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We were all excited for the excursion and who wouldn’t be? A castle built to forge greatness, a place where history still breathes through stone. The moment we stepped in, hands reached for relics, eyes burned with desire. We were told to walk around and choose what we wanted. Some picked tags devices that could graft them into noble bloodlines, instant descendants of legends they never bled for. Others grabbed gold. Diamonds. Easy brilliance. I saw a cup. I asked who it belonged to. “Alexander the Great,” the woman replied. “It contains his blood and sweat real blood. Ancient.” My pulse rose. I didn’t want a name. I didn’t want borrowed ancestry. I wanted corruption. I wanted the blood to rewrite me. I lifted the cup and drank centuries. Bitter. Heavy. Alive. I wasn’t chasing his throne I was chasing his fire. His courage. His madness. His refusal to kneel before fate. Let the blood infect my DNA. So that even if I fail, my bloodline remembers how to rise. Let kingdoms tremble. Let my name echo into the abyss. I do not inherit greatness. I create legacy.