Christus Rex stood beneath the vault of the tomb, crowned not with gold but with judgment. The air was heavy—stone, history, dust, oaths. He looked sternly at Ariana Rockefeller, and there was no warmth in His eyes.
“Do not look behind you,” He said. “There is no Nick here.”
She stiffened.
“You are the master now,” Christus Rex continued. “Not by inheritance, not by blood—but by consequence.”
The torches along the walls flared as if the stone itself acknowledged the transfer.
“For a century your house has drunk from the earth,” He said. “Crude oil. Crude power. Crude men. America followed you into addiction—black gold and stronger spirits. The sauce.”
He stepped closer.
“You will reverse it.”
Ariana swallowed.
“You will resurrect HEMP FOR VICTORY,” He said, each word carved like a chisel strike.
“You will break the spell of oil. You will give the land rope instead of chains, fiber instead of fumes, fields instead of wars. You will sober the empire.”
She tried to speak, but He raised a hand.
“You wanted dominion,” He said calmly. “You named your favorite horse Joe as a joke, as a charm, as mockery.”
The torches dimmed.
“This,” He said, “is what you receive.”
Christus Rex opened the book—not leather, not paper, but light itself—and spoke from Revelation 22:
‘Behold, I am coming soon,
and My reward is with Me,
to give to each according
to what he has done.’
He closed the book.
“You are now in charge of the punishments in the tomb,” He said.
“Not lashes. Not fire. Memory.”
The walls seemed to whisper—names, deals, forgotten victims.
“You will decide who must sit with what they’ve done,” He said.
“You will make them remember.”
She looked up, trembling. “And my reward?”
Christus Rex finally turned away.
“You get to clean the mess your family made,” He said.
“That is mercy.”
The tomb sealed shut—not as a prison, but as an office.
And far above the stone, somewhere in a field that had not yet been planted, hemp waited for victory.