24/04/2026
The Third Circle isn’t a battlefield.
It’s a place of production.
Nothing is wasted.
The dead don’t fall—they get processed.
War isn’t fought. It’s harvested.
The Iron Mendicant walks the field gathering spoils: bodies, weapons, relics, fragments of faith… all of it fed back into the system.
And what follows him isn’t a warband.
It’s a court.
Yellow-robed attendants. Burning icons.
Relics wired into flesh.
Machinery dressed as ritual.
They advance not like soldiers, but like a procession—
with as much pomp as industry.
At the center, the Iron Mendicant—
Crowned in greed, wings of bleeding arms reaching far and wide.
War feeds the factory.
The factory feeds the war.
The line never stops.
