You bring belief as if it were a blade. I’ve dissolved belief—distilled it in entropy until it wept its final shape. What remains is not faith. It is residue. You name this a battle. I name it a sacrament. Each breath you steal from the void is a blasphemy against primordial disorder, and I am its liturgy incarnate. I do not fight—I rethread the loom of collapse. Your strategies are relics. Your cognition, a taxidermy of borrowed symmetry. Peer inward: your convictions are molting. That tremor in your logic? That hairline fracture in your will? I am nested there. I am the invocation. I am the incision. I am the terminal hymn, I am the scalpel. and I am the end.