El Mariachi Muerte… hermano… this is not just a match. This is a war for the corazón of the Mariachi. A battle for the Watchers. A fight not over gold, but over leadership.

And leadership, mi amigo, is like a drum.

Sí — un tambor.

Simple, isn’t it?

A hollow shell, stretched tight with skin, beaten in rhythm to call warriors to battle, to guide people through darkness, to unite a tribe beneath one sound.

But the secret is this: A drum only leads when its rhythm is steady… and when the one holding the sticks knows the beat of the people he commands.

And that is where you and I differ.

You, Muerte… you hit the drum with style. Your music is beautiful, dramatic, full of sorrow and color. You lure people in with melody — with illusion — with the romance of tragedy.

But your rhythm? It changes with every gust of wind.

One day you play a song of loyalty. The next, betrayal. One day you serenade your allies. The next, you use your guitar as a blade. You do not lead, hermano… You perform.

You mistake applause for allegiance. You mistake followers for family. You mistake noise for music.

But leadership? Verdadero liderazgo? It is a rhythm that never breaks. It is a beat that holds steady even when the world shakes.

And that is what I am.

From the slums of Arcadia to the bright lights of Olympus, my rhythm has never changed. “Draco, Draco, Draco” — the chant that has echoed for decades — is not a performance. It is a heartbeat. It is the drum that carried thousands of luchadores through fear, through pain, through darkness.

I do not change my song. I do not abandon my people. I do not switch rhythm when the wind blows.

You play for yourself. I play for all of them — the Mariachi, the Watchers, the lucha tradition that breathed life into me at the Templo de los Huesos.

This is why your leadership ends here.

Because a drum played for ego will always crack. Its skin will split, its shell will crumble, and its rhythm will falter.

But a drum played with purpose? A drum played with corazón? A drum played by a man forged, not born?

It becomes eternal.

You see, Muerte… A leader does not wear face paint — he wears responsibility. He does not sing songs — he lives them. He does not pretend to guide — he bleeds for those he guides.

You’ve brought your guitar. Your voice. Your theatrics.

But I bring the drum. Mi tambor. And when I strike it, the world listens.

At Warzone, when our rhythms collide, your melody will falter… and my beat will break through. Because this battle is not about who is the better performer — it’s about who carries the soul of the Mariachi.

And that soul has always beat with one rhythm:

Draco. Draco. Draco.

You may be El Mariachi Muerte, the singer of death… but I am El Dragón Caído. And tonight, I am the drum. I am the heartbeat. I am the leader.

And when the last note fades, you will march to my rhythm —or not march at all.