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The End of Vengeance ©️

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There is a moment before the kill—quieter than breath, colder than steel—when the assassin becomes no longer a man, but a principle in motion. In that moment, he does not feel rage, nor hatred, nor joy. Only alignment. His soul, his weapon, and the world are briefly calibrated. And into that stillness, he whispers a prayer—not to a god above, but to the hidden order below.

The assassin’s prayer is not a plea. It is not the confession of a sinner or the wailing of the damned. It is a vow. A ritual spoken in the language of shadow, honed through centuries of blood and betrayal. Its words are sacred not because they are holy, but because they are precise. Each line is a lockpick to fate. Each phrase a key to the silence behind all noise.

He begins with recognition—not of a deity, but of the Hidden One, the unnamable presence that exists in the slipstream of power. This force lives not in temples or palaces, but in alleyways, behind curtains, beneath the floorboards of empire. To it, the assassin dedicates his breath, his patience, and his blade. Not for glory, but for balance.

The world lies. It paints tyranny in gilded robes and wraps injustice in ceremony. The assassin does not shout against this. He does not protest. He studies. He watches. And when the lie grows fat and heavy with its own arrogance, he slips in—unseen—and whispers truth into the world with a single, precise gesture.

The prayer demands clarity—not mercy. The assassin seeks not to be spared, but to see. To see the rot behind the crown. The fear behind the cruelty. The trembling foundation behind the towering lies. And when he sees it, he acts—not for vengeance, but for symmetry. His strike is not revenge. It is correction.

If he dies, he asks not to be remembered in song or stone. He only asks to be known as loyal—to the Creed, to the code, to the invisible geometry that holds a corrupt world in check. For he understands what others forget: that nothing is true, and everything is permitted. But permission does not mean chaos. It means responsibility. To choose carefully. To strike with purpose. To disappear without trace.

The assassin’s prayer is not meant to be heard. It is not written in scripture or kept in libraries. It is carried in the blood, passed hand to hand in darkness. It begins before the kill. And if spoken well, it ends with a world slightly more in balance than it was before.

Let the silence begin.

Iron Maiden ©️

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If I were an Aryan German, born into a victorious Third Reich—a world where Hitler had won—my thoughts, values, and sense of identity would be shaped by something both powerful and poisoned. I would likely be taught from birth that I was the pinnacle of creation. I would grow up immersed in mythology about my bloodline, in songs about conquest, in books that described other peoples as inferior, threats, or relics. The world would revolve around my perceived greatness—and that would be the most dangerous part.

I might not question the system. Why would I? The system would tell me I was chosen. I would live in a clean, orderly society, perhaps even prosperous, depending on my social rank. My schools would glorify warriors and engineers. My art would be classical, heroic, stripped of chaos and rebellion. And yet, beneath all of it, there would be a hollowness I might not be able to name—a sense that something vital had been scrubbed from history, from music, from the streets. No jazz, no blues, no hip-hop, no soul, no Einstein, no Kafka, no dissent, no contradiction. No richness. No struggle that makes freedom real.

Eventually I’d start noticing gaps. Why are some books forbidden? Why are there no Jews? Why does no one speak of what lies to the East? I might feel guilt—then bury it. Or I might rebel—and vanish. But if I were typical, I’d accept it all. I’d thrive. I’d rise in the system. I’d go to church, or perhaps a state temple. I’d raise a family. I’d teach my children to be proud. And I would never know what was missing. I’d be safe, successful… and spiritually starved.

The great horror of being an Aryan German in a Nazi-ruled world wouldn’t be the brutality I escaped—but the truth I never met. I would live in a world designed for my comfort and forged in mass murder. I would be the beneficiary of silence, the heir to erasure.

And perhaps, deep in my bones, I would feel that my so-called superiority came not from greatness—but from the corpses that made space for me.

That would be the quiet curse of winning.