They call it Lambs to the Slaughter. Not as warning. But as branding.

Twenty competitors, each one told they’ve earned a place. That this match is a test of grit, of legacy. Of greatness.

But it isn’t really a test. 

It’s a recipe.

A carefully staged ritual, performed under bright lights, dressed in desperation, and plated as prestige.

And the lambs?

They walk in proud.

They believe that they’re warriors, survivors. Symbols of everything noble about suffering.

But a lamb doesn’t step forward because it understands sacrifice. It steps forward because it’s been trained to.

It hears the bell, feels the hands. Follows the path. Not because it knows what awaits, but because it’s convinced that something sacred must lie ahead.

That’s the myth.

That this is about glory. That if you struggle long enough, bleed deep enough, last just a little longer than the rest, it’ll mean something.

But sacrifice only means something when it’s chosen. And most of you didn’t choose this.

You were assigned.

Drafted, slotted in. Not because your greatness demanded it, but because twenty names were needed. And yours was available.

You tell yourselves this match will define you. But it won’t, because rituals don’t remember the participants.

Only the pattern.

No one recalls who was pinned twelfth, or who entered fourth. Or how many minutes you lasted before the lights went dim and the audience moved on to the next cut of meat.

Because that’s all you are here. Not legacies.

Servings.

You walk to the altar not to be crowned, but to make the ritual feel real. To give it weight. To keep the illusion going that this match has meaning. That the next man to walk in has a chance to be something more than just another offering to tradition.

But tradition does not reward truth. It consumes it.

And I don’t play the lamb.

I don’t look to the crowd for reassurance. I don’t bow my head and hope I’m remembered fondly. I don’t walk this aisle to die for a cause I never believed in.

I came to ruin the ceremony.

To remind you that this was never sacred. It was always slaughter.

And while the rest of you are being counted out, limbs draped over the ropes, eyes wide with the realization that the knife was never holy, I won’t be praying.

I’ll be carving.

Not for violence. Not for cruelty. But to finish what should never have been started.

Because when the last one falls—when the altar is empty, and the audience full—they won’t remember your struggle, your hunger. Your sacrifice.

They’ll remember the man who didn’t need the ritual. The one who ended it. The one who brought silence to a place that only ever knew noise.

So walk proud. Say your lines, enter the fire. Call it courage if it helps.

But don’t mistake the blade for a baptism.

And when those lights go out, don’t pretend this match gave your pain a purpose. Because it didn’t.

It just gave it a stage.

And I was the one who turned off the heat.