The Return of Zarathustra:

CHAPTER 10: THE FATE OF THE NARCISSISTS

The darkness shifts around Zarathustra, becoming mirrors—countless mirrors reflecting endless faces. The reader sees them now: politicians, clerics, academics, comedians, influencers. Some wear robes, others lab coats, some wear suits, and others wear the casual smirk of the modern cynic.

Zarathustra gestures toward them.

“These are the narcissists.”

The mirrors crack slightly, though the faces within continue their performances—mocking, preaching, debating, commanding.

“They are everywhere,” Zarathustra says. “Not just in temples or palaces—but on stages, in headlines, behind podiums, on your screens.”

His voice turns low, like a warning shared in secret: “And yet, I have already defeated every single one of them.”

He steps between the mirrors, tapping gently on their fragile surfaces.

“They thrive on your gaze, your attention, your belief in the dream.”

One mirror suddenly shatters.

“They have nothing but fantasy—the man-first myth. Strip that away, and they crumble.”

Zarathustra faces you directly, as you cower in fear at the realization that he is now appearing in your mind dressed as Freddy Krueger, laughing as he plays with all your fragile self-chosen identities.

“The Anti-Misogyny Equation is the blade. But silence… silence is the execution.”

Zarathustra moves from mirror to mirror, showing you how they wither without your acknowledgment. The patriarchal priest who can no longer defend his doctrine when confronted with the womb. The pseudo-rationalist who cannot explain why his logic conveniently omits the feminine origin of life. The leader who governs as though life began with the sword and not the mother.

Each image fades.

“Ignore them.” Zarathustra says.

Another mirror cracks.

“Do not argue. Do not convince. Do not wage war against them.”

The remaining mirrors begin to fracture on their own.

“Withdraw your gaze from the deluded. Leave them to their own shriveling fantasy.”

The gallery of narcissists collapses into dust. Only silence remains.

“They will call you mad. They will call you heretic. They will call you dangerous.”

Zarathustra smiles darkly.

“And yet, it is they (the ones who slash pronouns like ‘them’) who will rot in a nightmare of their own making.”

He gestures now to the darkness itself.

“The ones who cannot awaken… will be forgotten. The Anti-Misogyny Equation devours them, because truth devours lies.”

His voice fades into a whisper:

“Leave them behind.”