Ultimate Wrestling Season 3 - Ch.11: Saturday Night Showdown 004: PART - 1

The Ruined Cave
Hidden Mountain, Kyoto Prefecture

The cave was not silent. Silence was mercy. This place breathed with echoes — echoes of prayers, of chants, of the elders’ voices swallowed whole when the Orb pulsed and erased them from existence. The walls bore scorch marks like clawed constellations. Charred silk banners clung to the stone like skin that refused to fall away.

Sasori stood where the altar had been, the Ultimate Wrestling Franchise Championship strapped around his waist. The Orb at its center pulsed faintly, a heart that was not his own. Each throb sent a ripple through the cavern, stirring dust like restless spirits.

His hands lingered over the belt as though touching it would burn. In truth, it already had. The image of his people — the monks, the children, even the yokai effigies they worshiped — incinerated in an instant, haunted him with every flicker of the Orb’s red light. Survivor’s guilt pressed down harder than any title ever could.

Behind him, footsteps approached — three shadows cutting through the smoke—the Sacred Order.Tatsue was first, blade strapped across her back, eyes cutting sharper than steel. She halted just short of the altar, her lip curling at the stench of scorched incense.

Tatsue: You stand where their bones should be, and yet only you remain. Why, Sasori? Why you? What makes you so special?

Her accusation hung like a drawn bow. She was clearly in a bad mood after having lost her AAPW Aerial - X Championship to Ultimate Wrestling’s Kami Nakada. That, along with the complete eradication of the people of the Scorpion village, had her distraught and on edge. Shinkū followed, his robes brushing the ash, his face tilted skyward as though listening for voices no one else could hear. His tone was low, the rhythm like a monk reciting a sutra at a funeral pyre.

Shinkū: It seems this strange Orb tests, as fire tests iron. Perhaps… it found the other wanting.

Sasori: I brought it to my Yokai elders as they requested. I did what the Scorpion Gods of this village asked and left the belt in this cave with them. Then went out into the village to enjoy my victory over Chuluun Bold, only to watch everyone I knew and loved disintegrate into dust before my eyes.

Ryota came last, broad-shouldered, silent until he planted his stance beside the broken altar. He crossed his arms, steady but not gentle, his voice ironbound.

Ryota: Don’t blame your Yokai masters! You brought it here, Sasori. You strapped it to your waist. Tell us straight — are you its keeper, or its servant?

Sasori’s mask tilted toward them, the crimson glow carving harsh lines across his faceplate. He stepped forward, the Orb humming deeper, louder, until it vibrated in their ribs. His voice was low thunder.

Sasori: I am its keeper.

Shinkū: Some sort of great power is trapped within. Dangerous, evil perhaps, not of this world. What does it want?

Sasori: It does not want. It does not need. It exists to serve those who forged it eons ago… and those it was left to be safeguarded when Earth was but an infant.

Tatsue narrowed her eyes, her hand twitching near her blade.

Tatsue: Left to whom? To ghosts that are now ash? To elders whose wisdom was a lie? Or to you, who carry the death it spreads like a crown?

The words bit, but Sasori didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed locked on the Orb, as though daring it to contradict him.

Sasori: They told me only this — Dracula seeks it. Drake Nygma, too. To let it linger in weak hands is to doom us all. Guardian, not door. That is the scorpion’s path. I must do what my Elders wanted… but I’ve seen visions… when I sleep… lands of orange and red sands, great ancient and powerful citadels with incredible technology… and beings… massive, tall beings…two moons in the night sky…

The Orb pulsed once, scarlet veins racing across the cracked stone floor. The cave groaned as if straining under the weight of its secret. For a moment, the shadows seemed to take shape — elder forms flickering, almost mocking.

Ryota: These visions are disconcerting, Sasori…

Shinkū bowed his head, voice barely audible.

Shinkū: Watchman or portal… every gate opens, given time. Let’s hope it does not happen here in Japan. One thing is for certain: this Darke Nygma you face at “Empires End”... he cannot be allowed to take the title belts and the Orb with him. If Nygma seeks the belt through combat, he seeks it for a purpose that is surely perilous for our homeland, possibly the world. My guess is the Orb can only truly be claimed through trial by combat.

Rain whispered down the mountainside as the four stepped into the night. The torii gate that once marked Sasori’s village stood half-splintered, its prayer ribbons burnt to threads. The wind carried no chanting, no bells — only emptiness.The three Sacred Order champions spread out in a loose semicircle around Sasori. Their faces were lit by the Orb’s faint glow bleeding through his belt, a beacon both sacred and profane.

Tatsue’s voice cracked the quiet first, sharp as a blade pulled from its sheath.

Tatsue: The other ancient villages demand answers. They sense this power — they feel the loss. What do we tell them, Sasori? That your Yokai grasped for ultimate power and were erased? That the Scorpion King walks alone because even his gods couldn’t resist this Orb?

Ryota’s jaw tightened, his words measured but heavy.

Ryota: They will call it blasphemy. They will call you cursed, and if they believe it… the Sacred Order itself fractures.

Sasori lifted his head, the Orb’s hum now synchronized with his heartbeat. The rain glistened on his mask, streaks of red light cutting through the droplets. His reply was steady, resolute, but his voice trembled with the edge of a man half-drifting into madness.

Sasori: Tell them nothing. Tell them only this — that I walk with the weight no one else dared carry. I am a sentry. Not a door, and if they doubt me, let them come. I’ll be waiting for them here.

The Orb pulsed once more, brighter than before, as if answering him. The other champions exchanged wary glances — not with him, but with each other.

Because they all felt it, the power was real, and it was choosing.

The Dragon Dojo

Hidden Village of the Dragon

The mountain village of the Dragon slept beneath a curtain of rain, its tiled roofs gleaming like obsidian scales. Lanterns burned dim at the edges of the paths, their paper shells sagging with moisture, casting long and wavering shadows against the wooden gates. Above, the peaks loomed like silent judges, their crowns lost in storm clouds.

At the heart of the village stood the Dragon Dojo. Its beams were ancient cedar blackened by incense smoke, its sliding doors painted with curling golden serpents. A pair of dragon statues guarded the entry, rainwater sluicing down their jaws like venom. Within, the dojo was all stillness and tension, the faint crackle of braziers the only sound.

The three Sacred Order champions sat in a triangle upon the tatami mats. Tatsu Hime knelt upright, crimson mask gleaming, her crown of golden spikes reflecting the firelight. Her eyes, though unseen, burned with a storm’s fury. Shinkū Ryūjin sat opposite, shoulders draped in his red gi, posture so rigid he could have been carved from stone. Between them, Ryota Arakawa loomed in seiza, his broad frame bent forward slightly, fists resting on his thighs, as if even here he was ready for battle.

The Orb’s memory clung to the air. Even though it was not here, its pulse seemed to echo still — a phantom throb in their ribs.

Tatsu broke the silence first, her voice sharp as a dragon’s hiss.

Tatsu Hime: You both saw it. You smelled the ash, smelled how the air had been burned. The Orb did not test Sasori’s people. It destroyed them. Erased them. And yet he walks away unscathed, clutching that cursed belt as though it were a gift from heaven.

Her hand drifted toward the hilt of the short blade at her side. It was not a conscious threat — it was instinct, born of suspicion.

Ryota’s jaw tightened, his voice like hammered steel.

Ryota Arakawa: The villages will not believe this can be contained. They will demand action. Already, they whisper that Sasori is cursed. Some will call for his exile. Others will call for his death.

Shinkū lowered his head, the firelight painting his dragon mask in eerie crimson. His voice came like the toll of a temple bell, solemn and unyielding.

Shinkū Ryūjin: And perhaps they are right to fear. When I looked into his eyes, I saw no grief. No mourning for the elders, no reverence for the fallen. I saw only the glow reflected — the Orb staring back at me through him.

Tatsu’s voice cracked as though she had swallowed fire.

Tatsu Hime: He spoke of visions — of red sands, of towers not built by human hands, of gods not our own. These are not dreams born of grief. They are temptations. What if it calls to him? What if it feeds on him until he is its voice in this world?

Ryota leaned forward, his shadow sprawling across the mats.

Ryota Arakawa: Then we act. If the keeper becomes the door, we must close it — by steel, by blood, by fire if we must.

The brazier snapped, sparks scattering like fireflies. For a moment, the shadows of the three champions grew monstrous on the dojo walls, their forms twisting into dragons, masks, and faces blurring with something older than flesh.

Shinkū lifted his head at last, voice quiet, carrying the weight of judgment.

Shinkū Ryūjin: We test him first. If Sasori still walks the scorpion’s path, if he can carry the burden without breaking, then he remains our brother. But if the Orb carries him instead… we end him together—one hand, three blades, one strike.

Tatsu said nothing, but her fists clenched so tightly the leather creaked. She turned away from the others, her mask reflecting the fire like a war-helm, her voice low and bitter.

Tatsu Hime: Pray to every god that it does not come to that. Because if we are forced to kill him, the Sacred Order dies with him.

The three sat in silence again, the storm outside battering the dojo walls, the wind howling down from the peaks like the cry of a dragon mourning its kin.

And though Sasori was nowhere near, all three felt it — the Orb was listening.

The three champions sat unmoving as the storm outside pounded the mountainside. The braziers hissed as rain crept in through the old beams, smoke curling like incense to unseen gods.

Ryota’s deep voice cut through the quiet at last.

Ryota Arakawa: We cannot decide this alone. If the Orb is truly beyond even the Scorpion’s gods, then it may be beyond all of us. The leaders of the Dragon, the Crane, and the Serpent must hear what happened.

Shinkū nodded once, grave and slow.

Shinkū Ryūjin: They will demand the truth. Half-truths will not suffice. They must know that Sasori lives, while his entire village is in ashes. They must hear of the visions, the pulsing stone, and of Dracula and Nygma who stalk it even now.

Tatsu rose to her feet, her crimson mask catching the firelight like a crown of flame. Her voice carried the sharp certainty of steel drawn from its sheath.

Tatsu Hime: Then we speak, each to our Yokai masters. Let the Dragon, the Crane, and the Serpent weigh this curse. If Sasori is still our brother, the villages will say so. And if he is not… we will have their sanction to do what must be done.

The three exchanged no further words. They bowed in unison — not to each other, but to the empty space at the center of the dojo, as though the spirit of the Sacred Order itself demanded it.

Outside, thunder rolled down the valley like the growl of something vast and ancient. The dragons of the mountain did not sleep easily.

The Jade Office — Shinjuku, Tokyo
Two Nights Before Saturday Night Showdown

Rain streaked neon across the tall glass, thunder rolling through the Tokyo skyline like the drums of war. Inside, the Jade Office was a sanctuary of wealth and menace — jade tiles polished to mirror-shine, oni statues glaring from the corners, every wall dripping with antique weapons and lacquered scrolls. This was Yamamoto’s throne, not merely an office.

Etsuji Yamamoto sat at the head of the long ironwood table, his face a study in predatory calm. Haruki Tanaka leaned beside him, cigarette smoke curling upward, his gold watch gleaming with every movement of his hand. On the table lay four dossiers — Sato. Nygma. Biggs. Bold. The enemy, rendered in ink.

Yamamoto: Saturday Night Showdown is no mere wrestling match. It is war inside the squared circle—our top stars versus Ultimate Wrestling. The outcome of this match will affect the perception of wrestling fans in Japan for decades to come. This is a must-win for us, Tanaka. We cannot afford to lose…

Tanaka: I agree. The Dome is sold out. Every screen in Japan will be tuned in.

The sliding door opened. Four shadows entered.

Saikō Sasori first, both belts strapped across him like burdens, not prizes. The Orb inside the Ultimate Wrestling Franchise Championship pulsed faintly, its glow painting the air around him like a phantom heartbeat. His mask hid his face, but his eyes burned too bright, fevered with visions no one else could see.

Daichi Sasaki came next, the Sentinel, every step rigid and military, his suit cut with brutal precision. Yasha Gorō followed, a mountain of pale muscle and fire-red hair, his very presence bending the air heavier. Last came Takeshi Nomura, loose and deliberate, shades reflecting the office lamps, a smirk carving across his lips like a blade.

They lined up before the bosses. Four soldiers, four weapons, each dangerous in their own way.

Yamamoto (sharp, deliberate): You are my wall. My hammer. My executioners. Four against four. Break Sato. Break Nygma. Break Biggs. Break Bold. Accomplish this, and Japan will sit on top of the wrestling world.

Daichi (stepping forward, voice like iron): Orders understood. We fight as one—no rogue behavior.

Gorō (laughing, thunder in his chest): Goro needs no plan. I will break Biggs first — the ring will quake when he falls.

Tanaka’s lip curled, but he said nothing. Nomura leaned into the table, calm and smooth.

Nomura: I’ve studied all four of them for hours, gathered all the data I could. Sato fights like a scalpel. Nygma thrives on chaos. Biggs is a wall. Bold is desperate. If we let them dictate the pace, we drown, but if we cut the ring off and we control the pace, we survive. That’s how we win.

Yamamoto gave him a razor-thin smile. Tanaka exhaled smoke and nodded once.

Then Sasori spoke, and the room went still.

Sasori (voice low, fevered): Nygma is mine. He bleeds first. The more punishment he takes the better for us and all of Japan…

The silence that followed was heavy. Yamamoto misread it as passion. Daichi heard only instability. Gorō grinned wider. Nomura tilted his head, curious at the crack forming in the scorpion’s mask.

Tanaka (mistaking obsession for fire): Good. Rage sharpens the blade. Use it.

Yamamoto (cold, deliberate): You want to elaborate on that, Sasori?

Sasori: No.

The rain hammered harder against the glass, thunder rolling closer. Yamamoto raised his glass in a final decree.

Yamamoto: Alright. I believe Tanaka and I have made ourselves clear. We cannot afford to lose. This is a must-win situation for AAPW.

The four bowed, shallow but sharp. Not servants — killers. They exited the room as the heavy doors slid shut behind them. The hallway was quieter but no lighter, lined with portraits of Yamamoto ancestors glaring down from gold frames.

Gorō cracked his neck, laughter rumbling like stone splitting.

Gorō: The Dome will scream. The blood will steam. Goro hungers.

Daichi slammed a hand into his chest, steel against fire.

Daichi: Contain it. We fight as one. Break ranks, and you break us all! Our opponents are more dangerous than you think, Gorō. I’ve already suffered greatly at the hands of Sato. You would be wise to take some caution for once.

Gorō leaned closer, smile widening.

Gorō: Gorō fears no one. Gorō does not know the meaning of the word “caution.” The four we face will suffer for Nakada's transgressions against me at the Ronin Rumble.

Nomura slid between them, smirk sharp as glass.

Nomura: She got you pretty good from behind, huh? How are the family jewels feeling, Gorō? I heard you were icing for days after… hahaha.

Gorō said nothing but let out a frustrated growl. Daichi’s glare cut to him.

Daichi: You make jokes after we were embarrassed by Ultimate Wrestling? Did all those cybnetics scramble your fucking brain, Nomura? You need to focus. I expect more from you.

Nomura: I… you’re right, I’m sorry, Daichi.

Sasori lingered at the back, half in shadow, his hand brushing the Orb beneath his belt. His whisper leaked into the air like smoke.

Sasori: Keeper… not door. Nygma must be crushed.

The others turned. Madness lived in his tone. Daichi’s eyes narrowed. Nomura’s smirk faded into curiosity. Gorō only laughed harder.

Daichi (cold, sharp): Nothing you say makes sense anymore, Sasori! Get your head straight before this match.

Sasori didn’t answer. The Orb pulsed against his hand, syncing with his breath, with his rage.
From the shadows ahead, a heavier shape emerged. Takeshi Nakamura, the Yamamoto clan’s chief enforcer, stepped into the hallway, suit damp with rain, the smell of smoke still clinging to him. His eyes were steel, his jaw cut in stone.

They all knew what he had done. The Bigg House — LuLu’s den of whores and dealers — was reduced to a charred skeleton two nights ago. Sirens, flames, LuLu’s empire in ashes. Nakamura hadn’t denied it. He’d reveled in it—revenge for Kenzo Takahashi, still pissing through tubes thanks to LuLu’s bathroom ambush.

Nakamura (voice gravel, deliberate): Yamamoto says you four are his best. Then hear this — LuLu bleeds Saturday. He doesn’t walk away from the ring. His whore house may smolder in ashes but the debt won’t be collected until he suffers as Kenzo has.

Gorō: The glutton will pay Nakamura… Gorō guarantees it.

Gorō chuckled deep in his chest, savoring the promise of violence. Daichi stiffened, unwilling to let vendettas dictate strategy. Nomura smirked, seeing opportunity in the chaos. Sasori said nothing. He only tightened his grip on the belt, the Orb pulsing faster, hotter, like it hungered for the fire Nakamura carried on his skin. The hall grew silent again. Only the rain outside filled the void, hissing like applause for a war not yet begun.

Locations
• Hoshinoya, Tokyo (rain on glass): Colton on a secure line, neon banding his jaw.

• Hurst Estate, Texas Hill Country (early morning): Hunter and Summer at a long mesquite table; old ring boots in a shadowbox, title plates winking on a far wall.

• MOX HQ, New York (late morning): Kieran, Florence, Prudence, Junior—expensively tired.

Six tiles bloom. Tokyo’s neon flickers. Texas is honey and steel. New York looks like a deposition.

Kieran: Thank you for making time. We’re done triaging. Ultimate Wrestling is teetering in Japan. We intend to stabilize it—before Empires End brands us with a scar we can’t sand out.

Florence: Stabilize means structure, not spin. Tokyo Dome, Blovid choke points, Sasori parading our Franchise belt—each headline raises risk.

Prudence: Chaos sells until ad buyers start charging hazard premiums. We’re there.

Junior: Two vice presidents gone in two years—Robert in North Korea, Allen in Mexico. That’s not heat; that’s rot. We want decency back—and our people home.

Hunter leans in, knuckles like old bark.

Hunter: You didn’t call to bless decency. You called to put my boy’s hands on the wheel—and his face on the poster if the brakes scream.

Kieran holds a document to camera. Autofocus bites: “Bylaw Amendment No. 7 — Talent Safety & Standards Committee.”

Kieran: We’re adopting it now. Any decision that touches performer safety, travel, or broadcast compliance requires joint consent. We want Colton named EVP, Creative & Safety with that consent authority.

Florence: Not window dressing. No AAPW cross-promos without written risk assessment. No belt “defacement” angles. No routing through choke points while Blovid protocols are active. If it endangers talent or TV, it doesn’t air without the Committee’s signature.

Colton: And when Rupert floors it anyway?

Prudence: We cut to package. Lower-third reads STANDARDS HOLD. No catastrophe for clicks.

Summer studies them the way a veteran studies a crowd.

Summer: If my son is your brake, he’s protected. Indemnification. D&O rider. Legal budget with teeth.

Florence: Full EVP indemnification. A ring-fenced legal budget under the Committee. Independent compliance counsel from a slate you approve—reporting to the Committee, not MOX.

Hunter: Conflicts? He recuses on anything touching his circle—New Breed, Slaughterhouse kids, protégés. Alternate co-signer steps in.

Kieran: In the charter.

Colton: That’s your bylaw. What else?

Kieran: The family trust. Our 49% lives there. We’re appointing a Protector empowered to intervene when brand-risk thresholds trip:
injury rate above pre-Japan baseline,

broadcaster or regulator flags,

PR sentiment below neutral for six consecutive pay cycles,

travel/security violations, and

UW’s Franchise belt out of UW custody beyond a set number of days.
We want you as Protector.

Florence: Protector powers engage automatically when alarms sound and go dormant when metrics normalize. Not a palace coup—a fire door.

Colton’s eyes flick to a nearby TV looping Sasori’s cradle. Back to the grid.

Colton: You’re asking me to police a war your father picked and Tanaka escalated. If I do this, I don’t just slam doors—I reframe the room.

Prudence: Reframe it before Empires End makes the name prophetic.

Summer sets a hand on a legal pad; her ring flashes once.

Summer: Terms, then. We’re not auditioning to fix your family. We’re writing a contract.

Hunter: Put this down:
EVP indemnification; independent counsel; Committee controls the legal budget.

Recusal where conflicts live.

Sunset tied to data, not moods.

Travel protocols that don’t dare fate.

Safety Escrow—funded jointly by the Mudcock trust and the Hurst family office—to pay third-party security, medical, and travel hardening on Committee order. No “we’ll see.”

Florence: Travel: no choke-point routing, advance venue risk sweeps, security liaison signed off by the Committee, Blovid cadence mandated.

Junior: Sunset: three straight quarters with (1) injury rate below pre-Japan baseline, (2) PR sentiment at neutral or better six pay cycles, (3) zero broadcaster/regulator flags, (4) the Franchise belt back in UW custody. Hit all four and Protector powers go dormant—until a trigger trips again.

Prudence: Add a four-week deadman switch so ops can’t slow-walk reports. If the dashboard stalls, the Protector stays engaged until logs catch up.

Hunter taps the tablet: the old booker’s cadence.

Hunter: That’s governance. Say the creative plain—worker to worker.

Colton: We shut the riot faucet.
— No unsanctioned arena stunts while the Dome is still a scab.
— No shoot-adjacent segments inviting receipts.
— No interpromotional belt desecrations—either direction.
— Drake Nygma’s chase is rebuilt clean: training packages, contract signed center ring, security cordon, no-ambush clause.
— True Chaotic (Kami & Hara) get a disciplined run to the tag belts with a dated title shot.
— Cassie to a singles lane built on match quality.
— Return to America calendar locked—venues with clean security.
— End the war. By any means necessary.

Florence: That’s the policy.

Summer’s voice softens, the way it does when the match is almost over.

Summer: Eat. Sleep. Protect your partner, protect the match, protect the room. We taught you that before you could lace your boots.

Colton (dry): I’ll pencil it between “convince Yakuza we’re boring now” and “talk Drake into destiny.”

Junior: Drake is the hinge. If he doesn’t bring the Franchise belt home, we do not get another chance. The roster needs to believe we’re still the top promotion—and that the ring is still sacred. Can you give them that?

Colton: If you let me lock the doors and throw the matches through the window—yes.

Kieran: Logistics. Three documents are coming within the hour:
— Written Consent adopting Bylaw Amendment No. 7
— Committee Charter naming you EVP, Creative & Safety
— Protector Appointment with triggers, recusal, sunset, and deadman switch.
Safety Escrow wires on execution.

Florence: We file quietly. Rupert is briefed when counsel advises. We don’t turn the rescue into a circus.

Hunter’s smile is thin and mean—closing-time energy.

Hunter: If he lunges mid-turn, we don’t argue. We file the injunction.

Kieran: Understood.

Prudence: And TV—let the audience feel the wheel straighten without shoving them the paperwork. The solution should have a pulse, not a press release.

The call holds its breath. In Tokyo, sirens stitch the rain. In Texas, cicadas buzz like old pyro. In New York, HVAC hums under suits.

Colton: Send the papers. I’ll redline from Tokyo and turn them by morning—Japan morning. Then I want five days of quiet: materials embargo, NDA talent brief, and one internal memo:

WE ARE BORING NOW.

WE ARE PROUD OF IT.

Summer reaches off-screen and sets a folded towel at the frame’s edge—a thousand locker rooms in one gesture.

Summer: Sweat. Then shower. No one bleeds for a rating.

Hunter: Call when the belt’s back on our side of the ledger.

Tiles blink out. Texas returns to sunlight and silver plates. New York to glass and angles. Tokyo keeps raining.

Colton writes three orders in block caps:

END THE WAR.

GET THE FRANCHISE BELT BACK.

BRING EVERYONE HOME.

He caps the pen, watches Sasori frozen in light, and goes to work making boring look like power.

The Tokyo Dome detonated in a white-hot bloom of pyros as bass rolled through the rafters like thunder. Drone cams dove through sheets of red and gold confetti before banking toward the ring, where the new, split-banner apron told the story before a single word was spoken—Ultimate Wrestling on one side, AAPW on the other. Security in black windbreakers ringed the floor—extra bodies, extra eyes—because the war between companies had turned every aisleway into a powder keg.

The shot settled at ringside. Two announce desks sat cheek-to-cheek like dueling judges’ benches. Headsets on. Game faces carved from stone. The hum of the crowd rose again, as if daring the night to try and contain it.

Scott Slade: Tokyo… welcome to Friday Night Clash! I’m Scott Slade with Chris Rodgers, and sharing this uneasy neighborhood tonight are AAPW’s Yushiro Fujimoto and Takeshi Suzuki. We are live, we are loud, and we are marching straight toward Empire’s End with a docket that could redraw the map before we get there.

Chris Rodgers: Redraw? Scott, after Ronin Rumble, the map’s on fire. Saikō Sasori walked out wearing the crown of both worlds, Drake Nygma outlasted fifty-nine to snatch the golden ticket, and now every handshake has a knife behind it. Tonight isn’t about momentum—it’s about survival.

Yushiro Fujimoto: AAPW does not “survive,” Mr. Rodgers. We endure. We're perfect. Ronin Rumble proved that honor conquers chaos. Saikō Sasori brought balance to a polluted pond.

Takeshi Suzuki: And we’re going to skim the rest of the scum off the surface by the last bell. Keep the ambulance warm.

Scott Slade: The ambulance may need a convoy. Look at tonight’s slate. We open with the Tag Team Division: True Chaotic—Shingo Hara and Kami Nakada—versus Fire & Ice—Kenny Volcano and Oswald Knight. Two teams, four temperaments, zero brakes.

Chris Rodgers: Hara’s a precision striker who treats a collar-and-elbow like a chess opening. Nakada? Razor wire in human form—all feints and bad intentions. Across from them, Volcano melts game plans with pressure and pace, and Oswald Knight is the cold snap that kills spring—measured, merciless, and never late.

Yushiro Fujimoto: Hara was trained to respect the craft. If Nakada does not tarnish him, he will set the tone. Volcano and Knight are undisciplined—flash over foundation. They will learn.

Scott Slade: From there, the Young Blood Division stakes a flag: August Knight versus Cassie Hurst. Futures are forged in matches like this—one mistake and the next year of your life changes.

Chris Rodgers: Hurst is a sly fox with a wolf’s patience—she’ll out smart you in the ring and grin about it once your on your back. August Knight has that second-generation timing, the kind you can’t teach. Blink and you’ll miss a counter that takes your lights out.

Scott Slade: And then—the kind of chaos you can only script with eight signatures and a liability waiver. Survivor Series rules, elimination-style. For AAPW: Daichi Sasaki, the Syndicate’s iron gauntlet; Yasha Gorō, a glacier in human skin; Takeshi Nomura, the storm between heartbeats; and the Undisputed Heavyweight Champion of this sport, Saikō Sasori. For Ultimate Wrestling: Takuma Sato, scarred but unbowed; Chuluun Bold, a freight train with fists; LuLu Biggs, meaner than the night he was born; and the Ronin Rumble winner himself, Drake Nygma—the Sphinx with a plan for every variable.

Yushiro Fujimoto: Four swords honed in the quiet hours. Four tides that do not recede. Ultimate Wrestling will be dragged out to sea.

Takeshi Suzuki: Sato’s ribs will sing again, Bold will gasp, Biggs will bounce, and Nygma will pay for his insolence. Consider this a courtesy preview for Empire’s End.

Chris Rodgers: Courtesy? Sasori needed a small army and a miracle to pry that belt off Bold the first time, and you know it. Sato fights like a man with nowhere left to go—that’s a problem for anyone. Biggs is a walking bad decision with a right hand attached, and Drake Nygma?—He’s the audit. He makes you pay interest on every mistake.

Scott Slade: The stakes could not be higher. If AAPW rolls tonight, they strangle the narrative before the pay-per-view. If Ultimate Wrestling holds serve—if they plant a banner in this ring—the road to Empire’s End gets a whole lot steeper for the Scorpion King.

The hard cam pulled wide as a fresh volley of pyros clawed at the ceiling. In the aisle, a slim line of producers waved talent back from the curtain, holding the start like a coiled spring.

Scott Slade: Feel that, Tokyo? That’s the fuse burning. Two desks, one battleground, and four hours that could change everything. It is Friday Night Clash, it is Ultimate Wrestling versus AAPW… and it starts now.

Chris Rodgers: Tag Team Division up first—True Chaotic versus Fire & Ice. Keep your head on a swivel.

Yushiro Fujimoto: Keep your pen ready. You will be recording an AAPW masterclass.

Takeshi Suzuki: Ring the bell and fetch the body bags.

Scott Slade: To the ring!

To Be Continued In Part - 2