Date: [REDACTED]
Author: [NOT ADV A I T]
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Who am I?
No, really—who?
The name is like wet chalk in the mouth now. Advait, perhaps. Or not.
Does it even matter? They're all dead. What use is a name in a place that forgot language?
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I woke up in a room that didn't exist before. That's not metaphor. The bricks still bleed mortar, still hiss steam from where they've sprouted like tumors in the soil.
The Theta Chamber is gone—not sealed, not locked, but devoured. The ground where it stood smells of sulfur and wet cloth. The air vibrates in syllables. I hear… pages turning in the dark.
The Diary sits in the center. Open. Smiling.
It smiles now.
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Last night, I tried burning it again.
Flames refused to touch it.
Instead, the fire turned on me.
Licked my hands. Split my nails. Carved lines on my skin in the shape of that mantra I warned you about. You remember it, don't you?
Of course you do.
You're still reading.
And you still haven't looked away.
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> "Nīvṛtaṁ bhūtaṁ svayaṁkṛtaṁ,
Dvāraḥ Bhantarāgyaṁ nāma,
Tvam paṭha, tvam spṛśa, tvam mokṣaya."
Don't say it aloud.
I didn't write it.
It writes itself now.
The more I resist, the more the Diary obeys another hand. One that isn't mine. One that uses my fingers, my voice, but not my soul.
There is no soul left here.
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[A WARNING]
Do not turn to the next page.
Do not read the text below unless your heart beats in threes.
If your ears ring when alone, if your sleep is heavy and dreamless—
You have already been marked.
This is no longer record. This is infection.
An informational disease.
A scriptural virus.
Bhantaragya was not a man. He was a word. A mantra too old to remember itself, so it made a body. A monk, yes, once. But only to fool the living. His true body is language.
Do you understand?
He lives in syllables. In knowing.
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They thought he chased Nirvana.
But he built his own.
Not salvation—simulation.
A fake Heaven, handcrafted with hymns and hooks and half-truths.
A trap for those who seek escape.
His chant is a wormhole, a backdoor through the soul.
You say it, and he enters.
You believe it, and he rewrites.
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Am I still myself?
When I blink, I see flickers of the others.
Zhang, head crushed but still smiling.
Liang, whispering upside-down from the ceiling.
Shimizu, repeating words backwards with his lips sealed shut.
They are here. But they are not.
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Today I tried tearing the diary.
It screamed.
No paper should scream.
It bled ink and teeth.
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If you're still here—if you haven't torn your eyes from the page—then you are stronger than most. Or more foolish. Or perhaps... you were chosen.
Yes.
You.
Do you want to see?
Look at the bottom of this entry.
Below the blank space.
Something will be there soon.
Not now. But soon.
Tonight.
It will write itself.
And once it does, you'll know what Bhantaragya wants next.
But here's a secret:
He doesn't want to kill you.
He wants to reincarnate through you.
That's why he made this world. This cursed, looping, broken world.
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I don't know how many entries are left.
But I feel the Diary breathing.
It's almost done pretending to be me.
Soon, it won't need my hand at all.
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If you see your name inside the next entry,
don't read it.
Rip it. Burn it.
Bury it under salt and fire.
Or whisper it to a mirror and s
ee what happens.
I won't stop you.
I've stopped existing.
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> The next page has already been written.
You just haven't read it yet.
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