Chronicles Of The Smoke Nation

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At the continent’s edge lies the Smoke Nation. Mountains wear armor; rivers coil like chains; streets cut like blades, towers pierce the sky. Air is trained, silent, awaiting unseen orders.

Here, order is pressure—seeping from skull to bone, from blood to dream. Children are shaped like raw materials: first words command obedience, first gestures honor, first dreams envision enemies everywhere. They move straight, speak softly, never question, for the world has a script.

Schools mold existence, not knowledge; answers are singular, expressions censored. Police do not guard but regulate emotion, shields raised not for bullets but for whispers. Words are weapons; victims speak gratitude for blows. Every layer of society passes down the weight of control, a pyramid pressing ever downward.

Violence needs no hand, only compliance. Education is not enlightenment, only discipline. The state is not parent, but god. And the horror is that it all feels natural, like smoke curling silently through the streets.

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