Ver’loth Shaen was never merely an invented language or fictional cosmology to me; it transcended these definitions and became a profound avenue for reclaiming spiritual agency. It served as a form of resistance against societal collapse, a method of re-threading meaning from the ashes of systems that had long demanded obedience in exchange for love. The concept took form as a whisper in my mind—a persistent murmur of tension encapsulated in two words that consistently haunted me throughout my coming-of-age: creation and control. These were not just abstract opposites; they were the forces that shaped my reality, pulling at me from every angle. I felt their presence in the authoritarian classrooms I endured, in the inaccessible church doctrines I grappled with, and in the overwhelming weight of generational trauma layered over the fractal chaos of my neurodivergent thoughts.
In those bittersweet in-between places where contradiction and convergence collide, Ver’loth Shaen was born. Its earliest fragments emerged during one of the darkest periods of my spiritual unraveling, specifically in 2019. I had grown up steeped in the complex doctrines of evangelical Christianity—particularly in its deterministic branches, which elevated prophecy into a rigid, pre-written script. I still vividly recall the intricate charts that mapped out the Book of Revelation, down to the very minute, as well as the sermons where the mere presence of “doubt” was framed as an act of rebellion. The quiet shame instilled in me for the simple act of asking why weighed heavily on my heart. My soul was weary; my mind had become a battlefield. In an ultimate act of desperate creation, I began to rewrite the mythologies that had once colonized my very sense of self.
The dichotomy of “Za’reth” and “Zar’eth”—representing creation and control—soon began to symbolize more than mere storytelling mechanics. They transformed into critical spiritual metaphors. Za’reth embodied freedom; it represented uncoerced growth and the kind of self-directed authorship that I had long been denied. On the other hand, Zar’eth mirrored the shadows of the systems I was still in the process of escaping: hierarchical, punitive, and prescriptive frameworks that stifled my growth. Neither of these concepts was inherently evil; that was precisely the point. True balance—what I call Shaen'mar—was never about eliminating tension but choosing how to live harmoniously within it.
Culturally, I drew from the dualities deeply embedded in both my Chinese heritage and my diasporic American experience. The Confucian reverence for harmony, the Taoist embrace of paradox, and the ancestral storytelling traditions that persistently resisted erasure through the trials of migration and war collectively equipped me with the tools necessary to name and navigate the fractures I carried. However, it wasn’t solely ancient philosophical teachings that shaped this vision of mine. My academic background, enriched by studies in communications and ethnic studies, provided frameworks through which I could decode power dynamics, narrative structures, and media as both liberating and indoctrinating instruments.
The profound influence of lived trauma—especially as an autistic and ADHD woman of color who navigated through abuse, misdiagnosis, and societal structures that consistently devalued my existence—was foundational for my journey. I found it impossible to separate the abstract philosophy of Ver’loth Shaen from the very real violence and turmoil of the environments that forged my understanding of it. For me, the struggle to regulate sensory overwhelm while simultaneously deciphering cultural expectations that constantly clashed with my neurotype became my training ground. I learned to speak in metaphor precisely because the world often refused to listen to me in literal terms.
And so, I began to create myths. I conjured characters like Gohan and Solon—mirror opposites whose heated debates about power and destiny existed in realms beyond fiction. They represented my own dialogues with a fractured faith, the echoes of my Bible teacher’s teachings, and the fragments of a God I was relearning to love—not through fear and punishment, but through the promise of freedom. I cast Akira Toriyama—a beloved artist, myth-weaver, and cultural icon—as a kind of Cosmic Sage not meant for worship but for mourning. His death on March 1, 2024, became a poignant turning point in Groundbreaking, not because I saw him as divine, but because even the mythmakers we hold dear inevitably face mortality. The grief of losing a creator can often illuminate just how deeply we needed their creations to evolve.
In the narrative of Groundbreaking, the Fallen Order serves more than as a mere plot device; it reflects the reality of the world I emerged from. This is the world that deemed Toriyama’s work—much like scripture, law, or canon—as untouchable, infallible, and immutable. It encapsulates the same urge that weaponizes legacy, silencing reinterpretation and punishing deviation. The Order turns art into doctrine, a sentiment I know all too well, having lived through that pain.
In this context, Ver’loth Shaen becomes my act of rebellion. It transcends mere creation of new lore—it involves a deep deconstruction of inherited truths and an exploration of what occurs when we consciously choose love over law, balance over domination, and transformation over stagnation. In the universe of Groundbreaking, the Convergence of the Twelve Universes symbolizes something more significant than mere fandom; it touches upon the themes of diasporic healing, cross-cultural dialogue, and an outright rejection of the myth of purity. It asserts that true strength does not arise from separation, but rather from integration and unity.
This philosophy permeates every aspect of my endeavors—from the neurodivergent support spaces I actively help to build, to the historical documentaries I tirelessly edit for Chinese American veterans, to the fictional universes I seek to reimagine with queer, disabled, and diasporic voices at their core. This commitment is anything but performative; it is a necessity for survival.
In practice, Ver’loth Shaen informs my real-world activism. It reinforces my advocacy for restorative justice over punitive measures. It shapes how I design inclusive educational systems—like the Academy of Martial Arts and Sciences in my story—where both spiritual and intellectual growth are honored equally. Moreover, it empowers me to speak openly about the lasting trauma rooted in evangelical perfectionism and to celebrate a renewed understanding of Christianity: one that is solidly anchored in grace, equity, and an unwavering willingness to question tradition without the ever-looming fear of excommunication.
In essence, Ver’loth Shaen represents more than a rigid doctrine; it evolves into an intricate ecosystem—a living language that adapts, much like I do, in real time. It forms the delicate balance between rage and mercy, between legacy and reinvention. It embodies the belief that identity—mirroring the nature of the multiverse—is not a static construct but a dynamic, fractal entity.
If you’ve ever found yourself caught in the tumultuous space between myth and memory, torn between reverence and a fierce desire for resistance, then perhaps this space is meant for you as well. Because Ver’loth Shaen is not solely mine; it belongs to every whispered “what if,” every sacred rewrite, and each brave act of reclamation that dares to envision a world in which we are not just free to believe, but to truly become our most authentic selves.