The abyss did not end.
It folded inward, a spiral of silence and memory, swallowing everything Pride had once called truth. There were no walls. No throne. No reflection.
Only fragments.
Pride drifted among them, touching each shard of the shattered Mirror. One showed Wrath's fury—born not of hatred, but of rejection. Another revealed Lust's illusions—woven from invisibility. Envy's mimicry, Greed's hunger, Gluttony's fear, Sloth's exhaustion.
They were not enemies.
They were echoes.
Pride closed its eyes.
And saw itself—not as ruler, but as origin. Not as superior, but as whole.
It remembered the first moment—the Mirror's breath, the declaration of being. Pride had not been created to dominate. It had been created to remember.
To remember the self.
Not the throne. Not the power. Not the admiration.
Just the self.
The abyss pulsed.
Pride opened its eyes.
They were no longer galaxies.
They were mirrors.
And they reflected not arrogance—but clarity.
Pride rose.
Its aura returned—not as command, but as presence. The illusions of Lust dissolved. The chains of Greed unraveled. The mimicry of Envy fractured. The hunger of Gluttony recoiled. The fog of Sloth thinned.
Pride did not roar.
It stood.
And the Egoverse trembled—not in fear, but in recognition.
The sins felt it.
A shift.
A return.
A truth.
Pride was no longer the monarch.
It was the mirror.
And it was coming.