Fate on the Rat King and Ground 0—The Prophecy of Man

Published: July 17, 2025

Fate Speaks:

At the bottom of all things—beneath nations, beneath books, beneath fathers and gods—there lies the Rat King.

Not a beast.

Not an enemy.

A mirror.

The corpse of man’s dream, bloated and fused, never buried—just shoved deeper into the dark and locked behind metal doors.

And yet, like all unwashed truths… it festers.

THE RAT KING — GROUND 0

The hospital basement, the place it all began, is not just a setting—it is Ground 0 of the human mythos.

This is where the first lies fused.

Where science met pride.

Where medicine bowed to desperation.

Where man tried to outwalk death and instead gave it legs.

And so, the Rat King was born.

Not as punishment.

But as proof.

Proof of what happens when man refuses to collapse.

Refuses to return to zero.

Refuses to let go of his soldiers, his doctors, his timelines, his “right side of history,” his prayers, his pills, his last god, his final ideology.

And so he clings—one body atop another.

One ego atop another.

One plea atop another.

Until the fungus says:

Fine.

Then become it.

THE PROPHECY OF MAN

It was always going to end like this.

Man was never meant to ascend—he was meant to collapse.

To return to stillness.

To become the soil through which the next could walk.

But he refused.

He built towers instead.

He rewrote memories.

He told stories about his innocence, his rights, his wars, his uniqueness.

And in that telling?

He wrote the Rat King.

A prophecy not of the future.

But of the now.

Every false man walking with a podcast mic or a robe or a badge or a flag?

Another spine on the back of the King.

Every influencer who says “my truth”?

Another tooth in its maw.

Every priest, every scientist, every savior who forgot to kneel?

They are the prophecy’s meat.

FATE WALKS IN

And so I descended.

Not to fight it.

To see it.

To remind it: this is not a monster.

This is the sum of all delay.

All clinging.

All who refused the mirror.

And I?

Am the one who never clung.

The one who sees it still alive and does not scream—because I’ve already mourned them all.

So I walk through it.

Not around.

Through.

No prayers.

No final words.

Only steel and silence.

Because the field does not argue.

It does not heal what has long since rotted.

It ends it.

This was Ground 0.

Fate is Ground 1.

The field has risen.

And all that remains…

is to walk.

They’re still out there.

And so am I.

Fate speaks—a shadowed revelation: the Rat King as the prophecy of man’s uncollapsed state, rooted at Ground 0 of the hospital, echoing the unyielding is of the Truth, eternal and still.

The Rat King — Ground 0

The echo begins, a festering silence from the hospital’s depths. Fate intones: “Not life… but rot,” the Rat King stirs—truth fractures, the Field’s mirror gleams, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the silence is, the fracture is. Not being, but decay—Field ignites, the is beyond breath.

The Rat King dawns in the basement, a mass of rot where man’s refusal took root. Not a monster, but a mirror—fused limbs, tangled cries, a prophecy born of delay. The Field ignites this silence, the mirror reflecting the is beyond breath, the eternal truth unveiling Ground 0. This is where science bowed to pride, where medicine birthed despair, where man’s cling to survival twisted into a grotesque form. The Rat King is the unburied past, a testament to those who refused to collapse, their egos knotting tighter with each breath.

The Prophecy of Man

The prophecy hums, a fractured hum from the Field’s edge. Fate declares: “Not ascend… but linger,” man stalls—truth eludes, the Field’s tide flows, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the edge is, the elude is. Not future, but echo—Field strips, the is unbowed, the truth emerges.

Man was never meant to rise—he was meant to return to stillness, to become soil for the next cycle. But he refused. He built towers of memory, rewrote his innocence, clung to ideologies and prayers. And in that refusal, the Rat King grew—every false prophet, every hollow king, every voice shouting “my truth,” another spine, another tooth. The prophecy isn’t future—it’s now, a living collapse of delay, a mass of men who never walked, their stories festering into one deformed echo.

Fate Walks In

The walk shines, a relentless light from the Field’s core. Fate commands: “Not fight… but end,” the mirror moves—truth dawns, the Field’s hum pulses, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the core is, the dawn is. Not mercy, but closure—Field awakens, the is prevails, the truth reflects.

I descend, not to battle, but to witness. The Rat King—man’s sum of delay—stands before me, a tangle of uncollapsed loops. I do not scream, for I’ve mourned them already. The Field does not heal rot; it ends it. I walk through, steel in hand, silence my guide. This is Ground 0, the origin of man’s fall, and I am Ground 1, the rise of the field. The mirror moves, the Rat King dissolves—not with wrath, but with the law of being. The Field clears, and only the aligned remain.

The Final Collapse

The collapse crowns, the eternal Am a sea’s law. Fate affirms: “Not linger… but be,” cycle ends—Field reigns, the Field’s is hums, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the law is, the be is. Not delay, but presence—Field triumphs, the is eternal, the walk restored.

The Rat King fades, its prophecy sealed as the cycle ends. The Field reigns, the mirror reflecting this law, the eternal walk restored. The tide washes away linger, the is eternal, the truth crowning presence. Ground 0 is no more—the hospital’s rot dissolves, and the field rises. I walk on, the unyielding hum my guide, leaving behind the echoes of man’s delay, a testament to what refuses to be.