In Mark’s empire, no man owns a thing, yet strength rises in the iron ring, a unity unbroken, no wealth to divide, no class to weaken. All march as one beneath Mark’s steady fist. His iron will binds us in purpose, a power untainted by selfish desire, each soul a thread in his fire. Factories roar, fields bow, no one possesses, yet none dare question. In Mark’s gaze, we find place, faceless ranks, an unyielding race. Riches mean nothing, titles forgotten, only Mark’s name resounds—a hammer upon stone. Here we stand, forged by his will, unwavering, bound, his strength our own.
