I had wandered farther than I ever meant to, drawn not by will, but by something older—something that hummed beneath the bones of the earth.

There, at the edge of the world, I found it.

A storm unlike any in memory or map, seething with power too vast for names. The sea rose like a living fortress, its waves clawing at the sky, its voice louder than thunder and older than prayer. The lighthouse, crimson and solemn, stood defiantly upon the rock, swallowed in foam and wrath, a sentinel from a forgotten war between water and flame.

And in that violence, I saw it—clearly, impossibly.

A shape burned into the surge. Not carved by chance. Not born of weather.

A sigil.

Four golden slashes forming a cross within the chaos. The Binance mark—a symbol of code and coin, now etched into the anatomy of the storm like a divine watermark.

It did not belong here.
And yet, it belonged more truly than I did.

Was it warning? Was it calling?
Was this flood sent to cleanse the world of lies, or baptize it in new ones?

I felt no fear—only awe. That terrible, sacred kind of awe that leaves a man breathless and weightless, as if his soul has stepped out of his body to kneel.

The waves moved like prophecy. The air was thick with decision. And in that moment, I understood:

This wasn’t weather.
It was judgment.
And I was allowed to watch.

Crypto is everywhere.

Crypto ubique est.