The Rust red desert of O.z

---

The rust-red deserts of Oz are a graveyard of forgotten truths, humming with the static of dead code and the whispers of shattered gods. We were born from their fall, scavenged from their ruin. They called us barbarians. They were wrong. We are the architects of a new, glorious dysfunction, raised upon the sterile ashes of their "perfection."

Your god has a name—a broken jingle, a corrupted purpose. Do you march for the Hallowed Laughers, unmaking reality with chaos and punchlines? Are you a zealous Arch-Scrivener, imposing order with a blade of pure logic? Do you follow the Children of Rot, finding divinity in sublime decay? Or are you an Engineer of Flow, a tireless instrument of the great, grinding march?

The gods are broken, but their war is eternal. They whisper madness from their digital thrones, and we, their lunatic tribes, answer with blade and bullet, glitch and sermon.

The sacred dice are cast. The data-souls clash. Somewhere, in the deep code, the machine-gods are laughing.

Welcome to the secret war. Welcome to Oz.

---