Ultimate Wrestling Season 3 - Ch.11: Saturday Night Showdown 004: PART - 2

The house lights fell to charcoal, and the Dome exhaled—fifty thousand lungs waiting on the first heartbeat. A single bass thud rolled the ring ropes, then a serrated guitar ripped down the ramp as the tron snapped to life in split tones: left side a smear of neon graffiti and hazard symbols, right side a frost-white cathedral window glazed with hoarfrost.

Scott Slade: And here we go—Friday Night Clash officially underway!

Chris Rodgers: Buckle up—opening bout is your Tag Team Division showcase. Two styles. One explosion.

A detonator click echoed. BOOM—fire cannons spat a ragged pillar of orange while cold geysers hissed arctic vapor across the stage. The mash-up track punched in—Dope’s “Die MF Die” thrashing over the first verse of Ruelle’s “Deep End,” chopped and stitched into an anthem that shouldn’t have worked but did. Out of the heat stepped Kenny Volcano—mohawk lit by the flame wash, gas mask slung like a trophy—and out of the mist beside him glided Oswald Knight in black tails and winter silk, top hat tipped low, the brim haloed by drifting ice crystals.

Scott Slade: Fire & ICE have arrived—Kenny Volcano and “Mr. Penguin” Oswald Knight.

Yushiro Fujimoto: An unrefined pairing wrapped in theater. Noise and novelty.

Takeshi Suzuki: I see a can of gasoline and a bowl of shaved ice, Slade. Neither wins a fight.

Volcano sprinted to the lip of the ramp, threw both middle fingers toward the ceiling, and soaked in the chorus as the flame pots answered him like faithful dogs. He bounced on the balls of his feet, jawing at the front row, snatching a “BURN IT DOWN” sign and biting the corner off before shoving it back. Oswald, unhurried, placed two fingers to the brim of his hat and bowed with a magician’s precision, then raised his arms. As he did, the ramp lighting shifted to a cold aurora; flecks of silver confetti drifted down like new snow and vanished on contact with the warm stage.

Chris Rodgers: You don’t have to like Kenny’s mouth to respect his motor. And Oswald—don’t blink. That kid moves like black ice. You don’t see the danger until you’re on your back.

They began their descent—Volcano first, playing matador with security, bouncing shoulder-to-shoulder with the barricade, slapping hands just to yank them away. He hurdled the bottom of the ramp rail, landed in a slide, and skittered along the apron edge—an Icy Glide mockery—before popping up to scream into the hard cam. Oswald took the center line of the aisle, boots clicking, gaze glassy and unbothered. He trailed a gloved hand along the barricade, letting kids touch the cool leather; when one offered a paper cutout of a penguin, he tucked it into his breast pocket like a boutonnière and offered the child a solemn nod.

At ringside, Kenny leapt to the apron in one hop, springed to the second rope, and hurled a missile-dropkick pantomime to the empty air, landing cat-light and pacing. Oswald reached the steps, paused on the middle one to face the crowd, then extended one arm toward the ring and the other toward the rafters. The top-rope camera caught his profile as he slid between ropes—clean, measured, cold.

Scott Slade: Fire & ICE in the house and looking sharp. But business is about to get complicated.

The mash-up cut hard. Darkness swallowed the arena again. A lone, low synth—heartbeat slow—pulsed from the PA. Red lanterns crawled to life along the entry arch like eyes opening in the dark. The first tack-sharp hits of Once Monsters’ “My Name Is…” snapped through the speakers, and the titantron flooded with sumi-ink dragons unfurling across weathered parchment. The crowd’s murmur turned into a growl of approval.

Chris Rodgers: You hear that? That’s the sound of trouble arriving on schedule.

A vertical beam of scarlet split the stage. Shingo Hara walked out underneath it—tattoos coiling over his shoulders like sleeping serpents, jaw set, eyes forward. Beside him, half in shadow, Kami Nakada stepped into the light, rose blossoms tucked into raven hair, one cheek stippled with old fight-kissed freckles and new combat paint. She rolled her wrists; the tape around her fingers looked like silk binding waiting to become a choke.

Scott Slade: True Chaotic—Shingo “The Midnight Dragon” Hara and Kami Nakada. Two-and-oh as a unit. Precision and violence with a conscience.

Yushiro Fujimoto: Hara carries discipline in his shoulders. If the woman does not infect him with recklessness, they are formidable.

Takeshi Suzuki: “Recklessness” is how you stop a man who thinks he’s a glacier.

From the curtain, Hara pointed two fingers to his heart, then to the rafters, then to the far hard cam. He cracked his neck and started a measured prowl down the ramp—predator pace, each step synced to the kick drum. Kami did a half-circle in the entry light and then ghosted to his flank, her steps elastic, shoulders loose, eyes locked on Kenny like she was selecting a pressure point from fifty feet away.

On the ramp, fans reached; Hara brushed knuckles without breaking stride. A teen in a vintage Rice Owls hoodie yelled something about Texas—Hara’s mouth ticked into the smallest smile, and he bumped the kid’s fist. Kami slowed at the barricade long enough to yank a “CHAOS QUEEN” sign, scrawl a kanji slash across it with a black marker, and toss it back like a throwing knife.

Chris Rodgers: Look at Hara’s focus. That’s a thief who learned how to take only what he can carry. And Kami? Tang Soo Do hips—every motion is a setup.

At ringside, Hara hopped to the apron, wiped his boots with a ritual nod, and gripped the top rope. He rocked once—twice—then vaulted clean, landing mid-ring with a predator’s crouch before rising into a tight circle, never giving Kenny or Oswald his back. Kami slid under the bottom rope with a serpentine twist, popped to her feet, and met Hara in the center of the ring. They bumped forearms—no words—then split to their corner in perfect mirror, turning just enough to keep Fire & ICE framed between them.

The house lights bled from red to daylight white as the referee stepped in, patting gear, checking tape.

Scott Slade: Officials have their hands full tonight. Two combustible elements on one side of the ring—

Chris Rodgers: —and a dragon with a fuse on the other.

Yushiro Fujimoto: Begin. Let action reveal truth.

Kenny Volcano slapped his own chest hard enough to echo, hollered for the tag rope to “brace for impact,” and pointed at Kami, tapping his jaw—“first taste.” Oswald adjusted his cuffs, slid a fingertip along the top rope like testing new ice, and murmured something we couldn’t hear. Hara responded by rolling his shoulder and tapping two fingers to his temple—think first.

The bell cracked and the Dome surged. Kenny and Kami circled first—two live wires testing for ground. Kenny feinted low and exploded into a lock-up; Kami slipped his collar-and-elbow like smoke and snapped a Dragon’s Tail toward his temple. Kenny threw his head back by inches, felt air kiss his mohawk, and answered with a stinging kick to the thigh. She absorbed it, stepped through the pain, and cut him down with a sweeping kick that took his base.

Scott Slade: Kami struck first—surgical precision!

Chris Rodgers: Volcano’s awake now. Don’t blink.

Kami dragged him up, threaded an arm, and whipped him—Kenny reversed and sent her to the buckle. He chased, spring-boarded off the middle rope, and spun into a twisting shoulder—she posted on the top turnbuckle and met him midair with a sharp forearm that jarred the steel. Kenny spilled to the mat, rolled through, and sprang up into a standing hurricanrana that slung Kami toward his corner. Oswald’s glove brushed her shoulder—no tag—and Kami skidded to a knee with a cat’s recovery.

Takeshi Suzuki: Sloppy. She overplayed the strike.

Yushiro Fujimoto: She survived it. That is wisdom under speed.

Kenny charged for a running bulldog. Kami lifted and popped her hips—mini back body drop—Volcano rolled through and caromed into his corner. Oswald tapped his chest once; Kenny tagged.

Mr. Penguin slid through the ropes like a knife in silk. He faked a collar tie, pivoted on his heel, and executed a crisp Icy Glide—low slide tackle toward Kami’s legs. She hopped the sweep, landed light behind him, and clubbed the back of his shoulder with a hammer fist. Oswald rolled with it, trapped her wrist, and flowed into a standing switch, trying to mesh her arms for the Permafrost Lock. Kami dropped her weight, kicked out a leg, and spun free, snapping an uppercut that clipped Oswald’s jaw.

Scott Slade: Kami beat the entanglement—textbook Jujitsu scramble.

Chris Rodgers: Don’t let his manners fool you—Oswald’s got teeth.

Oswald answered with speed, circling tight, then burst forward in an Antarctic Assault—whirlwind sprint into a horizontal spin and a frigid forearm smash. Kami folded, rebounded off the ropes, and came back into a shoulder feint that became Chaotic Storm—midair twist, shoulder driven through Oswald’s chest. He hit the canvas hard, but rolled to his side and hooked her ankle, tripping her to kill the momentum. He sprang to the second rope and dove—Penguin Plunge feint into a sliding elbow that grazed her collarbone.

Kami tagged in place—palm up. Hara’s hand slapped hers clean.

The Midnight Dragon vaulted the ropes with a long stride and met Oswald center ring. Tie-up. Hara bullied him two steps, shifted to a waist cinch, and slung him with a T-Bone Suplex that had a little extra rotation. Oswald bounced to his knees and scrambled to a corner; Hara stalked, palms open, and launched a reverse jumping spinning heel kick. Oswald ducked beneath and slipped out to the apron. He slingshotted in—springboard cross-body—Hara caught him midair, rolled through, and deadlifted into a quick power slam. Cover—one—Oswald kicked out and slid backward like melting ice.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Hara’s hips—excellent leverage.

Takeshi Suzuki: Lightweight rag-dolled. This is where the match unravels.

Hara dragged Oswald vertical and threaded the arms for a Cobra Clutch Suplex; Oswald blocked with a knee wedge, clamped Shingo’s forearm, and snapped a rope-assisted arm twist that loosened the hold. He ricocheted to the high rent district, climbing in one smooth motion. Hara rushed him; Oswald leapt anyway—Frostbite Flip. Hara stepped in tight and swatted his legs on the way down, collapsing the landing into a cradle. One… two—Volcano skidded in and punted the stack apart.

Chris Rodgers: Kenny saves it by a hair!

Scott Slade: The pace just doubled.

Kami shot through the ropes like a release spring and caught Kenny with a Dragon’s Tail to the ribs that sent him stumbling. The ref herded her back; Kenny reset on the apron, already grinning.

Oswald ghosted under a Shingo jab and landed a pair of quick body shots of his own. He hit the ropes, went low with another Icy Glide—Hara braced, stepped over, and answered with a Shining Wizard that cracked off Oswald’s temple and sent him slumping into the bottom rope. The crowd popped. Hara cued the powerbomb call with a cut-throat across his chest—a warning for Dragon’s Breath.

Scott Slade: Hara thinking turnbuckle powerbomb—step one of that Dragon’s Breath!

Hara hoisted Oswald and drove him—Oswald writhed free mid-lift, slipped behind, and shoved Shingo chest-first into the pads. As Hara rebounded, Oswald staggered to the opposite corner and dove—tag to Volcano.

Kenny vaulted the top rope with a missile dropkick that folded Hara. He kipped up, tore to the ropes, and smashed a running bulldog. Cover—one, two—Hara powered out. Kenny rained hammering forearms, jerked Hara up, and snapped a spike DDT that planted the Dragon on the crown. Another cover—one, two—Hara kicked and rolled to his hip, eyes clear but anger blooming.

Takeshi Suzuki: Finish him! Don’t pose—finish!

Kenny hauled Shingo by the jaw and made a show of it—two knuckles tapping his own teeth—then sprinted to the corner. He bounced to the top rope in one fluid motion and launched the Missile Dropkick again. Hara read it—caught Kenny’s ankles out of the air and swung him into a wheelbarrow lift, muscled him up, and hurled a powerbomb that rattled the ring. The Dragon drove Kenny into the near buckle with a second, shorter powerbomb—Volcano’s back whiplashed off the pads.

Chris Rodgers: Turnbuckle powerbomb! That’s the set-up he wanted!

Hara reached to haul Kenny up into the Burning Hammer position—Volcano thrashed like a lit fuse and wriggled down the back, landing on his feet. He shoved Hara chest-first and sprinted the ropes. On the return, Shingo snapped a boot, Kenny ducked, rebounded again—and Kami slapped Hara’s shoulder. Blind tag.

Kenny flew into a tilt-a-whirl—Hara planted him—half-nelson toss into the center. He turned to follow—and Kami hit the springboard rope, twisting into a sharp Chaotic Storm that detonated across Kenny’s sternum. She hooked a leg—one, two—Oswald slid in with a precise boot to break it.

Scott Slade: Fire & ICE keep themselves alive!

Kami rose, eyes flicking between both opponents. She ripped Kenny into position, stepped through—double knee backbreaker—rolling him into the Black Dragon crossface grip. Kenny splayed his free hand and blocked the final lock with fingertips on the mat, teeth bared. He heaved, bridging hard, and managed to snake a toe under the bottom rope to force separation.

Chris Rodgers: That was close—one inch deeper and Kenny’s tapping.

Oswald yelled for the tag; Kenny crawled, Kami hooked an ankle, and ate a mule kick for her trouble. Kenny dove—tag.

Mr. Penguin vaulted clean and landed running. He circled Kami with a blur of footwork and then cut in, snapping a sharp forearm and a low kick in quick sequence. Kami covered high, absorbed low, and answered with a sweep that Oswald hopped. He spun, caught her wrist mid-rotation, and finally wove his limbs into the Permafrost Lock setup. The crowd rose—Kami twisted, spiked her hips, and somersaulted forward, rolling him into a surprise near fall. One, two—Oswald bridged out, twisted to his knees, and popped up into a backflip feint that ended with a crisp standing dropkick to Kami’s jaw.

Yushiro Fujimoto: Better. He needed that sequence.

Oswald climbed a neutral corner with a measured breath—the outline of the Emperor in his shadow. Kami staggered up, shook the cobwebs, and shot to the turnbuckle. She leapt—caught the top rope with one hand and flicked a reverse roundhouse at Oswald’s ear. He ducked by inches. She landed straddling the buckle; he shoved her ankle and she wobbled, catching herself with cat reflexes. He leapt—half-commit to Emperor’s Descent—Kami burst forward off the buckle and met him in the air with a mid-flight forearm clash that sent both spinning to the canvas in opposite directions.

Scott Slade: Collision on the high line! Both down!

The referee started the count as the Dome swelled, hands drumming on barricades. Hara stretched a hand over the rope; Kenny slapped the buckle pad, begging. Kami crawled toward Shingo; Oswald rolled to his side, eyes on Volcano, breath frosting in the cold lights.

One team is inching for fresh arms. The other is doing the same. The count climbed and the building held its breath…

…five… six…

Kami lunged, fingertips grazing Hara’s, and Oswald dove in a straight line—hot tag to Kenny at the same beat that Shingo’s palm slapped home.

Scott Slade: Double tag! Fresh legs on both sides!

Kenny vaulted the top rope, Hara stormed in—Volcano ducked a lariat and hit the ropes, springing into a flying forearm. Shingo absorbed it and answered with a snap T-Bone Suplex—Kenny skidded, rolled, and popped straight up into a running bulldog that planted the Dragon on his face. Kenny dragged him up, fed him to the corner, and threw piston body shots.

Chris Rodgers: Volcano turning the heat up!

Kenny whipped Hara cross-corner—reversed—Kenny hit the buckles, flipped to the apron, and slingshotted back with a sunset flip. Hara dropped his weight, grabbed the ankles—Kenny kicked him off, rolled through, and scissored Shingo’s legs for a flash cradle. One—Hara powered free and lurched to his corner. Tag—Kami in.

She sprang to the second rope—springboard crossbody—Kenny slid under and reached. Tag—Oswald.

Mr. Penguin threaded the ropes, met Kami at mid-ring, and snapped a slick arm drag into a quick Glacial Grip chain; Kami rolled her shoulder, cartwheeled out, and stung him with a hammer fist. She fired a Dragon’s Tail—Oswald parried, spun to her back, and tried to mesh the Permafrost again. She dropped flat, mule-kicked his knee, and snatched a jackknife cover. One, two—Oswald jackknifed back, stacked her for one, she bridged to escape, and both sprang apart to a pop.

Yushiro Fujimoto: Clean exchanges. Control wrestled from chaos.

Takeshi Suzuki: Control won’t survive the next mistake.

Kami backed toward her corner, eyes never leaving Oswald. Tag—Hara.

Shingo stepped through the ropes and Oswald immediately darted to his own corner—tag—Kenny. Volcano flew, missile dropkick to the chest; Hara rebounded, roared back with a Shining Wizard—Kenny collapsed to a knee. Hara hooked the waist, tried a Cobra Clutch Suplex—Kenny rolled his hips, slipped out the side door, and landed a sharp back elbow. He sprinted, springboarded off the middle rope—caught in midair—Hara converted to a rag-doll power slam. Cover—one, two—Oswald slipped in and stomped the save.

Chris Rodgers: Mr. Penguin with the timely rescue.

Referee pushed Oswald back; Kami shouted, hand out. Hara nodded—tag.

Kami hit the top rope immediately. Kenny staggered upright and ate a missile dropkick of her own. She kept motion—snatched an arm, swiveled to a Fujiwara setup, feinted, then rolled Volcano into the Black Dragon position. Kenny rolled with her, grabbed a leg, and twisted to a single-leg crab counter; she booted him off, kipped up, and cracked a stinging uppercut.

Kenny stumbled backward into the ropes—Oswald’s palm slapped his shoulder. Tag.

Oswald slithered in, hit the far ropes, and slid low—Icy Glide—sweeping Kami off her feet. He hopped to the second buckle—short Emperor’s Descent elbow to the sternum—hooked a leg. One, two—Kami launched a shoulder and spun toward her corner. Tag—Hara.

The Dragon entered like a storm. He snatched Oswald and hurled him with a high angle back suplex. Kenny reached in blind—Hara clubbed him off the apron with a reverse jumping spinning heel kick that turned Volcano inside out. Oswald used the opening to roll Shingo into a small package. One, two—Hara powered out and deadlifted Oswald straight into a buckle bomb… but Oswald posted his boots on the second pad, flipped backward over Hara, and shoved him chest-first into the corner.

Scott Slade: Oswald stuck the landing!

Tag—Kenny. Volcano springboarded—flying knee to the back of Hara’s head. He fired a spike DDT—Shingo widened his base and rushed forward to slingshot Kenny into his own corner. Kami’s hand shot out—tag—and the moment Kenny bounced from the turnbuckles she burst in with a corkscrew body press that sent them both sprawling. She scrambled—cover—one, two—Kenny kicked free and rolled toward blue. Tag—Oswald again.

Oswald vaulted, landed in stride, and peppered Kami with quick forearms, then spun into Antarctic Assault—she cut the angle, slipped behind, and snapped a neckbreaker. She yanked him up, fed him to Hara’s boot, and pointed skyward. Tag—Hara.

True Chaotic set the rhythm—Hara muscled Oswald up for the powerbomb into the turnbuckle. He charged—Oswald wriggled, double-palm struck Shingo’s face mid-lift, slid down, and shoved him headlong into the pads. Hara fired back with a back elbow, stumbled out—Oswald dove—tag to Kenny.

Volcano launched from the post with a springboard Code Breaker—caught! Hara clutched both knees, staggered, and Kami shouted the count. He tried to turn it into a single-leg Boston—Kenny mule-kicked free, rolled to standing, and blasted a running bulldog. He crawled—hand up—tag Oswald yet again.

Chris Rodgers: Smart carousel—Fire & ICE are keeping Hara isolated and guessing.

Oswald hit the far ropes and returned with a crisp dropkick to the jaw. He grabbed an arm, twined it—Glacial Grip sequence—Hara grit through, reversed the wrist, and snapped Oswald into a short-arm lariat. Both men down. The Dome pounded the barricades.

Scott Slade: Who gets the corner first?

Shingo rolled, shoulder to canvas, fingertips reaching. Oswald inched as well, eyes on the top hat in the neutral corner. Kami leaned over the rope; Kenny slapped the buckle like a drum.

Hara dove—tag!

Kami blew past the post, springboarded, and spiked a forearm to Oswald’s chest as he rose. She spun, hooked his head—twister elbow—then rolled him toward center and climbed in one fluid motion. She launched—corkscrew shooting star press—Oswald rolled aside by inches; Kami adjusted midair, landed on her feet, and tumbled through. She popped up into a sweep—caught! Oswald snapped her to canvas, folded her wrists, and slid into the Permafrost Lock—deep this time.

Yushiro Fujimoto: Now he has it!

Kami grit her teeth, bridged, walked her shoulders an inch, and threaded one arm free to relieve the choke line. Hara stepped through the ropes—Kenny shot in from the apron and intercepted with a springboard missile dropkick that clipped Shingo off balance. The ref herded bodies; Oswald’s hold loosened for a beat—enough for Kami to sit-out and roll him backward into a tight cradle. One, two—Oswald exploded out.

They scrambled to opposite corners on instinct. Double tags—Kenny and Hara again.

Kenny exploded—rope-run—Hara met him with a pinwheel of strikes: body, thigh, jaw. Kenny answered with a backhand and a rope-assisted hurricanrana—Shingo cartwheeled through the momentum and landed on his feet. The Dome erupted. Hara pointed to the sky and dragged a thumb across his throat—signal made; he rushed the ropes and hammered Kenny with a lariat that flipped him. He hauled Volcano up for the Coffin Nail set—Kenny elbowed free, shoved him off, and snapped a sudden Backstabber that ricocheted Shingo to his knees.

Scott Slade: Big equalizer!

Kenny crawled and slapped Oswald’s hand—tag. Oswald sprang to the top buckle in a blink, balanced, and measured… Hara staggered up as Kami slapped the tag from behind.

Chris Rodgers: Another blind tag—True Chaotic playing chess.

Oswald leapt—Emperor’s Descent arcing perfectly—Kami shot to the top rope from the adjacent corner and met him in the air, forearm-on-elbow, a mid-sky car crash that knocked Oswald askew and sent both back to earth. Kami rolled to her feet first, staggered, and turned as Kenny slid under the rope to join the fray.

All four vertical, all four swaying, hands out, the official warning everybody to clear by the count of five. The crowd thundered, the tags hot on both sides, momentum swinging like a pendulum as the war reset in the center of the ring, no quarter given and none taken…The ref peeled bodies apart on four, and the reset crackled.

Kenny stepped through first, slapped his chest—“come on”—and shot low at Kami’s hips. She sprawled, rolled, and caught him with a snug schoolboy the moment he rose.

Scott Slade: First quick cradle!

One—Kenny kicked out, but Kami stuck to him, rolled through, and stacked him again, this time grapevining an arm. One, two—Kenny bridged, twisted free, and answered with a flash inside cradle of his own. One—Kami popped the hips and escaped.

Chris Rodgers: Trading twos! Nothing cheap sticking yet.

Kami whipped Kenny to the ropes, telegraphed high, then dropped and swept—Volcano hurdled, hit the far side, and came back hot with a running bulldog. He dove across for a lateral press—one, two—Kami shot a shoulder and rolled toward her corner. Tag—Hara.

Kenny scrambled and dove—tag—Oswald.

Mr. Penguin cut the ring and met Shingo with a sharp dropkick to the knee, trying to settle him for a Permafrost entry. Hara posted, shoved him off, and exploded with a reverse jumping spinning heel kick that put Oswald on his back. Shingo sank for a hook of the far leg—one, two—Oswald wriggled and laced a foot onto the rope.

Yushiro Fujimoto: Awareness. He knew exactly where he was.

Hara yanked him center and cinched the Cobra Clutch Suplex—Oswald blocked, rolled behind, and snapped him into a backslide. One, two—Hara power-bridged out and turned the bridge into a knee strike that stunned Mr. Penguin long enough for a tag—Kami.

Kami flew in over the top with a high cross. Oswald caught, almost, knees buckling—Kami snapped momentum into a crucifix pin. One, two—Oswald rolled through and stacked her—one, two—she hip-shifted free and landed a stinging uppercut to reset the distance. They hit opposite ropes and collided—Oswald’s forearm vs. Kami’s Chaotic Storm—both crashed and rolled to their respective corners.

Double tags—Kenny and Shingo.

Volcano darted in with piston forearms, then feinted the DDT and instead rolled Shingo into a tight small package. One, two—Hara kicked out, swung to his knees, and pancaked Kenny into a jackknife cover. One, two—Kenny hooked the waist and bucked Shingo backward into a sunset flip. One, two—Hara cartwheeled free and blasted a knee to the chest to finally halt the exchange.

Scott Slade: Three pin attempts in ten seconds—these two are trying to steal one early.

Shingo muscled Kenny up, walked him to the corner, and hoisted for the buckle bomb. Kenny twisted midair, hooked Shingo’s head, and spiked a DDT from nowhere. He dove across the body—one, two—Kami slid in and punted the stack apart.

Chris Rodgers: Tag-savvy save by Nakada.

The ref ushered her out; Kenny hauled Shingo, flung him to his corner, and swung a back elbow. Hara ducked, shoved Kenny chest-first into the pad, and rolled him down to a tight O’Connor clutch—but kept grip and dragged him two steps to tag—Kami. Hara released on the four-count; Kami springboarded, crashing down with a body press across Kenny’s shoulders. She hooked both legs—one, two—Oswald broke it with a precise drop of the elbow.

Oswald reached back—Kenny’s hand slapped his. Tag.

Mr. Penguin vaulted and hit a short Emperor’s Descent elbow to Kami’s spine. He flowed to a tight lateral—one, two—Kami wrung a shoulder free and immediately laced Oswald into a cradle of her own. One—Oswald rolled, deadweighting over to smother. One, two—Kami bridged and inverted into a backslide. One, two—Oswald somersaulted out and scrambled to the corner. Kenny’s hand extended—tag again.

Volcano slung himself in with a springboard missile dropkick that clipped Kami flush. He rocked to the ropes, came back with a running snap suplex—float-over cover—one, two—Kami kicked out, hands searching. She found Shingo’s palm—tag.

Hara stepped in measured, shrugged off Kenny’s first jab, and buried a body shot that stole breath. He spun to a T-Bone—hit it—stacked Kenny tight. One, two—Kenny scraped a shoulder up. Hara stayed on, dragging Volcano to True Chaotic’s half and tagging Kami straight back in.

Quick tandem—Hara knelt, Kami vaulted off his thigh into a high knee that cracked Kenny between the eyes. She snatched a wrist, rolled him down, and shifted to the Black Dragon. Kenny flailed and caught her ankle, spinning it into a quick inside cradle. One, two—Kami ripped free and instantly re-stacked him. One—he muscled out and crawled, fingertips brushing blue. Tag—Oswald.

Oswald slid in low and scissored Kami’s legs from underneath. He stacked her backward with both shins across her shoulders. One, two—Hara stormed in and broke it with a stomp to the pile. The ref corralled him, issuing a stern warning; Oswald seized the opening to pull Kami to Fire & ICE territory. Tag—Kenny back.

Kenny popped to the top rope and launched a frog splash—Kami brought the knees up at the last heartbeat. Volcano folded, gasping. Kami sprawled across him—one, two—Kenny kicked and rolled to his side, eyes watering. She dragged him up and flung him toward Hara’s corner—reversed—she hit the buckles hard. Kenny charged; she burst forward under him and rolled him into a tight mahistral cradle. One, two—Oswald dove in to shatter it.

Scott Slade: True Chaotic nearly stole it!

All four were back in motion before the official hit four on his admonishment. Hara clapped the buckle—Kami obliged. Tag—Shingo.

Shingo bulldozed through Kenny with a lariat, then yanked him vertical and planted a Cobra Clutch Suplex. He stacked for the cover—one, two—Volcano kicked at two-and-three-quarters, feet bicycling. Hara dragged him up, fed him to the corner, and tagged Kami for another quick burst.

She hit a rope-run feint, leapt to the second buckle, and spun into a corkscrew body block. Cover—one, two—Kenny’s shoulder shot up again. She pulled him to center and signaled high—climb in one motion—Oswald sprinted the apron and slapped Kenny’s calf as she took flight. Blind tag.

Kami rotated into the Corkscrew Shooting Star—Kenny rolled—Oswald met her on landing with a picture-perfect dropkick to the ribs. He sprawled into a tight hook—one, two—Shingo slid in, ripped Oswald away by the boot, and deadlifted him straight into a short powerbomb that left both legal competitors down again.

Chris Rodgers: Bodies flying, covers everywhere—nobody can keep the lid on long enough.

The ref shooed Hara back, the legal pair stirring. Kenny crawled toward his corner; Oswald rolled the other way, clutching his spine; Kami clutched her ribs and dragged for the tape-wrapped hand in red; Hara pounded the turnbuckle in rhythm, crowd clapping along.

Volcano reached first—tag to Oswald. Kami stretched—tag to Hara.

Fresh men collided mid-ring. Oswald darted inside with a flurry—Hara parried, snatched, and lifted for a powerbomb, looking to sling him into the buckles; Oswald corkscrewed out mid-lift and sunset-flipped the Dragon. One, two—Hara anchored and sat down into a pin of his own. One, two—Oswald wriggled free and rolled to knee, launching a low enzuigiri that clipped Hara to a seat. He hit the ropes—Penguin Plunge splash from the second rope—cover—one, two—and Hara thundered a kick-out that sent Oswald rolling.

Scott Slade: Still even—every advantage lasts seconds.

Hara surged up, fired a Shining Wizard—but Oswald collapsed under it, the knee whistling overhead. He cradled Shingo tight from the mat—one, two—Hara twisted loose and answered with a forearm that finally halted the carousel. He glanced to Kami—hand out—tag.

Kami slithered in, grabbed Oswald’s wrist, and spun him under for a snug la magistral. One, two—Kenny barreled through the ropes and broke it at the last heartbeat. The ref dragged Volcano back to the apron, reading him the riot act as the Dome buzzed and both corners shouted for one more tag…

The ref finished scolding Volcano as the ring reset—Kami and Oswald still legal, both winded and hunting an edge.

Oswald snapped a sudden small package out of nowhere—tight and center.

Scott Slade: He’s got her—!

One… two… Kami popped loose, rolled through, and stacked him right back with a magistral of her own. One… two… Oswald bridged at the last grain of sand and sprawled to safety.

Chris Rodgers: Trading two-counts—somebody’s about to overcommit.

Oswald shot for the corner. Tag—Kenny. Kami reached—Hara’s palm met hers. Tag.

Volcano exploded off the top rope with a springboard missile dropkick that clipped Hara. He flowed straight into a spike DDT, floated over and draped the far leg. One… two… Shingo kicked out and surged to a knee. Kenny hit rope—running bulldog—Hara shoved him off at the last step and snatched him into an O’Connor roll. One… two… Kenny reversed the cradle—one… two… Hara thundered out and answered with a short-arm lariat that stopped the carousel.

Yushiro Fujimoto: Control returns to Hara.

Hara muscled Kenny up for the buckle bomb—Volcano wriggled free mid-lift, shoved Shingo chest-first into the pads, and leapt onto his back—Backstabber! Kenny hooked deep.

Scott Slade: That could do it!

One… two… Kami dove in to punt the cover apart. The official herded her out; Kenny dragged himself to blue and slapped Oswald’s hand.

“Mr. Penguin” vaulted in and sprang to the high rent district with no wasted steps—Emperor’s Descent! Hara rolled a half-turn too late; the elbow smashed sternum and knocked the wind from him. Oswald hugged tight—one… two… Hara lifted the near shoulder by instinct alone.

Chris Rodgers: Two-point-nine. The Dragon’s still breathing.

Oswald pointed to the corner—another climb—when Hara lunged and crushed him on the top rope with a desperate forearm. Shingo staggered, turned, and tagged Kami.

She hit the apron in stride, sprang to the top, and met Oswald on the buckle—short elbows, then a sharp reverse roundhouse feint that made him duck. She hopped to the adjacent rope, slingshotted back in front, and tore him down with a twisting arm drag that slung Mr. Penguin center-ring. Cover—one… two… Oswald kicked free.

Kenny screamed for a tag—Oswald dove and slapped his palm. Volcano catapulted in with a flying forearm—Kami slid under, popped up behind, and yanked him to the mat into a flash crucifix. One… two… Kenny rolled through and stacked her—one… two… she bridged clean, dropped to a knee, and cracked a Dragon’s Tail across his jaw.

The Dome rose as Hara reached over the rope.

Scott Slade: Time to change gears—listen to this place!

Kami dragged Kenny vertical and flung him into True Chaotic’s corner. Tag—Shingo. The Midnight Dragon scooped Volcano and hammered him into the turnbuckles with a buckle bomb; Kenny ricocheted out on rubber legs. Hara hauled him straight up into Burning Hammer position and turned to center.

Chris Rodgers: You know what’s coming—Dragon’s Breath!

Hara dropped the Burning Hammer dead-center. In the same heartbeat, Kami had already taken flight—corkscrew shooting star press detonated across Kenny’s chest. She stayed draped, hooking both legs, forehead pressed to his sternum.

One…

Two…

Three!

The bell pealed as the Dome blew its lungs out.

Scott Slade: True Chaotic steals the air out of the building—Kami Nakada with the pin!

Chris Rodgers: What an opening salvo! Fire & ICE pushed them to the brink, but Dragon’s Breath ends all arguments.

Yushiro Fujimoto: Efficient. Ruthless. Acceptable.

Takeshi Suzuki: Hmph. Enjoy it while it lasts.

Hara rolled to his knees, breathing fire, while Kami rose over Kenny with a hard stare, then offered the slightest bow toward the hard cam. The ref raised their wrists as Oswald slid in to check on Volcano, cold eyes already cutting to the stage. True Chaotic took a slow lap in crimson light, the crowd chanting “KA-MI! KA-MI!” as Friday Night Clash moved on.

The office smelled like old victories and quiet threats. Dark cherry paneling caught the lamplight in buttery streaks. Antique brass lamps glowed like captive suns on claw-foot tables. A wall of glass framed Tokyo’s skyline—neon veins, steel bones—beating its insomnia into the night. A brass globe sulked in the corner, dulled by too many boastful spins. Even the books along the wall felt heavy on purpose: leather spines, gilt titles, no fingerprints.

Colton Hurst sat in Rupert Mudcock’s chair as if he had always owned it. The leather creaked like it knew his weight. His boots were up on the desk—expensive soles dusty with travel and matches. The glass of whiskey in his hand threw a warm halo against his knuckles. His phone was pressed to his ear, and his voice was softer than the room deserved.

Summer: You sound tired, son.

Colton: Tired ain’t the word, Mama. Ran through the Reapers with Cassie. Hara’s got the Submission strap, Kami’s got the Aerial. And me? I just wanna get on a plane, hold my wife, kiss my kid. Japanese government is blocking the bird.

Summer: They’re holding you on the wrong side of the ocean?

Colton: Won’t let the jet touch down anywhere. Blovid-13 lock downs. Keeps me stuck working for this fat old idiot Mudock.

Summer: Ohhh… come on… Rupert isn’t all that bad… He’s just got a big ego that’s all. He’s done more for America than most. At least we were able to cut a deal with his kids.

Colton watched the city through the glass as if it were a pulse he could set with his thumb. The whiskey clinked when he swirled it, another metronome in a room made of clocks.

Colton: Lily holding up?

Summer: Like granite. And Sammy’s loud enough for two. Your daddy took him fishing. Boy made a friend—little girl called Winter. They were both too stubborn to give up the dock. Hunter laughed so hard he nearly fell in.

Colton’s mouth tugged into something close to a smile.

Colton: Kid needs people his size. Glad to hear it.

Summer: He asks for you every night. Wants to know when you’re coming home.

Colton: Soon. Tell him his daddy’s proud. Tell him I’m finishing work and flying fast as I can.

Summer: You’ll tell him yourself.

Colton: You get the package?

Summer: Mounted today. Slaughterhouse looks right with it on the wall.

Colton: And the papers?

Summer: Signed, sealed, couriered. Your uncle triple-checked every hinge. No gaps. No “oops.” The Written Consent is precise, the Bylaw Amendment No. 7 is clean, and the Protector appointment says “automatic” in all the places it needs to.

He let the word “automatic” settle like a weight on the desk.

Colton: Good. That means when I pull the brake, it bites.

Summer: You planning to pull it tonight?

Colton: He pushed first.

Summer didn’t curse. She never did. Her silence carried a harder warning than any word.

Summer: Don’t work angry. Work exact.

Colton: Yes, ma’am.

Summer: And remember your father’s note. Recusal on your people. You don’t book your own, even if the house is burning down. We stay clean.

Colton: I know it.

The desk phone’s reflection cut across his whiskey like a scar. Tokyo’s lights blinked at him, daring him to blink first.

Colton: Tell Daddy I’ll call after. Hug Lily for me. Kiss Sammy’s head and tell him to chase Winter around the yard for cardio.

Summer: Win clean. Come home.

He breathed in, breathed out, ended the call, and slipped the phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. For half a minute he sat and let the city hum through the glass. He felt the old ring-wise cadence seat itself in his chest—set the beat, set the finish, keep the boys safe. Then he reached for the whiskey, took a slow, even sip, and set the glass down.

The door creaked.

He didn’t look up immediately. The whirr of a mobility scooter crawled across the carpet. It stopped shy of the desk like an animal checking for a trap.

Rupert Mudcock rolled into view—a man padded with wealth and habit, face sagging into power’s easiest mask. The suit he wore was better fabric than the person inside it. His eyes—small and shrewd and mean—took in the boots on his desk, the glass in Colton’s hand, the view behind him as if it were all a personal insult.

Rupert: Looks like ONCE AGAIN… someone made himself comfortable. Is this how your parents taught you to act?

Colton didn’t rise. He didn’t even lower his feet. He let the silence sit, let it weigh itself, then balanced his voice on top of it.

Colton: Hell of a view, Rupert. Shame you ain’t learned to see.

Rupert’s mouth pinched; he hadn’t expected to be measured like furniture. He steered closer, the scooter’s motor giving a petulant whine.

Rupert: I see just fine. I’ll remind You again you’re still on my roster boy. In my building. On my time.

Colton turned the glass once in his fingers.

Colton: You think that makes me yours? All you’ve done is chained yourself to me.

Rupert: Hah! Now listen—

Colton lifted a hand, lazy, precise.

Colton: No. You listen. You had a hundred ways to handle this mess you put yourself in. You picked the one that makes lawyers rich, puts the roster at risk, and puts all of our lives in danger with the fucking Yamamoto Yakuza clan! We offered to help, because for some reason my parents respect you, and because for some reason Hara and Kami wanted to be part of your fucked up wrestling federation!

Rupert: You arrogant son of a— How dare you speak to me that way!

Colton’s palm came down flat on the oak. The sound rang the room. The paperweights shivered; the whiskey glass skipped a centimeter.

Colton: Arrogant? I’m not the one refusing help when AAPW has my top Championship Belt around the waist of there top superstar! You're walking around like it’s a 100% certainty that Nygma is going to beat Sasori and that you’ll crush AAPW but nothing is guaranteed and you're treading on thin ice!

He settled back into the chair like a king. When he spoke again, his voice was almost conversational.

Colton: Here’s what happens now. I’m no longer lacing my boots up for you. Not while you’re crazy ass is driving. I’m managing the card from now on. Cassie. Kami. Hara. I steer them. You sign the checks and stay out of the aisle.

Rupert: You don’t make the card. I do! This is my damn company boy! I’m the one in charge!

Colton: Not anymore.

Rupert’s eyes narrowed. The scooter’s tires left a faint angry crescent in the carpet.

Rupert: What do you think you’ve got? A tantrum and a glass of whiskey doesn’t give you power over me!

Colton: A committee. A charter. A trigger. And a family that doesn’t need to sell anything to own the room anyway.

Rupert: Speak English damn it! What is with fucking Zoomers! Just say what you mean damn it!

Colton: Fine. Your children’s 49%—the trust. They executed Written Consent this morning, New York time. They adopted Bylaw Amendment No. 7: Talent Safety & Standards Committee.

Rupert: Bullshit!

Colton: Any creative or operational decision materially affecting performer safety, travel, or broadcast compliance now requires joint consent. I sit as EVP, Creative & Safety.

Something like surprise tripped Rupert’s left eye. He hid it badly.

Rupert: No… They wouldn’t.

Colton: They did. Quietly. Because they like profit more than hospital bills and funerals. They’re tired of reading obituaries tied to your hobbies. Robert Eltistio. Allen Anderson. Jeremiah Vastrix. Walter Reagan. Dwight Couch. Davey O’Brien. Boris Drago. All dead. In just two years of this wrestling federations existence.

Rupert: Bah! Uncontrollable unforseen circumstances and terrible luck! None of it was my fault!

Colton: Some people may buy that, but all the horrific injuries in the ring were broadcasted to the world. Caught on tape. Insane matches that have ended careers and scared wrestlers for life. These names ring a bell? Huckleberry. Valora Salinas. Abbigail Dresden. Kronin Reinhardt. Hank Sokolov.

Rupert: ENOUGH! THEY ALL CHOSE TO GET IN THE RING! THEY NEW WHAT THEY SIGNED UP FOR!

Colton: Whatever you got tell yourself to sleep at night old man.

Rupert: You think you’re clever. But votes are votes. I’ve got the rest.

Colton: You’ve got a lot of things. But you don’t have this. The trust also appointed a Protector—to intervene automatically when brand-risk thresholds trip. Injury rate above pre-Japan baseline. Broadcaster flags. Regulator warnings. PR sentiment under neutral for six pay cycles. Security failures. Custody of the Ultimate Wrestling Franchise belt outside UW control. When alarms ring, the Protector steps in on the relevant lane and replaces management until metrics stabilize. “Automatic” is a mean word, Rupert. It doesn’t ask your permission.

The scooter’s motor gave a little growl. Rupert reached for rage out of reflex and found paperwork staring back.

Rupert: Even if I believed that, even if your little paperwork cloud is real—conflict of interest. You’ll be booking your sister and her two friends in title matches week after week!

Colton: Recusal’s written. If it touches New Breed, or anyone I mentored in the Slaughterhouse, I step out and the alternate signer steps in. Safety stays, conflict leaves.

Rupert: They made you their hall monitor.

Colton: They made me the brake. Learn the difference.

Rupert’s laugh was ugly.

Rupert: This is still my wrestling federation and I still run the show.

Colton: Then hear the rest. We’re not negotiating a maybe. I’m reading policy.

He ticked the beats off on his fingers, each one precise enough to use as a blade.

Colton: One. The Red Reapers. Once this tournament is over the Red Reapers contracts are terminated. Your kids want nothing to do with Russia right now and it’s a bad look having them on the roster. Plus there unstable and dangerous. Let’s pray they lose to Sato and Maki at Empires End otherwise that gets more complicated. The last thing we need is them holding the Tag Team Titles.

Rupert: You’re insane if you think I—

Colton: Two. True Chaotic—Kami and Hara— deserved a title shot. If by some chance Sato and Hara fail to win the Tag Team Tournament they are your only hope against the Russians.

Colton: Three. Cassie is repositioned to a singles run and moved up the card. She good enough to be Young Blood champion and you know it. You got the Penguin looking mother fucker parading around as champion right now and we both know he lucked into it. It bad look and he’s extremely unpopular back home.

Colton: Four. No interpromotional belt desecrations— I know you want Kami to publicly destroy the AAPW Aerial - X championship, but everyon agrees it’s a bad look.

Rupert: It was supposed be a celebration! This is a war damn it! That was a huge win for us!

Colton: The belt has too much prestige and history. Destroying it will only make wrestling fans around the world angry at Ultimate Wrestling. Better to adopt it and make it ours.

Rupert: Outrages!

Colton: Five. Travel hardening. You're an American company who hasn’t had a show in America in almost a year. Everyone understands your stuck here because of the pandemic, but as soon as we can, the committee wants you back in America. The sooner were out of Japan the safer for you and everyone else involved with this company.

Colton: Six. A Safety Escrow, funded jointly by the Mudcock trust and the Hurst family office. When the Committee orders third-party security or medical reinforcement, the wire lands same day. No invoice roulette. No “we’ll see.”

Rupert: I’m the one that built this federation into the number one rated wrestling program on television world wide! Not my children, not this asinine committee, and certainly not you! I own the entire MOX MEDIA EMPIRE DAMN IT!

Colton: You’re welcome. Every one of those saves you money and headaches.

Rupert: And when ratings tank because your back to basics ideals bored the animals?

Colton: “Boring” is what we call a show where nobody goes to the hospital with a career ending injury. A show where the audiences feel competence, Rupert. They’ll feel a company that treats the ring like a sacred temple again. You can sell competence at a higher CPM once you re-train the ad buyers not to flinch.

Rupert: You can’t fix brand with sermons.

Colton: Good thing I brought paperwork.

He reached into his jacket and placed a phone on the desk, face down. He didn’t touch it. He didn’t need to.

Colton: We file within the hour. A NDA talent brief, one internal memo will be sent out in the morning. The subject line reads, “A new direction for a better future.”

Rupert: What kind of new age corporate bullshit statement is that? You don’t actually think I’ll sign any of this?

Colton: Your signature is decorative.

Rupert’s lip curled. His face began to turn red, a slight flatchulent slid out his rear from the pressure building inside.

Rupert: I can’t believe my own children turned on me!

Colton watched the man’s eyes as he said it. He watched the flicker that said he already knew exactly how far they would.

Colton: They didn’t turn on you. They turned the titanic away from the iceberg. Old age makes fools of us all eventually Rupert. They’re taking control of the reigns just like you taught them too.

Rupert: They’re cowards!

Colton: They’re shareholders.

The room achieved a new kind of quiet—one born of a man running out of angles at the same speed he was telling himself he hadn’t. The old tick-tock clock in the corner started scoring the silence in neat, condemning stripes.

Colton: Here’s how this works. I manage. The Committee does its job. You swing at it, I file, and the board gets walled off from MOX Sports and Ultimate Wrestling. If you’re smart, you smile for the camera and pretend it was your idea.

Rupert: You—

Colton: Expect mail.

One chime from the desk phone—polite, terminal. Colton didn’t turn. Rupert did. He thumbed out his own and watched subject lines stack like charges:
Written Consent — Bylaw Amendment No. 7 (Talent Safety & Standards Committee)

Committee Charter — EVP, Creative & Safety (Hurst); Recusal Protocol

Protector Appointment — Automatic Intervention Triggers; Escrow Funding Confirmed

His children’s names sat under the signatures—Kieran, Florence, Prudence, Junior—like a family photo he hadn’t posed for.

Rupert: This won’t hold.

Colton: It already is.

Colton stood. The chair sighed like it recognized a new owner. He set the glass down, smoothed a cuff, and walked the long side of the desk. The scooter squeaked backward, respectful of geometry.

Colton: It’s not that hard Rupert. Nod on camera. Sell stability. Make sure Nygma wins back the Franchise belt at Empire’s End. Let True Chaotic climb. Let Cassie cook. You take the bow for a steadier ship.

Rupert: And if I don’t?

Colton: Then the Committee does. After that, a judge.

Rupert’s mouth found a smile that never reached his eyes.

Rupert: You think you’re the only one with counsel?

Colton: No. I’m the one with consent.

He put a hand on the brass, paused just long enough to make it sting.

Colton: Sleep, Rupert.

He stepped into the hall. Marble counted his exits. Rain worked the glass. The office drew a long breath that didn’t sound like his anymore.

Rupert stared at the screen, willing the words to break formation. They didn’t: Automatic. Joint consent. Recusal. Escrow. The vocabulary of a company that could survive him. He set the phone down and looked at the chair the way a dethroned champion looks at a belt—close enough to touch, already not his.

He practiced the smile the cameras would believe. He practiced the line counsel would need: what can be unwritten, and how fast can “automatic” be made less automatic. Somewhere below, an elevator pinged and disappeared into the building’s throat.

Rupert: (low) Fine. We’ll do it your way… for now.

The clock in the corner ticked once, neat as a count. The room smelled like power again, and like something else: a finish called clean.

To Be Continued In Part - 3