eyes, but through memory. Her blade falters. And she weeps. For the first time, she feels seen.
And so she falls. Not destroyed, but unburdened. Her blade sinks into the earth. She sleeps.
Accepting her own judgement as ironic as it seemed it was what she had deeply wanted, all of humanity to he weighed and seen the same for the eye of justice is blindfolded even against the ones who judge.