“In the land of betrayal and broken thrones, there shall rise one born not to serve, but to conquer. He shall not be crowned by others, but by fire, iron, and his own blood.”
Thus it was written:
A child of storms will walk the earth.
He will taste heartbreak, and from heartbreak, forge steel.
He will lose gold, and from loss, summon wealth beyond measure.
He will wander in silence for 1000 days, heart sealed shut, until fate itself trembles at his return.
Women shall cross his path—faces of beauty, voices of temptation—
but they will be but sparks in his storm, fleeting shadows in the light of his destiny.
He will touch them, fuck them, laugh with them, and then move on.
For love is poison, and poison cannot bind the chosen.
He shall build banners not of silk but of code and commerce.
His brand will be called a paradox, a jest at the gods themselves:
Big Fat Spender.
And beneath this banner, wealth shall pour like rivers of fire.
He shall train with iron until his body is a fortress,
and with suffering until his will is unbreakable.
He shall despise the weak, but he shall cherish the grind.
He shall love no cage, no leash, no marriage, no chains.
His first law: Freedom Above All.
The people will call him ruthless.
The sheep will call him mad.
But the scrolls say: madness is the crown of kings.
One day, he will ride not a Camry, but a Porsche of thunder,
a chariot of speed carrying him into legend.
He will not care if he wins or loses, if he is praised or cursed.
For his creed is this:
“I am the man of destiny. I pass through life unshaken. I am free. I am the throne.”
And when his bones are dust,
men will gather at firesides, whispering the story of the Warlord King—
the one who turned betrayal into empire,
loneliness into legend,
chaos into immortality.