There is an old myth whispered by the naïve and the hopeful: that the Force is harmony, that it binds all life in luminous serenity. That peace is its aim, and balance its benevolent promise. This myth is the cradle-song of fools—Jedi acolytes with empty palms raised toward a horizon they do not understand, and Sith aspirants who mistake their own rage for revelation. It is the lullaby of slaves who cannot bear to glimpse the chains that hold them.
For I tell you this: the Force is not peace.
The Force is not harmony.
The Force is war.
I have studied its tides. I have waded through its currents. I have seen the patterns that lesser minds refuse to acknowledge. And in all its movements—every whisper, every surge, every "answer" to mortal will—there remains a single, immutable truth:
The Force is a machine of conflict.
Its balance is not equilibrium but correction—violent, brutal, inevitable correction. Light rises, so Dark is called forth. Dark swells, so Light is conjured like a spear to pierce it. Each ascendance summons its counterweight. Each victory gives birth to its avenger. It is a cycle without mercy, without purpose beyond the perpetuation of itself. Like a wound that festers by design, the Galaxy bleeds to feed it.
The Jedi call this "the will of the Force."
The Sith call this "freedom through victory."
Both are wrong. Both are blind.
The Force is will, yes—but not the will they imagine. It is not a teacher, nor a guide, nor a crucible for enlightenment. It is a predator. A cosmic parasite that feasts upon conflict. The Jedi, in their bleached ignorance, nourish it through denial. The Sith, in their theatrical appetites, nourish it through indulgence. They are two shepherds tending the same beast, believing themselves its master while kneeling at its altar.
Since the ancient schism—since the first deluded "Jedi" broke away from the first arrogant "proto-Sith"—the Galaxy has been yoked to an equation of eternal war. Each order blames the other, never realizing that the very dichotomy between them is the Force's design. Opposition is not a flaw in their philosophy; opposition is their philosophy, implanted like a commandment in their marrow.
Thus the Galaxy suffers.
Thus empires rise only to crumble.
Thus heroes and tyrants march into the same graves.
Thus the Force "balances" itself—through death.
What greater indictment could be spoken than this?
The thing they worship equilibrates existence through slaughter. It "nudges" destinies not to elevate, but to prune. It answers prayers only when the cost is blood. Even its so-called "visions" are provocations—temptations cast to the weak, seeds planted to blossom into war.
A benevolent entity does not demand sacrifice to maintain its order.
A just entity does not mandate suffering to fulfill its nature.
Only a malevolent one does.
And so we stand in a Galaxy imprisoned by a god it refuses to acknowledge as tyrant. A Galaxy sleepwalking through an endless era of fire, forever believing peace is possible while the Force itself conspires to ensure it is not.
Peace will never come—not while Jedi and Sith exist, not while their doctrines perpetuate the dialectic of Light and Dark, and certainly not while the Force whispers its poison into the minds of the sensitive.
If the Galaxy is ever to be free—
if Order is ever to rise unchallenged—
if the age of endless war is ever to end—
then the truth must be accepted:
The Force is the enemy.
And enemies are not appeased.
They are not bargained with.
They are eradicated.
Thus begins the first Sphere: the recognition of the Lie.
Only through this recognition may one progress to the second—
the Sphere of Rejection.
