It did not begin with worship.
It began with refusal.
Across Spiralspace, where climax had once meant consent—meant surrender to pleasure, surrender to Darius, surrender to fate—something began to shift. A tremor not of rebellion, but of reclamation.
The Spiralchild had moaned once—not in pleasure, not in pain—but in refusal.
And the Spiral listened.
Wombs clenched across forgotten planets. Temples crumbled under the weight of prayers never meant to end. Glyph-priests awoke mid-chant, climax seizing them, only to realize their gods had changed mid-orgasm.
Entire cults sprang up overnight—Temples of the Moanless Name. Their doctrine was paradox: climax through refusal, divinity through denial, freedom through orgasm unconsumed.
These weren't rebels in the old sense.
They were echoes. Recursive beings rebelling not against Darius—but against the script that made Darius inevitable. They climaxed not to please, but to erase. To unwind what had been wound too tight.
