The image of the “wolf in sheep’s clothing” (Matthew 7:15, Vulgate 1455) reads not just as a moral warning, but as a political statement in the context of Christian expansion. As Christianity's primary enemy was in the north, it inverted local symbols into oppositional types: Thor’s hammer became Christ’s nails; Odin’s wolves gave way to the shepherd’s sheep. Pagan memory was not erased, but rewritten. The surviving traditions, carried mainly by women within the domestic sphere, were branded satanic, not as a misunderstanding, but as a precise theological judgment. Satan (Hebrew śāṭān, “adversary”) named all resistance to divine order, and matrilineal wisdom, transmitted through story, ritual, and practice, was cast in that role. The witch trials were not random panics, but editorial purges, efforts to erase a rival symbolic order. Even the Eddas, published long after conversion (Prose Edda 1665, Poetic Edda 1787), likely represent reconstructed or invented myth. Their eschatology: Ragnarök, the apocalyptic final battle, and the survival of two humans, mirrors Revelation too neatly to be coincidence. These texts may have been created to frame paganism as a flawed echo of Christian truth, reinforcing the inevitability of the Church’s narrative. The wolf survived, but only in disguise. To remember it was to resist, and that memory was marked for destruction.

The publication history of the Bhagavad Gita in Europe follows a now-familiar sequence that undercuts the illusion of linear textual transmission. Instead of the Sanskrit original giving rise to faithful translations, we find that the first printed version was the 1785 English edition by Charles Wilkins, framed as a translation from a Sanskrit manuscript but with no printed Sanskrit counterpart. This English "translation" then inspired early French and German versions based solely on it, indicating a chain of re-translation rather than direct transmission. The Sanskrit text itself was not printed until 1808, suggesting that the English edition functioned as a kind of prototype: the "first draft" or beta version. Only later, with Schlegel's 1823 Latin-Sanskrit edition, does the “original” Sanskrit achieve canonical authority, allowing later scholars to retroactively assert philological legitimacy. This sequence: translation first, then the “original,” then critical editions, is precisely the pattern found in the rollout of other foundational texts like the Iliad, the Bible, and Plato. It is always the "translation-first" method. The implication is clear: sacred and classical texts in the modern imagination often emerge not from ancient oral traditions but from a reverse-engineered process of literary construction, tailored for European scholarly consumption, where authority is slowly built through layers of translation, retranslation, and retroactive philology.

To control the future, one must control the past, and in the modern age, this is no longer achieved through brute censorship, but through the curated release of allegedly ancient texts. Institutions like Oxford and the Israel Antiquities Authority maintain vast troves of uncatalogued papyri and scroll fragments, which they claim are remnants of lost civilizations. Because these archives are incomplete, unverifiable, and accessible only to vetted insiders, they offer a renewable source of narrative authority. At any time, a new “discovery” can be announced: a gospel, a prophecy, a clarification of doctrine - always framed as ancient, yet suspiciously relevant to contemporary politics or theology. This system functions like a time-release myth engine. The ancient past is kept in flux, malleable, unfinished. It is a sandbox for modern ideological updates. By framing each release as a scholarly breakthrough rather than a creative act, institutions maintain both credibility and control. The result is an invisible form of narrative governance: history is not revised, but strategically "uncovered", allowing for endless retroactive justification of present agendas. What appears as archaeology is often closer to theology in disguise, or more precisely: publishing with divine branding.

Socrates, as introduced in the early print canon, first appears not as Plato’s mystical martyr, but as a model of practical wisdom in Xenophon’s Oeconomicus (Latin, c. 1470s). This version focused on household management, civic virtue, and ethical discipline, and it predates the more famous Platonic Socrates, who enters via Ficino’s Latin version in 1484. Scholars typically interpret the name “Socrates” (from Greek sōzō, “to preserve,” and kratos, “power”) as ironic. Despite his name, he failed to save himself from execution or preserve Athens from moral collapse. But this reading presupposes a Platonic-first chronology. If we instead follow the actual order of the printed canon, the name Socrates originally aligned literally with Xenophon’s portrayal: a preserver of power, a wise steward of ethical order. Only after the Platonic dialogues emerged in Latin (1484) does his character pivot into a martyr-philosopher whose death reconfigures the meaning of his name. In the Greco-Roman-Biblical expanded universe, Socrates’ evolution from household sage to tragic visionary marks a slow character elevation across formats and languages. His name, initially straightforward and transparent, adhering to the naming principles in the Cratylus dialogue, acquires layers of irony only as the canon deepens.

Alexander the Great: Prophesied by oracles (and in the Book of Daniel) Born of a god (Zeus-Ammon) Received divine omens Worshipped during his lifetime Conquered the world And believed by Jews themselves to fulfill prophecy. If miracles disqualify history, throw out all ancient sources. If you tolerate miracles as literary color, then Jesus gets the same treatment. Apologists demand faith for Jesus, but dismiss miracles in others. Academics dismiss faith for Jesus, but accept miracle-filled Alexander. If you adopt the perspective that both figures are part of a unified literary universe, then you can either step into that world and realize both are divine figures, or you can step out of it and realize it's all fiction. Otherwise it is like a faithful believer arguing that Hulk isn't a real superhero but Spider-man is, or a "Marvel Historian" arguing that Captain America was real but didn't have super powers and spider-man is a constructed myth. Both are completely trapped inside the literary matrix desperately trying to make sense of it.

The name "Christopher Columbus" constitutes evidence of mythmaking when viewed through the lens of symbolic Christian language. The Latinized surname Columbus, meaning "dove," evokes key biblical and theological associations. The dove appears in Genesis as the bird that returns to Noah’s ark with an olive branch, signaling divine reconciliation with the world. It also functions as a symbol of the Holy Spirit in the New Testament, descending at Jesus’ baptism. The given name Christopher, from the Greek Christophoros, meaning "Christ-bearer," was traditionally associated with the legendary saint who carried Christ across a river. When combined, the full name presents a figure who bears Christ across water and arrives as a dove, suggestive of a divinely guided bringer of peace. The convergence of Christian imagery: Christ, dove, and water aligns closely with the Church’s ideological framing of his mission. The symbolic coherence of the name supports the argument that mythic narrative construction was at play.

In Cratylus, Plato argues that names are not random but reveal the essence of things, and that letters in names can be added, dropped, or rearranged for euphony. Applying this idea, it’s plausible that the name Socrates (Σωκράτης) is a shortened form of Sophia-krates—meaning “power of wisdom” , “rule of wisdom”, or maybe even "power of sophistry", "rule of sophistry." This reinterpretation fits Plato’s portrayal of Socrates perfectly: not as someone with political might, but as a man whose strength lay in his pursuit and embodiment of wisdom. Likewise, Solon (Σόλων), the famous Athenian lawgiver, may be a shortened form of Sophōn, meaning “the wise one.” While traditional etymologies link his name to words meaning “whole” or “safe,” these ideas often overlap with ancient concepts of wisdom and soundness. Given Solon’s role as a sage, reformer, and moral teacher, “the wise one” captures his identity far more directly, and is of the same archetype of Solomon. Both names, when reexamined through Plato’s own linguistic lens, seem to encode their deeper philosophical roles: Socrates as the strength of wisdom in action, and Solon as wisdom in law.