According to Roman legend, April 21, 753 B.C. is the day Romulus and Remus founded the city of Rome. These weren’t your average city planners — they were twin brothers supposedly raised by a she-wolf in the wild after being abandoned as babies. The myth says they were the sons of the war god Mars and a Vestal Virgin, which gave them both a wild origin story and divine street cred.

After surviving infancy in a wolf den and being raised by a shepherd, the twins grew up and decided to build a city together. That didn’t last long. They got into an argument over where to build it — Remus liked one hill, Romulus liked another. Romulus won the argument by murdering his brother. Seriously. That’s how Rome started — murder over real estate.

Romulus went on to name the city after himself, became its first king, and supposedly ruled for nearly 40 years. The story blends myth and early Roman nationalism, but the date stuck. Ancient Romans celebrated April 21 as the birthday of their city, calling it Parilia, and held massive festivals in its honor.

Whether or not a wolf-raised demigod actually laid Rome’s first bricks, the myth gave the empire its origin story: violent, bold, and destined to dominate. It’s the kind of founding tale that says, “Yeah, we were born fighting.”

On April 21, 1918, the most famous fighter pilot of World War I — the Red Baron — was killed in action over France. His real name was Manfred von Richthofen, and he wasn’t just some flashy pilot with a cool nickname. He was a German ace with 80 confirmed kills and a reputation that made him a legend in the sky.

Richthofen flew a bright red Fokker triplane that made him instantly recognizable — and completely terrifying. He was cold, calculated, and treated aerial combat like a science. But that morning, while chasing a Canadian plane low over enemy lines, he flew too far into Allied territory and got hit. A single bullet tore through his chest, and he crash-landed in a field, dead by the time soldiers reached him.

To this day, there’s still debate over who actually fired the fatal shot — Canadian pilot Arthur Roy Brown claimed it, but evidence suggests it may have come from Australian ground troops firing up at his plane. Either way, the Red Baron was down, and the Allies buried him with full military honors, out of sheer respect.

Richthofen wasn’t just a war hero — he was a global icon. Books, movies, comic strips, even video games bear his name. But in the end, even the most feared pilot in the war learned the same lesson everyone else did in WWI: no one’s bulletproof.

Burial Bells🔔
Back when medical science was a little more guesswork than guarantee, some cultures took extra precautions—just in case someone wasn’t actually dead. One of the most famous solutions? Burial bells. These were small bells attached to the coffin or even to a string tied around the buried person’s hand. If the “deceased” woke up underground, they could ring the bell from inside the grave, alerting someone above. This is where phrases like “saved by the bell” and “graveyard shift” may have their roots—night watchmen were sometimes stationed at cemeteries to listen for ringing. It sounds dramatic, but the fear was real. During cholera outbreaks and periods of rushed burials, accidental live burials weren’t unheard of. So yes—people literally planned for an undead comeback… just in case medicine got it wrong. 🔔😬

Molten Silver Death🪦
The Mongol Empire, under leaders like Genghis Khan and his successors, was famous for brutal efficiency—and occasionally, dramatic executions designed to send a message. One of the most chilling methods recorded? Pouring molten silver into the eyes and ears of captured enemy rulers. This wasn’t just about killing—it was about sending a terrifying signal to anyone thinking of resisting. The most famous case? Likely Inalchuq, the governor of Otrar (modern-day Kazakhstan), who betrayed Mongol merchants. After a siege and capture, legend says the Mongols executed him with molten metal—possibly silver—as punishment for his treachery and greed. It’s hard to say how often it really happened (some historians think the story may have been exaggerated or symbolic), but it absolutely fit the Mongol style: shock, awe, and total domination. 💀🔥👑

Execution Day🍿
In Tudor England, public executions weren’t just about justice — they were full-on social events. When someone was sentenced to death, especially a high-profile figure, crowds would gather early, picnic-style, to get a good view of the action. Families brought snacks, vendors sold food and ale, and kids came along like it was a festival. Everyone from peasants to nobles would show up to watch heads roll — literally. The vibe? Grim, but weirdly casual. People came for the drama, the spectacle, and maybe a roasted goose leg or two. Justice was meant to be seen, remembered, and a little bit terrifying — and nothing said "don't commit treason" quite like a public beheading with meat pies in hand. 🪓🥧👀

Egypts Heart Problem🧠
In Ancient Egypt, the brain didn’t get much respect. Egyptians believed the heart was the center of intelligence, emotion, memory, and personality—basically, the command center of the soul. When someone died, priests carefully preserved the heart for the afterlife, believing it would be weighed against a feather in the Hall of Judgment. If it was lighter than the feather (symbolizing truth), you were good to go. If it was heavy with sin—uh oh—your soul got eaten by a monster named Ammit. The brain, meanwhile? They yanked it out through the nose and tossed it. No ceremony. No respect. Just brain goo in the trash. So yeah—according to the Egyptians, your best thoughts and worst secrets weren’t in your head... they were in your chest. ❤️⚖️🐊

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