When I was a boy—long before the mask, before the chants of “Draco, Draco, Draco,”— My padre had a hatchet.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t new. But it was reliable. A simple tool with a thick wooden handle and a sharp, steady edge. He used it for everything—cutting firewood, clearing brush, splitting kindling. That hatchet saw more sunrises than most men in Arcadia.

But like all things used too long, too hard… it broke.

One morning, in the middle of splitting a heavy log, the handle cracked. Snap. Just like that.

Years of sweat. Of chopping. Of work. Gone in a breath.

My father—he tried to fix it. He glued it, bound it in wire, tried to give it one more swing. But it wasn’t the same. The edge had dulled. The balance was off.

Eventually, he gave up. Bought a new hatchet. Threw the old one away.

And he never looked back.

You, Hatchet, remind me of that tool. Useful. Brutal. Unpolished. A favorite in the hand of a man who doesn’t care how long you last, only how much damage you do.

And right now? That man is Nox.

You’re his instrument of chaos. He lifts you up, points you at a target, and lets you swing.

Foul-mouthed. Ruthless. Deceptive. You think you’re sharp. You think you’re dangerous. But the truth is… you’re being used. And just like my father’s hatchet, you will break. Because men like Nox don’t care what happens when the edge dulls. They don’t care when the handle cracks. They don’t repair—they replace.

You keep carving through enemies for him, keep splitting every opponent down the middle…But one day, he’ll ask too much. He’ll swing you too hard. And when you snap, he’ll drop you in the dirt and never think twice.

You’ll be forgotten. Discarded. Another broken thing left behind in the shadows of Arcadia.

But not by me.

Because I don’t just see the weapon— I see the man holding it together with tape and rage.

And I’ve stood across from many like you before. Angry. Loud. Lost.

And every single one of them believed they’d never break.

But I am El Dragón Caído. Forged from vengeance, born in the blood-soaked Templo de los Huesos. I have walked through generations of fire. I have seen empires rise and fall.

You are not new to me. You are not special.

You are just another tool… About to meet something it cannot cut through.

At Warzone, when we stand face to face, You’ll feel it in your bones— That moment your strength gives out. That final swing when nothing connects. And in that moment, Hatchet…You’ll understand what my father did.

That some things, no matter how many times you try to piece them back together— Are finished.

I will not just beat you. I will break you.

And when Nox searches for you after the match… He’ll find nothing but splinters.

El hacha rota.

The broken hatchet.

And the Fallen Dragon who snapped it in two.