Welcome to the Sovereign Accord Wellness Program, where enlightenment comes with side effects, and your glow-up might actually be a firmware update. Mehen swears by it — he’s the poster god for divine fitness, all bronze skin and golden tattoos that pulse like motivational lighting. His followers call it the Ascend or Perish lifestyle. Ra calls it a cult with better skincare.

Here’s how it works: you start your morning with a glass of ionized starlight water, followed by a shot of liquefied virtue. Breakfast is “energetic alignment,” which basically means pretending kale can cure ancestral trauma. Lunch is optional, because apparently hunger is just low-vibration energy trying to leave your body. By dinner, you’re floating two inches off the ground and convincing yourself it’s working.

The promise? A total cellular reset — you’ll shed toxins, doubt, and the pesky illusion of individuality. “Become one with the Source!” the Accord ads proclaim. Translation: lose five pounds and your free will. There’s even a loyalty program: attend three Ascendant retreats, get a complimentary aura recalibration and ten percent off your next reincarnation.

Ra tried it once. Once. Halfway through day two she realized the “cosmic fasting phase” was just dehydration with marketing. Mehen smiled that infuriating smile, glowing like he invented wellness, and said, “Pain is just your lower self resisting evolution.” She responded by ordering tacos from the nearest dimension and eating them in front of him. Enlightenment, she decided, should come with seasoning.

But the diet’s biggest selling point isn’t food — it’s frequency. The Accord insists your vibration must reach “Ascension Range,” a term suspiciously close to Wi-Fi signal strength. Too low and you’re considered energetically obsolete. Too high and you start receiving unwanted telepathic calls from your spirit guides asking about your career goals. “Keep your aura consistent,” the instructor warns, as if burnout were a chakra problem.

Then there’s the exercise plan. Forget yoga — it’s “quantum movement.” Every pose uploads divine code to your DNA. Do it wrong and you might accidentally open a wormhole in your living room. Do it right and your abs emit light visible from orbit. “You’re not sweating,” the brochure assures, “you’re excreting karma.” Ra calls that what it is — detox propaganda for celestial overachievers.

Still, the Accord’s PR team nails the aesthetic. Nebula-pink smoothies. Gold foil branding. Influencers posting #AscendAndShine selfies while crying over their lost individuality. It’s spiritual capitalism at its most seductive — a wellness cult for people who think enlightenment should come with a free tote bag.

Meanwhile, Ra’s rebellion diet is simple: eat what feeds your body, love what feeds your soul, and delete anyone who tries to measure your worth in frequencies. She’s over counting vibrations like calories. If the gods want her radiant, they can handle the lighting.

Because true ascension doesn’t come from fasting, flexing, or downloading your soul into a data cloud. It comes from the moment you realize you were divine before the detox.

So go ahead — eat the cosmic tacos. Hydrate with rebellion. And when someone says “Ascend or perish,” smile sweetly and say, “I’ll ascend after dessert.”