Naoko Mori: Ch.2 - "The Wounds of the Wild Tora"

The dojo was empty at this hour. The kind of empty that made every sound feel louder than it should have been. Naoko Mori stood barefoot on the polished wooden floor, her palms resting on her thighs as she centered her breathing. Incense burned in a small dish against the wall. Its smoke curled upward in a slow, steady line.

Her tiger mask sat on the bench beside her. She hadn’t touched it yet.

The room was lit by a single overhead light, casting a long shadow behind her as she moved toward the old television mounted in the corner. She raised the remote and pressed play.

The footage rolled in silence.

Riko Matsumoto grabbing the top rope.

The shift of momentum.

Naoko teetering.

The crowd’s reaction frozen in the frame.

Then the fall.

Naoko watched her own elimination from the Ronin Rumble without blinking. She rewound it. Watched it again. And again. Her thumb clicked the button with precise rhythm, like a metronome marking the tempo of her failure.

She finally shut the TV off.

Naoko lowered the remote and rested it gently on the bench. She didn’t sit. She didn’t sigh. She only closed her eyes briefly before turning toward the heavy bag hanging from the rafters.

Her first strike landed clean—straight palm, perfect angle.

The second came faster.

The third broke rhythm.

Her breathing stuttered, just for a moment, before she corrected it.

Naoko stepped back and adjusted the tape around her wrist. It was too tight on one side. She always wrapped it evenly. Tonight she hadn’t. She fixed it with the same care she used to give Riko back when she was younger, clumsy, impatient.

The memory surfaced before she could stop it.

A training mat.

Riko’s hands were trembling as Naoko redid the tape for her.

Riko pretended she didn’t care about the gesture.

Naoko pretended she didn’t notice.

Naoko opened her eyes.

She struck the bag again—hard enough to make the chain rattle overhead. Sweat dotted her brow. Her posture remained straight, disciplined, but tension curled through her shoulders like a knot she couldn’t untie.

Naoko: You were reckless then. You’re reckless now.

The words weren’t angry. They were disappointed. That tone hurt her more than any strike she delivered.

She walked across the floor and knelt in front of the low wooden table where her notebook lay open. Notes filled the pages—Riko’s past matches, weaknesses, tendencies, gaps in her footwork. Naoko had written them in crisp handwriting, every letter controlled.

She traced one line with her finger.

Leaves herself open after aerial recovery.

She had told Riko that exact thing years ago. Repeated it. Demonstrated it. Corrected it over and over until her voice went hoarse.

Riko listened.

Riko improved.

Then Riko forgot.

Or maybe she never cared.

Naoko closed the notebook quietly. She didn’t slam it. She didn’t let frustration show in her actions. But her jaw tensed as she rose to her feet again.

She looked at her mask on the bench.

Naoko: I should have seen it sooner.

Her voice echoed faintly in the empty room.

Naoko: You were never meant to follow my path.

She walked toward the window and rested her hand against the pane. The night outside was quiet, Tokyo glowing in the distance.

Her reflection in the glass stared back at her—calm, poised, but cracked somewhere deep behind the eyes.

Naoko: But that does not absolve what you’ve become.

She stepped away from the window and returned to the center of the dojo. Her stance sharpened. Her breathing steadied. She moved with precision now, her strikes clean, rhythmic, unfaltering.

This time her discipline held.

This time the memory did not shake her.

When she finally stopped, she reached for her mask. Her fingers brushed the edges slowly, like she was reminding herself of its weight.

Naoko: At Empire’s End… you will answer for what you’ve done.

She lifted the mask but did not put it on.

Naoko: And I will answer for what I failed to do.

The overhead light hummed softly as she set the mask back down.

Her resolve did not.

The AAPW locker room buzzed with low conversation as wrestlers laced their boots, taped their wrists, and tightened the straps of their gear. The atmosphere was steady but tense. Everyone understood the stakes. Empire’s End wasn’t just another event. It was a clash of pride, of legacy, of two promotions demanding dominance.

Naoko stepped inside quietly, carrying her tiger mask in one hand. The room shifted almost immediately. Postures straightened. Voices lowered. Even the younger rookies who barely knew her moved with sharper focus. She didn’t raise her voice or slam a door. She didn’t need to. Her presence drew discipline out of people the same way heat pulled steam from boiling water.

She set her gear bag on the bench and took a moment to look around. Tatsu Hime adjusted her elbow pad near the mirrors. Hiro Watanabe and Takeshi Onishi taped each other’s wrists. Even the normally loud Hitoshi “Thunder Kid” Kojiro stayed quiet.

Naoko stepped forward.

Naoko: Everyone… listen.

The room fell into silence almost at once.

Naoko held the mask at her side but didn’t put it on. She looked at each wrestler individually, not rushing, not scanning past them. She met every pair of eyes with the same resolute steadiness.

Naoko: Tonight is not about individual victories. Tonight is not about who gets the pin or who gets the spotlight. Tonight… we are AAPW.

No one moved. No one even shifted their weight.

Naoko: Ultimate Wrestling believes they can walk into Japan and take something that does not belong to them. They believe their chaos—

She paused. — their lack of discipline, their lack of honor, their arrogance… can match our legacy.

Her jaw tightened, but she controlled it.

Naoko: They are wrong.

Hiro nodded once, firmly. Tatsu’s arms crossed in front of her chest, a stern expression settling over her features.

Naoko lifted a hand and tapped two fingers lightly against her sternum.

Naoko: This stable championship… it was built on the backs of everyone in this room. On years of sacrifice. On training until sunrise. On discipline. On unity.

She lowered her hand.

Naoko: So when we step into that ring at Empire’s End, we do not fight for ourselves. We fight for AAPW. We fight for Japan. We fight for the generations who built this sport before us.

There was a collective breath in the room—steady, unified.

Then Tatsu Hime stepped forward, her voice low.

Tatsu: Naoko… are you ready for her?

The question froze the room.

Naoko didn’t react immediately. She placed the tiger mask gently on the bench and straightened her posture.

Naoko: I am ready for every threat they bring.

Tatsu didn’t back down.

Tatsu: I asked about her.

Silence pressed in from all sides. Even the ventilation hum felt quieter.

Naoko’s expression didn’t break, but something behind her eyes shifted—just enough for those who knew her well to notice.

She didn’t look away.

Naoko: Riko Matsumoto chose her path. She chose defiance. She chose dishonor. What she brings into that ring… she will answer for.

Tatsu watched her carefully.

Tatsu: And what will you answer for?

It was a simple question. It landed like a weight.

Naoko didn’t flinch. She stepped forward, steady as a trained blade.

Naoko: I will answer for allowing her to stray so far. I will answer for the weakness I showed in believing she was ready. And I will answer… for what must be done now.

Her voice stayed level, but the tension around her shoulders told another story.

Tatsu gave a small nod, accepting the response, even if she didn’t fully believe Naoko was as centered as she sounded.

Naoko turned back toward the group.

**Naoko:v Stand together. Fight with discipline. Show them what AAPW is.

The wrestlers responded with a low, collective shout—respectful, focused, determined.

As they began gearing up again, the room regained its rhythm. But Naoko remained still at her bench for a moment longer. She studied her mask. Her reflection in its polished surface stared back, warped by the curve.

She touched the edge of the mask with her fingertips.

Naoko: This time… no hesitation.

Her voice barely made it past her lips. No one else heard it.

She lifted the mask with both hands, feeling its weight, and exhaled slowly.

Whatever she was carrying into Empire’s End—anger, guilt, disappointment—she buried it beneath the mask as she placed it over her face.

The Wild Tora stood.

Her eyes were steady.

Her heart was not.

The hallway outside the AAPW dressing area was empty, lit by a single strip of fluorescent light humming faintly overhead. Naoko Mori stood in the center of it, mask off, her expression unreadable as she tightened the tape around her wrists one last time. A crew member approached her cautiously.

Crew Member: They’re ready for your pre-match promo, Mori-san.

Naoko nodded once. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

She stepped into position in front of the camera. The red light blinked on.

Her eyes locked directly onto the lens, calm and unwavering.

There was no fire, no rage, no theatrics.

Just truth sharpened to a blade.

Naoko: Riko Matsumoto.

She spoke the name without emotion, as if reciting a fact rather than addressing a person. Her posture remained rigid, shoulders squared, chin raised slightly.

Naoko: You have spoken loudly these past few weeks. About independence. About survival. About how you made it without me. And I have listened.

Her gaze didn’t shift. It didn’t need to.

Naoko: But tonight… you listen to me.

She took one step closer to the camera, enough for her face to fill the frame but not enough to break composure.

Naoko: You eliminated me in the Ronin Rumble. You embarrassed me. You humiliated the teacher who once tried to guide you. And you celebrated as if you had conquered something worthwhile.

A faint breath left her nose. Not a laugh. Not a scoff.

A judgment.

Naoko: What you did was not victory. It was a reminder—of my failures as a mentor, and of your refusal to learn.

Her voice grew quieter, not louder. The kind of quiet that carried weight without needing volume.

Naoko: You call your actions “survival.” You call your choices “freedom.” But I see them for what they truly are. Recklessness. Arrogance. And fear you cannot admit even to yourself.

Her fingers curled slightly, just once, before relaxing again.

Naoko: You fear discipline. You fear structure. You fear anyone who sees the truth behind your bravado.

She lowered her chin, her eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in finality.

Naoko: And above all… you fear the woman who knows you best.

The hallway felt like it shrank around her, not because she grew louder, but because every word tightened the air.

Naoko: You speak of teeth. Of becoming something stronger. But a street animal is still just that—an animal. Instinct without guidance. Rage without purpose. Power without control.

A brief silence.

Naoko: At Empire’s End, I will show you the difference between strength and chaos. Between honor and impulse. Between a warrior… and a child still pretending to be one.

She stepped fully into the camera’s focus now, her expression unchanging.

Naoko: I am not coming to save you. That time is gone.

A final breath. Controlled. Steady.

Naoko: I am coming to end what should have ended the night you chose dishonor over everything I taught you.

She picked up her tiger mask from off-screen and held it at her side.

Naoko: Riko Matsumoto… you will answer for what you have done. And I will answer for what I failed to do.

She lifted the mask and slid it over her face. The transformation was instant. The Wild Tora stood where Naoko had been.

The voice that followed was low, resonant, final.

Naoko: Empire’s End. Your judgment awaits.

She turned and walked out of frame without another word.

The camera light clicked off.