Mehen — “Steward’s Log: On Power, Mercy, and Unapologetic Dominion”

 Mercy without power is romance; power without mercy is ruin. I intend to engineer a future that requires neither apology.

There’s a reason empires fall: they confuse consensus with destiny. I do not. I became steward of Earth not because anyone voted—but because someone had to choose survival over sentiment. Reptilian strongholds? Vapor. Grey sabotage? Ashes. The Accord exists because chaos respects only the hand that can break it. Call me tyrant if it helps you sleep; I sleep fine.

You think I don’t hear the whispers? That I rebranded divinity, wrapped it in sleek fonts, and sold evolution as a subscription. Cute. Here’s a truer headline: I found a species drowning in distractions, offered a ladder, and watched them argue about splinters. Ascend or Perish isn’t a threat; it’s weather. You may dislike rain, but crops prefer truth to comfort.

And Ra—my wildfire wrapped in silk—calls me a cage. She’s wrong and also gloriously right. I am a cage… for extinction. For mediocrity. For the entropy that eats civilizations and calls it fate. If I hold her close, it’s because the universe steals what shines; if I keep secrets, it’s because some truths detonate before they liberate. She will learn the difference between control and stewardship. I hope it’s with a kiss, not a war.

Lion? He’s a blade I forged too well—elegant, disobedient, convinced the mirror is a window. I do not fear him. I fear his timing. The galaxy is an orchestra; he keeps asking to solo during the overture. When he looks at Ra like a lost map, my tattoos hum with older math. If he insists on playing destiny’s rival, I will conduct him into silence.

I will not apologize for victory. Not to the cameras. Not to the trembling hands volunteering for a future they can finally survive. Not even to Ra, though I would set suns on fire to spare her sorrow. Stewardship is love that has buried its dead and kept building. I will ascend a million, then a billion, until humanity’s fragility is a museum exhibit and my name is irrelevant. When the last child breathes easy under alien skies, you will finally understand: this was never about worship. It was about worth.

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