At the end of each day, we teeter on the thin edge of survival—balanced on the promise of one man’s violence standing superior at the gate of another’s challenger. All that endures, endures only by the violence it can summon and wield.
Every act born into life is violence. To breathe, to move, to speak—to impose will upon the cast of reality before you—is already to defy it, to erase it, to refute what stands before you. Existence itself is a violent trespass.
This truth is etched into our very flesh: we are hosts to billions of organisms, microscopic armies locked in endless slaughter, killing one another through apoptosis, reducing life to ashes in order to preserve the fragile illusion of health. We are walking theaters of war. Even our thoughts arise in violence—splinters of sub-thoughts, eruptions of appetite, each impulse lashed into being by the tyranny of unquenchable glands. Desire is the whip that drives us forward, and from its blows consciousness itself is propagated.
Thus man has only two fates: to stand as killer, brute, and destroyer—at the ready, teeth bared—or to wither as a docile deformity, a malformed echo of anthropological waste. Those who fail to meet violence with violence are buried in silence, folded back into the soil, lost among the ashes of archived dirt. The game afoot spares no victims; it only selects those violent enough to remain.
Then enters the witch—who first reduces her opponents, dissolves them, conjures the enzymes by which she may absorb their essence. Her craft is the primal rehearsal of what the Übermensch must become.
For the Übermensch, or Messiah, is not merely one who survives violence but one who refines it—who evolves it into the unapologetic power of absorption. He is the storm that integrates, devours, transmutes. He ingests all opposing proclamations of energy, knowing as the Moirai know that fate is not chosen but forged, hammered into being by unseen, unhinged tempests of original stoic brutality. It is here where Marcus Aurelius may be imagined bathing in Faustina’s blood—not as cruelty, nor as ritual, but as a measure beyond human comprehension, a testament to the calculus of necessity.
Society recoils from this refinement of man. It reduces him, not because he lacks clarity, but because his appetite for endless absorption terrifies. For he is no longer cleric, no longer clarified, but a devourer, stripping away the superfluous—every man, every creed, every structure outside himself. He absorbs and contends, balances and destroys, until even the scales of justice warp beneath his weight.
What remains is the broadening path, carved not for his peers, but for his behemoth, unfathomable son—the future born from violence distilled, the heir of storms, the child of absorption who carries forward the brutality of gods.
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