I remember this one commander we had.

Kept his men breathing when the world begged them to die. We thought he was merciful.

Until the day he lined us up in the mud and picked who lived based on who shamed his flag the least.

That’s what they don’t tell you about men who save lives. Some of them do it so they can decide how those lives end.

Sound familiar, Caido?

You dragged Muerte from the edge. Again and again. Pulled him back like a brother. Shielded him like you gave a damn.

And we all bought it.

Every damn one of us thought you were the shield. Turns out you were just the executioner.

You didn’t save him to protect him. You saved him to own him.

So when the lights were right and the eyes were on you, you could be the one holding the knife and rewriting the story.

You call yourself El Mariachi Grande.

The first.

The founder.

The goddamned original.

You think that makes you sacred. But all I see is a man who can’t stand that the world kept spinning without kissing his boots.

You wear honor like it’s armor, but it’s just a coffin you climbed into so no one could bury you first.

You call it disgrace that Muerte thrived under the Mariachi’s mask. But I’ve seen disgrace, Caido.

And it doesn’t bleed like he did.

It doesn’t fight. It rewinds the clock and scrubs its hands raw just to pretend they were never dirty.

You don’t want justice. You want permission to carve your name into every chapter even if it means slicing someone else’s chest open to do it.

You say the Order doesn’t forget, that it doesn’t forgive. Then it’s not an Order.

It’s a goddamned prison. And you’re just the oldest inmate.

You polished your myth until you couldn’t see your own blood in the reflection. That’s why you kept him breathing. Not to preserve the name— to punish the man who dared wear it without bowing to your ghost.

You think you’re the hand of legacy. But legacy doesn’t strike.

It echoes.

And no one’s chanting your name. They’re screaming his.

The one you tried to erase with a mercy that came with a receipt. The one you thought you could save just long enough to gut in front of the crowd.

I didn’t come here to save Muerte.And I sure as hell didn’t come here to canonize you.

I came to show you what happens when a man confuses control with purpose. When mercy becomes leverage. When tradition turns into a leash. When the mask matters more than the soul choking beneath it.

You saved him to write your ending. You wanted your moment.

Your kill.

Your story.

But you forgot something.

There’s no glory in cutting down a man who already stood back up.

So come on, Dragon. Try and finish me. I’ll keep standing long after your name stops meaning a damn thing.

And when the blood clots and the crowd forgets, we’ll both know the truth.

You didn’t preserve a legacy. You just delayed its death.