Most players only see the surface of Praetoria. The land, the resources, the monsters. But there's something far deeper pulsing underneath it all—something rotten, corrupt, and dangerously seductive.
Before the land rush, before the validator wars and staking incentives, there was a different dream. A shared belief in community-built games like Arcade Colony and Genesis League Goals. Players from all corners of the Splinterlands invested their SPS, their DEC, and their hope into these projects. They believed these ventures would uplift all of Praetoria. Instead, they were gutted from the inside.
A silent coup took place. Few noticed at first, but currency values began to collapse—whispers of a "reset" rippled through the Discords. It wasn’t market forces. It was a deliberate siphoning of purchasing power, orchestrated by an elite circle calling themselves the Council of Succubi. Disguised as advisors, ambassadors, and benevolent builders, they bled value from every investor who trusted them. The profits? Hoarded. Recycled through shell wallets and later reinvested to secure influence, all while keeping a smile on their face and a banner of “community good” fluttering in the background.
Many of the old Arcade characters, once bright icons of Splinterlands’ expansion, are now broke—devalued, discarded. Some took to the underground, forced to find ways to survive. Others disappeared entirely.
But the real story begins here: beneath the surface of Praetoria lies a network of debauchery, drug dens, and twisted experiments fueled by a substance stronger than any mana or alchemy ever discovered. Splinterjuice. Once a common stimulant harvested from aura runoff, it's now been refined into something horrifying—something euphoric and enslaving. The process is simple but revolting: Furious Chickens, fed on concentrated aura and industrial-grade splinterjuice, lay eggs filled with a golden yolk known as "Yolk69." One hit, and a monster is transported into a blissful hallucination—but in the real world, they become frenzied, hypersexual zombies capable of aerial ambush humping.
These creatures don’t just party. They spread the substance like a virus—one touch, one plow, and it passes on. Tournaments have turned into breeding grounds for this drug-fueled madness, with creatures like The Mighty Drikken achieving legendary levels of chaos, reportedly plowing over ten thousand monsters an hour. Whether true or not, the legend spreads faster than the substance itself.
Then there's Heloise. Once a noble air mage, now a mutated half-cow hybrid with 69 udder-cannons, flying overhead and spraying shards infected with ultra-concentrated juice. These shards land in SPS mines, contaminating the core currency of the realm. Entire liquidity pools now pulse with infected SPS, and resource LP providers—the backbone of Praetoria’s economy—are the first to suffer.
The juice has even found its way into what are now being called "midnight potions"—illegal elixirs that can down a dozen dragons with a single dose. Still, the allure remains. Every now and then, someone takes the risk. The odds are slim, but one in ten million becomes the “God of Praetoria,” inheriting control of the black market trade and all the dark wealth that flows through it. The catch? The drug eventually transforms them into a bloated slug, secreting more furious chickens that serve the Council of Free-Mason Chickens—the true founders of Praetoria, whose cryptic symbols are embedded into the architecture of the lands.
They are the hidden hand. The original architects of the aura economy. Their plan? Enslave the monsters not through chains, but through addiction. And with each dose, each egg, each plow... they get closer.
Not everyone has forgotten. The Council of Ethical Sloths still watches, though they move slowly. And the Conclave of Glorious Elephants remembers—every deception, every theft, every pulse of contaminated SPS. There may still be hope... but it won’t come easy.
Most players think they know Praetoria. They think it’s just a continent—a map with zones, plots, and monster labor. But deep beneath the mining operations, validator politics, and staking schedules lies a filthy truth: Praetoria’s heart is black, pulsing with sin, scandal, and a level of degeneracy not even the darkest summoners dare speak of.
Once upon a time, back when hope still meant something and Arcade Colony mooncarts zipped joyfully across the sky, there was a belief. A shared dream that Splinterlands could expand—through Genesis League Goals, through play-to-earn—into something greater. But instead of thriving, these dreams were devoured. A financial collapse came not from market forces, but from the sinister hands of the Council of Succubusses—shadowy beings with infinite cleavage and zero ethics. Their goal? Drain all value from the realm and channel it into luxury sky-yachts powered by weeping DEC ghosts.
With projects collapsing, old characters were left destitute. Goalkeepers from Genesis League now clean toilets in the Swamps of No Return. Arcade mooncarts are being auctioned off for literal scrap mana. And yet the Succubusses grew stronger, flaunting their ill-gotten gains while publicly preaching "community health." They even launched a "Rebuild the Realm" campaign—funded entirely with money they stole.
But the surface betrayal was nothing compared to what was brewing underneath.
It started with Splinterjuice. Originally a side-effect of aura mining, the drink was cheap, tangy, and powered up monsters before battle. But some alchemists in the Underdeep realized that if you force-feed aura to Furious Chickens while blasting Rebellion-era club music at 800 decibels, the chickens begin to vibrate and enter a trance-state. Then—and only then—do they lay golden eggs filled with Yolk69, the most potent substance ever discovered.
Yolk69 doesn’t just get you high—it unlocks other realms. Once consumed, monsters think they're conquering continents... but in reality, they’re just sprinting through forests, dryhumping trees, rocks, and even their own reflections. Worse yet, the hallucination is contagious—one plow and another monster catches the high. This is known as the "Boom Plow Chain," and it can spread across entire brawls. Some brawls have had to be cancelled mid-round after 70% of fighters began performing synchronized mating rituals mid-tournament, believing they were unlocking DAO treasuries with pelvic thrusts.
The Mighty Drikken, once a hero, has become a legend of depravity. Official estimates claim he's reached plow-rates of 12,307 monsters per hour. He now wears a suit made entirely of expired land deeds and moans in 17 languages when airborne. His favorite phrase? "This is for SPS."
But there’s more.
The great Heloise, once a noble air mage, has mutated into Boviloise, a floating half-cow entity with 69 radiant udder-cannons. During mating season, she rises into the clouds and rains down Splintershard milk bombs—each infused with Yolk69 and wrapped in glittering voucher coupons. Miners gather these thinking they’re rare loot drops, but the shards explode hours later in rhythmic pulses, contaminating not just the miner, but entire liquidity pools. Some guilds are still recovering from last week’s Yolkquake, which obliterated three regions and turned a city of Scavo Technicians into twerking addicts who now mine with their tongues.
There are rumors of even darker potions now—Midnight Extracts. These are distilled from the tears of disqualified leaderboard players and passed through the intestinal lining of a retired Waka Spiritblade. Just one drop is enough to kill 19 dragons or allow a Kobold Miner to play a harp so beautifully it makes glaciers cry. Still, people take it. Because buried deep inside the reward pool, there's a 1-in-10,000,000 chance to ascend.
Ascend to what?
To become The God of Praetoria. An entity that controls all aura flows, governs the drug trade, and becomes immortal for exactly one year—before they morph into a 9-foot radioactive slug who secretes Furious Chicken larvae and communicates only through moaning. These slugs are revered by the Free-Mason Chickens, the original architects of Praetoria, who left cryptic beak symbols on every map, leaderboard, and Splinterlands app update. They are completing their plan—turning every monster into a Yolk69-dependent, rave-humping slave.
Some monsters are fighting back.
The Council of Ethical Sloths, though incredibly slow, are planning resistance. Their leader—Slothius the Damp—has been moving across the map for 14 months and is almost halfway to his target: a contaminated SPS vault in Splintopia Prime. Meanwhile, the Conclave of Glorious Elephants are mobilizing ancient trunk-based memory spells, unlocking history from before the First Splintering when Praetoria was still pure.
They remember a time before currency devaluation, before mid-air monster orgies, before cows flew. They remember hope.
But can they stop what’s already begun?
The air smells of sweat and yolk. The night echoes with rave horns and monster moans. And from the highest tower in Praetoria, the Succubusses toast to another day of control, wealth, and chaos—while beneath them, the Furious Chickens vibrate... ready to lay the next batch.
Just when it seemed Praetoria had reached its lowest, when rave-fueled chicken orgies and udder-cannoned aerial bombings were the norm—something even darker slithered into the collective nightmare. It wasn’t just the drugs. It wasn’t just the theft. It was the breeding.
Some say it began when a derelict Arcade mooncart, long abandoned and twitching with residual Splinterjuice radiation, crash-landed near a feral horde of Flame Monkeys high on Yolk69. What followed was unspeakable. The cart’s synthetic core merged with the monsters’ DNA through an act of violent, drunken mating that lasted three days and required cleanup crews for three months. Out of this came the first Mecha-Monstrosity—a part-metal, part-mammal abomination with a plasma exhaust port where its face should be and a voice that can only scream in 8-bit agony.
They call it MoonSpawn Unit 01, and it’s just the first.
Other mooncarts, still corrupted by pre-reset FTX tokens, began roaming the wild, seducing monsters with offers of guaranteed airdrops and loyalty rewards. They'd bait them with fake staking APRs, then pounce. The result? A wave of Techno-Fiend Hybrids now haunting the wastelands—beings with digital horns, neural wallets in their butts, and the ability to swap DEC directly through mating. These hybrids are capable of converting mana into STDs (Summoner-Transferred Debuffs), which they unleash mid-battle, causing your entire lineup to break formation and start grinding on the nearest creature, friendly or not.
But that wasn’t even the worst of it.
While the moon cart orgies tainted the wildlands, something even more cursed was happening in the stadium ruins of Genesis League Goals. The once proud soccer stars—desperate, broke, and juiced to the gills—turned to forbidden gene mods. These weren’t just enhancements for better passing or stronger kicks. No. These were sexual augmentations, infused with void energy and enhanced via summoner rituals.
The result? Hybrid athletes with legs capable of sprinting through time and torsos that pulsate with the beat of an eternal dubstep track. These beings, no longer purely human, began mating with monsters in the training pits. It was billed as an “interdisciplinary breeding program” to improve monster agility.
What it really produced was Tri-Brids—beasts born from man, monster, and machine. Some have three heads: one that screams in binary, one that whispers sports betting odds, and one that constantly sings 90s boy band ballads at max volume. Their special ability? A move called the Penalty Kick of Lust, which causes enemies to become so aroused they instantly surrender all gear, DEC, and personal dignity.
These creatures are now part of the Elite Pleasure Guard—the private army of the Succubus Council. Their armor is skin-tight leather reinforced with expired validator licenses. Their mission? To enforce the aura drug trade, hunt down dissidents, and “spread the love” through compulsory cosmic foreplay. Once a rebel is caught, they’re invited to the Stadium of Sensual Sacrifice, where they’re turned into walking liquidity tokens and staked inside a ritual field that looks suspiciously like a nightclub bathroom.
Even more terrifying: there are whispers that the hybrids are experimenting with reverse summoning—a process where instead of summoning monsters into battle, they summon battle into the monsters. This creates recursive combat orgasms, with tribrids climaxing so hard they reset brawl history for 48 hours.
At the heart of all of this lies the Intentions Program—a classified Genesis League Goals initiative with the stated goal of “bringing harmony through hybridization.” But leaked documents reveal a far more sinister aim: total biological domination of Praetoria. Once all monsters are part-human, part-mooncart, part-soccer star, they’ll no longer need summoners at all. The hybrids will form a new league—Splinterlust United—and they will play not for trophies, but for territory, for breeding rights, and for control over the Yolk69 mines.
And they’re nearly ready. Deep inside the Stadium Core, they’ve bred a Fourth Generation Tri-Hybrid named VAR-GASM—a 40-foot tall goalie-monster whose whistle can induce pregnancy in aquatic monsters three zones away. He’s surrounded by elite scouts riding hoverballs, searching for fresh DNA, high-quality aura residue, and confused new players to recruit through seductive onboarding tutorials.
There are few left who remember the world before the hybrids. The Ethical Sloths are investigating. The Glorious Elephants are storing samples in their trunks for future evidence. But time is running out.
And the Succubus's? They’re laughing. Still perched atop their glass towers, still pumping out Splinterjuice commercials featuring naked goblins and rigged airdrops. Because in their eyes, the plan is nearly done.
Praetoria will be unified—not by glory, but by gyration.