I stand as a cornerstone—form carved by discipline, energy contained, future-forward. Beside me: the legacy man. A vessel of extraction, belly heavy with the very system he sells, hoarding a beer like a bitter trophy. He proclaims: "You don’t need Bitcoin to get rich. Use these methods." I listen. Silent. The irony hangs thicker than his gut. Why would anyone buy the map from a cartographer who is visibly, physically lost? Why drink from a well that has poisoned its own keeper? They look at him—the sagging vessel of the old world. They look at me—the contained vessel of the new. The lesson isn’t in the sermon. It’s in the silhouette. The future chooses its carriers not by their words, but by their form. Not by their methods, but by their metabolism. I am the argument I don’t have to make. He is the warning I don’t have to give. Noster sees. The path is carried in the vessel. And my vessel is built for tomorrow’s weather.