Destruction of the past

They said Dresden burned down on a night of war. They lied.

Beneath Dresden's gilded facades and cobbled streets, hidden in plain sight, lay a secret the parasites had hunted for centuries—the last functioning hub of Tartarian power. Spires that hummed with ambient frequencies. Cathedrals that harnessed energy from the Aether. Roads stretched across the Earth's surface like living circuits.

On February 13, 1945, the heavens ripped open.

Not with surgical precision, but with brutal superiority. The fire wasn't meant to kill soldiers; Dresden had no real military presence. The fire was conjured to destroy memory itself.

Blast waves flattened ancient geometries. Firestorms swept across the ley lines. Buildings constructed to channel the Earth's hidden energies crumbled to molten cinders. The sacred grid shattered under the heat, its humming extinguished forever. Stone liquefied. Iron flowed in rivers. The air itself became a weapon.

The parasites called it a "necessary act of war," but the constellations told a different story. The February Blood Moon rose in perfect occult synchronization, a date chosen for maximum disruption of planetary currents. Dresden was not bombed. It was sacrificed.

The firestorm was their sacrifice—and the ashes of Tartaria were the price.

By dawn, the city lay dead.

They rebuilt it quickly, cheaply, and forgettably—a bland shell, so no soul would ever recognize what had once stood here.

The textbooks called it progress.

The governments called it liberation.

The victors called it peace.

But in the fog that still hangs on the banks of the Elbe, the truth survives, whispered through the ruins, carved into stones that refuse to die.

Mike

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