Do you smell that? That… olor extraño. That strange smell.

Anton Savor, the master of cuisine, the so-called culinary genius of Arcadia, has been cooking again. And not just meals, no. He’s been cooking a cause, a movement, a force of destruction he calls the Preservationists.

In his mind, he’s a chef at the head of the finest kitchen in Arcadia. He sees himself in a grand apron, blades in hand, stirring the pot with delicate care. And into this hearty stew, he throws rage, vengeance, bitterness, violence. He tosses in every broken soul he can find—Nox, Narcissa, Grimskull, Graves—all with their own flavors, their own textures and their own scars.

A dish meant to conquer Arcadia.

But the problem, amigo, is that you’re a chef with no sense of taste.

You think you’re making something gourmet, something layered and bold. You stir your pot with such pride, smiling behind that twisted face, certain that each ingredient brings the dish closer to perfection.

But every time you taste it…

It has no flavor.

You’ve convinced yourself bland is balanced. You’ve tricked your tongue into believing rancid is rich. So what do you do? You add a little salt. A pinch of Foley’s pain. A dash of Caído’s legacy. A spoonful of chaos.

Still nothing.

But you don’t stop. You keep going. Because you’re not tasting the food anymore, Anton—you’re just serving the lie.

You’re so focused on the performance, on the presentation, on the violence and the flash, that you’ve forgotten the most important part of cooking: the soul.

And your stew, cocinero, is rotten.

I can smell it from here. The meat has spoiled. The vegetables are bitter. The broth is thin and lifeless. The warriors you’ve thrown into your cauldron don’t blend—they curdle. Their spirits clash, their goals collide. Your ingredients are wrong, Anton.

A real chef, one with true taste, would know that.

But you? You just keep stirring. You don’t even see the rot in your own kitchen.

You think you’ve found a recipe for revolution. But you’ve just made poison, wrapped in a garnish of blood and bone.

You’ve forgotten that cooking, like lucha libre, is sacred. It is about balance. About harmony. About knowing when to add spice, and when to let the flame breathe.

But I didn’t forget.

I’ve been around too long to fall for the scent of spoiled food dressed as a banquet.

At Warzone, I’m not coming to taste your dish. I’m not coming to critique it.

I’m coming to throw it out.

I’m going to step into your kitchen, rip off your apron, and make you see what you’ve done. I will show you what a real maestro does with mismatched ingredients—he doesn’t use them at all.

Because this stew of yours?

It’s not art.

It’s not revolution.

It’s not food.

It’s garbage.

And when the Fallen Dragon comes to your table… you’ll choke on every bite.

Buen provecho, Anton.

Because the next course is pain. And that’s one flavor I know you’ll recognize.