There is a man in every town who dies rich and unmourned. His granaries are full, his coffers locked, his reputation a kind of public joke. Valluvar has spent one hundred chapters building a vision of wealth as a force for justice, generosity, and flourishing. Now he turns and aims directly at the man who understood none of it — the hoarder, the miser, the one who accumulated everything and used nothing. This is not a chapter about poverty. It is about the obscenity of purposeless abundance. Valluvar opens with a death notice, escalates through a sequence of increasingly savage images — a disease infecting its own wealth, a beautiful woman aging alone, a poison tree fruiting in the town square — and arrives at a verdict that spares no one: the wealth you refused to spend or share will be seized by strangers. What makes the chapter devastating is not its anger but its grief. Somewhere behind these couplets is the bewildered question: you had everything — why did you live as though you had nothing?