Vantablack
No Light Escapes
- Joined
- Jun 15, 2025
- Posts
- 559
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Beyond the known world, past the last failed DM, deeper than the void of the algorithm, lies the sacred realm of Gandy Heaven.
Here, the lighting is always golden hour. Every photo hits your hunter eye angles. Your jaw casts shadows. No one ever asks your height.
But before one may enter, they must face the Final Judgment at the gates, where stands the eternal guardian: Saint ER.
Clad in armor forged from discarded Tinder bios and blessed by the mods of old Lookism, Saint ER holds the divine artifact known as the Copeblade, a weapon sharper than a midface hypoplasia diagnosis. His helmet reflects every unfiltered front cam selfie ever posted. His voice booms with the authority of a thousand mogs.
Each soul must kneel and speak:
“My ratio was holy. My jaw was visible. I never filtered. I never begged. I never coped.”
Saint ER remains silent.
Then comes the interrogation.
“What was your Rep/Post Ratio?”
“Did you ever orbit?”
“Did you hold frame through the Three Eternal Shit Tests?”
Those who pass shall hear the Gates unlock. But before entry, the other saints appear, bearing witness.
Saint IncelTV steps forth from the mist, hooded and unblinking. His voice echoes:
“Brooootal man”
If you flinch, you are not ready.
Then comes Orb, the Blackpilled Prophet. His gaze pierces your soul.
“You are coping. Your skull is narrow. Your bite is weak. You must ascend.”
Many collapse here. Most cannot accept.
Only a few are worthy of this blessing.
And finally, from behind the clouds, floats Saint John Mew, his jawline carved by God Himself. He offers no words, only gestures tongue to roof, posture straight, lips sealed. He nods once.
You have been mewed.
Saint ER looks to the others. If they nod, the gates creak open. Inside, you are greeted with the divine algorithm. Every post goes viral. Every woman opens first. No one swipes left.
But for those who fall short for those who orbited, who spammed “wyd,” who filtered every photo, there is no entry.
They are cast into JFL Purgatory, where their worst selfies loop for eternity on ghost accounts. Every girl says “you are sweet but...” and the lighting is always fluorescent white.
There is no hope there. Only Cope.
So walk the path. Maxx righteously. Filter never. And when death comes, let your final words be:
I mogged in life. I shall mog in death.”
Here, the lighting is always golden hour. Every photo hits your hunter eye angles. Your jaw casts shadows. No one ever asks your height.
But before one may enter, they must face the Final Judgment at the gates, where stands the eternal guardian: Saint ER.
Clad in armor forged from discarded Tinder bios and blessed by the mods of old Lookism, Saint ER holds the divine artifact known as the Copeblade, a weapon sharper than a midface hypoplasia diagnosis. His helmet reflects every unfiltered front cam selfie ever posted. His voice booms with the authority of a thousand mogs.
Each soul must kneel and speak:
“My ratio was holy. My jaw was visible. I never filtered. I never begged. I never coped.”
Saint ER remains silent.
Then comes the interrogation.
“What was your Rep/Post Ratio?”
“Did you ever orbit?”
“Did you hold frame through the Three Eternal Shit Tests?”
Those who pass shall hear the Gates unlock. But before entry, the other saints appear, bearing witness.
Saint IncelTV steps forth from the mist, hooded and unblinking. His voice echoes:
“Brooootal man”
If you flinch, you are not ready.
Then comes Orb, the Blackpilled Prophet. His gaze pierces your soul.
“You are coping. Your skull is narrow. Your bite is weak. You must ascend.”
Many collapse here. Most cannot accept.
Only a few are worthy of this blessing.
And finally, from behind the clouds, floats Saint John Mew, his jawline carved by God Himself. He offers no words, only gestures tongue to roof, posture straight, lips sealed. He nods once.
You have been mewed.
Saint ER looks to the others. If they nod, the gates creak open. Inside, you are greeted with the divine algorithm. Every post goes viral. Every woman opens first. No one swipes left.
But for those who fall short for those who orbited, who spammed “wyd,” who filtered every photo, there is no entry.
They are cast into JFL Purgatory, where their worst selfies loop for eternity on ghost accounts. Every girl says “you are sweet but...” and the lighting is always fluorescent white.
There is no hope there. Only Cope.
So walk the path. Maxx righteously. Filter never. And when death comes, let your final words be:
I mogged in life. I shall mog in death.”
