The scene opens in Elysium’s kitchen. Anton Savor stands before an unmarked wooden board, a mound of fine white sand spread evenly across its surface. His fingers trail through it, shifting and shaping the grains, but never allowing them to settle.

“They call this an opportunity.

A chance to rise. A moment to carve your place into something lasting. And so, you build.

You stack your ambitions high like bricks, convinced that effort alone will make them stand. You press your hands into the ground and call it a foundation, telling yourselves that this—this match, this night, this moment—is where you can create something permanent. Something that will endure.”

Anton lets a small handful of sand slip through his fingers, watching as it seeps into the cracks between his fingers.

“But what happens when that foundation shifts? When the grains beneath your feet give way, no matter how perfectly you stack them?

What happens when the ground you’ve built your house upon is nothing but a fleeting illusion?”

He pushes the sand aside, revealing only more sand beneath.

“You see, this is what you fail to understand. You cannot build on sand. Not truly. Not in a world like this. The heat, the pressure, the weight of inevitability, they will make your house crumble.

Because all it takes is the slightest shift. A ripple in the surface, a single misstep. And everything you’ve built will wash away.”

Anton takes a step back, eyeing the sand once more. He builds a small mound before quickly knocking it down. 

“Some of you have already started this construction, haven’t you? You’ve stacked your aspirations higher and higher, telling yourselves that if you just add enough layers, if you just try hard enough, it will hold.

But the truth is, you’re building nothing but a house of cards. It doesn’t matter how impressive it looks from the outside. It doesn’t matter how much you believe in its stability. Because when the tide comes in—when the pressure mounts—it will all come tumbling down.”

He taps the sand again, watching it shift slightly.

“You may think that simply standing tall, standing strong is enough. That your pride, your bravado, your boastful declarations are what will keep the house standing. You may think that the weight of your own ego can keep this creation intact.

But ego cannot save you when the tide turns. Ego cannot defend you against the storm. You all cling to the same fantasy, no different from one another—a gathering of helpless fools trying to build on sand.”

Anton turns, his face a mask of unyielding resolve.

“And at Invasion, when that storm hits, there will be no saving your house. There will be no miracle that keeps your walls intact. No last minute reprieve.

There will only be the collapse. The reckoning. The destruction of everything you thought was solid.”

His voice lowers as his eyes meet the camera.

“Because this—this match, this night, this moment—is nothing but sand. And I am the flood that will erase it from existence.”