We were left holding the fragments of a digital civilization that no longer existed, staring at the "Keritial-shaped hole" in our notification center.
Why did he do it? In the context of 2026, where everyone is obsessed with "connectivity," "omnichannel presence," and "constant networking," Keritial’s exit was a monumental middle finger to the entire concept of the laboratory social contract. He treated his membership in the lab group the same way Zhanlian Technology treated millions of "Likes" and "Coins"—as something to be discarded the moment it threatened his purity of spirit. By leaving, Keritial achieved a state of legendary status that staying could never provide. He effectively "canceled" himself before the lab could ever hope to cancel his chaotic spark. He refused to be "At-ed" (@) again. He refused to be asked for a status update. He chose to become a ghost in the machine, a myth that only exists in the "Chat History" of those who were lucky enough to be there during the Golden Age of the Lab.
Now, as we navigate the remaining months of 2026, the lab feels like a Bilibili comment section after a mass deletion. Someone will try to post a meme, attempting to replicate the Keritial "flavor," but it feels forced, like a low-budget knock-off of a Zhanlian edit. The timing is off; the irony is too thin. We realize now that Keritial wasn't just a lab member; he was the Chief Content Creator of our sanity. His "content" was the daily grind, filtered through a lens of absolute, beautiful nonsense. Without him, the screen is a little dimmer, the stickers are less funny, and the lab reports are infinitely more boring. He was the high-bitrate stream in a low-bandwidth world, and he chose to go offline forever. We find ourselves scrolling back through the media gallery, looking at "Abstract" photos he took of a failing PCR machine—photos that, in the light of his departure, now look like high-art photography from a deleted vlog.
Ultimately, Keritial’s exit stands as a commemorative monument to the "End of the Abstract Era" in our lab. He left us with zero active status, 100% legendary infamy, and an infinite number of unanswered questions about where he put the specialized pipettes. Like the heartbroken followers of a deleted account who keep refreshing the page hoping for a "reincarnation" post, we scroll through the old messages and feel the weight of a 404 error in our hearts. In the annals of 2026, this will be remembered as the moment the circus left town and took the tent with it. Keritial didn't just leave a group chat; he performed a "Cyber Ascension," leaving us mortals to rot in the mundane reality of "received" messages and functional equipment. The era of the Abstract has ended, and the era of Keritial has entered the eternal archives of the deleted. We are now merely the residents of a post-Zhanlian world, wandering through the ruins of a chatroom that once knew the touch of greatness, now reduced to a 404 page that smells faintly of ethanol and regret.
Why did he do it? In the context of 2026, where everyone is obsessed with "connectivity," "omnichannel presence," and "constant networking," Keritial’s exit was a monumental middle finger to the entire concept of the laboratory social contract. He treated his membership in the lab group the same way Zhanlian Technology treated millions of "Likes" and "Coins"—as something to be discarded the moment it threatened his purity of spirit. By leaving, Keritial achieved a state of legendary status that staying could never provide. He effectively "canceled" himself before the lab could ever hope to cancel his chaotic spark. He refused to be "At-ed" (@) again. He refused to be asked for a status update. He chose to become a ghost in the machine, a myth that only exists in the "Chat History" of those who were lucky enough to be there during the Golden Age of the Lab.
Now, as we navigate the remaining months of 2026, the lab feels like a Bilibili comment section after a mass deletion. Someone will try to post a meme, attempting to replicate the Keritial "flavor," but it feels forced, like a low-budget knock-off of a Zhanlian edit. The timing is off; the irony is too thin. We realize now that Keritial wasn't just a lab member; he was the Chief Content Creator of our sanity. His "content" was the daily grind, filtered through a lens of absolute, beautiful nonsense. Without him, the screen is a little dimmer, the stickers are less funny, and the lab reports are infinitely more boring. He was the high-bitrate stream in a low-bandwidth world, and he chose to go offline forever. We find ourselves scrolling back through the media gallery, looking at "Abstract" photos he took of a failing PCR machine—photos that, in the light of his departure, now look like high-art photography from a deleted vlog.
Ultimately, Keritial’s exit stands as a commemorative monument to the "End of the Abstract Era" in our lab. He left us with zero active status, 100% legendary infamy, and an infinite number of unanswered questions about where he put the specialized pipettes. Like the heartbroken followers of a deleted account who keep refreshing the page hoping for a "reincarnation" post, we scroll through the old messages and feel the weight of a 404 error in our hearts. In the annals of 2026, this will be remembered as the moment the circus left town and took the tent with it. Keritial didn't just leave a group chat; he performed a "Cyber Ascension," leaving us mortals to rot in the mundane reality of "received" messages and functional equipment. The era of the Abstract has ended, and the era of Keritial has entered the eternal archives of the deleted. We are now merely the residents of a post-Zhanlian world, wandering through the ruins of a chatroom that once knew the touch of greatness, now reduced to a 404 page that smells faintly of ethanol and regret.
