You believe in Dios, don’t you, Ezekiel Graves?

You sing his name. You wear it like armor. You shout it into the heavens as if your lungs were carved by angels themselves.

You say he gives you strength. That he guides your hand. That your victories are his will.

I know that feeling.

Not of your god… but of my own.

Los dioses del Lucha Libre.

In my youth, they lived in every masked warrior who soared through the air. In every roar of the crowd. In every blood-soaked mat beneath our boots.

And once… they lived in me.

I was no longer Draco—I was divino. The chants of “Draco, Draco, Draco” echoed through the barrios like prayers. From the slums of Arcadia to the rooftops of Anthesteria, my name was spoken with reverence.

I did not walk—I descended.

I did not fight—I judged.

And when I stood in the center of the ring, hands raised, belt over shoulder… I felt untouchable.

I felt like a god.

Just like you do now.

You hold that OSW World Championship like it’s holy scripture. You parade it as if it were the cross itself, a symbol of your divine right. You believe that belt confirms your calling, that the heavens themselves crowned you champion.

But let me tell you a truth, hermano.

Gods fall.

And when they fall… they do not float gently back to Earth.

They crash.

They burn.

And they are forgotten.

I’ve lived that fall.

When Olympus rose, my time ended.

The crowd moved on. The spotlight faded. My name became an echo.

No longer divine. No longer beloved.

Just a man with calloused hands and hollow eyes, wondering where the glory went.

It hurt.

Dios mío, it hurt.

Worse than any broken bone. Worse than any chair shot. Worse than any betrayal.

Because when you fall from grace… you fall alone.

You, Ezekiel, are walking the same road.

You think you’re chosen.

You think your faith will carry you.

You think your reign is eternal.

But this is a tale as old as time.

The prophet becomes prideful.

The warrior becomes blind.

And the god…

The god is cast down.

At Warzone, it won’t be your faith that saves you.

It won’t be your scriptures.

It won’t be your title.

It’ll be you, standing across from El Dragón Caído, the Fallen Dragon, the man who once stood where you stand now… and learned what it meant to lose it all.

Because I don’t need a title to define me. I don’t need a congregation to validate me.

I am not chosen—I am forged.

Forged in the Templo de los Huesos, where blood met stone and agony became legend.

I do not walk with God. I walk with vengeance.

And at Warzone, campeón, you will learn that for every rise, there is a fall.

And for every preacher who claims the light…

There is a dragon waiting in the dark.

Prepárate, Ezekiel.

Because your time atop the mountain?

Is almost over.

And I will be there…

To watch you fall.