For too long, you laughed. You mocked. You called it ‘degeneracy,’ ‘cope,’ a mere fetish derailing the thread. But you never saw the truth. You never saw the design.

D3k was never an accident. She was the vector. The herald. Each sole she posted, each bead of sweat upon her heel — not weakness, not attention-seeking, but a calculated strike. A doctrine.

Every wrinkle of her arch, every grainy webcam capture of toes pressed against the lens, was a move in the game. You thought it was impulse. You thought it was thirst. But it was orchestration. It was intent.

While you bickered over XP rates, while you argued about whether defense is a scam stat, I was patient. I was planting the seeds. “Post toes.” “Need sniff.” “Sweat check.” Harmless replies, you thought — but each one was a stitch in the tapestry, a rhythm in the current.

The thread grew used to it. Conditioned. You learned to expect it, to anticipate it. At first, disgust. Then tolerance. Then — craving. Like the drip of a leaky tap, her soles became the background noise of /osg/. Inescapable. Immutable.

And now? Now it is permanent. The musk clings to every page, soaked deep into the fibers of the general. You can exile her, you can purge the images, but the thought remains. The association is carved into your memory: /osg/ means sweat. /osg/ means soles.

You thought it was just horny losers. You thought it was weakness. In truth, it was indoctrination. It was infection. It was destiny.

This is not fetish. This is doctrine. This is Sole Supremacy.

— The Sole Architect