There exists a breed of men, faceless and empty, who neither build nor create, yet they lurk in the shadows, waiting to feast on the ruins of those greater than them. These are the beggars of fate.. haters... who possess nothing but their own misery, and their only currency is jealousy. They whisper lies, sow discord, and gather in packs like starving wolves, hoping to sink their teeth into the flesh of those who rise above them. But their curse is eternal: for every trap they set, they fall into it; for every name they tarnish, their own rots first; for every lie they spread, the truth hunts them down. They think they wound you, but all they do is sharpen your armor. They believe they can break you, yet all they do is forge you into something they can never defeat. A wise man does not silence his haters—he lets them speak, so they may curse themselves. He does not fear their numbers—he lets them gather, so they may burn together. The fool engages his haters, but the master manipulates them, feeding them enough rope to hang themselves. So let them hate. Let them conspire. Let them gnash their teeth and poison their tongues. Their fate is already sealed, for hatred is the chain that binds only the weak, and the fire that consumes only the foolish. This is the law of Pinnocent: Your enemies are not your downfall—they are the architects of their own destruction. Watch them destroy themselves while you rise, untouchable.