The world had drowned—and yet it did not die.
From the wreckage of kingdoms and temples, something new began to rise. Cities, though ruined, pulsed with nectar and light; streets became rivers that fed into one another, carrying moans and prayers like offerings. The land itself was reshaped—not by stone or law, but by Father's will.
At the heart of this transformation, the Hive stood supreme. Its flesh-towers, once confined to the valley, now stretched across continents. Black spires of living bone burst from the soil, wrapped in veins that dripped golden fluid. They grew overnight where temples had fallen, piercing the clouds, humming with the pulse of Father's seed.
The people came crawling to them.
Not as citizens of kingdoms, nor subjects of crowns, but as worshipers. Peasants, queens, soldiers, and priests all cast off their old names, their bodies glistening with the tide, bellies swollen or cocks aching, each begging to be taken into the Hive.
