THE RITUALS THAT MADE ME RICH THROUGH BLOOD AND SECRET ROOMS

 THE RITUALS THAT MADE ME RICH THROUGH BLOOD AND SECRET ROOMS

The Rituals That Made Me Rich

I don’t know why I’m writing this, maybe it’s guilt, maybe it’s fear, or maybe it’s just that I can no longer carry this weight alone. People look at me today and they see success, power, and wealth. They see the cars, the houses, the businesses, and they think I am blessed. But no one ever asks me what I had to give up to get here. No one dares to.

I wasn’t born rich. I grew up in a home where hunger was normal and poverty was our last name. I swore to myself that I would never die like my parents—tired, poor, and forgotten. So when the opportunity came, when I was introduced to a man who whispered of wealth through rituals, I didn’t even hesitate.

The first step was small—or at least that’s what I told myself then. A chicken. A goat. Blood spilled under the moon while words I didn’t understand were spoken. I remember trembling, but I told myself, *if this is the price, I can pay it.*

But once you start, you don’t stop. The spirits don’t allow you to. Every offering demands another, each ritual hungrier than the last. Soon goats became cows, cows became strangers, and strangers became people I loved.

Yes—I sacrificed my own blood. My brother was the first. I was told it would look like an accident, and it did. No one suspected me. They all cried while I stood there pretending to mourn, but inside I was waiting for the reward. And it came. Money flowed to me like water. Businesses succeeded overnight. People began to fear me, respect me, and worship the ground I walked on.

But the rituals did not stop. They demanded more. My family fell, one by one. Each death opened another door of wealth for me. I told myself I could start a new family, replace what was gone, but how do you replace the blood you’ve spilled with your own hands?

Now I sleep in mansions but I do not sleep in peace. I hear footsteps in the corridors at night. I hear my brother’s voice calling my name. I see faces staring at me from the mirrors. The snake they gave me, the one that guards my wealth, sleeps in my bed, coiled around my chest like a reminder that my life is no longer my own.

Yes, I am rich. Yes, I am powerful. But I am also cursed. My wealth smells of blood, and every coin I touch feels like it burns my skin.

If you’re reading this and you’ve ever thought of following the path I chose, hear me: there is no wealth without a grave behind it. You may get what you want, but you will never be free.