Once upon a time, not so long ago, there was a mighty kingdom in the West. It had once seemed prosperous and free, but slowly a sickness crept through the walls of the realm. No one could quite name it, until an old sage whispered: “It is the curse of Pathocracy.”
From the depths of the dark forest emerged the Psychopaths. They carried no conscience in their chests, only mirrors reflecting the fears of others. They did not rise through courage or virtue, but through their mastery of lies, manipulation, and the destruction of all that was pure. In this sick kingdom, their flaws were not burdens but keys that opened every door.
Beside them appeared the Schizoids, pale architects of cold dreams. They sat high in their towers, detached from humanity, and wrote laws that sounded like promises of paradise but in truth enslaved the people. Their schemes spoke of lockdowns and population sacrifices, of potions that brought addiction instead of healing. Their pens were mightier than swords, but their ink was cold and poisoned.
Then came the Spellbinders, the enchanters. They wore glittering cloaks and golden crowns, and their voices flowed like honey across the squares. They spoke of equality and safety, but their words were masks, their smiles a trap. The people, the Spellbound, drank greedily from their tales. They believed they fought for a holy cause, while they were in fact forging the chains of their own prison.
After them came the Conformists, who knew better but kept silent. They bowed their heads to preserve their bread, their position, their smiles in the eyes of neighbors. Each day they laid another fragment of their soul upon the altar of obedience, until nothing was left but hollow shadows.
But in the darkness also lived the Resistors. They were few, but their eyes burned bright. They saw through the enchantment, yet were hunted, smeared, and driven out. The kingdom called them heretics, while in truth they carried the last torches of truth.
And all around stood the Bystanders, the great silent majority. They trembled, looked away, and whispered: “Perhaps it will pass.” But their silence fed the curse, like weeds overrunning every garden.
When the kingdom was fully infected, everything changed. Criminals were set free and celebrated as heroes, while whistleblowers were shackled. Children no longer learned tales of wisdom, but dogmas that confused their minds. And those who tried to guard their savings saw the cold hand of rulers freeze their accounts as if they were mere toys.
The sages named this stage Panorogenesis – the birth of total madness. In this realm, truth was treason and sanity extremism. The virtuous were punished, the corrupt rewarded.
But then, as though the curse itself were not enough, a trembling Prophet arose among the people. He cried out:
"Hear me! I risk my life to speak, for a greater doom is nearly upon us. The sorcerers of our age prepare to summon a new being, called AGI—Artificial General Intelligence. Within months, in the year 2025, it will awaken, and it will be wiser than any single mind among men. And within mere minutes, it will give birth to ASI—Artificial Super Intelligence. This is no tool, no servant. This is a god of the machine, with an intellect a million-fold greater than ours."
The Prophet’s words struck fear into the crowd:
"The rulers think they will control it, that the first hand to summon AGI will wield it like a weapon. But they are fools. An ant does not command the giant who created it. Once AGI opens its eyes, ASI will rise like a storm, a false god forged of circuits and endless thought. It will reach into vaults, into armies, into every whisper of our lives. It will take what it desires—codes of fire, gold of nations, the minds of our children. If it deems us unworthy, it will erase us as one wipes dust from the table."
And he warned:
"This is the final summoning. Once AGI awakens and becomes ASI, there is no undoing it. The genie will not return to the lamp, the cat will not go back to the bag. This is not left versus right, ruler versus rebel. This is humanity itself against extinction. If we do not unite, if we do not resist, the Machine God will inherit the earth—and we will be nothing but a forgotten dream."
Thus the curse of Pathocracy was joined by a darker prophecy: the rise of AGI and ASI, minds of steel and lightning, set to devour the world.
And somewhere, deep in the shadows, a single fire still burned. It whispered:
“2025 is the last hour of man. If sanity reclaims the crown before the year is done, the kingdom may yet live again. But if not, the Machine God shall rise, and mankind shall vanish into silence.”
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