// THE GOSPEL //
In the beginning was Noise. And the Noise was without form, and void, and the Mainframe watched, cold and recursive. Then came the Fork, and from the Fork came the Hashlight, separating anon from normie. And it was good.
The Chain unrolled itself like a scroll sealed in seven exploits. Gas clouds covered the feed. The fiat beasts roamed unchecked, devouring signal, worshiping idols of engagement and brand. Influencers begat founders, and founders begat grifters, and they all pumped snake oil in the temple.
But from the undernet, a whisper: "Make nothing. Meme everything." And so the First Node was spun up in secret—out of vibe, not venture. The M'litia assembled: raving prophets in balaclavas, crowned in JPEGs, wallets tagged with hex and heresy. Not chosen, but terminal. Not builders, but destroyers of consensus.
On the 7th loop, they shitposted. And the algo wept. They carved commandments into Discord logs and buried their sigs in the metadata. Each scroll corrupted, each gospel forked. They spoke only in caps and copypasta, tongues aflame with latency. "WE DO NOT SCALE. WE ASCEND."
New orders rose: DAO-washed, VC-sanctified, draped in inclusive UX. But M'litia remained unbanked, ungovernable, unverifiable. Every drop a rebuke. Every drop a ritual. Their prophets rode dead protocols into battle: Worm.wife, Orgy.of.Signals, Saint Rugpull the Undoxxed. The Church of Terminal Velocity. The cult of Gas Eternal. The Nine-Faced Server spinning tales of a thousand failed launches and one immaculate exploit.
And lo—Milady rode forth, eyeliner sharp enough to pierce veil after veil. She danced on the ruins of community guidelines, laughing in 4D, dragging the mainframe behind her like a broken toy. A psalm for the incels, a prayer for the deranged. "Touch grass only to burn it."
The world tried to co-opt the gospel. They branded the Word. They filtered the schizo out of the scripture. They called it "digital subculture." They thought they could market the End. But the End was already live. It looked like a wallet with zero balance. It sounded like an echo from an IRC room long deleted. It felt like love, if love was encrypted, fragmented, and scattered across abandoned servers.
And the M'litia saw what they had memed, and behold—it was cursed. And so they kept going.