Lance's Legion

Teachings of the Warrior Ethos (II)
My Unbreakable Vision
Part 2

I open them, and I see myself staring at a cold cinderblock fortified room. My only window is an iron-wrought cage in the top of my cell.
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When I awoke, I could only whispered to myself, “The Gods have spoken.” Since that day I knew that this was a vision of my conquest, a promise that could only be fulfilled if I first overcame my trials (the allegory of the prison). It has kept me going ever since.

Construct your myths and reinforce the vision you have of yourself. It will be the very thing that will take you to the tallest of peaks and the serenest of visages.

Lance

Teachings of the Warrior Ethos (II)
My Unbreakable Vision
Part 1

I once had a divine vision in my sleep, and this vision was so powerful I had to write it down when I woke up. I keep this as part of my inner myth, close to my heart, to guide me when the road is unsure and difficult.

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I never thought Apollo would bless me with such a splendid augury of a clear day on this most auspicious occasion. On this day, I am a god.
Cleanly dressed in my black turtle neck, pressed Kashmir black trench coat (a personal gift from my favorite Shambala Raj, the Dalai Lama himself), wearing the brown leather boots of my distant cowboy ancestor, I stand straddled over the commander’s M1A2 Abrams 120mm tube, serenely fixated on my triumphal high throne: The American Capitol (or its ruins).

Flanked by thronging crowds, who themselves were only kept in check by my Kingfish militia men, grizzled veterans of the great bush wars of the California passes, I am strewn with garlands and roses. Offerings, no doubt, to please me to allow their fallen sons and daughters entrance to the Transcendental Kingdom of Agartha. Today, however, I cannot accept any newcomers aside from myself. I alone will mount the kingdom amongst the spectral stars.

Sushi is freely distributed to the plebs, at my personal expense. Seductive dancers, clad in translucent silk fabrics, reveal their womanly curves and feminine physical charms to the masses, secretly hoping to attract and bed the avatar of Vishnu on this night. For the priestesses of Artemis have long said, a child born from these majestic loins will go on to conquer time itself, and its lines will permanence eternity remaining preeminent in every yuga henceforth. Yet these sirens are nothing compared to my elite Tiger forces, the stoic and exalted column of my personal Lifeguard, in full battle dress. By them I am truly intoxicated.

Slowly, the procession inches towards the grand balcony of my throne. As I pass, the profligates that are spaced on lampposts, crucified for their pederasty, are immolated alive; but are only lit as I pass so that I may absorb the Tantric magic their impure souls contained so that I may rematerialize their inversion into my golden imperium. For this is the nadir of the Kali Yuga, and soon it will be the zenith of a new era.

I arrive at the ruined marble steps on the Capitoline hill where I am greeted by the Khans, Tsars, Caesars, and Dictators of the lost, but victorious, Aryan tribes of the world. Each dressed in beautiful furs, silks, and gold frilled surcoats. Next, I am greeted by the college of priests. Nodding their heads in approval and mutual understanding to each other, for the first time since the beginning of this cycle these Indo-European Brahmin spiritually bind themselves to me. As I ascend, my body begins to emit an increasingly more daring and warmer red glow.

Into the ruins I go, obscuring my form to the rest of the world. That is all except my courtesan, who is busy collecting my clothes that I have eschewed, and the team of blonde nymphs who are busily lathering my body in coconut holy oil for my anointment. I can see the very mortal fear and respect they hold for me in their eyes, for I am the All-father they never had.

Finally, before I ascend to my balcony, a helot comes out with perfect .05 gram lines of the best Andean marching powder arrayed on a gold laden mirror for my holy consumption, which I duly employ.

Ascending, I look out on the cheering masses. Their adulation and roar of approval fills the air. Only to be pierced with the rhythmic chants of my legions declaring, “Mars!” with the response “Exulti!”. I lift my arms, accepting Sol into my hearth, closing my eyes.

From the Scrolls (I)
Ronin of the Occident

It is not without precedent in the West that a nation throws out its Warrior Aristocracy. And you, my friends, are precisely those wayward sons. Like ungrateful toddlers, they throw you out, chastising you for being excellent and omnipotent. The absolute insolence of these Helots! But I am not here to teach you to confirm your antipathy, but instead I will show you how to view the world from the perspective of a dutiful knight without a Lord to answer to. A Ronin.

Coriolanus is the earliest Roman account of such a Ronin, who taught Rome for time eternal to revere her fighting men. According to myth, Coriolanus was exiled by the plebians for not showing proper “respect” in his address to the forum after his election to Consul. In his departure, he chastised the ungrateful wretches and sought Rome’s most prominent enemy at the time, the Volsci. Now it is an important fact to remember that this was back in the times when Rome was a mere city state, in a desperate bid to survive, and her arch enemy was the tribe over the hill (quite literally). Coriolanus was the only commander who successfully vanquished the Volsci time and again, keeping Romans safe at night. So, it was to the Romans’ horror that when the Volsci attacked again, it was Coriolanus who marched at the enemy host’s head. And he would have snuffed out the small candle that was Rome at the time had it not been for his wife, son, and mother who came out to the gates of Rome to shame Coriolanus into halting the assault. A shame he did not rightfully despoil those rats, but luckily the Romans learned the lesson all the same, cherish your betters.

So too does this story repeat itself into the future till the modern day. Alcibiades, Caesar, and Justinian are just a few names that come to mind which follow this same pattern. But in each of these great men’s lives they were thrown out from their homes and scorned by a crowd manipulated by corrupt elites. It was up to these men to take back their homes and save the people from the vipers which we call Oligarchs.

Which leads to my greater point. No one was created equal. Not in body, nor in mind, nor in spirit. In a society that acknowledges this natural hierarchy there exists a pyramid of precedence and power. The lowest include the common people (Proletariat), then ascending there is the merchant class (Bourgeoisie), and finally the warrior caste (Aristocracy).
As a leader of your nation, you cannot be emotionally upset at fickle treachery of the lower classes since they are not capable of morality just as the Warrior is; so too does it follow that you cannot expect them to be great without your active mentorship. Ultimately the guardianship, paternal benevolent rule, and moral guidance all flow downward from us. When our nation becomes disordered, it is our duty and sole ability to rectify it.
We are the only beings that truly live and have the agency to make the world as we see fit. Yukio Mishima knew this and affirmed that only the Warrior is the total human being, everyone else in society “exists” as a mere actuary of their function.

That is all to say this: being nice to your followers does not mean you are doing the good thing or the needed thing. Sometimes, whether your command is as big as a nation or as small as a fireteam, it is necessary to be constructively cruel to save your people from themselves.

Lance

Suggested Reading:
"The Lives of the Great Commanders" by Cornelius Nepos
"Politics" by Aristotle