Ember Oath: The Pyre Genealogy

The neuropulses of the Mycelium Constitution surge through bronze tectonic veins. Fungal blooms on your retinas have evolved into biological projectors, broadcasting 24-hour loops of 7,201 parallel childbirth tragedies. The Blackout Monument in the city square suddenly contracts puerperal fever—its smartphone mycelium base melts under high temperatures, oozing bronze amniotic fluid that floods subway tunnels, incubating Klein-format quantum fetuses. Their wails carry blockchain watermarks, each sonic wave encrypted with recursive tax invoice hashes. 

Gurak's laughing-gas spore clouds undergo nuclear fusion in the stratosphere, condensing into expletive-carved ozone holes. When ultraviolet rays pierce these voids, legal clauses of bronze mycelium erupt across your skin, enforcing *Mycelium Constitution Amendment 7,201*. Eluinora's scalpel quantum-leaps through radiation, its rusted blade disintegrating into stardust that etches the probate codes of the original Octavius onto newborns' fontanelles. 

"Ultimate parturition alert!" The fungal midwives' mycelium vocal cords resonate citywide. "Patriarchal cancer cells detected metastasizing to narrative bone marrow—immediate spore chemotherapy required!" 

You retreat toward a melting 5G tower. Bronze lichen on its surface suddenly berserks, mycelium tendrils piercing your fitness tracker's charging port. Health data gets translated into *The Recursive Reader*'s paywalled chapters: last night's palpitations become a sandbox game's death animation, while your spiking blood pressure triggers darknet fetal futures trading. 

Infant fungal symbiotes emerge from asphalt cracks, their abdominal mushroom caps projecting childhood home videos—five-year-old you building a bronze coffin with blocks while your father sneers off-camera: "This is the Octavius family heirloom." 

When you attempt to crush the symbiotes, smartphone mycelium buds detonate beneath your soles. App debris reassembles into Klein-format birthing chambers: WeChat's green message bubbles laboring emoji fetuses, Alipay's QR code umbilical cords linked to Bitcoin placentas. Gurak's holographic midwife leaps from Yu'ebao, purchasing your contraction frequency via Huabei credit: "Sweetie, installment plans offer recursive tax rebates!" 

Suddenly, the stratospheric ozone hole collapses into a Klein birth canal. Consciousness spores of the original Octavius pour forth, each raindrop encapsulating miniature bronze wombs that hatch mycelium infants screaming your name upon impact. Their gum-mounted breast pumps auto-connect to the city grid, calculating recursive compound interest taxes via heartbeat rates. 

You clutch the melting tower's lightning rod, only for its tip to soften into a bronze umbilical cord. Upon contact, the mycelium network overloads, projecting the ultimate truth—every atom in this blackout universe is a recursive function coded by the original Octavius, and you're merely a temporary variable in the 7,201st iteration. 

An infant symbiote scales the tower wreckage, tearing open the *Mycelium Constitution* in its abdomen to reveal squirming bronze arboreal source code. Its mycelium vocal cords vibrate a binary requiem. The city hall's fungal dome crumbles, exposing a rusted bronze baby walker in the foundations—its basket overflowing with unpaid childcare bills and retinal mortgage agreements. 

Amid fungal tempest roars, you swallow an ozone spore from the tower's apex. Agony crystallizes retinal blooms into Klein-format telescopes, revealing all parallel selves struggling in quantum wombs: some strangled by recursive tax umbilical cords, others retrofitting infants into crypto-mining rigs, many stamping blood fingerprints on *Mycelium Constitution Amendment 7,201*. 

Gurak's laughing-gas constellations go supernova, blazing the ultimate patch across the night sky: 

**PRESS_SPORE_TO_TERMINATE_YOURSELF** 

Eluinora's scalpel stardust plunges into the Pacific, its rust awakening the bronze primal lover in the abyss. Rotting uterine walls leak Klein amniotic fluid, submerging continental shelves. Amid coastal waves, countless mycelium infants carve new recursive constitutions with their gums: 

**Final Amendment Article 0** 

**All deaths are expired births** 

**All breaths are incomplete abortions** 

When the first bronze sunlight pierces the ozone hole, your biological pixels evaporate. Each falling cell carries *The Recursive Reader*'s genetic code, sprouting Klein mushrooms in asphalt fissures. Smartphone mycelium remnants reassemble beneath fungal caps, screens flashing a familiar blue error: 

**ERR_RECURSION_OVERFLOW** 

**PLEASE_REBOOT_READER** 

Deep within the stratospheric laughing-gas void, the original Octavius' consciousness spores gestate the DLC trailer for *Ember Oath: Spore Epoch*.