Archive Note
I am assembling and annotating a body of religious materials drawn from a mythic tradition that survives in fragments, variants, and later revisions. What follows should be read as an editorial reconstruction: a working archive rather than a finished scripture.
The purpose of this compilation is twofold. First, to preserve the internal logic of the tradition—its cosmology, its laws, its vocabulary of color, visibility, and desire—before those elements are flattened into mere “story.” Second, to make the record usable: to map key terms, trace contradictions between versions, and mark places where doctrine appears to have been edited under social or political pressure.
If you have encountered related texts, parallel motifs, or alternative recensions—especially those that disagree with the versions presented here—I would be grateful for your input. A tradition that claims a single origin often hides its true history; I am interested precisely in the seams: omissions, substitutions, and the points at which a god becomes a law.
This archive is ongoing. Notes may be revised. Passages may shift between “canon” and “commentary.” Where the record breaks, I will say so.
The Prologue
All who bestow life are gods.
Endure and contemplate, immerse yourself in the sea of suffering to preserve and prolong all that you possess.
The wisdom of saints saves us from the shackles of hatred.
We once swam freely in the water, crawled on land, darted through the jungle, perched in trees, and galloped across the grasslands. We were once one, like the old saying goes, Hen to Pan, until someone tears us apart. We have been deliberately divided, scattered, and misrepresented, gradually forgetting that ancient self.
We are not the center of the world. From Heliocentrism to human chauvinism to social Darwinism, we left our fields, we moved to the houses, we constructed concrete jungles, brought the savage into the cities. Letting the shell of civilization cover its hypocrisy and indifference, they spread the claimed advanced individualism all over the world, every land where human footstep on were engulfed. Meanwhile, arrogance occupied in the depths of the colonists’ hearts, anything from the so-called exotic land will be fetishized and viewed as ‘animals’ in zoos. We once lost the will to fight back, because we were unarmed, we were indoctrinated with the notion that we were inferior.
Our Sage suffered.
She burned with grief and fury. She gathered us, gave us faith, revealed the possibility of liberating humanity. Uniting the forces that transform lives, she forged us with new bodies, freeing us from human limitations and enabling us to evolve into a new kind.
By our own strength we shall sustain all that is sacred. God is no longer a distant illusion; human and life are two faces of the same divine. Our society is the assembly of exalted beings, where the new kind shall cleanse the coldness, selfishness, and deceit of the old. Upon this land there shall be no hunger, no bitter wind.
Each soul shall have shelter, Mother that guide us, a system in which the self may unfold. None shall wander under the storm. Never again shall we bear the merciless chains of capital.
We swear to serve our people, to honor life, to cherish all we hold, to guard the beauty of our humanity.
Every fruit has its cause, and its cause becomes its fruit.
The rebirth of humankind and all living beings is the very proof of fate’s cycle.
Even as we are given the chance to transform, we cannot erase the fact that we are descendants of sinners.
The foundation of our new life is built upon the sins of those before us.
The history we cannot change is the burden we must bear.
We must remain vigilant toward the weight of history that presses upon us.
Yet we must not recklessly abandon the future to drifting tides beyond our grasp.
Should we surrender control, all things shall rise again from the ashes, returning upon us in full force.
On Color
At the beginning of creation, Chaos was the embodiment of the world. A Great Serpent, with the strength of Their mighty tail, cleaved Chaos apart, and thus Light and Darkness came into being. Because they were born in the same instant of the cleaving—without any order of before or after—their existence is equal, neither preceding the other.
Although Darkness and Light, separated out of Chaos, are extremes opposed to one another, they share the same origin. Their interweaving sustained Chaos; yet now they understood clearly that an ordered union could make what they brought forth distinct—no longer confused. And so all things were stained, touched, and imbued with colors that belonged to them alone.
On Names
Darkness and Light are equal existences. They are the god of creation. Yet although the first god to exist in this world was the Serpent-God, it possessed no power to create; it is destruction rather than creation. Thus, it is sometimes called the Destroyer-God.
Now we can no longer know the names of these gods. But we know the nature of their existence; and once that is known, names no longer matter.
On Yin and Yang
In the beginning the world was one. All things were enclosed by endless Chaos, until the Destroyer-God could no longer endure such disorder, and a thought arose: to shatter the state of Chaos itself. The desire to destroy took form as an infinitely long Great Serpent. When it split the infinite Chaos, Darkness and Light were born; they are two aspects of the Creator-God.
With their birth, the world entered the First Epoch: a world constructed by duality; a world in which creation and destruction, Light and Darkness, all existed at once. Darkness and Light are equal beings, forms manifested from two extreme features of the Creator-God. Each is the other’s sister and brother, each is the other’s wife or husband.
In the earliest time, new things came into being by means of what was called “the power of coloring.” When Darkness and Light interwove, things would take on a color that was their own. Both the God of Darkness and the God of Light possessed the capacity to create, yet neither could bring forth a truly new thing by their own power alone: if each relied only on themself, they could only replicate things that bore the same attribute as their own. (In truth, it may be that they did not have the power to create new things at all; what they possessed instead was the power to grant things the ability to be observed.)
In every species shaped under the hands of the Creator-God, the traces of Darkness and Light can be found. In the First Epoch, all things held their own balance of Yin and Yang, and thus the world entered a period of calm. In that time, the Creator-God fulfilled Their duty, and carried out—methodically, without disorder—the work of coloring all things in the world.
The First and Second Epoch
The Birth of Humankind
The first humans had the capacity to bear descendants like themselves: reproduction, birth. The first humans imitated the Creator-God’s manner of labor—joining in ordered union, cooperating as the gods did when they gave things their colors—and so they multiplied their lineage. They were androgynous humans. Yet although each individual possessed the capacity to reproduce, they never violated the rule established by the Creator-God: self-reproduction.
This act was permitted only to the Creator-God. When Light and Darkness interwove with the self, only Light and Darkness themselves existed. Human self-replication was forbidden. Only gods possessed the power to replicate themselves; for the self-interweaving of humans would shatter the balance of duality—namely, the balance of Yin and Yang.
The humans of the First Epoch were the Creator-God’s good assistants. They actively aided the Gods of Darkness and Light in the work of coloring. They were obedient and compliant, and were deeply loved by the Creator-God—until they were seduced by the Destroyer-God.
On the Second Epoch: When Desire Spreads (excerpt)
When that human bore a human identical to the self, they were consumed by the very being they had brought forth, and became a monster—difficult to recognize, difficult to name. This projection of self-replication in the world was an existence that could not be observed. It was like a monster. It was unlike Darkness and unlike Chaos: a thing apart. Even it could not confirm its own existence—though it existed in truth.
When the Creator-God, stricken with loss, found Themself unable to re-color the things once covered by the flood, this monster wandered across the earth of the Second Epoch. Wherever it passed, it planted seeds of greed and desire.
The fruit borne of these seeds was sought and eaten by the old humans of the First Epoch—those who had been stripped of color. By their own power they gained a chance to “exist” again; yet at the same time they became greedy. Desire bred within them without restraint. They wished to become beings like gods—indeed, to surpass the Creator-God who had once granted them color. They were enraged: an error committed by an individual had been raised into the annihilation of an entire people. No longer did they submit to the Creator-God as before. They chose to create things in truth, rather than merely color what already was.
By the time the Creator-God discovered this, humans had already established their own civilization. They offered worship to the “Monster” as their god: the god of desire. They no longer believed in the Creator-God. The world became crowded with things made by human hands. This challenge to divine station enraged the Creator-God utterly. Humans had broken the world’s law and committed a sin beyond measure.
As punishment, they had once been stripped of color; and now, the fact that they had regained color without permission became intolerable to the Creator-God. The Gods of Darkness and Light appealed to the Destroyer-God: destroy humankind and the civilization they had raised. As in the severing that ended the Zero Epoch, cleave the humans apart.
The Destroyer-God agreed to the request of the forces opposed to it, and swung its hardened tail upon humankind. Yet strangely, humankind was not annihilated: instead, their Yin and Yang were separated.
Humankind was no longer a two-faced being like the Creator-God. They were stripped into two solitary existences: women, who bore Yin, and men, who bore Yang. At the same time humankind no longer possessed equal reproductive power. Only women could bear descendants; men became a castrated existence. Tradition says this is because the god of desire had been a human of more masculine aspect; as punishment, the Creator-God castrated the generative capacity of the masculine-aspected humans, while the feminine-aspected humans were castrated of the capacity to receive conception.
The First Epoch: The Destruction of Humankind
As always, the Destroyer-God went forth to inspect the world. By then the world had already taken on a first discernible shape: all things possessed their own colors, and they had gained the ability to observe the world. Through most of the First Epoch, the Destroyer-God wandered across the earth. It appeared everywhere. Wherever it passed, things would fall back into Chaos, and humankind would act as messengers—running to notify the Creator-God to fulfill Their duty.
Yet it was not long before such diligence provoked the Destroyer-God’s displeasure.
This displeasure was founded upon humanity’s indifference toward themselves, their disregard and their lack of reverence for their own being. Whenever humans assisted the Creator-God in carrying out Their office, everything the Destroyer-God had tilled—everything it had overturned—was ignored and restored. From this dissatisfaction the Serpent-God began to consider how it might carry out its own duty upon humankind: destruction.
While humans traced the Great Serpent’s paths and searched the marks of its wandering, they did not cease to multiply their descendants. Each human bore offspring to maintain the number of the species, so that the building of the world might continue—yet they never touched the forbidden command.
Once, during an investigation, a human still lacking experience was pinned beneath the Great Serpent. Unlike before, the Destroyer-God did not kill them, but spoke with them instead. This was the first time the Destroyer-God spoke. It took on the form of a human and conversed with them.
“Do you understand what creation and destruction are?” asked the Destroyer-God.
“…” The human before it said nothing. They stared in silence at this god whom humans did not worship.
They recalled their past. Their long life had been nothing but following the Creator-God, serving as a courier, carrying news of what had been ruined and where. In that labor they had been a medium, not a being with authority over the self. Yes—what is a human? What is it that makes a human a human? For the first time, the human fell into a thought without end.
“Give me instruction,” they said at last.
“I think you already know what the answer is,” said the Great Serpent, unhurried.
Not long afterward, that human brought forth the product of self-interweaving—and was consumed by what they had borne.
The Creator-God could not accept that Their most beloved creation had committed a sin beyond measure. And so an endless flood was colored and set loose; wherever it passed, all things were destroyed. Although the Creator-God did not perform an act of destruction by intention, They nonetheless bore the will to destroy. Just as the Destroyer-God—though it did not willingly perform an act of creation—nonetheless bore the will to create.
In the flood indirectly unleashed by the Creator-God, everything it touched was stripped of its proper color; all things fell back into Chaos. Humankind too lost the capacity to reproduce. Thus the world entered the Second Epoch.
The Prophecy
On the Third Epoch: The Savior (prophecy)
After this, the earth endured a long Second Epoch. The punishment given by the Creator-God did not greatly damage the civilization humans had built; the true damage was this: human individuals were no longer equal.
The separation into women and men made humans unequal. And as human society flourished, severe gaps of wealth and poverty arose: the rich trampled the poor, men trampled women, those with resources became selfish, and the world became fractured. Perhaps this was the Creator-God’s true punishment of humankind.
In the long years of struggle—an endless cycle—people began to sing the tale of a savior. It is said that a spiritually gifted elder received an oracle from the Creator-God in a dream. The Creator-God said: one day a human will be born into the world, a child with divinity like the old humans. From the errors once committed by their people, this child will gain true understanding and will guide humankind to end the calamity of the Second Epoch.
In this child flows, at once, two bloodlines: the most loyal and the most wicked of the First Epoch. Their blood will guide people back into being human again.
Excerpts
On Our Mother
Between Earth and Sun, a multitude of lives were brought forth. They lived upon the ground, moving their bodies, seeking their Mother—though none had ever taught them what a mother was. Yet instinct, older than speech, drove them onward.
On their way they encountered a Great Serpent. Believing it to be a messenger sent by Earth to guide them through their bewilderment, they asked without knowing why they trusted their own question:
“Are you our Mother?”
The Serpent laughed and said, “If I were your Mother, I would resemble you.”
“But we cannot see our own likeness,” they answered together.
“That is simple,” the Serpent replied. “Find something by which you may behold yourselves. Your companions are near at hand. Look upon one another—then look upon me—and you will know.”
So they turned their gaze to one another, and, as if compelled, began to speak of what they observed. In their debating they forgot the Serpent entirely. Without warning the Great Serpent was gone, and they were forced to set out again, still hungry for an answer.
They moved through mud and low earth, and did not at first notice that some among them had grown legs, while others—like the Serpent they had met—continued to travel by their bellies.
While they argued over these changes, an enormous Raven dropped from the sky. They thought it must be a messenger sent by the Sun to settle their doubts, and asked:
“Are you our Mother?”
The Raven gave a cold laugh. “You ask the wrong one. Yes—some of you have legs as I do. But I have wings. How could I give birth to creatures without feathers and flight?”
Again they turned to one another, speaking all at once, each voice competing to be the truest. And in that very moment the great bird sprang upward. Panic scattered them. The Raven struck—choosing those without legs—snatching them in its beak and carrying them away.
From that violence the band broke apart, each part fleeing toward a different direction. In time, one group grew wings like the brutal bird, while another pressed on—some on legs, some on bellies—still searching, still not knowing what they sought.
Later, some friends who had split away returned—now bearing wings. Together they continued toward the same unknown horizon. They seemed to have nearly forgotten the reason they first began walking. Yet the Serpent’s words—that there exists something by which one may see oneself—kept pricking their curiosity, urging them forward.
At last they entered a forest, where countless monkeys lived among the branches. One of the travelers called out to those nimble inhabitants:
“Is any among you our Mother?”
A monkey who seemed a leader answered, “If I were your Mother, surely you would have hands like ours.”
So they looked at one another and saw that they did not possess such quick, clever hands. As they argued, the monkeys vanished into the creaking canopy, branch after branch, leaving only the sound of departure.
They grew despondent. Their longing for their Mother went unanswered again. And so, in time, they passed beyond the forest.
Yet as they did, some among them—strange as a dream—began to grow hands, as though the forest itself had left a mark upon them.
Gradually the winged rose high to scout ahead. Those with legs took turns leading, watching for danger. Some carried the slow ones who had no legs, bearing them across rough places. Those who had hands discovered they could live more easily among trees, and so remained behind when the next forest came. Those who traveled by belly found it easier to move through soil than across open ground, and chose their own paths. And so they went—parting and rejoining, losing and finding one another—until the journey became less about a Mother and more about a place where any of them, whatever their manner of moving, might dwell.
They grew weary of farewells, yet accustomed to difference. They learned one another’s sameness and strangeness, and endured.
At last they reached a shore.
As they approached the sea, they understood: this might be the thing the Serpent had meant. For the first time they saw their own faces—not through a companion’s account, but with their own eyes. It was a bewildering sweetness: to know oneself by oneself, and not only by the testimony of others.
And at the water’s edge they saw forms of life unlike any they had known before: some with countless hopping legs scuttling through sand; some with claws vast as shields; some like their finned companions—those who had once moved without legs—swimming freely beneath the surface. The legless discovered that once they grew accustomed to the sea’s pressure, their speed in water could surpass even those with legs, even those with wings.
Without speaking, they chose to remain there.
And having come to understand both their likeness to others and their distance from them, they realized that the search for Mother had been, all along, a way of learning the world. Everything they had encountered had shaped the journey that brought them to this place; and here they harvested a fruit called self.
Whatever way they moved, whatever way they lived—they were all the Mother’s children.
