In a city run by blood and greed, survival is not a choice but a demand--one that calls for action forged in blood and iron. Yet, victory is the monarchs warning: War is the avenue of Death, a price of loss in exchange for victory.
Do you, Monarch, not hear the cries of your people? They wail in desperation, agonizing over their impoverished life and suffering.
They drown in irreparable grief, running to the streets to protest against the oppression that condemns and inundates them. The weight of injustice, the blatant prohibition of liberation etched in their fraying cries.
Monarch, retaliation is inevitable--born of your cruelty. You, Monarch, have neglected your people, silenced their mouths and even their lives. You have starved your people; left them to rot you produced. You have drained the vitality of your people, depleting their hope and deserved oxygen. Where is your heart! Where is your mercy! Wait, you have none.
Your people, who mourn, storm toward the lavish castle where you, Monarch, waste away in wealth. Your people approach you, hoping you heed their pleas. Atlas, they face you. Monarch, you sit upon the throne, adorned in silk garments with a crown made of gold that's embellished with rare gems. The crown sits unworthy upon your head. One by one your people kneel before you, begging for salvation. Yet, none is given. Instead, you force them back to the dead streets once more. Derision is you. You are soaked in corruption that cannot be unwritten or ignored anymore.
Your People have made a decision. The people have deemed you unworthy to rule them. The people condemn you as unworthy of the throne. What is to come is punitive! Usurpation is upon you.
It is your sin that is your crime, that you shall take sole responsibility and endure the actions of the people who will commit against you. Mutiny and retribution come to you. For the cries of the oppressed rise, reaching a crescendo under a constellation that shines no more. The tyranny that held them in chains for too long will meet a lost, as victory, sweet and palpable, is ours at last. Autonomy shall reign, cloaked in the eternal grab of peace. The city once governed by blood and greed--the Monarch-- will now witness an end in blood, for like your people you too shall know fear. You shall simmer in agony, living in a warped hell forever.
"Monarch, angel of death, your demise has come. Meet eternal slumber. The people take your power like a thief in the night. Your authority, gone-- relinquished. Blood for blood.
The cries of the oppressed have fallen silent, for victory is ours, but at what cost?
Apr 11
Apr 11, 2026 at 4:30 PM UTC
In a city run by blood and greed, survival is not a choice but a demand--one that calls for action forged in blood and iron. Yet, victory is the monarchs warning: War is the avenue of Death, a price of loss in exchange for victory.
Do you, Monarch, not hear the cries of your people? They wail in desperation, agonizing over their impoverished life and suffering.
They drown in irreparable grief, running to the streets to protest against the oppression that condemns and inundates them. The weight of injustice, the blatant prohibition of liberation etched in their fraying cries.
Monarch, retaliation is inevitable--born of your cruelty. You, Monarch, have neglected your people, silenced their mouths and even their lives. You have starved your people; left them to rot you produced. You have drained the vitality of your people, depleting their hope and deserved oxygen. Where is your heart! Where is your mercy! Wait, you have none.
Your people, who mourn, storm toward the lavish castle where you, Monarch, waste away in wealth. Your people approach you, hoping you heed their pleas. Atlas, they face you. Monarch, you sit upon the throne, adorned in silk garments with a crown made of gold that's embellished with rare gems. The crown sits unworthy upon your head. One by one your people kneel before you, begging for salvation. Yet, none is given. Instead, you force them back to the dead streets once more. Derision is you. You are soaked in corruption that cannot be unwritten or ignored anymore.
Your People have made a decision. The people have deemed you unworthy to rule them. The people condemn you as unworthy of the throne. What is to come is punitive! Usurpation is upon you.
It is your sin that is your crime, that you shall take sole responsibility and endure the actions of the people who will commit against you. Mutiny and retribution come to you. For the cries of the oppressed rise, reaching a crescendo under a constellation that shines no more. The tyranny that held them in chains for too long will meet a lost, as victory, sweet and palpable, is ours at last. Autonomy shall reign, cloaked in the eternal grab of peace. The city once governed by blood and greed--the Monarch-- will now witness an end in blood, for like your people you too shall know fear. You shall simmer in agony, living in a warped hell forever.
"Monarch, angel of death, your demise has come. Meet eternal slumber. The people take your power like a thief in the night. Your authority, gone-- relinquished. Blood for blood.
The cries of the oppressed have fallen silent, for victory is ours, but at what cost?
This is the moral indictment of the monarch.
The city is not governed by law or compassion, but violence and force. Survival itself has been weaponized. Peace is no longer viable. Because of this, the system has forced people to act. War has not been chosen, but coerced. Ruler is parasite. The rulers forfeit legitimacy. Moral appeal is exhausted. The people say, "We declare the system is void."
Humans are shaped as much by what they survive as by what they do to survive.
