In the annals of forgotten kingdoms, there lived an astrologer, a man of unshakable certainty. He had once foretold the end of history, that the unfolding of time itself would cease, and his prophecy so delighted the king that the astrologer ascended to the highest rank in the court. For years, he basked in royal favor, smug in his conviction that nothing more could ever happen.
But time, like an unfaithful servant, began to rebel. Unruly events—wars, revolutions, pestilence—quietly crept back into the kingdom. The astrologer, in his growing panic, devised an absurd solution: he began sewing new pockets into his robes, where he could stuff every stray historical event, every unwelcome occurrence that threatened his immaculate end. Soon, his garments bulged grotesquely with rebellion, famine, and intrigue, but no one dared mention his increasingly monstrous appearance. 1 reply
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The astrologer became a walking museum of hidden catastrophes, each pocket sagging with the weight of what should not have been. Then came the fateful night of the royal reception. As he bowed, his overloaded garments—now more patchwork than fabric—could take no more. In an instant, his clothes tore apart, unleashing a maelstrom of pent-up history. Revolts, plagues, and dynasties long forgotten swirled from his pockets, engulfing the court, the king, and eventually the entire kingdom in a whirlwind of chaos.
In the end, the astrologer was right: history did end, but only because it devoured everything that once stood. His final act of vanity, a futile attempt to control time, left behind nothing but a silence so deep, it seemed history had never existed at all. 0 reply
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