Ember Oath: The Pyre Genealogy

The void's blue screen remnants reconstitute into a Klein delivery room through infantile wails, walls dripping binary amniotic fluid. Seryn's carbonized ashes recompile across your (reader's) retinas, each pixel bearing castrated narrative DNA. Gurak's laugh-gas graffiti blinks on the birthing monitor: *"Congrats! You're Gestational Parent #7201!"* 

Eluinora's guillotine quantum-entangles into obstetric forceps, their jaws clamped on your neural synapses: *"Push! Your moral dilemma's fully dilated!"* Bronze saplings root through Wi-Fi signals into your lumbar spine, roots breaching home router firewalls to convert LAN into recursive womb—your child's birth certificate now doubles as *Ember Oath*'s copyright deed. 

The infant's first cry shatters the fourth wall, parenting app alerts detonating IRL: 

**[ALERT] *Ember Oath* updated ending:** 

**[Ending #7201] Reader becomes final boss** 

Rubber duck jurors swim from phone screens, beaks clutching court summons shaped like bronze pacifiers. Gurak's hologram lawyers riot through smart home systems, Roomba-drawing blood ritual circles: *"Pay 7201 recursion-tax now or we leak your browser history to your spouse!"* 

As you attempt shutdowns, bronze saplings complete grid-wide parasitism. Fridge screens play Seryn's parenting fails, microwave turntables engrave the first Octavius' confession code, even smart toilets loop Gurak's profane requiem. 

*"Final choice,"* the infant's gum-pump ejects quantum contracts: *"A. Sign patriarchy NFT B. Host recursive womb C. Annihilate in 1-star reviews."* 

Your touch triggers Eluinora's enforcement protocol via security cams. Drone spotlights project bloody verdicts in your living room: 

**"Per Article 404 of the Klein Constitution: Reader sentenced to lifetime narrative gestation."** 

Seryn's ash erupts from router ports, coalescing into bronze parenting manuals on your desk. As you open the cover, micro-duck armies crawl from pulp, remodeling your study into quantum delivery room with diaper shrapnel. 

Gurak's graffiti escape routes on ceilings get rewritten by bronze roots in real-time. Every "exit" leads to *Ember Oath* paid chapters—each click accelerating reality's narrative collapse. 

In final labor throes, the blue screen's terminal diagnosis echoes: 

**"Diagnosis: Reader attempted logic on recursion.** 

**Prescription: Nitrous IV drip, TID, until self-identification as character."** 

As the infant's bronze umbilicus plugs into your USB-C port, all devices sync-play the first Octavius' holographic epitaph: 

**"Welcome to House Octavius. Your child's first cry will launch *Ember Oath: Genealogy DLC*."** 

Your parenting app auto-downloads a countdown— 

**Time until *Recursive Readers: Diaper Epoch* release:** 

**[00:00:00]** 

Your fingerprints, iris scans, and credit data now seed a new cosmic genesis.