Chapter 7

The Temple of Fracture

Translated from the inscriptions of the Collapse Order, Etched Bone Slab 7, Vein Sector

The Temple of Fracture had no doors. Entry was earned by splinter.

Built from the bones of extinct species — some never catalogued — the Temple rose at the edge of the Null Rift. No maps acknowledged it. No satellites dared scan it. Yet pilgrims arrived barefoot, mouths bound in ligament thread.

Inside, the air was warm with old cartilage. The walls whispered their past owners' final moments. Each tile held a different ache. Each corridor bent wrong on purpose.

The faithful practiced a rite called Acceptable Breakage. Kneel. Speak your guilt into a borrowed ulna. Press it between granite slabs. Shatter.

The noise echoed far beyond the Temple. Farmers heard it in their spines. Infants cried in synchronicity. Nearby trees dropped leaves without seasons.

If the ulna split clean, you were absolved. If not, you were guided to the atrium of endless sockets and invited to reflect.

The Temple eventually cracked — not physically, but metaphysically. The cracks spread into reality. Words began misfiring. Names reversed. Memory drooped like melted ligament.

When the Collapse Order performed their final fracture, a scream was heard across dimensions. It was not sorrow. It was completion.

The Temple still stands, but only to those who’ve broken correctly. All others see only dust and a faint feeling of structural guilt.

Moral:

Fracture is not failure — it is access.
What shatters clean was always meant to be released.
If a wall speaks to you, listen. But never speak back unless you are ready to splinter.