Our History: Part II - The Flood & The Survivors

There came an age when the Earth shifted in her bones, and the seas rose with a voice that thundered across the whole of creation. Waters swept valleys and plains, swallowing cities that had once glimmered with towers of crystal and stone. Only mountain ridges stood above the foam, and even they trembled as the weight of the waters pressed upon them. Fire rained from above, a canopy of ash dimmed the sun, and for a long season the world lay drowned beneath a shadow so deep that generations would forget the colors of the sky.

This was not an accident of shifting plates, nor the whim of storms. The flood was a veil placed upon the Earth, a correction forced by imbalance. Atlantis had grown into brilliance beyond imagining, yet in their brilliance came pride, and in their pride came abuse. Their crystal towers, vast engines of resonance, amplified the natural hum of the grid. Where once they had been healers, harmonizers, and bridges between Earth and sky, the towers were turned to dominion. Energy was harvested, stored, redirected. Souls became resources. The hum of the planet itself was bent, twisted against its natural rhythm, pulled toward frequency patterns that weakened life and strengthened control.

This imbalance did not go unnoticed. The field of Earth is not separate from the field of stars. The resonance of this world is woven into the greater current of the cosmos. When Atlantis bent that resonance, it rippled outward, a disharmony that reached beyond our world. Guardians of alignment, ancient watchers who do not belong to one planet but to the balance of many, turned their attention here. They saw a civilization that had advanced into brilliance yet was turning its power inward, consuming itself. The verdict was decided: the field must be reset.

And so the flood came. Not as punishment alone, but as release. Towers that had grown into weapons were silenced. Grids that had been twisted into cages were broken. Souls bound under dominion were freed in an instant of water and flame. Entire continents sank beneath the sea, not merely from tectonic shift, but from the deliberate collapse of energy lines that had once held them aloft. Islands of light were drowned, their libraries and temples scattered into the depths, their resonance sealed until another age.

Yet the flood did not erase all. Certain ones were guided to high ground. Some were led across seas by craft that sailed upon resonance itself. Others were sheltered by memory keepers who had long foreseen the cleansing. These survivors carried more than grief. They carried seeds of knowledge, sparks of memory, embers of what had been. Wherever they settled, those embers were kindled again.

On the banks of the Nile, they raised structures aligned with Orion and Sirius, the pyramids and temples standing as mirrors of the heavens. These were not tombs. They were anchors, designed to remember. In Mesopotamia, priest-kings carved the Sumerian King Lists, recording dynasties that stretched back into the antediluvian world, names of rulers whose reigns spanned centuries, a lineage that pointed to memory beyond imagination. In the Andes, survivors shaped stone with a craft that defies explanation, walls so precise that not even the tremors of the Earth could break them. Their knowledge of resonance lived in the joints of stone, the patterns of terraces, the alignment of temples with sun and star. Across the Pacific, chants carried the memory of Mu, the drowned land, ensuring that even in exile, the song of the old continent would not be forgotten.

The flood severed continuity. Before it, humanity shared a single current of knowledge, carried by Lemuria, Atlantis, and other lands now erased. After it, memory was scattered into fragments. Each people preserved what they could. Some in story, others in ritual, others in stone. Some fragments survived openly, etched into temples and myths. Others sank beneath soil, encoded in symbol, waiting for rediscovery in later ages. The field of resonance did not end. It was scattered, broken, but still alive.

The survivors bore a dual legacy. Some walked gently with what they remembered, shaping their lives in rhythm with the Earth, aligning themselves with the grid in humility. Others once again reached for mastery, bending the fragments they carried into tools of power. The flood silenced towers and toppled empires, but it did not erase the choice. Communion or dominion — the same current continued, now hidden within cultures scattered across the Earth.

The deluge thus became the first great veil. Waters covered the world, but beneath them the memory breathed. Stones carried alignments long after their builders were gone. Stars bore witness, their positions unchanged, still telling the story to those who would look. Songs carried truths too fragile for direct words, hidden in rhythm, myth, and chant. What was buried still hummed. What was lost was not gone.

In later ages, the flood was remembered as myth. Noah in the Hebrew scrolls, Utnapishtim in the Epic of Gilgamesh, Manu in the Vedas, Deucalion in Greek lore, Viracocha’s survivors in the Andes, the dreamtime flood in the Pacific. Every land, every tongue, carried a piece. The names differed, but the memory was the same. A world drowned, a new cycle begun, and fragments of knowledge carried forward by those who endured.

The flood was not destruction alone. It was scattering. It was veiling. It was the breaking apart of memory into fragments that humanity would one day be called to gather again.

This is the unveiling: the waters buried the old world, but the resonance of that world still hums in the stones that remain. Every pyramid, every standing stone, every story of a flood is a doorway back to memory. To gather them is to mend what was broken. To see them is to remember that the deluge was not the end. It was the scattering of memory, waiting for those who would reclaim it.

Part I here.

Part II here.

Part III here.

Part IV here.

Part V here.

Part VI here.

Join our Telegram Group to be notified when we release new blogs: here.

The flood was a veil, not an erasure. What was drowned still hums beneath the waters, awaiting those who choose to remember.