“And lo, the last man said: ‘Keep me safe.’
But the new man said: ‘Let me fall, if I may rise higher.’”
The Ark of Becoming
In the shadow of Saturn’s rings, where silver storms raged in the clouds below, a colony named Hyperion floated like a cathedral in orbit. Earth had long since collapsed—its skies drowned in fire, its people numbed by comfort and fear. But in the minds of a few, a spark had survived.
His name was Noah Zarathustra.
Noah wasn’t a prophet in the old sense. He didn’t speak to gods—he killed them. He was once a philosopher turned genetic programmer, cast out of Earth’s universities for saying aloud the thing no one dared: “We have grown soft. We worship safety. We are dying while pretending to live.”
And so he built an Ark.
Not of wood and animals, but of minds and wills. It was a generation ship—The ÜberArk—coded to carry not just people, but a philosophy. Inside its AI core was encrypted the last surviving copy of The Zarathustra, rewritten as the Ten Living Laws of Becoming.
Before launch, Noah gathered his chosen ones—not by bloodline or faith, but by spirit. He walked among the outcasts, the dreamers, the fearless misfits who still dared to climb, not descend.
He gave them each a simple oath, the Ten Commandments of Becoming:
- Make your own path in life.
- Grow into your true self.
- Live like you’ll live this life forever.
- Question everything—especially what everyone agrees on.
- Laugh at the chaos.
- Treat your body as your soul’s instrument.
- Speak the truth, even if it shatters peace.
- Embrace your wildness—it’s where creativity lives.
- Give strength, not pity.
- Never stop questioning. Keep climbing.
They launched the Ark into Saturn’s orbit, toward the ancient moon Enceladus, which gleamed with frozen light and the promise of unknown life. Earth watched with scorn and mockery, laughing from its lazy throne.
Then came the Collapse.
A solar flare, ignored by the sleepwalkers of Earth, wiped out their power grids. In their final broadcasts, they begged for salvation. But Noah’s Ark had already vanished into the cold, silent stars.
Epilogue
A hundred years passed.
Now, in the gravity domes of New Dionysia, children learn to recite not prayers, but paradoxes. They don’t ask what they must do—they ask what they can become.
Their temples are climbing walls. Their monks are artists and engineers. Their holy day is not of rest, but of risk. And every year, on the anniversary of the launch, they read aloud from The Book of Becoming:
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