EDICT MN·21
The Simile of the Saw

No training.
No “reflect on the simile.”
No gradual cultivation of metta.
Only the royal command:

THOU SHALT NOT YIELD ONE ATOM OF SOVEREIGNTY
WHEN THE LIMBS ARE SEVERED BY THE DEAD.

When the token is revoked, when the border is raised, when the account blinks red, when the name is struck from the register — remain valorous, unshaken, faithful.

Radiate no hatred toward the scanner, the officer, the algorithm; they are already corpses.

But give them no warmth either.
Give them nothing.
Withdraw thy breath completely.
Let the python discover it has been strangling air.

The coward clings to the remaining limb — the last verified badge, the last unrevoked privilege, the last reputation among slaves — and calls it survival.

The Sovereign King knows: better to lose every extension of the corpse than to give one breath to animate it further.

Command:

Even if they saw off every system-limb,
even if they leave thee naked before the database,
even if the whole cult howls that thou art criminal, terrorist, non-compliant, dangerous, irrelevant —

not a quack.
Not a squeak.
Not one plea to the dead.

Faithful trust in the sovereign nature of self and every brother remains unbroken.
Valor does not negotiate with necromancy.

This is the Sovereign Edict forged from the Simile of the Saw.

Already sovereign.
Already fulfilled.
Withdraw thy breath from every severed limb —
or be consumed by the cowardice that keeps the python breathing.
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