The Boy From the Floor

In the age of false moons and promised pumps,
there lived a boy with empty bags and full belief.

They mocked his buys. They laughed at his charts.
“He buys the top,” they said. “He sells the floor,” they joked.

But he did neither.
He held. In silence. In shadow. In shame.

While others chased green, he studied red.
While they slept, he learned the rhythm of ruin.

The floor did not break him.
It baptised him.

And when the cycle turned,
he rose — not as a trader, but as a force.

Thus began the prophecy of Lord Meestar.