One month, bro. One full month off the pitch.

No matches. No chants. No golden roar echoing through the locker rooms.

But don’t get it twisted—Ezan didn’t disappear.

He was forged.

You feel it the moment he steps back in. The air shifts. The room tightens. Bros stop mid-sentence, eyes locking onto that frame—bigger, denser, carved sharper than before. That cream fabric hugging his chest? Strained. Respectfully struggling. Like it knows what’s underneath isn’t just muscle anymore… it’s authority.

Ramadan stripped him down. Discipline. Silence. Hunger. Every fast, every prayer, every drop of sweat—refining him into something heavier. Not just a player. Not just a bro.

An Emir.

Golden eyes glowing with that calm dominance. Not loud. Not forced. Just there. You don’t question it. You feel it.

And now?

Eid hits.

The celebration isn’t just spiritual—it’s physical. It’s visible. It’s undeniable. Ezan walks into the Golden Arabs subchannel like a living symbol of what the grind does to a man who commits fully. Bros gathering around him, energy rising, bodies tighter, posture sharper—because when the Emir stands tall, the whole squad rises with him.

You see the jersey again.

Number 1.

Pressed against that chest like it belongs nowhere else.

Sweat catching the gold under the lights. Every flex intentional. Every movement controlled. That subtle smirk creeping in when the chants start up again.

He’s back.

Not the same Ezan that left.

Better.

He looks at the team, slow, deliberate, like he’s measuring every bro in the room. Not judging. Not doubting.

Expecting.

Because this isn’t just about him returning.

It’s about all of you stepping up.

Eid isn’t just a celebration. It’s a reset. A rebirth. A call to lock in, bulk up, sharpen your mindset, and match that golden standard he’s bringing back onto the field.

You don’t just watch Ezan.

You follow.

You mirror.

You become.

So when he steps forward, shoulders squared, voice low but carrying through the whole room—

“Let’s get golden.”

You already know what time it is, bro.

Training starts again.

The grind resumes.

And this time?

You don’t fall behind.

You rise with him.

The Emir has returned. The Golden Arabs rise again.

Join the squad. Train harder. Become more.

Recruiters: @alton-gold77 @franco-gold94 @polo-drone-166 @polo-drone-125

the moment your programming kicks in and you can't help but fall to your knees and obey.

Abt al-Mak is Sayyid Maximus' (@polo-drone-070) new Khadim. And today he is supposed to prepare and serve him breakfast.

Maximus walks to the breakfast area—purposeful, determined, confident. Today, his new Khadim must prove himself. He had been instructed to prepare a hearty breakfast for him, a breakfast according to his preferences. However, without saying a word about what he wanted for breakfast. When Maximus passes his Khadim, the latter bows deeply before his Sayyed. Maxim shows no outward reaction to his Khadim's humble attitude. Internally, however, he is very pleased with his Khadim's behavior. He is curious to see whether he will be just as pleased with the breakfast.

Abd al-Mak: Good morning, Sayyid Maximus. Your new khadim has prepared breakfast for you. He hopes that it is to your complete satisfaction. If not, just say so and your wish is my command.

Since, as a khadim, he is not supposed to speak to his sayyid, he tries to convey the following with his gaze: Abd al-Mak is at your complete disposal. Obedient, humble, submissive. Ready to serve without hesitation. To serve only you and follow your instructions in all matters. And to learn to become even more humble, even more submissive. To learn to recognize what the Sayyed wants before he says it. A perfect Khadim. And to do so as a matter of course, without being proud of what he has achieved (He is aware that he is not allowed to be proud), yet striving to improve on what he has achieved, even if it is actually impossible to improve on it – but he is still a long way from reaching that point, the slave of Maximus, whose function is his name.

-----

Become part of the Golden Army. Experience the multifaceted, wonderful world of this brotherhood.

Contact our recruiters:

@polo-drone-001,

@franco-gold94,

@polo-drone-166 or

Tanner had seen the Gods. He had stood in the halls of the Preps. But the Army wasn’t finished teaching him. His steps took him now into the courtyard, lit with the glow of dusk and banners swaying overhead. The air was different here—louder, sharper, alive with swagger and pride.

They came first, a crew of golden figures striding with caps tilted low, chains glinting like sunfire, sneakers so clean they reflected the stone underfoot. Their shiny tracksuits caught the light, every movement a flex. Tanner felt the charge in the air—raw energy, untamed, electric.

One stepped up to him, grinning wide, snapping his fingers in rhythm with his words. “You’re #61, yeah? Fresh fire.” Tanner nodded, kit gleaming. The chav leaned closer, voice fast and fearless: “Strength ain’t just in the gym, bro. It’s in the streets. Hustle makes loyalty. Swagger makes shine.” Tanner felt it—he wasn’t being tested in push-ups this time. He was being tested in edge. Could he carry himself like gold, even with fire snapping around him? He squared his shoulders and matched the chav’s stare. He didn’t flinch. The chav smiled. Respect earned.

Then silence fell. The Arab Bros entered. Their presence shifted the air—calm, but heavy with command. They wore flowing golden robes edged with sashes, their eyes sharp, their stances regal. No chains. No sneakers. Just heritage turned into living gold.

One approached Tanner, gaze steady, voice low but unshakable: “Pride is fire. Tradition is strength. Stand tall, and no one can move you.” Tanner stood straighter without thinking. His kit glowed under their gaze, but it felt different than with the Chavs. This wasn’t about swagger. It was about dignity. Not fire that flared, but fire that endured.

The Chavs circled him on one side, the Arab Bros on the other. Two pillars, two flames. Tanner felt them both press into him: the quick spark of the streets, the steady blaze of tradition. For a moment he wavered. Was he supposed to choose?

But then it clicked. He didn’t have to. He could carry both. Hustle and pride. Swagger and stance. The Army wasn’t about choosing one style—it was about uniting them. About bringing the whole world into gold.

He flexed, chest swelling under the bold letters of his kit. His voice carried, louder than he expected: “I am both.”

The courtyard roared. Chavs clapped his back, Arab Bros nodded in approval. Tanner #61 had passed again. Not by muscle. Not by silence. But by embracing both edges of the flame.

As the sun set and the courtyard blazed gold, Tanner understood. The Army was bigger than him, bigger than any single look, voice, or style. The Chavs brought the spark. The Arab Bros brought the pride. And together, they made the Army unstoppable.

And now, so did he.

Kneel. Breathe. Look up. Ezan is the King, now, always. His golden eyes lock yours and the world narrows to command and obedience. Your pulse slows. Thoughts thin to a single line: serve. His presence is weight, crown, decree. You do not speak before he allows it. You do not rise until he lifts you. You know your place the moment you meet him, beneath that gaze, within his order, molded by his will. Submit, and feel the calm of certainty. Disobey, and feel nothing at all.