XenoKnowsALL

Born with nothing but hunger and hurt, a 40-year-old soul is reborn in the body of a homeless Brooklyn stoner—and gifted with the divine ability to grow perfect cannabis in seven days. But instead of chasing hype, he builds a sacred legacy from the dirt: weed with intention, healing with fire, and culture with care.

Alongside Maya, a visionary artist, they transform their struggle into a global movement—From the Dirt—expanding across dispensaries, fashion, food, education, and spiritual growth.

From rooftops to rituals, from corner stores to cathedrals, this is a story of grief, glory, grind, and grace.

Because some things aren’t grown.
They’re remembered.

From the Dirt: Bloom Anyway

Darius knelt in the back room of the laundromat, hands deep in fresh soil. The air smelled like promise—earthy, clean, alive.

The lights overhead flickered on with a soft hum, casting long shadows across the space. The grow tent was ready. He'd cleaned every inch, patched the leaks, lined the walls with heat-reflective foil, and even rigged an old fan for ventilation. It wasn't perfect. But it was his.

Homegrown hustle.

In front of him sat six tiny biodegradable cups, each filled with nutrient-rich soil.

One by one, he pulled the Durban Poison seeds from their pouch. Each one felt heavier than it looked—like it carried more than genetics. Like it carried intention.

He pressed the first into the soil.

"Grow like this city raised you," he whispered, smoothing the dirt over the last seed."Fast. Loud. Unstoppable."

The next few days were a blur of grind and glow-up.

Darius and Maya moved nonstop, living off corner store sandwiches and blunt smoke as they turned the back of that abandoned laundromat into something real.

They laid rubber mats on the floor.Built two-tier shelving from old wood pallets.Hung grow lights like chandeliers over a kingdom.Ordered carbon filters and light timers online using a fake LLC Maya had whipped up in a day.

They even painted the walls—flat black with streaks of emerald green—and on one, Maya spray-painted a giant mural: a fist clutching a joint rising from the cracked earth, with the words:

"EMPIRE POISON – PLANTED IN PAIN, GROWN FOR POWER."

By day five, the seedlings had already pushed through the dirt—faster than they had any right to.

Darius rolled a joint and sat with Maya at a folding table they used as a design station. On the table: her iPad, sketches, blank jars, labels, stickers, even a roll of parchment paper.

"So what's the vibe for this drop?" she asked.

"Empire Poison ain't for beginners," he said. "It's for the ones who fought for space. Who built something outta concrete. It should feel royal—but raw."

Maya smirked. "Grit and gold, then."

Jar Label: Matte black with gold lettering. "EMPIRE POISON" across the front in cracked, regal serif font. Beneath it: "Sativa – Durban Lineage."

Seal: Crown made of roots.

Tagline: "Power grows in silence."

Drop Theme: "Volume 2: Rise from Ruin"

Darius stared at it like it was a prophecy.

"That's it," he said. "That's the one."

By the end of the week, the plants were thriving—dense, healthy, glowing with potential. No pests. No stunted growth. Just gas in the making.

"You ever think we're doing something way bigger than weed?" Maya asked one night, curling beside him on the floor.

"Every day," Darius said. "But weed's just the language. The story we're telling?"

And as the grow lights dimmed into their night cycle, the Empire Poison seedlings stood tall in their pots, quiet and powerful—ready to take their place in Brooklyn's next legend.

Chapter Eleven – Empire Poison