Your hate is hollow, it breeds nothing, it festers and rots. It does not build, it does not heal, it does not matter. Love demands more than your narrow sight, it demands you bleed with the mother’s grief, choke with the addict’s hunger, hear the child’s muffled cries in a house that hates its own blood. To live without struggle is to live without truth,

The Making of the Seventy-Two And Yzotl, weary of ruin and ashes, sought to fashion a creation unstained by decay. He desired forms so flawless that none could deny his mastery, even should the world itself rot beneath his hand. Thus he wrought the Seventy-Two, shaping them from the marrow of mountains, polishing them with fire, and tempering them with silence.

In the first days, when the sky wept ash and the mountains groaned beneath the weight of sorrow, Yzotl rose from the womb of shadow. His hands were forged of iron, his heart hardened into stone, and no warmth of love nor spark of pity dwelt within him. Where he walked, silence followed, for even the winds feared to stir at his passing.