Remember, then, that if you suppose things slavish by nature to be free, and what is another's to be your own, you will be hindered, you will grieve, you will be disturbed, you will blame both gods and men. But if you suppose only what is yours to be yours, and what is another's to be another's — as it really is — no one will ever compel you, no one will hinder you, you will blame no one, you will accuse no one, you will do nothing against your will, you will have no enemy, and no one will harm you, for you will suffer nothing harmful.

This is the dichotomy turned into a chain of promises, and it is deliberately total. Get the two lists wrong — treat the body, reputation, and circumstances as though they were yours to command — and the whole catalogue of misery follows automatically: obstruction, grief, turmoil, and the reflex of blaming gods and men for what was never in their gift to give you. Epictetus is not threatening; he is describing a mechanism he thinks is as reliable as gravity. The second half is the same mechanism run in reverse, and the claims are staggering: no one can compel you, hinder you, or harm you. He can say this because he has redefined harm. If the only things that are truly yours are your judgments and choices, then nothing outside you can reach them without your consent — and so, in the sense that matters, you become untouchable. It is the boldest move in Stoicism: not that bad things won't happen, but that they cannot be made into harms unless you hand over the verdict.