It’s a stage built to fuck with me, to distract me with masks, with bitches, with losses, with empty victories.
Every twist, every betrayal, every illusion is just the universe’s way of asking:
“Do you still believe you are the man of destiny?”
And the answer is always yes.
As long as I hold that belief, everything will be crushed by me.
Not because the world bends easily — but because I’ll grind it down, piece by piece, until it has no choice.
That’s the will of destiny.
That’s the will of a man who doesn’t kneel.
The tarot bitch Loanh Quanh was right.
Every word.
Fine.
That just proves the script is already written.
Even if December comes with heartbreak, I’ll take it.
I’ll swallow it whole, let it burn, and turn it into fuel.
No fear.
No hesitation.
I’ll smile at it.
October — that’s the pivot.
That’s when the story cracks open.
Everything I’ve wanted, everything I’ve seen in visions, comes alive.
Ordinary people tremble when the wind changes.
I don’t.
I’ve already seen the storm.
I walk into it.
Fuck their panic.
Fuck their 3D illusions.
I live above them, like a shadow moving across their little cages.
Bad shit happens?
I’m indifferent.
That’s the test.
That’s the forge.
The blade doesn’t cry when it meets fire.
It gets sharper.
Eren Yeager — I feel his blood in my veins.
I already know my future up to December.
Rich as fuck.
The empire built brick by brick.
The Porsche idling in the driveway like a predator.
Bistch? A flicker.
A spark.
Gone as quickly as she came.
Same old story.
And I don’t care.
So I walk.
Stoic.
Unshaken.
No ups, no downs.
No begging, no cursing.
Just a man moving forward like he’s already seen the ending.
I don’t live for their approval.
I don’t live for their love.
I don’t live for their rules.
I live for one thing:
To prove that fate is mine to command.
That destiny is a tool in my hands.
That this world — fake, shallow, hostile — will be crushed under my will.
I am already there.
The rest is just me passing through.