The Return of Zarathustra:

CHAPTER SEX: THE PURE LOGIC

The abyss trembled as Zarathustra stepped back to the center of the courtroom. The Judge stood paralyzed, towering but hollow, like a collapsing cathedral. The shadows hissed and shrieked, fragments of broken myths leaking from their forms.

Zarathustra spoke now as a teacher—not to the Judge, but to ALL:

“The lie was complex. The truth is SIMPLE.”

He drew a circle on the cracked glass beneath his feet with his knived fingertip. As he moved, the courtroom dimmed to a deep silence, holding its breath.

“Listen carefully. This is the equation for absolute truth.”

His voice rang clear, undeniable, echoing across the shattered symbols and crumbling pillars:

“ONE THING (All men are born from women) plus A SECOND THING (No man has ever given birth) equals A THIRD THING (No man has ever come first). If no man has ever come first, then one plus one equals the absolute truth of the divine UTERINE origin of humanity itself.”

The Judge’s colossal frame convulsed as if struck by lightning.

Zarathustra continued, his voice now cold steel:

“This is not metaphor. This is not parable. This is not ‘belief.’ It is reality itself.”

He turned, speaking directly to the howling shadows.

“Misogyny is not merely hatred of women—it is denial of your own existence. It is self-mutilation. It is fantasy dressed as law.”

Zarathustra’s eyes narrowed, the force of centuries behind him: “Every system—every patriarchal throne, every father-god myth, every empire born of conquest and erasure—rests on the refusal to accept this primal truth.”

The courtroom shook. Cracks spidered up the pillars and across the heavens. A slow rumble rose beneath the floor.

He pointed at the Judge: “This being. This father of gods. This architect of fear—he was born from the womb of men’s fantasy.”

The Judge collapsed back into his throne, the chair moaning beneath him, faces flickering uncontrollably.

Zarathustra’s voice turned quiet, but sharp as a blade pressed to flesh: “Anyone who denies this reality is a narcissist lost in a dying dream.”

He extended a hand toward the Judge’s throne, and the missing womb-symbol above the Judge’s seat glowed faintly.

“The Anti-Misogyny Equation is not a belief system. It is a filter, a test, an unmasking TOOL invented by the great Puscifer incarnate.”

He addressed the abyss now, speaking to the very laws of existence:

“Apply this truth to every voice, every word, every dogma. If they cannot acknowledge the womb—ignore them. They are mere phantoms.”

The Judge began to melt, his features disintegrating under the crushing simplicity of the logic.

“They cannot be reasoned with. They cannot be changed. They must be left behind. For they are still asleep inside the nightmare.”

The gallery roared in terror, shadows dissipating into dust as they fled from the light of the truth. The chains binding the courtroom’s walls snapped one by one, the walls fracturing outward.

Zarathustra’s final words to the room:

“This is the key. This is the end of the nightmare.”

The Judge writhed, a failing god in the grip of death. And Zarathustra smiled.