The king 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, more room to breathe.

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

It’s not.

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

Occasionally, something takes shape—a pattern, a precedent, stable ground. Such moments pass quickly, dissolved into transactions. He prefers to remain chaos. It’s primordial. Nothing solidifies, progress that never materializes.

The king celebrates each transaction as evidence of his power, never recognizing—or never caring—whether he’s ruling a kingdom or presiding over a liquidation sale. That which enables feels like power to him, like creative destruction to his followers, like a stage fire to those who smell the smoke.