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He was named for a crown before he knew what blood cost. They carved him into prophecy and raised him on velvet lies. They told him the sky had chosen him, and he believed it with closed eyes. But praise is just a sharpened blade and love is a borrowed throne. Every cheer became a chain, every ally overthrown. He learned the taste of adoration and it rotted in his mouth. What began as holy fire turned to famine, fear, and doubt. Where were the gods that marked his birth when power poisoned all his worth. What a cruel fate to wear the crown and watch the kingdom burning down. From golden light to tyrant’s name, from sacred oath to ruthless game. If heaven blessed him from above, why did it starve him of its love. Every scheme began as order, every law began as peace. But control is a quiet hunger and mercy dies by slow degrees. He crushed dissent in the name of fate and called betrayal divine decree. He built his empire out of fear and called it destiny. The throne grew heavy with the truth that kings are rarely free. The higher that he climbed in power, the less he dared to see. The sky stayed silent, cold and vast, no voice to save him from his past. What a cruel fate to wear the crown and watch the kingdom burning down. From chosen son to fallen beast, from holy man to faithless priest. If heaven blessed him from above, why did it starve him of its love. Was he born corrupt or forged that way by endless need to rule and stay. Did the crown consume his breath or did he kneel to living death. Did he lose the gods one day or push their trembling hands away. No divine hand, no saving flame. Just a man who loved his name. What a cruel fate to wear the crown and drown while never falling down. Feared by all and loved by none, a kingdom lost, a war half won. If heaven never speaks again, he rules alone in silent sin. The throne still stands. The king remains. But all that echoes are burning names.