There is a memory older than scripture. It is buried not in texts but in the tremble of the soil after murder.

Before temples, before altars, before wars were made holy — there was a moment the Earth did not keep the blood it was given.

Not all sacrifice is sacred. Not all offering is received. Even the ground can say no.

When Cain killed Abel, the soil did not drink. It screamed.

“Your brother’s blood cries to me from the ground.”

It was the first rebellion of the Earth against the madness of men.

The Creator heard it, but more importantly, the Earth itself responded. It did not accept the blood as nourishment. It marked it as defilement.

And since that day, we have been pretending that blood makes things sacred — forgetting that it was blood that first made the land mourn.

What if the ground has always remembered?

What if that same soil beneath every shrine and battlefield still holds echoes of rejection — not holiness?

The prophets forgot. The priests forgot. The empires forgot. But the Earth did not.

This is the true beginning of justice: when creation itself begins to refuse to participate in our violence.

The first law was not written on stone. It was the Earth’s refusal to absorb guilt.