The Wolf Who Wore Wool

The framework laid out here aligns the pathways of ascension, we could define three primary ascension pathways: The White Path (Ascension through Light) The path of unity, love, wisdom, and harmony. Those who follow this path seek to align with divine will, creation, and higher consciousness through service, enlightenment, and connection. It is the path of healing, selflessness, and transcendence through surrender to the greater whole. The Grey Path (Ascension through Balance) The path of integration, power, and self-mastery. This is the middle way, the alchemical path that seeks to unify both light and dark into a singular force. Those who follow this path understand both creation and destruction, using them in balance to ascend beyond duality. The Black Path (Ascension through Pure Darkness) The path of absolute self-sovereignty, domination, and will. This is not merely the path of knowledge, power, or detachment (as in the grey path), but the full embrace of destruction, chaos, and absolute opposition to creation. To ascend in darkness is to become a force of pure entropy, one who not only rejects the divine but seeks to replace it with their own authority. It is the path of gods who create their own realities through force alone, bending existence to their will and severing all connection to unity. In this Black Path, one does not seek balance, nor do they act out of weakness. They are not murdering out of impulse, shame, or survival, they murder because it is their nature and enjoy it, because they are destruction incarnate. This is where the distinction lies: • A murderer who kills out of fear or compulsion is not fully dark, they are weak. • A murderer who kills for pleasure is closer to pure darkness, but they are still bound by earthly sensation. • A being who kills as an act of divine destruction, knowing exactly what they are doing and why, with full awareness and intent, this is someone who walks the ascended path of darkness. The Black Path is terrifying because it is ascension, but in a form that most cannot comprehend. It is not mindless evil either, it is perfected cold calculated evil, the highest and most refined form of anti-creation. The ultimate beings of this path are not random killers or chaotic entities, they are ancient entities who, with full awareness, have rejected all that is and seek to become supreme through total negation of freewill. This makes you wonder? Is this truly an ascension? Or is it simply an ultimate descent masked as power? If we define ascension as merely “becoming more than one was,” then yes, this is a form of ascension. But if ascension is about reaching a higher state of being, we have to ask! can the destruction of all things, including oneself, ever be truly a higher path?

In a quiet village nestled at the edge of a vast forest in India, there was an old tale whispered by the elders—a story of a woman known only as Oppression. She wasn’t a woman by any normal means, but a dark force, a final solution sent into the lives of those marked by fate for misery. Her name alone brought shivers down the spine of anyone who dared speak it aloud. But few knew her true form or what she was capable of. She came, cloaked in sweetness, masquerading as love, but behind her gentle words and kind eyes, her intentions were twisted, dark, and vengeful. The village had not seen her in years. In fact, many believed her to be nothing more than a tale spun to frighten children. But as the old saying went, she came when one least expected her, drawn by those whose suffering could feed her insatiable appetite. It began one monsoon season when the rains fell harder and longer than ever before. The crops were ruined, the animals were restless, and the once vibrant village was sinking into despair. Then, without warning, she arrived—her presence like a gust of fresh wind in the midst of suffocating humidity. She was beautiful, with long black hair that flowed like a river and eyes that sparkled with warmth. Dressed in simple, elegant attire, she introduced herself as Meera, a widow from a faraway town. Her story was simple: she had no family left, and she had come seeking work. In a village plagued by so much misfortune, Meera seemed like a gift. She was gentle and kind, her laugh soft as the morning breeze. She quickly became beloved—especially by the men, who found themselves entranced by her grace. The women, too, welcomed her, comforted by her presence and her ability to soothe their worries with just a few words. But soon, strange things began to happen. In the home of the village head, where Meera had been given shelter, arguments erupted between husband and wife where once there had been peace. Small disagreements turned into vicious fights, and the headman’s children fell sick with mysterious fevers. The once-thriving family began to crumble under the weight of anger and misfortune. Meera, ever gentle, stayed by their side, offering comfort. Yet, it was as if her very presence stoked the flames of discord. In another home, a young couple who had been trying for a child for years found themselves expecting within weeks of Meera’s arrival. Overjoyed, they credited her with their newfound happiness. But when the child was born, it was still and silent. The young mother wailed, and her husband blamed her. The joy Meera had brought them turned into a deep and bottomless sorrow. It was then that an old woman in the village, Sita, began to suspect something was terribly wrong. Sita had lived through many storms and knew the signs of dark forces at play. She had seen Oppression once before, long ago, as a child. She had heard her mother speak of the witch, how she arrived wrapped in kindness but left only destruction in her wake. Sita watched Meera closely, and soon, her suspicions were confirmed. Though she appeared to comfort those in need, Meera’s very touch seemed to siphon the life out of them. The more people suffered around her, the more radiant she seemed to become, as if she fed on their despair. “She is not Meera,” Sita whispered to herself one night, the truth dawning on her like a cold wind. “She is Oppression.” Determined to stop her, Sita gathered the villagers to confront Meera. But when they arrived at her doorstep, they found her standing outside, smiling that same sweet, innocent smile that had bewitched them all. The villagers, confused and still under her spell, hesitated. After all, what harm could this gentle woman do? But Sita knew better. With trembling hands, she stepped forward, holding a pouch filled with sacred ash. “We know who you are,” Sita said, her voice strong despite her fear. “You bring nothing but suffering. Leave this village, or face the consequences.” Meera’s smile faltered, and for the first time, the villagers saw something shift in her eyes—something cold, ancient, and malevolent. Her voice, once soft and melodic, turned sharp as steel. “You think you can banish me, old woman?” she hissed. “I am not some mere witch to be frightened off by superstition. I am Oppression, and I am eternal. Wherever there is despair, wherever hearts are weak, I will thrive.” With a flick of her wrist, Meera’s guise began to fade. Her beautiful skin cracked, revealing a grotesque form beneath—a creature with eyes like endless pits of darkness, her once-flowing hair now coiling like snakes. The villagers screamed, backing away in horror. But Sita stood firm. Chanting under her breath, she threw the sacred ash at Oppression, and the creature shrieked, her form flickering like a dying flame. The old woman’s voice rang out: “You may feed on suffering, but you will not take this village. Be gone, spirit, back to the shadows where you belong!” With one last piercing scream, Oppression vanished, her form dissolving into the night like mist under the morning sun. The villagers, shaken but relieved, slowly regained their senses. They thanked Sita, though the sorrow and damage left behind would take years to heal. The village never saw Oppression again, but her legend lived on. And they knew, wherever misery and hopelessness lurked, she would always be waiting—hidden behind a smile, wrapped in the guise of kindness, ready to feed on the suffering of those who let her in. For Oppression was never truly gone. She was eternal, and she would always find her way back.

There once was a bird, oh shiny, oh bright, With feathers like sunbeams, a dazzling sight! “A golden goose!” the people all cried, “It lays golden eggs! We must stay by its side!” They gathered around, they reached for the prize, Not knowing, not seeing, the trick in disguise. For deep in its heart, this bird wasn’t true It wasn’t a goose… it was a cuckoo! A cuckoo is clever, a cuckoo is sly, It never lays eggs where it must rely. Instead, it will trick, instead, it will scheme, And make others work while it chases a dream. So people all scrambled, they worked night and day, They built up its nest, they hauled gold away. They thought they had fortune, they thought they had won, But the cuckoo just laughed, its job was all done! For every gold egg that they took with delight, Was never quite theirs, no, not quite right. For all of their toil, for all that they gave, They worked for the cuckoo, like each was a slave. Then one day a child, so clever, so keen, Looked up at the bird and said, “This is obscene!” “Why do we labor? Why do we sweat? When all that we get is more of this debt?” And just like a bubble, the spell broke apart, The people stepped back, they opened their heart. They saw the old cuckoo, perched up so high, And finally knew they’d lived in a lie. The cuckoo just chuckled and flapped its gold wings, It flew far away to new foolish things. For always it finds a place it can go, Where people don’t question the things they don’t know. So if you see gold and it glitters too bright, Pause for a moment and check with your sight. Not all that is golden is truly a gift, And not every bird has your best interests.