#goldenpower

[wells-gold58]

Gold in the Mirror

Coach Stone had already reached for his phone.

Wells first.

Brody next.

That was the plan.

Then Ambrose’s voice cut through the alley.

“Put the phone down, Coach.”

Coach stopped with his thumb over the screen.

The alley behind the Golden Army gym was still wet from rain, neon from the street bleeding across the pavement in pink and blue reflections. Ambrose stood beneath the back light in his gold tracksuit, jacket open, chains bright against tattooed skin, platinum hair perfect, expression far too calm for someone who had just been caught looking suspicious.

Coach turned slowly.

“Wrong tone,” he said.

Ambrose smiled.

“Correct timing.”

Coach’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

“I have something to show you.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It is,” Ambrose said softly. “But not in the way you think.”

Coach should have called Wells anyway.

He should have called Captain Brody.

He should have walked back inside, locked the door, and filed the entire incident under Ambrose: Do Not Engage Without Witnesses.

Instead, Ambrose turned toward the back door of the gym and walked inside like he had every right to be there.

Coach followed.

Not because he trusted Ambrose.

Because he did not.

Inside, the Golden Army gym was empty. The lights were low, the machines silent, the mirrors stretching along the wall like dark glass. The room still smelled of metal, sweat, rubber flooring, and the day’s drills.

Ambrose stepped into the centre of the floor.

“Look into the mirror,” he said.

Coach did not move.

Ambrose glanced back. “You wanted answers.”

“I want direct answers.”

“You never liked those.”

Coach folded his arms. “Try me.”

Ambrose’s smile faded, just a little.

“Look into the mirror,” he repeated. “And see the Gold within yourself.”

The air changed.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

It simply tightened.

Coach looked toward the mirror.

At first, he saw only himself: black cap, black wet-look singlet, arms crossed, jaw set, every inch of him built for control. The gym lights cut across his shoulders. The gold emblem on his chest gleamed once.

Then the reflection moved wrong.

Coach went still.

His reflection blinked after he did.

Then smiled when he did not.

The gold emblem in the glass began to glow.

A shimmer spread across the mirror’s surface, liquid and metallic, as if something ancient had been waiting behind it with perfect patience. Coach’s reflected shape distorted, stretched, and burned bright until the black vanished under radiant gold.

A hood formed.

A mask.

A figure behind him that was not behind him.

The Golden One stood inside the mirror.

Tall. Silent. Hooded in gold. Face hidden by a smooth metallic mask. Hands gloved and shining. It looked like a man, a statue, a commandment, and a warning all at once.

Coach took one step back.

The mirror rippled.

The Golden One stepped through.

Glass did not break.

It opened.

One gold hand seized Coach by the shoulder.

The other pressed against his chest.

Coach’s muscles locked.

Ambrose stood beside them, watching with that same calm expression, but something in his eyes had changed. Not triumph. Not surprise.

Recognition.

The Golden One leaned close.

Its voice came from everywhere.

“Remember.”

Coach clenched his jaw. “Release.”

“Remember.”

The gym lights flared.

And Coach saw.

Not dreams.

Not thoughts.

Memories too old to belong to one man.

Gold banners whipping above fields that were not the Golden Stadium. Brothers standing shoulder to shoulder under suns that burned white. Drones marching in black and gold, precise as a heartbeat. Ancient courts. Stone halls. Mirrors lit by candlefire. Hands raised in oath. Bodies trained, tested, broken down, rebuilt. Brotherhood formed not by softness, but by repetition, discipline, loyalty, and return.

He saw the Golden Army through time.

Not as a club.

Not as a team.

As a current.

A force.

A line of men carrying the Gold forward through every age, every uniform, every drill, every command that taught the body to remember what the mind forgot.

Then he saw the Golden Gods.

Vast shapes in brightness. Faces half-seen. Bodies carved from light and pressure. Eyes like molten metal. Their hands rested over temples, hearts, shoulders, mouths. They did not speak.

They imprinted.

Coach tried to pull away.

The Golden One held him still.

Its mask lowered toward his face.

Gold light gathered between them, hot and bright, then poured from the Golden One’s mouth like breath, smoke, fire, and song all at once.

Coach inhaled.

He did not choose to.

His chest expanded, and the essence entered him.

Gold flooded his lungs.

His spine arched.

His eyes went wide.

Ambrose stepped closer.

The Golden One did not release him.

Then they spoke.

Together.

Same words.

Same rhythm.

Same voice.

Ambrose’s mouth moved.

The Golden One’s mask echoed.

The sound struck Coach’s skull like a sonic boom.

“Remember and retrain.”

The mirrors shook.

“Use hypnosis on the Golden Bros when you do drills with them.”

The lights pulsed.

“Make them remember.”

Coach’s hands curled into fists.

“Make them return.”

The command tore through him.

Not like an order from outside.

Like something old waking up inside his own bones.

The gym vanished into gold.

For one second, Coach saw every bro he had ever trained. Wells laughing too loudly. Trey smirking through pain. Alton performing confidence like armour. Kasper's determination, Gabe's grit. Brody standing captain-still beneath the lights. Every brother shining, resisting, forgetting, returning.

Then the light collapsed.

Coach hit the floor.

Hard.

The gym was silent.

No glowing mirror.

No Golden One.

No Ambrose.

Only the low hum of the lights, the smell of rubber mats, and Coach Stone on one knee with one hand braced against the floor.

He stayed there for several breaths.

Then slowly, he stood.

His reflection stared back from the mirror.

Black cap.

Black singlet.

Gold emblem.

Same face.

Almost.

Coach touched his chest.

Something inside him felt different.

Not broken.

Not taken.

Awakened.

He looked toward the back door.

Empty.

Then toward the mirror.

Still.

His phone lay on the floor beside him, screen dark.

Wells first.

Brody next.

That had been the plan.

Coach picked up the phone.

But he did not unlock it.

Not yet.

Instead, he looked at the mirror one more time and heard the words still echoing somewhere behind his ribs.

Remember and retrain.

Make them remember.

Make them return.

Coach closed his fist around the whistle at his chest.

The next drill was going to be different.

Some memories sleep beneath the surface. Some brothers need the mirror, the drill, and the Gold to call them back. Remember the power, retrain the body, return to the Brotherhood, and let the Golden Army awaken what was always inside you. Join the Golden Army. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

Featuring: @chavambrose

Mentions: @brodygold, @alton-gold77, @hero21us, @pdu-090, @polo-drone-075

[wells-gold58]

Dominion Gold

Before the armor, before the power, before the name, Wells was just a man with too much pride to stay small.

He had heard the same thing his whole life. Canada was respectable, sure. Polite. Stable. Nice. But never feared. Never dominant. Never the center of the story. Always framed as the quieter neighbor beside louder powers and bigger egos. Wells learned to smile through it, learned to laugh when people reduced his country to snow, hockey, maple syrup, and manners. He wore the easy grin well. But every joke landed somewhere deeper than people realized.

Because Wells did not want to be harmless. He did not want his country to be harmless either.

He wanted strength people noticed.

He wanted presence that filled a room.

He wanted a nation that did not have to ask for respect because it carried itself like a force of nature.

So when whispers began of a classified northern project buried far above the tree line, Wells paid attention.

Officially, it did not exist. No records. No hearings. No press. Just rumors of an old Canadian defense initiative reactivated under a new name: Project Dominion. The stated goal was simple enough in theory, create a living national protector. Someone strong enough to defend the country in an age where ordinary armies and ordinary politics no longer felt like enough.

But the deeper rumor was stranger.

Project Dominion was not powered by modern tech alone.

Deep under Arctic rock and glacial ice, researchers had uncovered something ancient, an impossible metallic core embedded in the earth like a heart that had never stopped beating. It was gold, but not like any gold on earth. It pulsed with heat. It emitted light with no visible source. It seemed to react to human proximity, especially to emotion: ambition, conviction, hunger, will. The scientists gave it dry names in their reports. Wells gave it a truer one the first time he saw it.

Destiny.

The facility itself was built like a bunker-cathedral in the frozen north. Black steel corridors. white vapor curling through the air. floodlights reflecting off ice walls. everyone speaking in clipped, careful tones as if volume alone might disturb whatever slept at the center of the base. Wells arrived as a volunteer, though “volunteer” was only partly true. He had pushed, insisted, demanded to be considered. He was already in peak condition, already the kind of man who drew eyes when he entered a room—broad shoulders, disciplined body, relentless drive—but he wanted more than physical excellence.

He wanted to become symbolic.

The researchers warned him that the Dominion Core had rejected others.

Some had suffered burns.

Some had broken mentally.

One had walked into the chamber and refused to come back in after a single look at the light.

Wells listened. Then stepped forward anyway.

The first tests were almost beautiful. He stood in glass chambers bathed in golden radiance while energy climbed over his skin like liquid sunlight. Sensors screamed. Monitors flashed. Veins of light traced up his arms and across his chest. He endured temperatures that should have blistered flesh, pressures that should have crushed bone. Each time, Wells came back stronger. His body adapted. His mind sharpened. The Core responded to him in a way it never had to anyone else.

It did not simply tolerate him.

It chose him.

That was the moment everything changed.

Because once the scientists realized Wells was compatible, restraint vanished.

The final procedure took place in the deepest chamber of the facility, where the Core hung suspended in a ring of black machinery over a circular platform cut directly into Arctic stone. The room glowed gold from below, as if the earth itself had split open to reveal a captive sun. Wells stood shirtless beneath it, breathing steadily, muscles tense, every inch of him lit in molten color. Wires ran into his spine, into his arms, across his chest. Around him, technicians watched through reinforced glass. Above him, the Core began to wake.

It did not shine.

It blazed.

The light poured down in sheets.

Golden fire wrapped around Wells’ body, not burning him but remaking him—flooding through muscle, bone, blood, thought. He dropped to one knee, then to both, hands braced against the platform as radiant cracks spidered outward beneath him. His breath tore out of him in ragged bursts. His heart thundered. His body swelled with impossible force as every fiber was pushed past human limits. For one terrible second the observers thought they had killed him.

Then Wells stood up.

And the chamber doors blew outward.

When the light finally collapsed back into itself, the man at the center of the room was still Wells, but only in the loosest sense. His body had become denser, larger, more defined, like the ideal of himself had been dragged out from inside him and made real. Gold still moved beneath his skin in faint shifting lines. His eyes shone like heated metal. When he lifted his hand experimentally, a curved shield of solid radiant gold unfolded from nothing around his forearm. When he clenched his fist, the air shook.

The room fell silent.

One of the lead scientists whispered, “My God.”

Wells looked at his own reflection in the fractured chamber glass and smiled.

Not with relief.

With recognition.

For a brief time, Project Dominion celebrated. They had done it. They had built their protector. Their golden guardian. The ultimate patriotic symbol—strong, beautiful, obedient, marketable, unstoppable. They spoke about defense strategy, public rollout, covert deployment, geopolitical stability. They talked as if Wells were still a soldier they could direct.

That was their mistake.

The Dominion Core had amplified more than his strength. It had taken everything in him that had once been merely intense, his pride, his ambition, his hunger to rise, his refusal to be overlooked—and forged it into doctrine.

Wells listened to the men in suits tell him he would serve.

He listened to them explain that power like his had to remain under careful supervision.

He listened to them use words like “asset,” “containment,” and “compliance.”

And for the first time in his life, Wells truly understood how small other people thought.

They wanted a weapon.

He saw an empire.

The break came three days later.

An emergency meeting. A secure chamber. Orders delivered in the calm, bureaucratic tone powerful men use when they mistake authority for inevitability. Wells was informed that he would not be seen publicly, would not represent the nation openly, and would be deployed only when necessary under strict command. The power inside him, they said, belonged to Canada.

Wells rose slowly from his chair.

The gold in the room answered before he did.

Light spread across the walls in branching veins. Metal bent. Glass trembled. The badges on their uniforms glowed bright, then melted. Behind Wells, six radiant constructs lifted into the air like the unfolding limbs of a mechanical angel—shields, spears, crowns, blades, each one made of solid living gold.

He looked at the people who had created him and realized that they were still speaking to him as though he were meant to kneel.

He never did.

The facility lost contact with the outside world that night.

What happened inside became rumor, then classified myth. Some said Wells walked through gunfire without slowing down. Some said he split blast doors open with his bare hands. Some said the aurora above the base turned gold and remained that way until dawn. The few surviving images were unclear—security footage full of blinding light, silhouettes of men thrown backward by shockwaves, a final frame of Wells striding through a collapsing corridor with molten gold forming armor over his body piece by piece.

Chestplate.

Greaves.

Gauntlets.

A radiant crest over the heart.

Not armor issued by a government.

A kingdom made wearable.

When Wells emerged from the Arctic, he did not call himself a fugitive. He did not think of himself as fallen, broken, or corrupted. In his mind, he had simply become honest.

The world had always worshipped power. It just preferred to pretend otherwise.

Now Wells would stop pretending too.

He took the name Dominion Gold not because it sounded grand, but because it sounded true. Dominion for rule. Gold for the force that had chosen him, reshaped him, crowned him. Wherever he appeared, that power followed: radiant barriers rising from the earth, golden weapons forming from empty air, vehicles crushed beneath shimmering walls, bullets flattened against glowing fields of light. He could strike with enough force to break concrete, lift enough weight to tear steel apart, and project such overwhelming presence that crowds went silent the moment he stepped into view.

But his most dangerous trait was never the power itself.

It was the conviction.

Dominion Gold did not rant like a madman. He did not cackle, threaten, or posture. He spoke calmly, clearly, almost beautifully. He made domination sound reasonable. Necessary. Noble. He looked at divided cities, weak governments, and frightened people and saw not complexity, but failure of will. In every interview hijacked by his signal, in every speech broadcast through screens rimmed in gold light, he repeated the same belief:

The world had mistaken softness for virtue.

Compromise for strength.

Visibility for leadership.

He would correct that.

The imagery of Dominion Gold became legend almost immediately.

A massive figure standing on a rooftop at dusk, black clouds behind him, gold light tracing the edges of his body.

A shattered parliament floor with a radiant maple-leaf sigil burned into the stone.

Wells bare-chested in the Arctic glow, eyes lit gold, hands spread as if drawing dawn itself out of the sky.

Dominion armor forming over his body in layers of living metal, each piece locking into place like fate.

A crowd staring upward as he hovers above them on a platform of light, one hand behind his back, the other extended in command.

A close-up of his face, calm and handsome and terrible, fuller with power now, every line lit from within, like a king sculpted out of sunlight and certainty.

That was the genius of Dominion Gold as a villain. He was not monstrous to look at. He was magnificent.

He was what power wanted to look like when power stopped apologizing.

And that made him seductive.

Some called him a traitor. Some called him a tyrant. Some called him a nationalist fever dream in human form. But others saw in him something more dangerous: clarity. Certainty. Purpose without doubt. To the disillusioned, he looked like strength. To the angry, he looked like justice. To the ambitious, he looked like permission.

And Dominion Gold welcomed all of it.

Because in his mind, he was not there to destroy civilization.

He was there to elevate it.

To force it into a more disciplined shape.

To crown it.

To make it golden.

So now when Dominion Gold walks into a city, the light arrives first. Streetlamps flare. windows blaze gold. metal sings in its frames. People look up. The air itself seems to tense. Then he appears—broad, gleaming, unstoppable—like the future stepping down to judge the present.

And when he speaks, he does not shout.

He simply tells the world what it is about to become.

Not every king wears a crown. Some build one out of power, pride, and living gold. Dominion Gold was supposed to defend a nation. Instead, he decided to become something greater.

He became Dominion Gold. What will you become?

[wells-gold58]

Wells doesn’t do cardio days, he handles heavy things until they can’t push back anymore.

Cold iron. Chalked palms. He pulls it in close, pins it tight, lets it settle where it’s hardest to ignore. No rush. He likes to feel the weight before he makes it move.

Every rep starts wound up and hungry. Power packed in low, compressed, begging for release. Then, drive, rise, extend. Hips snap first. Chest opens. The whole chain fires like it’s been waiting for permission. When he finally lets go, it’s not gentle. It’s decisive.

The ring always goes quiet right before it happens. That split second when everyone knows something’s about to get launched whether it’s ready or not.

It’s not about distance. It’s about ownership. About knowing exactly how much it can take… and choosing to give it a little more.

By the end, the shot’s warm from his grip, chalk ground in deep. Breath slow. Legs shaking. Shoulders thick and swollen. That heavy, satisfied calm settles in, the kind that comes after you’ve picked something up, dominated it completely, and left it spent somewhere behind you.

Some guys lift to look strong. Wells trains to control things that resist him. He doesn’t chase the throw — he decides when it’s over.

Ready to join the Team? All you need to do is contact our recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166 or @polo-drone-125”

[drupepower]

Good Morning India @drupepower #plantbased #almondmilk @naturesbasket look out for #goldenpower (at Los Angeles, California)

[drupepower]

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[afar25]

Theodore 🐵 has travel in time from the 60s to present time in search of the golden skull 💀 #goldenpower #timetraveler #madeinLA (at Los Angeles, California)

[goldyknows]

FROM the HEART! PEOPLE! Can I TELL you how much I LOVE helping people! Esp with their #Fitness and #Financial goals? Because I DO! So back to #TitusvillePA I go, along with my #GoldenPower SISTERS who are BRILLIANT, TALENTED, a successful #entrepreneur & #Businesswoman to boot! Come stop in for just a few minutes, June 20th, 6pm to just LISTEN to what we have going on. Just listen. :-) Nothing to buy, or pressure or weird gimmicks! Just US! Three pretty amazing women and friends who are on to something! We can't wait to see you and answer ALL of the questions you can come up with. Bring it! Missy's Arcade Restaurant is the place to be! #GoldyKnows #GoldyLocksFitness #MissyWescoat #MissysArcade #JenPilewski (at Missy's Arcade Restaurant)

[goldenpowercan]

GOLDEN POWER. OLA! Makes u happy!