They say the girl became a dragon.

They whisper it in alleyways and over busted radios like it’s a prophecy. Like some kind of Arcadian poetry. That the wolf is gone, and something grander rose in its place. Scales. Smoke. Majesty. As if your pain was just a prelude to your ascension.

And I get it, Ayame. That story sounds better than the truth.

Because I’ve been here, in the muck and the marrow of Arcadia. I’ve seen what this place does to people. It breaks them down, chews them up and leaves them hollow. So when someone crawls out of the wreckage claiming to be more than human, people really want to believe it. They need to.

But dragons don’t grow here. Not in this soil. Not in this rusted-out ruin that we call home.

What we grow here is survivors. Fighters. Liars. Monsters. Believe me I’ve met ‘em all. I’ve walked through their graves and lived to map the route.

What we don’t grow here is legends. Arcadia doesn’t nurture myth, it starves it. It builds you up just high enough to watch the fall, and when the cheering stops, you’re left with nothing but your own echo. I’ve watched icons crumble under the weight of their own story. I’ve seen the shine fade, the masks crack, and the names fade into the dirt they swore they’d never touch. That’s what this place does – it reminds you who you really are, no matter how loud you roar.

You call yourself a dragon now, Ayame. But I remember the wolf.

I remember the girl who fought tooth and nail just to stay on her feet. Who didn’t need wings or a bloodline to be dangerous. She fought for survival, not spectacle. And maybe she was snarling and wild, but there was honesty in that fury.

This new form of yours, there’s a grace to it, sure. But it’s a costume all the same. And I’ve seen what happens when people start believing their own myth.

They forget the dirt. They forget the hunger. They forget what it means to bleed in the silence and not have the crowd roar in response.

And I haven’t forgotten. Not a damn second of it.

I don’t have fire in my chest or prophecy in my bones. I’ve got scars. I’ve got dust. I’ve got a spine that’s been broken and reset more times than you can count. I wasn’t chosen. I wasn’t crowned.

I endured.

So when you look down at me from whatever pedestal you’ve propped yourself on, remember this: the fall always comes. And when it does, you won’t be facing a hero or a villain.

You’ll be facing a man who’s crawled through worse than you can dream of and kept walking.

Because I don’t need to be feared. I don’t need to be worshipped.

I just need to outlast you.

See you in the ring, dragon.

Your story ends in the dirt, Ayame – and I’m the one holding the pen.