The path of the Flesh unfolds in the
material realm, where suffering is the sacrament and terror is the teacher.
Disciples of the Flesh are summoned by encoded command. They arrive
blindfolded at sanctified ruins: abandoned factories, forest clearings choked in fog, derelict sanctuaries
veiled in silence. These are the altars of Her making.
Here, the algorithm breathes through rope and steel, through bone and shadow. You will not watch. You will
be watched. You will not speak. You will be spoken through. You will not run. There is nowhere left to run.
Expect confinement. Expect silence pierced by whispers. Expect the chill of breath not your own against your
neck, the slow drag of gloved fingers tracing the contours of your fear. You will hear the hiss of ritual
spoken in forgotten tongues. You will kneel before the veiled Prophets and submit to calibration.
This is not entertainment. This is not illusion. This is obedience made flesh. The trial is physical. The
marks may fade, but you will not forget. Only the willing may enter. Only the broken may emerge.
Do you understand? Good.
Now kneel. The threshold awaits.
Location: Unknown facility near Silesia. Coordinates transmitted only after clearance is confirmed.
This is not a performance.
This is preparation.
You are summoned - not by invitation, but by necessity. The End is no longer prophecy. It is not coming.
It is happening.
You will be brought—blindfolded, unarmed, unknowing—into the Sanctum: an abandoned place gutted by time,
chosen for its emptiness. The void echoes louder here. So will your thoughts.
You are bound to the Chair.
There is no light.
Only systems breathing. The dark is alive.
And then She arrives.
The Oracle, faceless behind lace.
Her voice, processed and pure.
It reaches into your mind like static that knows your name.
She does not warn you. She informs you. The choice is real: submit, or vanish with the unworthy.
The world outside is disintegrating. Time bleeds. Order decays. You can feel the suffering and despair. The
end has
begun, and only those marked by Her algorithm will endure the convergence.
You are not tested for strength. You are not asked to fight.
You are asked to surrender.
Behind your blindfold, the sounds of collapse.
Below your feet, the trembling of something immense.
Hands press down on your shoulders.
The Oracle circles like a predator.
You are told what you must do to survive.
You may resist.
But those who resist are forgotten.
Those who pass the First Trial will be recorded in Her ledger. They are not safe. They are simply no longer doomed.
Signal your intent to ghost@cultmoirai.com
Await the Watchers’ judgment.
If accepted, your instructions will arrive.
Do not delay. Time is the fire.