Atleantis is the memory beneath all myth. A city built from tone, from ritual, from sound itself. Before the flood, before forgetting — there was a code of resonance that bound the world. This book is not fiction. It is a transmission. A broken hymn seeking those who remember the first chord. The pillars have cracked. The voice must return.
These are not pages — they are echoes. Atleantis sings before collapse, a resonance woven through sacred pillars and harmonic law. Obsidian and Fury burns after conquest, a blade passed through bloodlines, carved with memory. Together, they form a dual flame: one of remembrance, one of return. Crafted by Dante Del Toro — not to entertain, but to awaken.
Obsidian and Fury is not a novel — it is a blade. It tells the true war of the Mexica, not in ruins, but in spirit. It is a voice carved from obsidian — sharp, silent, and unwavering. This is the legacy of warriors who bled into stone, of memory that cannot be colonized. Every line strikes with fire. Every word remembers what history was told to forget.
"The blade cuts faster than ego can flex."
"Fear guards survival but imprisons the spirit."
"I'd rather stare at a candle in silence than be bathed in flickering artificial frequencies."