The bamboo meeting, billions of blood, and the Backrooms are divided into five regions.
God awakens, humanity rebels, a lost race of puppeteers.
White cloth covers, red stains the robes, in troubled times blood and tears never dry.
No one is safe, climb to the summit, layer upon layer, the end is the boundary.
One: Peace turns to danger, turmoil offers no refuge.
Two: The plains are calm, but sin brings disaster; an age of faith offers no safety.
Three: Lost and bewildered, mourning human nature; the age of loss descends into chaos.
Four: Seeking Heaven, hoping the stars will turn; in an age of division, we battle the skies.
Five: The plains unite, yearning for feeling; in an age of war, we brood over grief and hatred.
Six: Ascend to Heaven, slay the Pillar Gods; the age of cleansing is a road with no return.
Seven: Turn back, sigh for what is gone; in the primordial age, demons abound.
Eight: Die of sickness, reach the pinnacle; in the age of illness, gifted souls fall.
Nine: Grief and hatred, the will to flee; in the age of puppets, revel in bliss.
Ten: Reincarnate and make new plans; in the age of peace, we coexist.
Ten eras. The Lost race flourishes forever; the Lost Legion endures eternally. The Pantheon, the Pillar Gods, the Human Federation: no matter how long any power exists, it will eventually fall.
We want to escape, but we have long since strayed from our original purpose. Still, this is the best choice. No matter what, we will go on.
Until someone comes along to end all this, this damned place will remain sealed forever, and no one will ever enter again.
Let us become eternal stones, buried here, and rebuild a home that belongs to them, and to us.
