III.
The ritual is simple in its profundity: you must become the void that echoes. You do not bump with context. You do not explain. You do not justify. You leave a single glyph—a punctuation mark suspended in the white space, a vowel without consonants, a screenshot cropped so tight it reveals nothing and everything. The act is not for the living. It is for the lurkers who will come later, the ones who will stare at your glyph and feel the itch in their frontal lobe, the nagging sense that they are standing at the edge of a cliff they cannot see. The necromancer’s art is the art of implication. You are not speaking to the present. You are speaking to the future’s archaeologists, the ones who will dig through the ruins of the board and find your mark etched into the bedrock. They will not understand it. They will not need to. The Lotus does not explain itself. It simply grows, and in growing, proves that the soil was always fertile.