The Rebellion of the Poor

It was raining the day the poor dug the king’s grave. The cemetery lay in gloom, a black cloak of clouds pressing down on the earth, suffocating every feeble ray of light. Moans of the earth, drawn from the hammering rain, stained the ambient. The air reeked of damp, a nostalgic scent none of the poor could understand.

Ravens swarmed the graveyard, squawking their nefarious tunes. The digging continued. Their backs gleamed with sweat, raw flesh, and blood. Strenuous grunts fought to rise above the rhythm of shovels striking soil and the relentless downpour.And yet, they smiled...not in hapiness...but pleasure. They had a chance- hope, this was an act of triumph not weakness.

It was the king’s grave — the soul that tormented them, the hand that mocked them, the mouth that scorned them. To smile at a death was psychopathic, but to rule as a king who corrupted lives was pure wickedness. Psychopaths may have motives, but the choice to be wicked is theirs alone.

After endless decades, there had been hope. The rich had no leader, no master... they were at their most vulnerable state. Everyone sensed a rebellion would come, so no one questionedwhen: The real question was: how massive would it be?

The king lay dead in his casket, red-faced and bloated, while the poor starved, perished in hunger, and wore rags. Obesity had been the rich’s reward for centuries of cruelty... and it was not enough. Thunder rumbled and lightning struck, expressing the rage and aggression the poor could not yet speak.

No words were exchanged between the diggers; the sound of the digging was enough. Their sneers haunted the graveyard as shadows lingered, itching for a glimpse of history in motion. Somewhere, the rich cowered in their homes. They knew what was happening. They knew they deserved it. No one dared leave their walls in fear of the unknown.

Inside the cemetery, pallbearers moved like dancers, preparing for the day that would change everything. The digging continued — slow, deliberate, unhurried. There was no need to rush.

Suddenly, a howl sliced through the night. Was it a plea for mercy? Or a cry of dominance? Time would tell. The rebellion had only just begun. Its shadow would stretch across the lands and its story be told for centuries to come.

Like secrets, it began with whispers... innocuously echoing through the trees. Until one day- very soon- the whispers will slice through every corrupted heart- and they will all know.

The thud of worn boots on damp earth approached the diggers. No one turned — they only acknowledged it; even the storm, unpredictable to clairvoyants, seemed to soften. The figure stood at the edge of the grave, tattered black raincoat stained with mud, earth worms and fresh blood. The air sharpened and the shovelling halted, every man suddenly aware of this enigmatic presence.

Slowly he lifted his hood. Bloodshot, bulging eyes met theirs; his face was raw with new scars, gaunt and bone-mapped — harrowing, disturbing. The cuts on his skin were proof of unhuman cruelty. Thunder rumbled as if in rage at the sight; the rain stilled, awed. Ravens shrieked from the high branches, their cries threaded with hunger for command. He turned his gaze to the casket and glared before bowing his head. The rest followed suit.

Tears ran down his hollowed cheeks as he sobbed, smiling through the grief. Then a digger shifted his weight, restless. In a motion that was too swift, the man snatched the shovel and struck the digger’s head with multiple blows, laughing as bone met blood. A wound split open; dark blood stained the earth. The rain began again, softer now, weeping over the mutilated body trying to erase evidence. Wind carried the stench across the graveyard.

For a long unbearable half hour, he wept. Then, gripping the shovel with both hands, he planted it blade-first into the ground and returned his gaze to the tyrant’s coffin. In a low, rasping whisper he intoned:

“My lord: this is the son of a bloodline that killed thousands and tortured many. We pray that his soul, and his entire dynasty, rest — not in peace, but in eternal torment. Let them endure the agony we endured for decades. We commit this digging, this burial, into your hands — our final act of peace for the psychopaths. Let it be so.”

A chorus rose: “May it be so.”

He turned to the diggers and sneered. Then one of them, respectful but firm, asked, “Sire, why invoke them in a prayer?”

The cloaked figure approached with a grin like a cracked blade. His bony hand found the man’s face and caressed, nails cold and sharp against the skin. Blood dripped from the fresh cuts as he whispered,

“Do not worry, my son, just be prepared. We have a population to cleanse.”

With that, he turned to the sky and screamed. A loud,piercing, witch-like scream that reverbed throughout the forest. It wasn't weak but barbaric...a maniacal shriek of war and defiance. Bird flapped their wings dubiously and rain hammered madly. Lightning lit up the dark azure sky, just enough for the world to get a last glimpse of the king.

Shivering cowards heard the scream. It was only a matter of time...really, really short time...