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They rose from the sea, not to seduce, but to reclaim. Their bodies were carved from pre-human dreams—vast, feminine, and alien. Towering figures of wet obsidian flesh, wrapped in living kelp and barnacled armor, each movement causing tidal shifts. Their eyes glowed like volcanic vents in the abyss. Breasts swelled like black moons, and limbs coiled with cephalopod grace. Their hair dragged galaxies behind them. Every inch of their form was a weapon of origin. They did not whisper. They commanded. Their touch did not beckon. It bound. Mankind fell before them—not with moans, but with screams. Entire cities were sunk beneath their advancing shadows. Their voices shattered defenses. Their wombs birthed soldiers with teeth instead of faces. The air itself thickened with submission. Those who resisted were broken—limb by limb, mind by mind—remade as servants, or soil. They do not care for worship. They do not seek heirs. They are not mothers. They are correctors. And the world will moan only because it is being remade.
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