There’s something sacred about a candle, no?

The way it flickers in the dark… the way it burns slow and soft, offering light where there is none. People pray to it. Mourn with it. Celebrate with it. A flame like that becomes more than fire—it becomes faith. It becomes belief.

And that, mi amigo, is what you are, Ezekiel Graves.

A candle.

You stand tall, flame held high, a symbol to your followers. You speak of light. You walk with righteousness. You burn for Him. And the people? They gather around you like moths, desperate for warmth in the cold void of Arcadia.

But here’s the truth about candles, hermano…

They’re fragile.

A single breath—una ráfaga—and it all goes out.

See, I’ve been watching you, Graves. Clutching your scripture like a shield. Whispering your sermons to the crowd as if you hold the keys to the gates of heaven. But I know the truth.

You’re scared.

Because you’ve built your whole world on wax—soft, moldable, temporary. And when the world shakes, when it trembles beneath your feet, all you can do is pray that the wick doesn’t snap and leave you in darkness.

But I?

Yo soy el viento.

The wind doesn’t kneel. It doesn’t beg. It tests the flame.

And at Warzone, I will test you.

You believe your faith makes you strong. That your title, your position, your God will carry you through. But where was that God when I was forged in the Templo de los Huesos? When I was born of blood and sacrifice, beneath the crimson skies and howls of warriors who never knew peace?

There were no angels there, Graves.

No light.

Only shadow.

Only me.

And yet I survived. I thrived. I ascended.

While you speak of salvation, I have lived damnation. While you promise heaven, I have conquered hell.

And let me tell you something you won’t hear in your chapel, preacher…

The wind always outlasts the flame.

You walk into Warzone carrying your gold like a holy relic. But to me? It’s just the next step in my legacy. I didn’t crawl out of obscurity to play second to a false prophet. I didn’t return to the ring for your sermons. I returned to show the world that even the divine can fall.

And you?

You’re just the next martyr.

So pray if you must, Ezekiel. Light your candle. Raise your hands. Preach to the sky.

But when the bell rings, and the winds rise—when the fury of El Dragón Caído bears down upon you—you’ll feel it. Lo sentirás.

The wind doesn’t ask for permission.

It takes.

And when your flame is gone, when your light is snuffed, and your congregation sits in stunned silence… I will stand above you—not as a sinner.

But as the one who finally blew your house of faith to ash.

Vela contra el viento.

Let’s see whose truth remains.