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There are places not meant to be spoken of.

They say beyond the edge of stars,
Beyond light’s last breath,
Where time forgets to tick
And God no longer watches—
There lies The Dark World.

Not a planet.
Not a shadow.
But a chamber carved in the ribs of the cosmos,
Where silence was born,
And screams are swallowed whole.

It is here,
At 33 minutes past the 33rd hour,
when no clock dares chime,
that the Initiation begins.
One must be summoned, not invited—
Chosen by the fracture in their soul
that no light can ever mend.

They come cloaked,
Faces erased,
Speaking not with tongues
But with memory and blood.

The price of entry?
Not gold.
Not bones.
But the truth you swore you’d never tell yourself.

You kneel before the Obsidian Mirror,
and it does not show your face—
but the monster you might become
if you were finally honest.

A voice like ash speaks:

“To see beyond, you must unsee all.
To rule your fate, you must die while living.
To wear the mark, you must bleed without wounds.”

Then the ritual begins.
Each breath feels stolen.
Each second folds eternity inside it.

They place the Mark of 33:33
Between your dreams and your doubt.
And once you wear it—
You no longer exist in the eyes of the world,
Only in the eyes of the unseen.

You are now one of them.
Not alive. Not dead.
But aware.

You will walk among men,
But never be one again.
You will feel everything,
But show nothing.
And when you speak,
The stars will shiver.

For you have seen
The architecture of pain,
The blueprint of madness,
The holy pattern hidden in chaos.

You have eaten the fruit of fear,
And found wisdom inside its rot.

You are the Dark World.
You are the silence between screams.
You are the riddle that prays for no answer.

And when they ask who you are—
You’ll smile,
And say:

“I forgot… at 33:33.”
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