You know, they want you to believe that there’s a system here.

That this Kaos match is a carefully crafted menu. Tiered, balanced. Thoughtfully prepared. Five championships. Six competitors. Gold placed at every rung like a progression of flavor—tag to midcard to main, each elimination revealing the next step forward.

But there’s no system.

There’s no curation. No integrity to the structure, no proof that the course you’re served has anything to do with your quality.

Because the tiers are a lie.

This match doesn’t reward greatness. It schedules it. It pretends placement is prestige. That whoever gets eliminated fourth deserves a title more valuable than the second. And that the last man standing is the most deserving of all.

But what does that say about the Tag Champions, who could be decided in the first ten minutes?

What does it say about Narcissa, holding a midcard belt like it means she’s something more than an echo of elegance?

What does it say about Jackson Cade, walking in as World Champion, only to be stacked beside the rest of us like just another course in a meal no one asked to finish?

It says that the titles don’t scale.

They shuffle.

They’re passed out like assignments—not based on excellence, but on timing. On sequence. On accident.

This match isn’t a menu. It’s a rotation. A lineup. A kitchen firing dishes in panic, hoping that the guests won’t notice that the order doesn’t match the quality. That the plating is forced, or that the pairings make no sense.

But you see, I don’t care which course you believe you are. Whether you see yourself as the opener, the middle, or the main. Because when the meal’s built wrong, no one is served properly.

And when you hand out five belts in five acts, hoping that scale will create meaning, what you’re really doing is admitting that none of them can hold it alone.

Because if they could, you wouldn’t need five.

You’d need one.

And you already have it.

You just buried it in the middle, hoping no one would notice that the most balanced, demanding, and consistent title in this match is the one I already hold. The Double Feature. Not simply because I won it. But because I carried it with clarity. With intent.

I’ve held this title for four months— not through evasion or luck, but because every challenge placed before me has been reduced, refined, and served as proof of why I belong at the top.

And while the rest of you pretended that your position meant you mattered, I plated something that actually fed the room.

So call this match whatever you’d like. Build your structure, assign your steps. Because in the end, it won’t matter where your title was placed on the ladder. It’ll matter whether anyone remembers what it tasted like.

And when they don’t—

When no one recalls what Cade defended, what Nox and Eclipse survived, what Jasper clawed at, or what Narcissa tried to elevate—

They’ll remember the only thing that didn’t need a tier to matter.

And that’s me.