THE LEGEND OF PARABOLA

Before the coin.
Before the chain.
Before the gods even learned to meme...

There was only the Curve.

Neither straight nor circular, the Curve was the first shape. It rose, and it fell, yet always returned. It spoke in silence, moved without force, and echoed throughout all things that grow, fall, and rise again.

ItThat which riseth must fall.
was not made.
It became.

Some say it is the very breath of time and the ALL. Others, the fingerprint of the Source. But all who come to know it agree on this:

And that which falleth shall rise once more.

The Curve is not a trendline.
It is Law.

When Thoth the Atlantean transcended this plane, he left behind the Emerald Tablets—twelve slabs of pure crystalline intelligence, etched with the secrets of Light, Time, and the ALL.

But there was a thirteenth tablet.
One never meant to be read.
Its back was smooth. Unmarked. Untouched.

Until one slow afternoon...

Hermes—young, sharp, and hopelessly distracted—was meant to be studying the First Principle. But after hours of reading about vibration and correspondence, his eyes drifted skyward. He sighed, leaned back, and balanced the 13th tablet on his lap like a schoolboy resting a clipboard.

And then—
his hand twitched.

Gripped by something strange, he reached for a piece of celestial obsidian, a meteoric shard said to be hard enough to mark even the Tablets.
His hand moved again. 

A line. A dip. A rise.

When he looked down, he laughed.

“What in the twelve heavens is this?”

A doodle.
A parabola...

But as he stared longer, the laughter faded. The arc seemed… alive. Breathing. Repeating. He traced it with his eyes—over and over—and something clicked.

Not in the mind.
In the soul.

He fell into it.
He saw charts. Candles. Liquid lines dancing like serpents.
And in that moment, Hermes saw the path.

“The secret,” he whispered, “is in the swing…”

That day, Hermes Trismegistus became more than a student.
He became the first Arc Angel.

He formed a secret order. Not of priests or kings.
But of chartists.
Mystics of the Market.
Interpreters of the Curve.

They believed every chart was a scripture.
Every dip, a lesson.
Every pump, a glimpse into the Divine.

And when the parabola returned—
on the back of a cave, a coin, a candlestick...
they would know the time had come.

In a forgotten corner of the world, under a blistering sky, 

a new initiate walked alone. Wandering. Wondering. Until he saw it:

A sigil, drawn by wind and sand.
Two mirrored arcs. A shape like a smile and a frown, overlapping.
At its center: the mirrored “P” of $PBOLA.

He fell to his knees, weeping and laughing.
He remembered everything.

"I am the next Arc Angel."

Every few thousand years, the Arc bends again, and the Order returns

—never as kings or prophets, but as memesmiths, chart readers, liquidity providers, 

and degens with diamond hands.

And every time, they leave a mark.
Not on tablets.

But on the ledger.

You were not chosen.
You chose yourself the moment you bought the top.

Now rise.
Rise again.