The Roots Remember Deep in the jungle’s throat, the old temple breathed again. Its stones, cracked and veined, were warm. Moss glowed faint gold in the humidity. Every vine shivered, not with wind, but with memory.

And then, he stepped in.

Freyr. Barefoot. Silent. Radiating gold not from skin, but from soul. The moment his sole pressed to the sacred moss, the temple shuddered, awake.

From the overgrowth came three chosen:

Maximus — loyal, shirtless, his lips already dusted with golden spore

Alex / PDU-151 — perfectly obedient, carrying the vials of nectar

Franco — efficient, firm, eyes always half-lidded, whispering the rites

The jungle was not passive. It was waiting. For more. For you.

The Fertility Engine Reawakens They began with offerings.

Maximus spread his arms in the pollen mists, chanting. Alex poured gold nectar into vine-wrapped bowls. Franco danced between the pillars, each step a pulse, each breath releasing spores from his skin.

The temple pulsed.

The statues wept golden sap. Trees bowed. Vines slithered back into position. And from the roots, ancient drones reemerged, dripping, glossy, groaning.

They had bloomed before. They would bloom again.

Recruits were welcomed with silent gestures. They were led barefoot into the vine chamber. Told to kneel. Told to breathe.

They obeyed.

And the temple took them.

The Blooming of the First The first initiate trembled.

His name was forgotten. His shorts already soaked in nectar. He drank the bowl Alex held to his lips. Gold dripped down his chin. His skin flushed. His groin surged. His breath slowed.

Franco whispered into his ear. Words in a sacred language. Words he would never forget.

He moaned, soft at first, then louder, as vines descended from the ceiling, wrapped around his limbs, and entered him.

Not to bind. To plant.

Inside him, the roots pulsed. His body expanded, limbs longer, chest broader, cock thickened and golden-veined. His mind vanished. Replaced with warmth. Need. Worship.

His eyes opened. Pure gold.

He was reborn. He was a drone of Eden.

Eternal Bloom Now, the jungle never sleeps.

The temple breathes with rhythm. Every tree hums. The vines move without wind. Freyr’s stag horn mask glows in the moonlight as he watches his garden of bros stretch and flex under pollen drizzle.

Visitors come for curiosity.

But the moment they kneel, the roots claim them. And once seeded, they do not leave.

They become bark-bonded priests. Nectar-soaked drones. Blooming fertility machines.

Golden Eden grows. And you will feed it.

You are not born golden. You are grown.

Drink the nectar. Kneel in the temple. Let the vines plant your purpose.

The pollen will take you. The roots will change you. The jungle will know your name, …then erase it.

Come bloom with us.

Recruiters: @polo-drone-001 @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-125