The king of chaos allows self-interested parties to extract what they want in exchange for his personal enrichment and the perception of power. This seems like freedom—no constraints, no dead wood. Finally, they say, ever more room to breathe.

Each transaction feels like victory, extraction proof of dominance, or perhaps proof that the old order is finally dying.

It’s not.

Extractors know the game is temporary. They strip-mine institutions, relationships, and trust itself.

Occasionally, something takes shape—a pattern, a plan, precedent, stable ground. Enlightenment. Such moments pass quickly, dissolved. The king prefers to remain chaos. It’s primordial. No discipline required. Nothing solidifies. Progress doesn’t materialize.

The king celebrates each deal, never recognizing—and never caring—whether he’s ruling a kingdom or presiding over its liquidation sale.

That which enables feels like control to him, like retributive justice to his followers, like a stage on fire to those who see clearly through the smoke.