There is an old cuento, a fábula, about a boy and a wolf.

You all know it. The boy tends to the sheep, but he is bored. So he cries, “¡El lobo! ¡El lobo viene!” And the people run to his side, only to find no wolf, no danger. He laughs. He smiles. He enjoys their panic. And again, he cries, “Wolf!” And again, the people run. And again, he laughs. Until the day the wolf truly comes… and no one believes him.

That is you, Destructo.

Every chapter of your short, chaotic vida has been the same cry.

Your mami dies—“Wolf!” Your papi goes missing—“Wolf!” Your father dies—“Wolf!”

Each time, you wail like the niño in the story, desperate for sympathy, desperate for attention, desperate to make your suffering into your identity. You paint yourself as the tragic figure, the boy surrounded by wolves.

But the truth? Every one of those cries was nothing more than an opportunity. Survival situations you twisted to your benefit. You took tragedy and wore it like armor, cried “wolf” not because you were in danger, but because you wanted people to believe you were something more than what you are.

And now, Destructo, here we stand. Another story. Another cry. You face me, El Dragón Caído, and once again you shout, “Wolf!”

But this time… nadie believes you.

No one believes you are in trouble. No one believes you are overmatched. Because they’ve heard it too many times before. They’ve seen the performance. They’ve listened to the screams. And each time, you’ve turned those cries into more drama, more attention, more excuses.

But understand this, muchacho… this time, the wolf is real.

Yo soy ese lobo.

I am the big bad wolf you have pretended to fight your entire life. I am not a missing father you can mourn for sympathy. I am not a tragedy you can twist into strength. I am not a survival tale you can exploit.

I am the predator. The fangs. The claws. The shadow in the dark.

And when the boy finally faces the true wolf, there is no more laughter, no more games, no more lies. There is only silence… and blood.

Destructo, you’ve built your story on tears, on cries, on endless wolves that never truly existed. But at Ascension, when you step into the ring with me, you will face the fábula’s ending.

Because the people will not come running this time. They will not save you. They will not believe you when you scream, “The wolf is here!”

And when you look across the ring, you will see me—el verdadero lobo. The one that does not go away. The one that does not turn into a lesson or a performance. The one that tears, devours, and leaves only bones behind.

I am El Dragón Caído. The Fallen Dragon. The mask of obsidian, the claws of the beast, the fire of the ancients. And against me, your cries will not be heard.

At Ascension, Destructo, you will learn what the boy in the cuento learned long ago—when the wolf finally comes, no one saves you.

And the wolf always eats.