You think you planted me, Tombstone?

You think you pulled me from the dirt, gave me sunlight, gave me water, and I bloomed under your grace?

You really believe that?

Let me tell you something, old man—you didn’t plant a rose. You buried a man.

You didn’t nurture me. You suffocated me. You pushed me beneath your shadow and called it protection. You demanded loyalty and called it brotherhood. You made me kneel and called it growth.

That wasn’t sunlight you gave me. It was your spotlight—and you never let me leave it.

I was never a rose.

I was a weed. Wild. Resilient. Growing in places you didn’t want me to. Cracking through your concrete. Breathing when you swore I shouldn’t be able to. And that? That scared you.

So you clipped me.

Over and over again. You pruned me, shaped me, twisted me into something useful—not something real. You didn’t raise me. You used me. You watered me just enough to keep me alive, just enough to make me fight your wars and bury your enemies.

And now you have the audacity to stand there and say I betrayed you?

You never gave me a choice.

You say I stabbed you with thorns? No. I defended myself. You were the one holding the shears.

You wanted a servant. You got a rival.

You wanted obedience. You bred vengeance.

You say you ferry souls?

Well maybe this time, I’m not the one getting ferried.

Maybe this time, the Reaper drowns in his own river.

You call me a rose. Fine. Let’s follow that all the way down.

You say the rose cuts the hand that fed it.

But let me remind you—a rose only grows thorns because the world taught it to defend itself. It grew them out of pain. Out of necessity.

Out of you.

And now, those thorns?

They’re not pointed at your hand.

They’re pointed at your heart.

Because I’m not just some twisted little plant in your forgotten garden anymore. I’ve dug my way out of the earth you buried me in. I’ve clawed through every root, every rock, every lie you ever told me.

And now I’m above ground. Standing tall. No more shadows. No more gardener. Just me.

And you?

You’re wilting.

You’re old. Cracked. Hollow inside, and clinging to the myth that you made me. You didn’t make me.

You tried to break me.

But you failed.

At Ring of Dreams, the roles are reversed.

You’re the one getting planted.

You’re the one going down.

Because this time, it’s not your hand on the shovel.

It’s mine.

You raised a monster?

Now watch him bloom.

Six feet deep.

Right next to you.