Ultimate Wrestling Season 3 - Ch.10: Friday Night Clash 22: PART - 4

The lights inside the Tokyo Dome dropped into a cold, oppressive blue as fog crept over the ramp like a ghost summoned from the past. A haunting throat chant echoed from the speakers, ancient and tribal, growing louder until it gave way to the thunderous rhythm of “Wolf Totem” by The Hu. The crowd reacted with a murmur of uncertainty, unease laced into their cheers.

Miyu Kojima: The following contest is for the Ultimate Wrestling Submission Championship! The only way to win is to make your opponent submit!

A spotlight split the dark, revealing the towering figure of Chuluun Bold standing at the top of the ramp—broad, stoic, and unsettlingly still. But as he stepped forward, it became clear: something about him was… off. He walked with confidence, but there was a stiffness beneath it. His eyes were shadowed beneath damp strands of black hair. And when he gave that trademark grin… the arena gasped at the sight of gleaming titanium fangs catching the light.

Scott Slade: There he is—the Submission Champion. The Great Khan. But he’s not the same man we saw rampaging through the roster just a few short weeks ago. After Ronin Rumble, after that brutal war with Saikō Sasori… Bold looks like a shadow of himself.

Chris Rodgers: You’re damn right, Slade. I’ve never seen anything like it. Saikō was slamming his face into the ring post… it was grusome. He shattered his fangs and didn’t stop smashing.

Bold stalked down the ramp, his frame massive beneath the arena lights. He ignored the crowd. Ignored the disdain. He climbed the steps, entered the ring with grim resolve, and slowly raised his arms—an unspoken promise that the beast wasn’t dead. Just… reforged. A close-up shot hit the screen—his new fangs gleaming beneath a hollow smile.

Yushiro Fujimoto: This is the “champion” you bring to Japan? A walking corpse patched together with metal teeth? He disgraced your main event and now you dress him up in steel to hide the shame?

Takeshi Suzuki: Hah! The so-called Great Khan was broken in our house. You think titanium makes him stronger? No. It makes him fake.

Chris Rodgers: Man! You two need two shut up! Those aren’t just fangs—they’re weapons. Someone rebuilt Bold like a damn machine. You can see it in his eyes—he’s still hurting, but he’s here to hurt back.

Scott Slade: But you can’t hide blood loss, trauma, or a set of new metal chompers. This might be his last stand if he’s not careful.

Suddenly, the speakers slammed into the distorted intro of “My Name Is…” by Once Monsters. The lights flared red and gold as Shingo “The Midnight Dragon” Hara exploded from the curtain, shadow-boxing and howling to the crowd.

Miyu Kojima: And his opponent… from Kailua-Kona, Hawaii… representing True Chaotic… SHINGO HARA!

The crowd gave a respectful but divided reaction. He wasn’t their hero—but he wasn’t theirs to boo either. Just another foreign dog, scrapping in a ring that wasn’t built for him.

Takeshi Suzuki: And now this punk. Another outsider, waving his little fists like he belongs here. Hah! No samurai, no honor, just street trash from America.

Yushiro Fujimoto: Bold is a beast without a leash. Hara is a fighter without a flag. This match is Ultimate Wrestling eating its own tail. Let them tear each other apart.

Scott Slade: That may be true—but Shingo Hara is no joke. He’s untested in singles competition, but the kid’s got fire. He’s been forged in chaos, and tonight, he’s got a shot to bring down a monster.

Hara hit the ring with relentless energy, his eyes locked on Bold, fists clenched, chest heaving with adrenaline. He didn’t flinch. Not at the size difference. Not at the glinting fangs. Not at the cold expression staring back at him.

The referee raised the Submission Championship high above his head.

Chris Rodgers: No pinfalls. No count-outs. One of these men is going to have to admit the other broke them. Tap out—or pass out.

Scott Slade: And when Chuluun Bold is in that ring? Passing out is the merciful option.

[DING! DING! DING!]

[DING! DING! DING!]

The bell rang, and both men exploded out of their corners—Chuluun Bold, the towering vampire juggernaut, and Shingo Hara, the chaotic underdog with fists forged in fire.

They circled cautiously at first—Bold slower, more deliberate. Hara bounced on the balls of his feet, testing range with quick feints and low kicks. Then he surged in.

Scott Slade: Hara wastes no time—he’s going for the legs!

Hara ducked under Bold’s first swipe and delivered two quick shin kicks to the big man’s thigh, followed by a stiff elbow strike to the ribs. Bold grunted but didn’t move—he absorbed it. Then suddenly, he snatched Hara by the throat and hurled him backwards into the turnbuckle with a one-handed choke toss that rattled the entire ring.

Chris Rodgers: Damn! Bold might be slowed down, but that power is still there!

Hara clutched his spine for a second, but shook it off, exploding forward again—this time going low and launching himself into a dropkick to Bold’s knee, finally staggering the monster.

The crowd stirred, sensing blood.

Yushiro Fujimoto: That was smart. Bring the monster to his knees! Break the foundation!

Hara followed up with a Shining Wizard, cracking his knee across Bold’s jaw and sending him reeling into the ropes—but Bold didn’t fall. He roared, blood mist spraying from his mouth, and charged forward with a brutal Mongolian Chop, slamming down on Hara’s collarbones like a war drum.

Takeshi Suzuki: Hah! That’s how you break fools—crush their spine into dust!

Hara crumbled, but Bold didn’t let him drop. He lifted him into a military press, the crowd gasping as he walked toward the ropes, then threw Hara over the top—only for the younger wrestler to twist mid-air and land on the apron.

Scott Slade: Unreal athleticism! Hara’s still in this!

As Bold turned, Hara grabbed the top rope, leapt, and springboarded into a spinning heel kick, clipping Bold across the temple and finally staggering him to one knee.

Hara sprinted off the ropes and came in hot—T-Bone Suplex!

The crowd gasped as the Midnight Dragon lifted Bold just enough to throw him onto his back, the big man crashing down with a seismic thud.

Chris Rodgers: He hit it! He hit the damn suplex on the 295-pounder!

Yushiro Fujimoto: Hmph. Lucky leverage. That won’t make him tap.

Hara crawled onto Bold’s back, looking to cinch in the Snap Ring—his version of the Rings of Saturn—but Bold thrashed, snarling, biting at the air as if pure rage fueled his escape. He elbowed back hard, striking Hara in the face before rolling to his knees and lunging forward like a beast uncaged.

He rammed Hara into the corner with a spine-jarring tackle, then spun and launched him across the ring with a spinebuster so hard the ring frame groaned.

Scott Slade: That shook the Dome! Bold’s rage is boiling over now!

Breathing heavy, Bold grabbed Hara’s arm and hoisted him up with terrifying ease into a Gorilla Press Slam, holding him overhead for several seconds before slamming him down with force that echoed in every row of the stadium.

Chris Rodgers: That’s almost 7 feet of deadlift strength—still functioning, even in his weakened state!

Bold dropped down beside Hara, fangs bared, and started driving vicious elbows into his shoulders, then grabbed for the Claw, that brutal submission he’s used to make men scream.

But Hara fought back, raking his forearm across Bold’s eyes and twisting free. He threw an elbow—then another—then leapt and cracked Bold across the jaw with a jumping knee strike.

The crowd rose to their feet, tension peaking.

Scott Slade: This match is far from over—and right now, it’s a war of wills.

Yushiro Fujimoto: Let them destroy each other. That’s all Ultimate Wrestling’s good for—chaos without purpose.

Both men lay in the ring, breathing hard, battered, and bruised. Each one had tasted the other’s strength. But neither had come close to submission… yet.

The contest resumed with both men locking up in the center of the ring, each straining for leverage. Hara dipped under Bold’s grasp and pivoted behind, cinching in a waistlock before launching the vampire powerhouse with a thunderous German suplex. The Tokyo Dome crowd groaned as Bold’s massive frame bounced off the mat and slumped to one knee.

Scott Slade: That’s a hell of a throw from Hara, and look—look at Bold, he’s not getting up like he usually does.

Chris Rodgers: You're right, Slade. I’ve never seen The Great Khan move this sluggishly before. Usually, he’d pop up from something like that and be in his opponent’s face before they could blink.

Bold rose, but it was slower, his breathing heavier. His crimson eyes flickered with frustration as he stalked toward Hara, swinging wildly with a clubbing forearm. Hara ducked, countered with a stiff shoot kick to Bold’s left leg, then chopped him across the chest with a blistering knife-edge strike.

Yushiro Fujimoto: This is the man who held both the Submission and Franchise Titles? He looks like a sack of rice trying to dance in the wind.

Takeshi Suzuki: He was a monster once—but tonight? He’s just a man running on fumes. A disgrace to monsters, if you ask me.

Bold roared and surged forward with a shoulder block, knocking Hara down, but again he staggered. His legs wobbled slightly beneath him as he leaned into the ropes, exhaling through gritted metallic fangs. When he turned back, his movement lacked its usual precision—his lurch forward felt more mechanical, less animal.

Hara capitalized with a low dropkick to the knee, bringing Bold crashing down once more. He immediately transitioned into a grounded headlock, grinding the hold in while trying to feel out the big man’s limits.

Scott Slade: Bold just doesn’t look right. The speed, the fluidity—gone. He’s usually feral, unpredictable. Tonight, it’s like he’s trying to move through wet cement.

Chris Rodgers: He’s slower, stiffer. Maybe he didn’t recover from the Ronin Rumble main event. You saw the punishment he took from Sasori. His body might still be in pieces from that match.

Bold shoved Hara off and got to his feet with a snarl, delivering a hard Mongolian chop that echoed through the dome. Hara reeled from it but stayed standing. Bold grabbed him for a gorilla press slam—but his arms shook as he lifted. He managed to hoist Hara up and drop him down—but staggered afterward, dropping to a knee, breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face.

Chris Rodgers: Did you see that?! He almost dropped Hara during the lift! That’s unheard of for Bold! He’s got a damn gorilla press on his move list, Slade! That’s his bread and butter!

Scott Slade: Something’s off. Something’s very off. Either the Great Khan is still injured, or… he’s not the same creature we saw dominate week after week.

Bold crawled toward the ropes and used them to haul himself back up. His face was locked in a snarl, but it was laced with desperation now. Whatever power had driven him before was fading fast—and Hara could sense it.

Hara darted in, striking the knee again with a precise kick. Bold grunted and fell against the turnbuckle. Hara climbed to the second rope and rained down punches as the fans counted along. Bold absorbed them with a grimace, then shoved Hara off, but again, took a moment too long to follow up.

Yushiro Fujimoto: This beast is breaking down before our eyes! The mighty Khan is just another washed-up import who peaked too soon.

Takeshi Suzuki: I’ll give Shingo credit—he’s playing it smart. Let the bloodsucker wear himself out, then pick him apart like spoiled sashimi.

As Bold leaned in the corner, jaw clenched, his eyes darted to the crowd, searching—perhaps for strength, perhaps for something more. But there was no Yokai blood, no shadows to hide in. Just the roar of a crowd expecting greatness… and the cruel weight of expectation pulling him under.

Shingo Hara circled his prey with purpose now, eyes narrowing as he watched Chuluun Bold stagger out of the corner. The Mongolian giant swung with another wild haymaker, but Hara ducked underneath and answered with a snapping reverse heel kick that clipped Bold clean across the jaw, staggering the larger man backward.

Scott Slade: Bold just can’t keep up. He’s swinging from desperation now, not instinct.

Chris Rodgers: I’ve never seen him burn this much energy this early. Hara’s not just fighting a monster—he’s outlasting one.

With the momentum shifting, Hara launched into a flurry of offense—a pair of shoot kicks to the thigh, followed by a spinning back elbow that rocked Bold hard against the ropes. The Franchise Champion sagged forward, clutching the top rope for balance. Hara hit the ropes—building speed—and crashed into Bold’s ribs with a basement dropkick that sent the vampire tumbling through the ropes and out to the floor.

The Tokyo Dome crowd gasped, sensing the tide had turned.

Takeshi Suzuki: There! That’s how you handle a monster—chop him down until he can’t stand!

Yushiro Fujimoto: The mighty Khan has no answer. He’s too slow, too winded. He’s trying to fight like a god with a mortal’s body.

Hara didn’t wait. He rolled to the outside, grabbed Bold by the head, and slammed his face into the steel ring steps—not once, but twice—targeting the same area he’d bloodied during the Ronin Rumble. Bold grunted, his new metallic fangs flashing in the lights as blood ran fresh down his chin.

But then… he roared.

From his knees, Bold surged upward with a sudden burst of power, hoisting Hara by the waist and ramming him spine-first into the ring apron. The crowd gasped at the brutality. Bold followed up by tossing Hara back into the ring with surprising force, then collapsed against the apron, gasping.

Scott Slade: There it is! That fire! That rage! Even running on fumes, Chuluun Bold is still one of the most dangerous men alive!

Chris Rodgers: But he can’t capitalize, Slade! Look at him—he’s using the apron like a crutch. He’s spent. This version of Bold can’t keep this pace for long.

Crawling under the ropes, Bold made it back in just as Hara was pushing to his feet. Bold clobbered him with a thunderous short-arm lariat that flipped the Hawaiian clean inside out. The impact shook the ring and sent a jolt through the crowd.

Bold stumbled to one knee again, though—his chest heaving. Every offensive burst was costing him more than it used to. The crimson haze in his eyes looked dulled now, dulled by hunger, fatigue… or something deeper.

He pulled Hara up for a spinebuster—but Hara raked the eyes mid-lift and slipped behind, nailing a cobra clutch suplex that sent Bold crashing down on the back of his neck. The dome thundered with reaction.

Chris Rodgers: That suplex shook the damn building! And Bold—Bold’s not moving, Slade!

Scott Slade: Shingo Hara is dissecting him now. Precision. Patience. It’s everything Bold isn’t right now.

Hara rose and stood over Bold’s prone form, sweat dripping from his brow, his jaw clenched with resolve. He didn’t gloat. He didn’t pose. He simply stalked the downed vampire, waiting for him to rise again—knowing the next exchange could tilt the match decisively in his favor.

Yushiro Fujimoto: Let them destroy each other. There’s nothing to admire here. Just two men clawing for relevance in a war they already lost.

Takeshi Suzuki: Still… I’d be lying if I said watching Bold bleed didn’t bring a smile to my face.

The camera lingered on Bold, now struggling to his hands and knees, fresh blood trailing from his nose and mouth, eyes unfocused—but burning with something savage beneath the surface.

The beast wasn’t done yet. But he was drowning—and Shingo Hara smelled blood. The Tokyo Dome was pulsing with electricity—each fan on edge, watching as two warriors crawled toward their breaking point. Shingo Hara’s chest heaved with every breath, his taped ribs rising and falling in short, erratic bursts. Across the ring, Chuluun Bold stood hunched over, face slack, eyes glazed. His body—once a juggernaut of mythic brutality—now moved like it was filled with wet cement. His skin had turned an eerie, bluish gray under the arena lights, his massive chest soaked with sweat, his breath coming in ragged pulls.

Scott Slade: He’s still standing. Somehow. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen Bold like this, Chris. He looks... hollow.

Chris Rodgers: He’s not just tired, Slade. He’s collapsing from the inside. It’s like whatever was fueling him before—the thing that made him a monster—just isn’t there anymore.

Yushiro Fujimoto: A disgrace. Look at this so-called champion. Pale. Weak. Barely able to hold his arms up. THIS is your fearsome Khan?

Takeshi Suzuki: Bold has always been a fraud. Propped up by spectacle and superstition. And now? Now we see the man behind the monster—and he’s nothing!

Bold’s legs trembled as he lurched forward, swinging wildly with a half-hearted lariat. Hara ducked it, pivoted, and launched a back elbow into Bold’s kidney. The big man staggered, fell to one knee—but still didn’t go down.

Roaring, Hara hooked both arms and summoned everything he had left into a T-Bone Suplex, slamming Bold with a sickening crash into the canvas. The ring shuddered under the impact, but Bold didn’t bounce—he just lay there, limbs sprawled, chest spasming.

Scott Slade: He’s not responding… this is bad. Bold isn’t recovering. He’s not even twitching.

Shingo crawled across the ring, pulling himself upright by the ropes, blood dripping from a split eyebrow. His gaze locked onto the downed monster, but there was no fear in it—just purpose. The same quiet rage that fueled every poor kid who fought to prove they mattered.

With a grunt, Hara stalked forward and dropped into position behind Bold’s prone body. The crowd gasped as he seized Bold’s left arm… then the right… threading them between his legs.

Chris Rodgers: Oh no… he’s going for it again!

Scott Slade: The Snap Ring! He’s going to lock it in!

With a scream of exertion, Hara wrenched back, locking in his signature Rings of Saturn variant—shoulders torqued, spine bent into a crescent of agony. Bold’s eyes flew open, but no roar came—just a wet, gasping wheeze. His back arched unnaturally, his feet kicked once, twice, then went still.

Yushiro Fujimoto: Ha! Now we see it. The monster dies with a whimper!

Takeshi Suzuki: TAP! TAP! TAP!

The referee dropped beside them, shouting for a response—but Bold wasn’t even lucid. His mouth hung open, the new titanium fangs glinting under the lights, his lips cracked and stained crimson. His hands clawed at the mat, sluggish and uncoordinated.

Shingo Hara gritted his teeth and roared again, pulling tighter.

Bold’s right hand trembled… then, with a final breathless growl of defeat…

TAP. TAP. TAP.

[DING! DING! DING!]

Miyu Kojima: Ladies and gentlemen… your winner… and NEWWWWWW Submission Specialist Champion… SHINGO “THE MIDNIGHT DRAGON” HARA!!

The Tokyo Dome erupted in stunned disbelief. The crowd didn’t immediately cheer—it took a moment for the realization to sink in.

Chuluun Bold had tapped out.

Scott Slade: It’s over… it’s actually over. Shingo Hara has submitted Chuluun Bold. He did what no one—NO ONE—thought was possible.

Chris Rodgers: That’s not just a victory, Slade. That’s a seismic shift. Bold was untouchable. He was on a rampage since returning from the hospital. And now… he’s done.

Shingo released the hold, slumping backward onto the mat, completely spent. The ref moved in, handing him the Submission Championship, but Hara barely had the energy to hold it aloft. Blood dripped from his fingers as he crawled toward the ropes and leaned against them, his face twisted in disbelief and exhaustion.

Meanwhile, Bold lay motionless in the center of the ring.

The medics rushed in.

His chest still rose, barely—but his face had lost all color. His lips were almost blue, and his eyes fluttered half-closed. He looked like a corpse dragged through a warzone, and the titanium fangs protruding from his slack jaw only deepened the horror.

Yushiro Fujimoto: And now he’s nothing but a husk. Pale, broken, pathetic. I hope this ends his fairytale once and for all.

Takeshi Suzuki: Leave him in the dirt where he belongs! This isn’t a place for monsters!

Chris Rodgers: Say what you want about Bold, but don’t you dare question the war he just fought. He gave everything. But it just wasn’t enough. Whatever’s been fueling him lately… it’s gone.

Scott Slade: And Shingo Hara? Tonight, he became something more. Not just a survivor. Not just a brawler. But a true submission artist. A champion in every sense of the word.

As Hara stood at last, the belt clutched in one trembling hand, the lights dimmed and a spotlight fell on him. Around him, medics rolled Bold to his side, checking his pulse, securing a stretcher.

And as the final shot lingered, the camera zoomed in one last time on Chuluun Bold’s face—drawn, colorless, drenched in sweat.A monster slain not by magic… but by attrition. By time. By blood. By the limits even he couldn’t outrun.

The camera cuts to the interview platform plastered in gaudy red floodlights and draped with Ultimate Wrestling banners. A siren howls faintly in the background, and a subtle Russian military drum cadence can be heard under the segment—ominous, foreboding, dramatic.

Hiroshi Nakamura, wearing an Ultimate Wrestling windbreaker three sizes too big and clutching his mic like a sword, squints into the camera.

Hiroshi Nakamura: Hah-ro, rassuring fans around world! Hiroshi Nakamura here, BACK-stage… and my God, it feel like Cold War just start again! Because standing with me, right now, are two of most dangerous men in all of Ultimate Wrestling… the SNOW LEOPARD of MOTHER RUSSIA… SNEZHNAYA BARSA!!! And the walking weapon of mass destruction himself, the SIBERIAN WARHAMMER… VIKTOR ZLOVRED!!”

Barsa snarls behind the mask, arms crossed like a big cat ready to strike. Zlovred stands like a tank that’s been idling too long, ready to explode.

Hiroshi Nakamura: Gentlemen! Tonight, in front of entire world, you go to WAR with The New Breed! The Hurst siblings want revenge for the Ronin Rumble, but Red Reapers say nyet! You say destruction! So tell fans—what happen tonight?!

Viktor Zlovred steps forward and snatches the mic like it owes him money. His voice booms like a Soviet broadcast echoing over Red Square.

Viktor Zlovred: Tonight… IS NOT MATCH. TONIGHT—IS INVASION!

He slaps his chest like a drum, glaring into the camera with the intensity of a ballistic missile.

Viktor Zlovred: Cassie! Colton! You two little AMERICAN puppies bark too loud! Now... we crush you beneath BOOT of RUSSIA!

He raises one boot slowly and stomps it to the floor. The sound echoes like thunder in the narrow hallway.

Viktor Zlovred (growling): You want fight in ring? HA! We bring WAR. You bring tears. Red Reapers? We bring GLORY to MOTHERLAND!

He points a thick, calloused finger toward the camera.

Viktor Zlovred: Colton! You can cry to your daddy later tonight after you’ve been crushed thoroughly by VIKTOR ZOLVRED! HAHAHAHHAHAHAAAA!!!

Then, Barsa slides in like a shadow from the edge of the screen. He doesn’t speak at first. Instead, he lifts his leopard mask halfway to show his cold, painted lips, then lowers it again—letting the mystique do half the talking. When he finally speaks, it’s low and venomous.

Snezhnaya Barsa: New Breed, tonight the Siberian Spirits will prove to the world the foul inferior blood pumps through viens!

He flicks his wrist dismissively and turns to walk off, his red and gold gear shimmering under the lights like ceremonial battle armor.

Hiroshi Nakamura: Ohhh sweet ancestors… I feel like I just interview two BOSS FIGHT characters!! Fans—this... this is WAR! Who will win?! The New Breed?? Or RED. REAPERS?! We find out… TONIGHT!!

The camera cuts as Zlovred shoulder-checks the camera on his way out, sending it spiraling just slightly as the shot fades to a static-filled USSR test screen.

The Tokyo Dome buzzed with a low, ominous energy—like the calm before a gunfight. Suddenly, the house lights snapped to red, bathing the arena in a ghostly Soviet glow. The eerie tones of “Voennaya March” by the Russian Army Choir began to echo across the steel bones of the Dome, slow and thunderous. A collective hush fell over the crowd as the curtain peeled back… and the Siberian Spirits stepped into the light.

Viktor Zlovred marched forward like a living war monument—cold, imposing, every muscle in his body seemingly carved out of granite. His face betrayed no emotion. No fear. No mercy. Behind him, Snezhnayya Barsa slinked through the fog like a phantom, his movements silent, his white-and-silver mask gleaming under the lights like a predator’s skull.

The Russian duo descended the ramp like a funeral procession—no showmanship, no pandering—just cold, militaristic presence. The crowd jeered, but Viktor didn’t so much as flinch. Barsa glanced sideways, sizing up the arena with an icy detachment.

Suzuki: They walk like conquerors, but I see a pair of frauds.

Fujimoto: We don't cheer for Russia or America. This match is a war between snakes. Let them poison each other.

Once inside the ring, Viktor stood dead center, jaw set, arms crossed. Barsa scaled the ropes with almost feline grace, crouching atop the corner post, eyes scanning the entrance ramp like a sniper awaiting a target.

The lights cut again. This time, they pulsed in time with a gritty guitar riff. “Black Sheep” by Dorothy exploded through the PA, and an eruption of noise followed. Cheers. Screams. Boos. Hatred. Adoration. Chaos.

Cassie Hurst and Colton Hurst—The New Breed—stormed the stage.

Cassie cracked her neck and raised a single fist to the crowd, her other hand clenched at her side. Her expression was pure defiance: lips curled, brow furrowed, eyes sharp as razors. The crowd response was visceral—half the audience roared with admiration, the other half booed with fury. Colton emerged behind her—stoic, battle-worn, a scarred titan with hollow eyes. He didn’t play to the crowd. His stare was fixed on Viktor Zlovred like a predator scenting blood. The siblings descended the ramp together, a perfect contrast of fire and ice. Cassie oozed charisma and venom. Colton radiated stillness and violence.

Scott Slade: There they are. The most controversial duo in Ultimate Wrestling today. One part outlaw, one part firebrand… and they are not here to make friends.

Chris Rodgers: They've fought through everything—biker gangs, blood feuds, mental breakdowns—and tonight they’re fighting for nothing but pride… and payback.

Suzuki: All of them are arrogant. All of them are selfish. Let them tear each other to pieces.

Cassie sprinted ahead and slid under the ropes, popping up like a sparkplug while Colton climbed the steps and entered with methodical calm. They stood side by side in the ring, squaring off with their Russian adversaries. Four bodies. One ring. No rules left unwritten. Barsa leapt down from the top rope, dropping into a wide stance like a martial artist ready to strike. Viktor cracked his knuckles with deliberate malice. Cassie smirked and mouthed something venomous across the ring. Colton just stared—silent, unblinking.

Referee Bob Sigro stepped between them, clearly aware he was standing between a powder keg and an open flame. He motioned them to their corners with sharp hand gestures. Cassie didn’t budge at first, eyes locked with Barsa. Colton finally took her by the shoulder and pulled her back. The tension was suffocating. The fans rose to their feet. Bob glanced at the timekeeper and raised his hand.

DING DING DING.

The main event had begun—and there would be no forgiveness when it ended. The Tokyo Dome buzzed with anticipation. Cassie cracked her neck and slowly circled to her left, Barsa mirroring her with unnerving precision.

Scott Slade: Here we go—Vanity versus the Snow Leopard. This is going to be a fight, not a wrestling match.

Chris Rodgers: They’ve wanted to rip each other apart for weeks, Scott. No love, no respect—just pure malice.

Fujimoto: Let them destroy each other. Maybe we will be spared another speech from the Hurst family.

Suzuki: I hope they leave their politics in America. Here, only pain speaks.

Cassie moved first—darting in with a leg feint before attempting a quick hammerlock. Barsa twisted free like smoke, dropping into a forward roll and popping back up with a backflip feint of his own. Cassie sneered. The crowd responded with a loud, mixed reaction—half appreciating the acrobatics, half begging for blood.

Barsa cartwheeled toward her, aiming a spinning heel kick that she ducked under, rising into a sharp elbow to his ribs. Barsa hissed, landing on his feet, only to be taken down with a crisp leg lariat from Vanity. The first blow of the match echoed through the Dome.

Cassie immediately tried to lock in a quick crossface—The Black Sheep—but Barsa twisted violently and kicked her away with both feet, sending her stumbling back toward the corner.

Scott Slade: Cassie trying to end it early! You can tell how badly she wants this.

Chris Rodgers: She’s not playing around tonight. Neither is Barsa.

Barsa flipped backward into a kip-up, landing just in time to catch Cassie charging in with a monkey flip that sent her tumbling into the opposite corner. He cartwheeled to his feet again, posing just long enough to draw another wave of mixed reaction. Cassie spat to the side and tagged in Colton. Colton stepped between the ropes without a word, rolling his shoulders. Across the ring, Barsa didn’t hesitate—he sprinted and slapped Viktor Zlovred on the chest, tagging in the Russian hammer.

The air shifted.

Colton Hurst and Viktor Zlovred stood nose-to-nose at center ring. The arena got quieter—not silent, but reverent. These were the heavy hitters. The men who didn’t flinch.

Suzuki: Here comes the thunder. Neither of them will back down.

Fujimoto: We may need a new ring by the time this is over.

The crowd roared as the two locked up in a collar-and-elbow tie. Neither man budged. Muscles strained. Teeth clenched. Colton’s knee shifted just slightly, gaining an angle—then Viktor powered through, forcing him back a half-step.

Colton responded by twisting out into a side headlock, wrenching down hard, but Viktor shoved him into the ropes and caught him with a brutal shoulder block on the return. Colton dropped to one knee, eyes flaring as he looked up at the Russian, and smirked.

Viktor didn’t blink.

Colton sprang up, hit the ropes again, and ducked a clothesline attempt, rebounding into a short-arm clothesline of his own that rocked Viktor—but didn’t drop him. The Siberian Warhammer stumbled, regained his footing, and responded with a thunderous battering ram headbutt to Colton’s chest that knocked him into the ropes.

Now it was Colton’s turn to not go down. Both men stared each other down again, breathing heavier, their chests rising and falling with silent fury.

Chris Rodgers: This is a war of willpower. Of pride. Nobody’s giving an inch.

Scott Slade: We are watching two men fight not just for victory—but for the right to exist in that ring.

Colton tagged back out to Cassie. Viktor smirked… and stayed in.

Fujimoto: Ah. Now the war crimes begin.

Suzuki: I believe your sarcasm is showing.

Cassie entered the ring cautiously, but not with fear. She knew Viktor could crush her with a single blow—but she was faster, smarter, and meaner. She ran forward, ducked under a telegraphed lariat, and began chipping away—leg kicks, a forearm to the back of his head, then a shin breaker to Viktor’s left leg that made the big man grunt in annoyance. He shoved her away, swinging wildly, but Cassie ducked and planted a headbutt right to his stomach that made him double over. Before she could capitalize, Viktor grabbed her by the waist, deadlifted her up into a hangman neckbreaker, and dropped her across his shoulder like a ragdoll. Cassie gasped as her spine arched, pain ripping through her back.

Scott Slade: Good God! He just folded her in half!

Chris Rodgers: She might be broken. But Vanity doesn’t break easy.

Cassie dragged herself toward her corner, one arm clutching her ribs. Viktor stalked her but didn’t press the attack, as if daring her to tag out. She reached up—tag. Colton back in. The Tokyo Dome shook again as the brothers-in-arms locked horns with the invaders from the East. Four warriors. One war. No end in sight.

As Colton stepped through the ropes, Viktor met him at the center of the ring, no hesitation—just pure contempt in every step. The two men collided again, fists flying, no lock-up this time. It was just rage. Hooks and uppercuts. Elbows and headbutts. No grace, no finesse.

Scott Slade: This isn’t about wrestling anymore—this is a street fight in the heart of Tokyo!

Chris Rodgers: No ref in the world could control this, not even Bob Sigro. He might as well toss the rulebook in the trash.

Suzuki: Finally. This is what we paid to see. Let them destroy each other.

Viktor caught Colton with a short jab to the liver, followed by a scissors kick that dropped him to one knee—but as Viktor turned to taunt the crowd, Colton lunged up behind him and planted a brutal Dragon Suplex right on the back of the Russian’s neck!

Viktor didn’t move.

Fujimoto: Zlovred… might be dead.

Colton didn’t wait. He dragged Viktor up again—rage etched into every line of his face—and drove him into the mat with a pump handle slam that rattled the ring boards. Cassie screamed from the corner, demanding the tag, and Colton gave it to her. He didn’t even look at his sister—he just stormed to the apron, fists clenched, veins bulging in his arms. Cassie leapt over the ropes and launched into a springboard leg drop across Viktor’s throat, then rolled him into the middle of the ring. She didn't bother going for a pin. She wanted pain. She stood and stomped on his hand, then grabbed his wrist and curb-stomped his fingers into the mat.

Scott Slade: Vanity’s not playing games anymore. This is vengeance.

Chris Rodgers: She’s trying to cripple him!

But just as she turned to go for a second stomp—Barsa tagged himself in. The crowd roared as the masked Snow Leopard springboarded into the ring with an effortless twist, landing just behind Cassie before unleashing a blinding tornado DDT that spiked her headfirst into the mat. Cassie flopped like a doll, her limbs twitching from the impact. Barsa didn’t stop—he hit the ropes and flew into a reverse 450 splash across her ribs, bouncing up to his feet in a single motion.

Suzuki: Finally! Precision! Artistry! Death from above!

Fujimoto: Still… not Japanese. I feel nothing.

Cassie gasped for breath, dragging herself toward the ropes, but Barsa was already on the top turnbuckle—poised, feral, majestic. He dove— But Cassie twisted at the last second, and Barsa crashed chest-first into the canvas! Vanity lunged and tagged in Colton. Colton charged in like a warhorse, scooping Barsa into a T-bone suplex that sent the smaller man bouncing off the far turnbuckles. The crowd shrieked. Colton snarled.

Then all hell broke loose.

Viktor—still holding his ribs—stormed into the ring without a tag, grabbing Colton by the hair and yanking him backward into a brutal backbreaker, before leveling him with a clothesline that sent both men spilling out under the ropes. Cassie was climbing to the top rope as Barsa got up, groggy but vertical. She launched—springboard backflip senton—The Sundrop! But Barsa caught her mid-air and converted it into a powerbomb counter! The audience exploded.

Scott Slade: ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! How did he—how did he even time that?!

Chris Rodgers: He just killed her! He just folded her in half!

Outside the ring, Viktor had Colton’s head against the ring post and was raking his face across the steel, the big man’s eyes wild with fury, screaming in Russian. Colton elbowed him in the gut, grabbed him by the waistband—and suplexed Viktor onto the floor, the ring apron slamming into his back with a sickening thud. Cassie was crawling toward the corner again, her chest heaving, mouth bloodied. Barsa stalked her—predator to prey. Bob Sigro tried to regain order, shouting warnings, but no one was listening.

This was war now. Inside the ring, Barsa grabbed Cassie’s ankle—but she spun around, kicked him in the face, and lunged for the tag. Colton came in like a battering ram.

Suzuki: Again?! Again!?

Fujimoto: I have seen bar fights with better discipline!

Colton snatched Barsa off the mat, booted him in the face, and looked ready to finish it—when suddenly— Viktor reached under the bottom rope and yanked Colton’s legs out, slamming him onto his back. Cassie leapt off the apron to stop Viktor, hurling herself at him with a flying knee to the face! Viktor caught her mid-air and spinebustered her onto the ring steps. The fans gasped.

Scott Slade: She’s broken in half! My God!

Chris Rodgers: Someone stop this before we need body bags.

Cassie lay crumpled against the steps, barely stirring as Viktor loomed over her like a war machine carved from ice. But before he could grab her again, Colton launched off the apron with a clothesline from hell, dropping the Siberian Warhammer to the arena floor. The thud echoed across the Dome, the audience gasping as both men went down hard.

Scott Slade: Colton Hurst just sacrificed his own spine to save his sister—and it worked!

Chris Rodgers: That’s blood, Slade. That’s not strategy. That’s family.

Inside the ring, Barsa struggled to his feet, unaware that Cassie was crawling under the bottom rope, her face bruised but her spirit roaring back to life. The crowd buzzed. She rose like a storm reborn.

Suzuki: Why won’t she stay down? She has nothing left!

Fujimoto: Because Americans are too stupid to know when they’re beaten.

Barsa turned—right into a shin breaker! Cassie trapped the leg and spun into a hammerlock inverted DDT, bouncing Barsa’s masked skull off the canvas. The crowd lit up!

Scott Slade: Vanity turns the tide! That was pure technique!

Cassie crawled to the corner, dragging herself up the turnbuckle, teeth clenched. Her back screamed. Her ribs throbbed. But she looked out at the sea of lights in the Tokyo Dome—and leapt into the Sundrop! Backflip senton—CRASHES across Barsa’s chest! She hooked the leg.

ONE!

TWO!!

—NO!!!

Barsa kicked out at the last heartbeat.

Chris Rodgers: How?! That was all spine and fury!

Cassie slammed the mat in frustration, but she didn’t waste time. She dragged Barsa up and drove him back into the New Breed’s corner—tag to Colton. Colton stepped through the ropes, eyes like coals behind his sweat-drenched hair. He took one look at Barsa and T-Bone suplexed him across the ring like he weighed nothing. Viktor started to stir outside the ring, groggy and pissed—but Bob Sigro ordered him back to the apron. Viktor snarled but obeyed.

Inside, Colton picked Barsa up again—short-arm clothesline! Barsa rolled back to his feet on instinct—boot to the face! The impact nearly took his mask off. Colton pounced—The Snap Ring! He trapped the arms and yanked back hard, wrenching Barsa’s shoulders in the Rings of Saturn!

Scott Slade: Barsa’s in trouble! Nowhere to go!

Suzuki: Tap, you coward! End this foolishness!

Fujimoto: Never. A true warrior dies before he taps.

Barsa clawed at the mat, squirming, his boots kicking wildly. His legs inched toward the ropes—closer, closer— And finally—he hooked the bottom rope! Sigro forced the break. Colton released, breathing heavy, dragging his arm across his mouth. He tagged Cassie back in. She mounted the top rope with fire in her eyes—aimed—but Viktor slapped Barsa’s back to tag himself in! Cassie didn’t realize it until it was too late. She leapt—but Viktor caught her in mid-air with a shoulder block that sent her crashing to the canvas.

Chris Rodgers: That’s 270 pounds of Russian concrete smashing a 120-pound missile out of the sky!

Colton rushed in—but Viktor ducked and caught him with a back elbow, then a scoop slam that shook the mat. Cassie crawled across the canvas, dazed but not out. Colton rolled to the outside to recover and for a moment—it was just Viktor and Cassie again.The Warhammer turned, looming. Cassie stared up, defiant and then—she slapped him across the face.

Scott Slade: Oh my god—Vanity just slapped a Russian war veteran in front of 60,000 fans!

Suzuki: Yes! Yes! Rip her apart!

Fujimoto: This will not end well.

The Tokyo Dome pulsed with frenzied energy as Vanity stalked the ring like a predator, eyes locked onto the masked enigma that was Barsa. Colton Hurst, bruised but burning with intensity, stood just outside the ropes, pounding the turnbuckle in rhythm with the fans chanting, "NEW BREED! NEW BREED!"

Chris: You can feel the electricity, Scott—Vanity’s lost it. She’s not trying to win this for pride anymore… she wants Barsa’s identity.

Scott: And that could cost them everything. Barsa’s mask isn’t just show—it’s sacred. You rip that off, and you’re declaring war.

Inside the ring, Barsa crawled toward the corner, gasping for air after a stiff shin breaker from Vanity had left him hobbling. But as he reached out to tag in Viktor Zlovred, Cassie suddenly grabbed his boot and dragged him back with a violent yank. He flipped onto his back and kicked frantically, trying to break free—but Cassie was relentless. She dove on top of him, hammering fists into his chest before clawing at his mask. The crowd erupted with gasps and boos.

Chris: She’s going for the mask! She’s trying to rip it off!

Scott: That’s a death sentence in some federations—Vanity’s gone completely unhinged!

Fujimoto: What is she doing?! This is disgraceful! No honor! No respect! This is why we don’t cheer for these Americans!

Barsa screamed in agony—not from pain, but desperation—as Cassie got a few fingers under the edge of the fabric. His eyes were wide behind the slits of his mask, panic setting in. And then—BOOM! Like a missile, Viktor Zlovred came storming into the ring and bulldozed Cassie off his partner with a brutal shoulder tackle. She hit the canvas hard and rolled out of the ring. Colton Hurst was already in mid-air, launching himself over the top rope with a diving clothesline that blasted Viktor back to the mat! Bob Sigro had lost control completely as all four wrestlers spilled into the ring in chaos.

Chris: It’s mayhem! Total carnage in the Dome!

Scott: Bob Sigro is trying to restore order but it’s like a bar fight exploded in the middle of a tag match!

Barsa rose, clutching at his mask, trying to fix it, but Cassie was already back on her feet outside. She grabbed a steel chair and slid it into the ring.

Scott: NO! Don’t do it, Cassie!

Chris: She’s not going for a win—she wants revenge. Or humiliation. Or both.

Barsa saw the chair too late—Cassie swung, aiming for his face. But he ducked! The chair ricocheted off the ropes and came flying back into Cassie’s hands—and in that moment of hesitation— Colton caught her wrist.

Colton: Enough.

The crowd buzzed. For a moment, Cassie looked furious. But her brother gave her a small nod—this wasn’t the way. Cassie snarled, dropped the chair, and refocused her rage.

Barsa, mask still intact but disoriented, turned—into a brutal short-arm clothesline from Colton! He folded like paper.

Chris: He decapitated him!

Colton quickly tagged in Cassie, who rushed up the turnbuckle. The crowd rose as she flipped backward into the air—

Cassie: SUNDROP!

The Springboard Backflip Senton crashed down on Barsa’s chest. She hooked the leg, shouting with every ounce of rage in her lungs.

Bob Sigro: ONE! TWO! THREE!

DING DING DING!

The bell rang as “Black Sheep” exploded from the speakers. The crowd roared, some cheering, others booing the underhanded tactics—but all of them riveted.

Chris: The New Breed win it! Cassie didn’t get the mask, but she got the victory!

Scott: Barsa’s pride is intact, but the Spirits are humiliated in front of the world!

Fujimoto: Cowards! They disgrace the ring! This was not victory—this was defilement!

Viktor dragged Barsa out of the ring, his massive frame shielding his partner as they retreated. Barsa’s mask was still on… barely.

Colton put a hand on Cassie’s shoulder. She looked down at her fallen opponents, then up at the crowd. Her eyes gleamed with triumph… but not satisfaction. She wanted more.

Chris: Folks, this night has run long and run wild, but what a main event we just witnessed.

Scott: We’re out of time—don’t forget to join us this Saturday at Showdown for more fallout from tonight’s chaos!

Fujimoto: Ultimate Wrestling has no shame—but we will be watching.

The screen faded to black as the New Breed stood tall in the ring—divisive, victorious, and absolutely unforgettable.

The camera flickered to life, transitioning into a grainy, security-cam feed. Multiple small screens divided the frame, each black-and-white image painting an eerie, unsettling picture. Each frame lingered just long enough to make its haunting impression, stitching together a disturbing mosaic of the past hour’s chaos.

The first screen captured a dimly lit hallway. Equipment lay scattered, toppled carts leaking bottled water onto concrete floors. Footprints, smeared in blood, traced erratic paths along walls gouged with fresh, violent indentations.

The second showed catering tables overturned, trays of sushi and sandwiches crushed beneath boots and fists. Blood pooled around shards of porcelain and plastic, like aftermath from some savage ritual. In the corner, a stagehand cowered, eyes wide, hands trembling as he clutched a walkie-talkie to his lips, whispering desperately for help.

The third camera revealed the broken body of a production truck. The dented steel bore marks of bone-crunching impact, smears of crimson streaked across its white paneling, ending abruptly at the shattered windshield. Sparks spat intermittently from severed wires, casting ghostly pulses of illumination onto the concrete below.

Another angle caught a chaotic jumble of overturned lighting rigs—one still sparking angrily—like skeletal remains of a fallen giant. Nearby, a single discarded boot, laces untied, lay on its side beside an empty medical kit, contents scattered and crushed.

Finally, the largest screen—grainier and more distorted—focused on the rear loading dock doors, half-open to the Tokyo night. In that hollow silence, interrupted only by distant sirens, the tension thickened. Something moved in the shadows.

Suddenly, violently, Drake Nygma’s battered form was hurled into view, crashing brutally against a stack of folded steel chairs. The impact echoed as metal exploded outward, clattering across the floor. Drake groaned, a guttural sound of raw agony escaping his throat as he struggled to lift himself from the wreckage.

His face was barely recognizable—one eye swollen nearly shut, his mask torn, his lips split open, streaks of blood dripping from his brow. The hood of his cloak was ripped halfway off, leaving it dangling like a dark, ruined banner. Staggering forward from the shadows like a revenant, Saikō Sasori emerged. The Scorpion King was a harrowing sight—his golden ring gear shredded, torn fabric hanging limply from a frame battered nearly to collapse. Bruises painted his body in grotesque patterns beneath spatters of fresh blood. His mask, cracked deeply along the jawline, revealed a hint of his bloodied mouth, twisted into a feral grimace. One of the golden horns that once proudly crowned him was now shattered clean away, leaving an exposed fracture like a jagged tooth.

Yet he advanced, his gait unsteady but relentless, favoring one leg yet driven by an obsession that pushed beyond pain, beyond exhaustion—beyond reason. Sasori’s voice rasped from beneath the shattered mask, a whisper thick with venom.

Sasori: You've chosen your fate, Drake. Tonight, I finish what you and your master started.

Drake pulled himself upright, clutching desperately at a nearby equipment case, his bloodied fingers smearing crimson across its silver casing. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, he shoved the heavy case toward Sasori, slamming it brutally into the champion’s wounded leg.

Sasori staggered, roaring with pain, but did not fall. With almost unnatural speed, he lashed back, driving a vicious elbow across Drake’s jaw. The challenger’s head snapped back, blood spraying from his mouth as both men tumbled violently to the cold concrete, fists clawing, boots scrambling, locked together in a brutal, animalistic grapple.

The final camera zoomed slowly, shakily in on their struggle, their bodies illuminated by sporadic, broken lights—capturing the raw desperation and hate etched into their faces. Just as the violence reached its fever pitch, with neither man willing or able to give an inch, the distant sound of shouting voices and running footsteps echoed through the hallways, approaching swiftly. The security feed glitched briefly—flickering violently—before cutting to static.

The static flickered away abruptly, the chaotic scene snapping back into sharp focus through the trembling lens of a handheld camera. Multiple voices shouted over one another, echoing down the concrete corridors, their urgency cutting through the muffled sounds of scuffling boots and furious grunts.

Drake Nygma and Saikō Sasori remained locked in their brutal combat, rolling violently across the floor, each blow exchanged with reckless abandon. Nygma slammed Sasori’s skull repeatedly against the hard concrete, splitting the Scorpion King’s already damaged mask further, revealing streaks of crimson trailing down his chin. Sasori, responding with an enraged cry, sank his teeth deep into Nygma’s shoulder, drawing a feral scream from his adversary.

Suddenly, a voice thundered through the chaos—a commanding, familiar voice, laced with authority and unmistakable menace.

Rupert Mudcock: Officers! Take down Sasori! He's trespassing! He’s assaulting MY wrestler!

Mudcock stood flanked by an imposing entourage of Tokyo Dome security guards and several uniformed Japanese police officers. Sweat beaded on his brow, his breathing labored, and his depends underwear had risen past the wasit ban of his pants from all the running. He stepped up to the Scropion King as he jabbed an accusing finger toward Sasori, his small frame shaking beneath his lavish suit.

Rupert Mudcock: What the hell are you waiting for? I pay your salaries! Arrest that lunatic!

The officers hesitated briefly, momentarily overwhelmed by the ferocity unfolding before them, before finally surging forward. From behind Mudcock emerged Chuluun Bold, the towering Mongolian, his broad shoulders filling the narrow corridor as he charged into the fray. With a mighty bellow, Bold grabbed Drake around the waist, forcibly pulling him away from Sasori, muscles straining beneath his powerful grip.

Chuluun Bold: Enough, Drake! Save for the championship match! Nothing can be won here like this!

Nygma struggled wildly in Bold’s iron grasp, kicking out viciously.

Drake Nygma: Let me go, Bold! Holds the Orb! What my master desires! I must defeat him!

Across the hallway, Takuma Sato raced into view, his taped shoulder still freshly bandaged from earlier battles, eyes wide with shock and urgency.

Takuma Sato: Sasori! Enough! Stand down—this won't end well!

But Sasori, consumed by a fury beyond reason, ignored Sato’s desperate plea, lunging forward once again toward Nygma, hatred radiating from every broken piece of his shattered mask. Two Tokyo Dome officers tackled Sasori from behind, gripping his arms as they tried in vain to restrain the furious warrior. Sasori fought back like a beast, twisting violently, his boots scraping and kicking against the floor. He hurled one officer aside with a savage elbow, blood spraying from the officer's nose as he collapsed to the ground.

Seeing the escalating violence, Mudcock’s voice erupted again, sharp with panic and outrage.

Rupert Mudcock: Cuff him! Now, dammit! Don't let him escape!

More security officers flooded in, overwhelming Sasori by sheer numbers. Three guards pinned him against the wall, hands pulling his battered wrists behind his back, zip ties digging into his skin. Sasori thrashed and roared, a desperate animal cornered, muscles trembling, eyes burning fiercely beneath the broken fragments of his mask.

Meanwhile, Drake Nygma, still restrained by Bold, strained against the powerful Vampire’s grip. Blood trickled steadily from his lips, yet his gaze remained locked on Sasori with murderous intent, his voice barely more than a dark whisper.

Drake Nygma: This isn’t over, Scorpion. The orb of Ra…and your life… is mine to claim.

Amid the chaotic struggle, Dollia Trypp burst into the corridor, her normally composed demeanor shattered by fear and desperation.

Dollia Trypp: (crying out frantically in English and Arabic) Drake! Please stop! You're going to kill each other!

She surged toward Nygma, only to be intercepted by another officer who held her back gently but firmly. Sato, breathing heavily, stepped closer to Rupert Mudcock, his expression a mix of disbelief and outrage.

Takuma Sato: You need to get control of his Mudcock! Something tells me there is more going on here than just AAPW vs Ultimate Wrestling…

Mudcock sneered dismissively, adjusting his suit with feigned composure as he eyed Sato coldly.

Rupert Mudcock: I don’t care what you think Sato! All I care about is Drake Nygma! He is my wrestler—my only chance to reclaim the Franchise Championship! I don’t have time to worry about mystical bullshit!

Sato shook his head, disgusted by the callous disregard in Mudcock’s eyes. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, but he knew arguing would be futile. The officers finally subdued Sasori completely, dragging him roughly away from the wall, his battered body sagging slightly beneath their weight. As they forced him toward the open loading dock doors, Sasori turned his bloodied, shattered face toward Nygma once more, his words a rasping whisper laced with deadly promise.

Sasori: (defiant, blood dripping from his lips) Fate binds us, Sphinx… You will never possess the Orb… It will consume you…

Nygma stiffened, his body rigid in Bold’s grasp, eyes blazing with a hunger deeper than mere victory.

Drake Nygma: (voice dark, resolute) You know not what you speak of little Scorpion.

Police officers and security finally pulled Sasori fully from view, leaving a tense silence behind them, punctuated only by the distant wail of sirens. Mudcock straightened his posture, smoothing his suit with hands trembling slightly from lingering adrenaline. He turned sharply on his heel, giving Sato and Bold a cold, dismissive glance before stalking away, his entourage trailing obediently behind.

Bold released Nygma cautiously, sensing the immediate threat had passed, yet watching him warily. Drake slumped briefly, chest heaving, before raising his bloodied face to meet Bold’s concerned gaze.

Chuluun Bold: Be careful what path you tread… Some destinies are too dangerous to chase…

Drake said nothing, eyes cold and unreadable as he stared toward the loading dock doors, fists clenched at his sides. His silence spoke volumes—more potent than any words. The camera lingered briefly on the destruction left in their wake—blood staining the walls, broken furniture, scattered equipment—a haunting testament to the violence and obsession that bound these men together.

Drake Nygma leaned heavily against a stack of storage crates, his breathing slow and labored. Blood still seeped from the gash on his forehead, dark bruises shadowing his battered face. Chuluun Bold stood nearby, his imposing presence oddly comforting.

Dollia Trypp approached carefully, her eyes filled with both concern and quiet determination. She reached out to gently touch Nygma’s face, her fingers trembling slightly.

Dollia Trypp: (soft, pleading) My Sphinx… listen to me. You cannot let Akhenaten manipulate you like this. This obsession with Sasori and the Orb—it could consume you completely…

Nygma’s eyes met hers—cold, unyielding.

Drake Nygma: (whispering harshly) I didn’t choose this fate, Dollia. It chose me.

Chuluun Bold stepped forward, placing a heavy hand on Nygma’s shoulder.

Chuluun Bold: I’m sure who Akhenaten is, but my guess is he’s the man who approached both of at the end of the Ronin Rumble.

Drake snapped angrily toward bold pointing a swollen finger straight at him. Sato watched closely and quietly listening.

Drake Nygma: He is no man, Vampire! He is my God, and soon he will your God too.

Chuluun Bold: So he is the one seeks the Orb…

Takuma Sato: What Orb are you three talking about?

Chuluun Bold: I felt it’s power coursing through the Franchise Championship strap while I was champion. I wasn’t foolish enough to tamper or mess with something that ancient, that powerful that I knew nothing about… Power that great cannot be tamed.

Drake straightened slightly, defiant resolve hardening his features as he brushed Bold’s hand away.

Drake Nygma: I don't intend to tame it fanged one—I intend to master it with the wisdom of my master. Sasori thinks the Orb will devour me… But he doesn’t understand. Akhenaten showed me what lies beyond fear, beyond weakness. The Orb isn't destruction—it's rebirth.

He pushed away from the crates, his stance regaining its imposing stature.

Drake Nygma: And I will claim it. Even if it means going through Sasori’s very soul.

He strode purposefully away, leaving Bold and Dollia staring after him, a shared unease settling over them.

Takuma Sato: Wait you mean that red crystal thing in the center of Rupert’s Franchise belt is an Ancient relic?

Chuluun Bold: Yes… it’s partially why the Yamamoto clan held me captive, but even the Yakuza feared it. Yamamoto is no feel either, he chose to study it in order to understand it power and unlock his secrets… thankfully he was not able to make much progress.

Takuma: Yamamoto held you captive? Did you happen to see an old Japanese American woman while you were held prisoner? Yamamoto kidnapped my mother months ago and I’ve been searching for her ever since we arrived in Japan.

Chuluun Bold: I was held far from whom you seek, but I may be able to show you the way. Yamamoto must pay for what he did to me.

Takuma extended his hand to Chuluun.

Takuma: Then you have an Ally in me…

Bold grasped Sato hand tightly.

Takuma: Come on, I’ll introduce you to the others.

Takuma led Bold down a side corridor, away from the broken lights and distant sirens, until only the hum of an aging ventilation fan filled the silence. Pale emergency bulbs flickered overhead, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted with every hesitant step.

The End