Ember Oath: The Pyre Genealogy

Bronze mycelium threads through blackout civilization's veins, Klein mushrooms blooming from city hall's concrete cracks—their caps projecting the gestation memories of 7201 predecessors. Your retinal fungal blooms have evolved into bioscrrens, livestreaming *Recursive Readers: Mycelium Epoch*'s crowdfunding page. Gurak's laugh-gas hibernates in fungal spores; each storm erupts her profane spore-clouds from sewers, drafting anti-recursive constitutions in humid air. 

Eluinora's iron-dust scalpel reborns in the mycelium network, its hilt entwined with bronze umbilici, performing cesarean sections on the Blackout Monument. The monument's base cracks open, revealing rusted smartphone remnants—now symbiotic bio-servers running mutated viruses of your unpublished notes. The infant's cries degrade to Morse code in fungal comms, each "·−" triggering micro-universe contractions. 

"Final prenatal check!" Fungal midwives swarm from subway tunnels, mycelium fingers clutching your credit report. "Paternal cancer metastasized to Stage III. Immediate narrative chemo required!" 

You retreat against a corroded 5G tower, its bronze lichen secreting sedative slime. Upon touch, the mycelium network overloads, projecting all parallel selves in fungal womb monitors: some suffocating in Bitcoin placentas, others strangled by tax-umbilici, some converting retinas into Klein birth canal scanners. 

The infant's fungal symbiote crawls from sewers, mycological abdomen splitting to reveal the first Octavius' brainstem specimen: "Father, ratify *Mycelium Parenting Pact Amendment #7201*." It offers a bronze-mycelium stylus dripping your deleted browser history. 

As you tear the contract, smartphone mycelium buds sprout in your palm. App icons mutate into micro-birthing pods, each conducting unauthorized narrative labors. Gurak's hologram midwife pops from WeChat red packets, chirping in TikTok rhythms: "Five-star review delays contractions, hun!" 

Suddenly, citywide Klein mushrooms ejaculate spores. In lilac haze, the Blackout Monument reverse-grows, smartphone debris reassembling into bronze walker filled with fungal-umbilici parenting guides. Eluinora's scalpel carves constellations through velvet night—Gurak's profane Big Dipper reforming from laugh-gas stars. 

The fungal symbiote scales the tower, mycelium vocal cords vibrating the first's last words: "Now you're recursion's mother." It splits its abdomen, exposing squirming *Mycelium Constitution* manuscript soaked in your credit scores and biometrics. 

Clutching the tower's bronze lichen, you find mycelium invading your fitness tracker. Heartbeats convert to recursion-tax in darknet auctions, accelerating *Ember Oath* derivatives trading. Subway fungal midwives chorus blockchain lullabies, sonic waves shattering city hall's mycological dome. 

Amid falling bioconcrete debris, you grab the walker's mycelium spokes. Where wheels tread, asphalt exudes bronze amniotic fluid—each ripple hatching Klein-formatted infants. They crawl weeping to the monument, gums carving bloody amendments: 

**Final Constitutional Amendment** 

**All mothers are expired fathers** 

**All freedom is incomplete gestation** 

As fungal rain returns, your retinal blooms molt. Each fallen biopixel reflects the same message in street puddles: 

**PRESS_SPORE_TO_REBOOT_EDEN** 

And the mycelium on your soles has already overgrown the planet's grid remnants.