El Mariachi Muerte. That’s what they called you. Death’s musician. The singer of endings. At one point, you were among the most feared, most enigmatic figures in Arcadia, never mind Old School Wrestling. But you let Caido take it all, and now you walk these halls like someone with no idea where they’re going. You admitted it yourself—you have nothing but a title. And when someone else strips you of that title, what remains?

Nothing.

You see, a title is nothing more than a borrowed garment. It doesn’t belong to you. It drapes over your shoulders, hangs heavy on your frame, and convinces you that you’re larger than life. That mask of paint? That rose you clutch? Those were never yours. They were given to you, and like everything given, they could be taken away.

Caido reached in and pulled the thread, and now the garment unravels. You stand there clutching fabric that no longer fits, still whispering to yourself as if it could be stitched back together.

But names… names cannot be stolen. They are carved. Earned. Burrowed into marrow until they outlast the flesh that carries them. I am Anton Savor, and there is no hand strong enough to strip that from me. Because what I am is not a title. It is not borrowed. It is not worn. It is me.

You, on the other hand, are just a man who once wore “Mariachi Muerte” like a crown. But you didn’t rule it. You served it. And when it slipped from your head, you had nothing left but silence. That is why you pace in your little room, clutching the sash, staring into mirrors, whispering about who you might be. Because deep down, you’ve realized the most painful truth of all: you never were.

You were never death’s song. You were just its echo. Never a conductor, only an instrument. Caido played you until the song was finished, and then he set you down like a broken guitar. Now you rattle your strings, but no music comes out. No sound. No power. Just wood and silence.

And so, when you face me, I won’t see El Mariachi Muerte. I won’t even see the mask. I’ll see the absence behind it. A man defined by a title that no longer belongs to him. A singer who has lost his voice. A weapon that has been stripped of its wielder.

You want to know who you are without it? You want to ask the mirror for answers? Let me save you the trouble. You are not death’s mariachi. You are not a legend. You are not a name.

You are just a man.

And a man cannot kill me.

Because when I take from you, I don’t take titles. I don’t take garments. I take the very illusion you built your life on. And when it’s gone, when I strip you bare, you will not wonder who you are anymore.

You will know, Muerte…

that you are nothing.