You ever see a kid playing dress-up, Jackson?

It’s adorable, really. A little boy standing in his daddy’s clothes — sleeves dragging on the floor, collar hanging off his shoulders, trying so hard to look like a man. You can see the pride on his face, the grin, the way he puffs out his chest like the weight of the world suddenly means something.

But no matter how hard that kid tries… the jacket never fits.

That’s you, Jackson Cade. A boy sitting on a throne that was never built for you.

Your father, Zeus — he filled that chair. Say what you will about the man, but while he sits there, he makes it look right. He is a king of Arcadia, larger than life, full of arrogance and thunder. He rules through fear and power, and whether people love or hate him, they felt him. He casts a shadow big enough to cover all of Olympus.

But you…

You’re a child sitting in that shadow, pretending it’s a crown.

The seat’s too big. The crown’s too heavy. The world you’re trying to rule doesn’t bow to you — it pities you. You sit there with your little sheriff’s badge, your head held high, pretending you’re the savior of Arcadia when all you really are is a boy playing king in a kingdom that doesn’t want him.

You’re the child on the throne, Jackson. The sleeves of your father’s legacy are dragging across the floor, and the weight of it all is breaking your shoulders.

And that’s why I’ll beat you at Ascension.

Because I’ve seen what that kind of weight does to a man. I’ve carried my own — the pain, the failure, the guilt. But I earned my seat at the table. Every scar, every bruise, every broken bone — I paid for it in blood and sweat. I didn’t inherit it. I didn’t get handed it because of who my daddy was.

You’re not a king, Jackson. You’re a kid who’ll find himself sitting on a throne that’s far too big.

You’re so desperate to prove you’re not him that you’ve become everything he wanted you to be — a puppet, a pretender, a hollow echo of a god who left you with a name you can’t live up to.

You talk about law and order. About bringing justice. About restoring Arcadia. But all you’ve really done is hide behind that badge and hope no one sees what’s really going to be sitting on that throne — a scared little boy who doesn’t know how to step down.

At Ascension, I’m going to help you do just that.

I’m going to knock you off that throne and remind you what you really are. Not a god. Not a king. Just a man — and one who’s never learned what it means to stand on his own two feet.

When I look at you, Jackson, I don’t see Zeus’s heir. I see a child sitting in a chair too big for him, trying to convince the world he belongs there.

But that’s the thing about children playing kings — eventually, someone comes along and takes the crown away.

And at Ascension, that someone is me.