Ultimate Wrestling Season 3 - Ch.9: Ronin Rumble Night Two: PART - 10

The Ronin Rumble chaos had barely settled, but backstage was a warzone of its own. Crew members scrambled in confusion, referees whispered nervously, and production assistants were glued to their earpieces, desperate for an explanation that didn’t exist. Rupert Mudcock was in full-blown rage mode, storming through the backstage corridors like a man possessed.

Rupert Mudcock: What the hell just happened out there?! Where did Nygma go?! Somebody give me a goddamn answer before I start firing people!

Fuming, Mudcock grabbed a nearby clipboard and hurled it against the wall, sending splinters and papers flying. A production assistant barely dodged out of the way, his wide eyes darting toward the irate promoter. Mudcock’s boots slammed against the floor as he stomped forward, shoving past a confused cameraman. He reached a nearby table and, with a guttural growl, flipped it over, sending bottled water and scattered notes crashing to the ground.

Rupert Mudcock: Jesus H. Christ, does no one in this company know how to do their damn job?!

A cluster of production assistants flinched but had nothing to offer. The arena cameras had cut to static before anything concrete could be seen. The ring crew swore that the golden sand was real, but no one could explain how the winner of the Ronin Rumble had simply vanished. Mudcock let out a frustrated growl, wiping sweat from his brow. His face was red, his blood pressure in the danger zone. His breathing had turned shallow, his chest rising and falling with quick, irritated bursts. His fingers twitched slightly as he wiped his forehead again, his grip on control slipping with each passing second.

Rupert Mudcock: I’m not running a goddamn supernatural horror movie! I’m running a wrestling company! This is Ultimate Wrestling, not some Twilight Zone freak show!

Still, silence. No one had answers. Just hushed whispers, nervous glances, and the lingering scent of something… off in the air. Mudcock, shaking his head, turned away from the black hole of stupidity and pivoted to the one thing he could still control—the Main Event. His eyes locked onto the towering figure of Chuluun Bold. The Ultimate Wrestling Franchise Heavyweight Champion stood near his locker room, calm, composed, and unbothered. If the madness of the Ronin Rumble had rattled him, he didn’t show it. His massive frame barely moved as he cracked his knuckles, waiting. Watching. Mudcock stomped over, getting right in his face. Or as close as anyone wanted to get to Chuluun Bold.

Rupert Mudcock: Alright, listen up, big man. This isn’t just a title defense anymore. This is about sending AAPW straight to hell. You beat Sasori, and Ultimate Wrestling owns their top belt. No rematch clause. No easy way back. We cut off their damn legs and leave ‘em crawling. You understand me?

Bold turned his head slowly, his piercing eyes locking onto Mudcock. The silence stretched. The tension was thick. Something about Bold always unsettled people, and Mudcock was no exception. He shifted uncomfortably, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off a chill. His fingers twitched at his side, and for a brief moment, he averted his gaze, as though staring too long at Bold might reveal something he wasn’t ready to see. Maybe it was the way he never seemed to blink enough. Maybe it was his unnatural stillness, the way he held himself like something coiled, waiting.

Chuluun Bold: I don’t need to be told what’s at stake.

His voice was deep, measured, and cold. Mudcock wasn’t satisfied. He jabbed a finger at Bold’s chest—something very few people had ever been dumb enough to do.

Rupert Mudcock: Then act like it! I need you to go out there and tear that bug-eyed scorpion freak apart! You wanna be my Franchise Champion? Then you make damn sure Sasori doesn’t crawl out of that ring with his belt!

Bold’s lips curled slightly. Not quite a smile. More like a predator sensing a challenge.

Chuluun Bold: You don’t have to worry about that.

Mudcock huffed, wiping sweat off his forehead again. But then, for a second, he hesitated. Something about Bold felt different tonight. The way the shadows clung to him, just a little too long. The way his skin looked just a little paler under the bright backstage lights. The way he never seemed to breathe too hard, no matter how intense things got.

Mudcock swallowed, pushing the thought away. As he turned, the lights above flickered—just for a second. A crew member walking past Bold visibly shivered, rubbing his arms as if caught in a sudden cold draft. Mudcock's pace quickened slightly, his departure feeling less like a march and more like an escape. He muttered under his breath, shaking his head as if trying to convince himself he had imagined it.

Rupert Mudcock: Just get it done.

He turned and stormed off. As soon as he was gone, Bold remained unnervingly still for a long moment, his body motionless, like a statue in the dim light. His chest didn’t rise or fall in any obvious breath, and the silence around him stretched thin. Then, ever so slowly, he exhaled through his nose, the air barely disturbing the space around him. His head tilted slightly, as if listening to something no one else could hear.

Then, he smirked. The corners of his lips curled at an unsettling pace, as if savoring something no one else could hear. The overhead light hit just right, casting faint, elongated shadows on the wall behind him—shadows that seemed just a little too slow to follow his movements. His teeth, barely visible, caught the light with an unnatural sharpness, as if something predatory lurked just beneath his skin. It was slow, almost deliberate, curling at the corners of his lips like the first hint of a storm on the horizon. Under the dim backstage lights, his teeth seemed just a little too sharp, his expression lingering on the edge of something not quite human. The air around him felt heavier, as if the space itself recoiled from whatever he truly was.

Chuluun Bold: Tonight… the Scorpion King gets devoured.

The camera lingered on his eyes—dark, unreadable, predatory. For a split second, the audio feed crackled, a low, almost imperceptible hum buzzing through the speakers. A lone crew member in the distance looked back toward Bold, his face uneasy, before quickly hurrying away.

The air in the AAPW locker room was thick with tension, the kind that felt heavy, suffocating. The room, normally a place of camaraderie and focus, was eerily silent, save for the muffled sounds of the Tokyo Dome crowd roaring outside.

Then—BANG!

The metal locker dented under the force of Tanaka’s strike, the impact ringing out like a gunshot. The sound hung in the air for a moment, a warning to everyone nearby. A sickening thud echoed as Haruki Tanaka slammed his fist into a metal locker. The impact rattled the frame, making nearby crew members flinch. Some of the younger AAPW wrestlers lurking in the background quietly scattered, sensing the storm brewing. Tanaka’s breathing was ragged, his face slick with sweat, his normally pristine suit disheveled. He tore off his jacket, throwing it onto a nearby bench, before yanking his tie loose with one sharp pull.

Haruki Tanaka: This was not how tonight was supposed to go.

He ran a hand through his graying hair, his fingers trembling with frustration. The Ronin Rumble was supposed to be AAPW’s victory, a statement that would keep Ultimate Wrestling out of Japan for good. Instead, they had watched Drake Nygma steal the victory from them—from him.

And now? All that stood between AAPW and absolute humiliation was one man.

Across the room, Saikō Sasori sat in silence, his fingers flexing ever so slightly, as if testing the sharpness of an unseen blade. He shifted just enough to adjust the weight of his mask, ensuring it was perfectly centered. His legs were crossed, hands resting on his knees, his posture unshaken. His mask was already on, the iconic scorpion design staring back at Tanaka with an unflinching, unreadable presence. He was a warrior at peace before battle, his breathing deep, controlled. Unbothered.

Tanaka’s blood boiled.

Haruki Tanaka: Are you even listening to me?! WE ARE BEHIND THE 8 BALL HERE!

Sasori’s breathing didn’t waver. His focus was absolute. Then, finally—he looked up. The movement was slow, deliberate. His piercing eyes locked onto Tanaka’s, and for the first time tonight, the AAPW owner hesitated. There was no fear in Sasori’s gaze—only the kind of unwavering focus that men like Tanaka would never understand. Still, Tanaka pressed forward, desperate now.

Haruki Tanaka: You HAVE to win. You understand that, don’t you? If Bold takes that belt, AAPW has NO way back.

He stepped closer, his voice lowering to a hushed, almost pleading whisper.

Haruki Tanaka: They already took the Rumble from us and with a Million of my dollars and the # 1 contendership for the unified championship. We cannot—WE WILL NOT—lose this.

The words hung in the air. Sasori slowly exhaled through his nose, then uncrossed his legs. He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, standing at full height. His presence was commanding, but never aggressive. His body was relaxed, but his energy… it had shifted. He tilted his head slightly, considering Tanaka’s words. Then, he spoke.

Saikō Sasori: The past is gone. Money can be replaced. The battle ahead is all that matters.

Tanaka’s jaw clenched. He wanted a promise. A guarantee. Something to ease the sinking feeling in his gut. But Sasori wasn’t like other men—he wouldn’t be pressured, wouldn’t be swayed by desperation. Tanaka held his breath, staring into those calm, unreadable eyes. For a fraction of a second, frustration wavered into something else—doubt. It was as if he were speaking to something more than just a man, something that had already decided its course long before this conversation began. Finally, he gave a stiff nod, his voice low.

Haruki Tanaka: Fine. Just don’t fail me.

Sasori didn’t respond. He simply closed his eyes for a moment, centering himself once more. Tanaka took a step back, still fuming, but knowing he had nothing else to say. Nothing else he could say. Then, Sasori moved. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, then finally walked past Tanaka.

Just as he reached the exit, he stopped. The room itself seemed to still, as if holding its breath. The dim lights flickered once, ever so faintly, casting his shadow longer on the wall. Without turning around, he spoke one final time.

Saikō Sasori: Tonight… The Scorpion strikes.

Tanaka watched him disappear through the doors, his fists still clenched. The fate of AAPW was now in Sasori’s hands.
Cut to the arena.

The Tokyo Dome was still electrified, a chaotic blend of shock, excitement, and unease. The aftermath of Drake Nygma’s disappearance still lingered in the air, and the audience wasn’t sure whether to be in awe or in fear of what had just transpired. Some fans in the front rows were still whispering about the golden sand, others were on their feet, eager for what was about to come.

But despite the surreal spectacle that had just unfolded, one thing was clear—this night was far from over.

Scott Slade: Ladies and gentlemen… we’re still trying to make sense of what we just witnessed. I—I don’t even know what to say about what just happened with Drake Nygma.

Chris Rodgers: Nygma’s gone, Slade! The confetti turned to sand! The lights went out! That Akhenaten guy showed up like some kind of… I don’t even know! And now—now, we’re just supposed to move on like everything’s normal?!

Takeshi Suzuki: This is the most cursed night in AAPW history! I have never seen such madness in all my years in this business!

Yasuhiro Fujimoto: Madness or not, we have no choice but to move forward. The fate of AAPW rests on this match. If Saikō Sasori falls to Chuluun Bold, we lose everything.

A hush fell over parts of the crowd as many turned their eyes upward toward a VIP skybox, where a shadowy gathering of Yakuza figures overlooked the ring. The tension in the air was suffocating—the stakes tonight were bigger than championship gold.

Chris Rodgers: And that’s exactly what I want to see, Fujimoto! Ultimate Wrestling owns Japan now, and after Bold wipes the floor with your ‘Scorpion King,’ you can kiss your little puroresu pride goodbye!

Yasuhiro Fujimoto: Your arrogance blinds you, Rodgers-san. This is more than a wrestling match. This is a war for survival.

Beast Bogan: Brother, let me tell ya somethin’—Saikō Sasori ain’t just fightin’ to keep that belt. He’s fightin’ for his people. He’s fightin’ for puroresu, for Japan itself! But he’s gotta do it against a damn monster in Chuluun Bold. This ain’t just a battle, boys—this is a reckoning.

The lights in the Tokyo Dome shifted—a deep, golden hue washing over the arena. The murmuring crowd fell silent as the voice of Miyu Kojima, AAPW’s official ring announcer, echoed through the building.

Miyu Kojima: Tokyo Dome… it is time for your MAIN EVENT OF THE EVENING!

The crowd exploded, the energy inside the building reaching a fever pitch.

Miyu Kojima: This contest is scheduled for one fall… and it is for the UNDISPUTED HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WORLD!

The Titantron flashed to life, showcasing a hype package of both men’s dominance—Chuluun Bold obliterating opponents with his Mongolian Slam, ragdolling men nearly his size. Sasori trapping challengers in the Scorpion Death Lock, their faces twisted in agony as he refused to release them.

Miyu Kojima: Introducing first…

The lights in the arena dimmed, plunging the Tokyo Dome into near-darkness. A deep golden glow began to pulsate across the entrance ramp, as if the very earth itself was trembling.

A deep, guttural Mongolian throat chant echoed through the stadium. It was haunting, ancient, otherworldly. The sound carried with it the weight of history, a warrior’s hymn sung before battle. Then—the first strikes of war drums. Slow. Methodical. Boom. Boom. Boom. The sound vibrated through the arena, rattling the bones of every soul in attendance.

Then—fire.

Golden flames erupted from the stage, spewing high into the air like a warlord's signal flare. A massive golden wolf emblem appeared on the Titantron, its eyes glowing deep crimson, staring into the souls of the thousands in attendance.

Through the smoke and flame, a silhouette emerged.

Chuluun Bold.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, a towering wall of muscle and menace. His Mongolian coat billowed behind him, his shaved head glistening under the golden light. Around his waist, the Ultimate Wrestling Franchise Heavyweight Championship gleamed in the firelight.

The belt was a work of art and power—gold-plated, with intricate carvings etched into its surface. The centerpiece, however, was its true prize—a massive blood-red gemstone, pulsing with an unnatural glow, encased in a black sunburst pattern.

Chris Rodgers: That’s power, Suzuki! That’s the face of dominance in professional wrestling! The man holding that belt doesn’t fear gods, kings, or your little Scorpion Knight. He is the conqueror!

Beast Bogan: Brother, I don’t know if I believe in all that vampire stuff, but somethin’ about Bold ain’t right. That man don’t move like a normal human. He’s too still, too controlled. He’s got that look in his eye like he already sees how this fight ends. Just like Nygma I think there is more than meets the eye to Chuluun Bold my brothers!

Bold reached the ring steps, stopping for a moment, his piercing gaze scanning the crowd. He slowly unfastened the championship from his waist, lifting it high above his head. The gold reflected the firelight, and for a moment, the red gemstone at its center glowed brighter—almost unnaturally so. Then, with one swift motion, Bold stepped over the ropes and into the ring, handing the belt to the referee. The flames died down, leaving only smoke in the air as the Mongolian warlord stood, waiting.

Miyu Kojima: And his opponent…

A single bell chime.

The arena darkened again, but this time, the atmosphere changed completely. The fiery Mongolian battlefield had faded—now, the air was thick with something ancient, something spiritual. A faint whispering seemed to move through the crowd, like ghostly voices carried on the wind.

Then—a red and black fog seeped onto the entrance ramp.

A new sound. The hissing of a scorpion. The Titantron flared to life, displaying an enormous golden scorpion, its pincers raised, its tail arched, dripping with venom. Then—sudden, rapid strikes of a taiko drum. The beats were chaotic, erratic, like an ambush. The rhythm of a hunter, not prey.

A lone figure emerged from the mist.

Saikō Sasori.

He moved with calculated precision, his steps measured, his head slightly lowered, his yellow and black mask obscuring his expression. His muscular frame was draped in a black and gold sleeveless robe, flowing behind him as if carried by unseen forces. Around his waist—the AAPW Heavyweight Championship.

A masterpiece of craftsmanship, infused with tradition and honor. The emerald-green centerplate shimmered under the lights, the silver dragon engraving coiled around the AAPW insignia. Unlike Bold’s belt, this one didn’t pulse with unnatural power—this one was alive in a different way. It represented the spirit of AAPW, the legacy of Japan, and the soul of puroresu.

Yasuhiro Fujimoto: That championship is not just metal and gold—it is the lifeblood of AAPW. Every champion before Sasori carried this honor, and tonight, it is his duty to protect it with everything he has!

Chris Rodgers: Spare me the poetry, Fujimoto! That belt’s about to be nothing more than a souvenir for Chuluun Bold!

Beast Bogan: HEY! Have some damn respect Rodgers! Some of the greatest wrestling champions in history have worn that belt around there waist including myself! I won’t listen to you shitting all over it, Brother!

Chris Rodgers: Whatever Bogan… why don’t you go back to America and sell your shitty beer!

Beast Bogan: You looking to end up in the Hospital tonight Rodgers?

Chris Rodgers: Uhh… sorry Mr. Bogan…

Beast Bogan: Yeah. That’s what I thought.

Sasori stopped at the ramp, looking at the ring with laser focus. He reached down to his waist, slowly unfastening the belt, then raised it high above his head. The Tokyo Dome exploded in cheers, AAPW fans roaring in defiance against the threat looming in the ring.

Beast Bogan: You feel that, boys? That’s a warrior right there. That’s a man who ain’t fightin’ for a paycheck—he’s fightin’ for somethin’ bigger than himself. That’s the soul of Japan walkin’ down that aisle.

As Sasori reached the ring, he climbed the apron, pausing for a moment. He turned his head toward the Yakuza skybox, staring straight at Haruki Tanaka and Mr. Yamamoto. Tanaka, still as stone, watched without emotion. Sasori then leapt over the ropes in one swift movement, handing his belt to the referee. He stepped forward, his gloved hands clenching at his sides, his breath steady, controlled.

The Undisputed Heavyweight Championship of the World was about to be decided.

Scott Slade: It’s time.

The war was about to begin. The Tokyo Dome was alive with energy, the crowd’s roar swelling into a crescendo as the referee lifted both championship belts high into the air. The gold and emerald of the AAPW title gleamed under the lights, as did the forbidding blood-red gemstone of Bold’s title, its glow seeming almost unnatural. The referee handed the belts off to the ringside officials before turning to both competitors.

A standoff.

Bold and Sasori stood motionless, their gazes locked. No hesitation. No words. Just a quiet, palpable intensity. The weight of the world rested on this fight. The referee called for the bell.

DING! DING! DING!

Sasori exploded forward like a coiled spring, ducking under Bold’s immediate attempt at a Mongolian Chop and responding with a rapid low kick to the midsection! The impact echoed as Bold staggered slightly, but Sasori was already in motion, firing another to the same spot before twisting into a spinning back elbow to the jaw! Bold’s head snapped back, but he barely moved.

The Great Khan grinned. Then, with frightening speed, he lunged forward and clamped both hands around Sasori’s throat! The crowd gasped as Bold lifted Sasori off the ground, his fingers tightening in a monstrous choke grip!

Takeshi Suzuki: No! No! Bold is already trying to end this!

Sasori reacted quickly, driving a knee straight into Bold’s ribs! The grip loosened—Sasori hooked his leg around Bold’s knee and threw his weight into a rolling Judo trip! Bold slammed into the mat, but before Sasori could capitalize, Bold kipped up to his feet, showing agility no man of his size should have!

Scott Slade: Are you kidding me?! Chuluun Bold just kipped up like a man half his size!

Sasori didn’t hesitate—he charged back in, but Bold was ready. The Mongolian warrior caught him mid-sprint, hoisting him into the air in a Gorilla Press Slam!

Chris Rodgers: Look at the power! Bold is throwing Sasori around like a child!

But Sasori twisted mid-air and countered into a falling DDT! The impact spiked Bold’s head into the mat, and the Tokyo Dome exploded in cheers!

Yasuhiro Fujimoto: That is the brilliance of Saikō Sasori! He will not be overpowered so easily!

Sasori rolled back to his feet, keeping his eyes locked on Bold as the larger man shook off the impact and pushed himself up. Sasori moved fast, circling around, looking for openings. He snapped off a low calf kick, then another, chipping away at the base of the monster. Bold growled in frustration, lunging with a wild clothesline—Sasori ducked underneath, springboarding off the ropes into a corkscrew elbow smash! Bold stumbled back—but didn’t fall.

Beast Bogan: Brother, you gotta keep that big man down! He’s too damn strong!

Sasori darted forward, his movements sharp and precise as he hammered a low kick into Bold’s leg, forcing the Mongolian warlord to shift his stance. Another rapid-fire kick struck the same spot, the impact echoing through the Tokyo Dome as Bold’s knee visibly buckled. Sasori stayed relentless, circling his opponent, keeping just out of reach before springing in with a sudden spinning back elbow that cracked against Bold’s jaw. The larger man staggered, his head snapping to the side, but he refused to go down. Sasori saw his moment, darting low before launching himself upward with a leaping knee strike that slammed into Bold’s chest, sending him reeling into the ropes.

Scott Slade: Sasori is picking him apart! He’s targeting those legs, keeping Bold from using that overwhelming power!

Chris Rodgers: Yeah, yeah, but does it matter?! Bold’s still standing, Slade! That monster is still breathing! We’ve seen that Bold can take an unGodly amount of punishment and keep fighting and I don’t think tonight will be any different!

The Mongolian clutched at the top rope, his breath ragged, his chest rising and falling unevenly as his muscles tensed involuntarily. He was fighting something more than just Sasori—his own body was betraying him. The thin trickle of black liquid running from the corner of his mouth had not gone unnoticed, and the Tokyo Dome buzzed with unease.

Yasuhiro Fujimoto: That… that is not normal. Something is wrong with him.

Takeshi Suzuki: His body is failing. I don’t care if he’s a demon or a man, Sasori is wearing him down!

Sasori took a deep breath, his hands flexing at his sides as he saw the opening before him. This was it. This was his chance to finish it. He exploded forward, sprinting at full speed—only for Bold’s massive arms to surge to life, catching him mid-charge. In a flash, the Great Khan ripped Sasori off his feet, hoisting him through the air with terrifying ease before SLAMMING him down with a brutal spinebuster! The ring shook violently on impact, the ropes snapping from the force as Sasori’s body arched in pain.

Chris Rodgers: YES! I TOLD YOU! BOLD AIN’T DONE YET!

Beast Bogan: Brother, that man just went from half-dead to putting Sasori damn near through the mat! That’s not human!

Sasori writhed on the canvas, his hands clutching at his lower back as Bold remained still on his knees, his fingers twitching, his entire frame shaking like a man trying to fight off a seizure. His breath hitched, his body visibly rejecting the very exertion it had just unleashed, but his eyes burned with something primal. He wiped his mouth, glancing at the black streak on his wristband before glaring down at Sasori with a slow, unnatural grin that made the commentators fall silent for just a moment.

Scott Slade: ...Did he just smile?

Yasuhiro Fujimoto: That was not a smile of a man in control. That looked more like hunger.

A chill ran through the arena. The Tokyo Dome, still packed with over sixty thousand fans, felt strangely quieter now, as if something unseen was watching from the rafters. Bold planted a fist to the mat, forcing himself up, his movements slower than usual, but still menacing. Sasori coughed, rolling onto his side, his own body adjusting to the sudden shift in momentum. Both men were down. Both men were struggling. But only one was fighting against his own nature.

Takeshi Suzuki: Sasori needs to move. If Bold gets his hands on him again—

Bold lurched forward, his massive hands reaching for Sasori’s throat again, but the Scorpion King rolled out of the way at the last second, his instincts keeping him one step ahead of the wounded beast. Sasori pushed up to one knee, trying to shake off the shock from the spinebuster, but before he could fully rise—BOLD PISTONED A KNEE INTO HIS RIBS! The sickening thud echoed through the Tokyo Dome, the sheer force of the blow sending Sasori skidding across the mat like a ragdoll.

Chris Rodgers: Oh my god! He just folded him in half!

Scott Slade: That was like getting hit by a battering ram!

Sasori gasped, his ribs screaming in agony as he clutched his side. Bold was already moving—not with his usual terrifying efficiency, but with a deliberate, punishing slowness. He stalked forward, his shoulders rolling unnaturally, his head tilting at an odd angle, like his body was resisting itself.

Yasuhiro Fujimoto: Sasori must regain his breath! Bold’s body is breaking, but if he keeps landing these strikes, it won’t matter!

Sasori forced himself up, barely on his feet before BOLD DROVE HIS FOREARM INTO HIS FACE! The Mongolian’s entire arm swung like a club, smashing into Sasori’s jaw with bone-crunching force! The AAPW champion’s head snapped back violently, his knees buckling as he staggered, a fresh trail of spit and blood flying from his lips.

Takeshi Suzuki: That was a knockout shot! No man should still be standing after that!

But Sasori didn’t fall. Instead, he ROARED through the pain and lunged at Bold, burying his forehead into Bold’s nose with a VICIOUS HEADBUTT! The Mongolian’s head snapped back this time, blood spurting from his nostrils on impact! The crowd gasped as both men stumbled apart, their chests heaving, their faces marked with the damage of war.

Beast Bogan: BROTHER, THIS IS GETTIN’ UGLY! THIS AIN’T WRESTLING ANYMORE—THIS IS A FIGHT FOR SURVIVAL!

Bold wiped his nose, his fingertips coming away slick with blood. His expression twitched—part pain, part something more primal. Sasori snarled and pounced, driving his fingers into Bold’s eyes in a sheer act of desperation!

Scott Slade: Sasori’s going straight for the eyes! This is turning into an all-out street fight!

The Mongolian bellowed in rage, blinded for a moment as he thrashed wildly, but Sasori didn’t let go! His fingers dug deeper, his body pressing into Bold’s frame, using his entire weight to drive him back against the ropes! The referee rushed in, barking warnings, but Sasori didn’t release until Bold slammed a FIST INTO HIS STOMACH LIKE A MALLET!

The air rushed out of Sasori’s lungs. His body folded forward, his knees shaking violently, his mouth open in a silent gasp. His fingers instantly recoiled from Bold’s face, but the Mongolian was already moving—BOLD GRABBED A HANDFUL OF SASORI’S HAIR AND SLAMMED HIS HEAD REPEATEDLY INTO THE TURNBUCKLE! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Each impact was more savage than the last, the AAPW champion’s skull bouncing off the metal post with brutal force. Blood began to drip down Sasori’s forehead, staining his mask. The Tokyo Dome was in a frenzy, the intensity of the violence pushing the match into something far beyond wrestling.

Chris Rodgers: YES! BEAT HIS HEAD IN! BREAK HIM!

Beast Bogan: DAMMIT, REF, DO YOUR DAMN JOB! THAT AIN’T WRESTLING—THAT’S A DAMN EXECUTION!

Bold wasn’t stopping. His eyes were wild, his chest expanding with labored breath, his body fighting itself as much as his opponent. He grabbed Sasori by the throat, forcing him out of the corner, then RAMMED HIM BACK-FIRST INTO THE RING POST! The steel bent slightly on impact, a dent forming where Sasori’s spine collided with the unforgiving structure!

Takeshi Suzuki: SASORI’S BACK—HIS SPINE JUST TOOK ALL OF THAT FORCE!

Sasori collapsed to his knees, his body spasming in pain, his arms barely supporting his weight. The camera zoomed in—his breathing was shallow, his hands shaking, his back marked with red welts from the post. Bold staggered, his own body trembling, his breath uneven, his jaw clenched so hard it looked like his teeth might crack. He was winning the fight—but barely. Then, he wiped his mouth again. More black fluid. The camera caught it perfectly—the unnatural, inky substance smeared across his hand like tar.

Scott Slade: ...There it is again.

Chris Rodgers: I DON’T GIVE A DAMN WHAT IT IS! HE’S STILL ON HIS FEET! THAT’S ALL THAT MATTERS!

The Tokyo Dome was a hive of noise. Some fans cheered in bloodlust, others gasped in horror, but all of them knew—this was no ordinary fight. Bold exhaled deeply, then grabbed Sasori’s wrist—

Bold staggered over Sasori, his breath coming in ragged, heaving gasps. The Mongolian’s fingers twitched violently at his sides, his shoulders shuddering, his entire body trembling with something deeper than exhaustion. His frame was rigid, locked up like a beast fighting against its instincts. He swayed for a second, gripping his temples as if trying to ground himself, but when his gaze locked onto Sasori’s forehead—onto the thin crimson trail of blood running down his brow, staining the edges of his mask—

Something snapped.

Bold’s body jerked violently, his breathing turning into something short, sharp, erratic. His fingers clawed at the air, his head twitching as his lips peeled back, revealing his unnaturally sharp canines glistening under the Tokyo Dome lights.

Scott Slade: What the hell is happening?! Look at his eyes! Look at his teeth!

Chris Rodgers: YOU SEE SLADE! HE IS A VAMPIRE! BITE HIM! TEAR HIM APART! DRINK HIS BLOOD! DO WHAT EVER YOU GOT TO DO BOLD TO WIN THIS THING!

Beast Bogan: BROTHER, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SAYIN’?! THIS AIN’T A DAMN MONSTER MOVIE!

The Tokyo Dome descended into a frenzy as Bold’s entire demeanor shifted from wounded warrior to frenzied predator. He loomed over Sasori, his pupils dilated so far that his irises were nearly gone, his tongue flicking over his lips like a man possessed. Then, he lunged. A blur of pure, animalistic hunger. Sasori barely had time to react—he twisted his body to the side just in time for Bold’s jaws to snap shut inches from his throat! The sound was visceral, a wet, audible clack of teeth slamming together, missing his flesh by mere centimeters. The crowd ERUPTED in gasps and screams.

Yasuhiro Fujimoto: HE’S TRYING TO BITE HIM! BOLD HAS LOST HIS MIND!

Takeshi Suzuki: SASORI HAS TO ESCAPE! THAT THING IS NOT A MAN ANYMORE!

Sasori acted on pure survival instinct, shoving his palm straight into Bold’s chin, forcing his head backward before throwing a brutal front kick into the Mongolian’s midsection! Bold staggered but didn’t fall. His body twisted unnaturally, his chest expanding with sharp, erratic breaths, but his eyes remained locked onto Sasori—hungry, unblinking.

The Scorpion King knew he was in trouble. This wasn’t just a fight anymore. This was a hunt. Sasori shifted his stance, his entire body coiled, ready to counter at the slightest movement. He knew he couldn’t overpower Bold head-on, not when the man wasn’t even thinking anymore—only acting on bloodlust. Bold lunged again, jaws wide, hands grasping for flesh. Sasori twisted his frame at the last second, stepping back and smashing a Muay Thai knee strike into Bold’s sternum! The Mongolian grunted but didn’t stop. Instead, his head shot forward again—his teeth just missing Sasori’s shoulder!

Scott Slade: HE’S COMPLETELY LOST IT! HE’S TRYING TO TEAR SASORI APART WITH HIS TEETH!

Beast Bogan: BROTHER, I AIN’T SEEN ANYTHING LIKE THIS! WHERE ON EARTH DID MUDCOCK FIND THIS MONGOLION WERIDO?

Sasori ducked another wild bite attempt, countering with a sharp elbow strike to the temple, but Bold just kept coming. His arms swung in wild, unhinged patterns, his movements jerky, unpredictable. The AAPW Champion slipped underneath one of them, planting his hands on Bold’s chest and flipping himself backward into a standing backflip kick, smacking the Mongolian square in the jaw!

For a moment, Bold wobbled—staggering on shaky legs, his body failing to keep up with his unnatural hunger. Sasori landed in a perfect stance, his chest rising and falling steadily. He was calm, measured, but his eyes flicked down— Bold’s fists were still shaking. His nails digging into his own palms. Then, the Mongolian tilted his head back and let out a guttural, bone-chilling SNARL. The Tokyo Dome was in chaos.

Yasuhiro Fujimoto: THIS IS NOT WRESTLING. THIS IS AN ABOMINATION.

Sasori’s blood dripped from his forehead to the mat. He could see it—Bold could see it. Then, in an explosive burst of raw, mindless instinct, Bold charged again. Sasori had one shot. Sasori’s mind was racing. He had faced monsters before, but this was something different. This was desperation—hunger in its most primal form. Chuluun Bold was no longer fighting for dominance, no longer wrestling for gold. He was starving. And Sasori was the only meal in sight.

The Mongolian lunged once more, his canines bared, his eyes dilated to the point of madness, his arms flailing in erratic, unnatural movements. Sasori slid to the side, evading by mere inches, his own blood trailing in the air from his forehead wound. He needed to put Bold down. Now.

With a burst of explosive speed, Sasori pounced. He swept behind Bold in a flash, hooking his arms around the Mongolian’s thick waist. Before Bold could react, Sasori bent his knees, let out a guttural roar, and lifted the 295-pound monster clean off the mat! THE TOKYO DOME ERUPTED!

Sasori arched his back in one fluid, powerful motion— GERMAN SUPLEX! BOOM! The impact was devastating. Bold’s massive frame bounced off the mat, his head and shoulders crashing against the canvas with such force that the ropes rattled from the shockwave. The Mongolian’s limbs flopped limply for a second, his chest rising and falling erratically.

Scott Slade: GOOD GOD! SASORI JUST SUPLEXED HIM INTO OBLIVION!

Chris Rodgers: NO! NO! GET UP, BOLD! GET UP!

Takeshi Suzuki: That impact was brutal! I have never seen Bold thrown like that before!

Sasori was already moving. He didn’t hesitate—he bridged the suplex perfectly into a pin, his back arched, every muscle in his body flexing to hold the Great Khan down. The referee slid in! ONE! TWO!! —BOLD KICKED OUT!

Not with the same overwhelming force as usual. Not with the raw, supernatural strength that had left men staggering in shock in his previous matches. This time… it was sluggish. Slower. A sign of a man drained.

Beast Bogan: Brother… somethin’ is real wrong here. That was NOT the kick-out of the Chuluun Bold I know.

Sasori felt it, too. When Bold kicked out, it wasn’t explosive, it wasn’t violent. It was forced. Like his body wasn’t responding the way it should. The Mongolian rolled onto his side, his fingers clutching at the mat, his shoulders rising and falling in jagged breaths.

Yasuhiro Fujimoto: Do you see it now? His power is not there. He is slower. His strikes are weaker. Something is deeply wrong.

Scott Slade: In his previous matches, Bold was UNSTOPPABLE! Every move, every hit felt like it came from a man possessed, fueled by something unnatural! But tonight… I don’t know how to say this, but… it’s like he’s running out of gas.

Chris Rodgers: Shut up, Slade! He’s just playing possum! He’s still the strongest man in that ring!

Sasori pushed himself up to his feet first, wiping more blood from his forehead, his breathing controlled but labored. He could feel the shift. Then he saw Bold’s expression. The Mongolian was still on his hands and knees, his hair slicked with sweat, his chest heaving. But his eyes weren’t focused on Sasori anymore. His body was hunched, his head slightly tilted, his fingers twitching.

Then—he turned his gaze to Referee Bob Sigro.

Chris Rodgers: Wait—wait—what the hell is he doing?!

Scott Slade: Oh no… No, no, no, don’t tell me—

Bold’s breathing turned shallow. His eyes locked onto the referee’s throat. His fingers twitched uncontrollably. His mouth hung slightly open, his canines glistening under the lights. Referee Bob Sigro, oblivious, was wiping his hands on his pants when he suddenly froze. He could feel it. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He turned his head slowly… only to find Bold staring at him with those empty, hunger-filled eyes.

Beast Bogan: SOMEONE GET THAT BOB OUTTA THERE!

The Tokyo Dome was in chaos. Fans in the front rows stood up in horror. Bold’s entire frame was rigid, his fingers clenching and unclenching, his lips twitching. Then—HE LUNGED AT THE REFEREE! Bob Sigro scrambled backward in terror, his face going pale as Bold’s arms swiped for him like a predator attacking prey! The official dove into the ropes, slipping onto the apron and rolling to the outside!

Scott Slade: HE JUST TRIED TO BITE THE REF! BOLD DOESN’T CARE ABOUT WINNING—HE ONLY CARES ABOUT FEEDING!

Chris Rodgers: WELL BOB LOOKS LIKE A TASTY SNACK! I MEAN LOOK AT HIM! THE MANS IN TIP TOP SHAPE! HIS BLOOD PROBABLY TASTE AMAZING!

Scott Slade: Please tell me you joking…

Takeshi Suzuki: Bold’s mind is completely gone! He’s like a feral animal now!

The Mongolian staggered back to his feet, but his posture was unnatural. His arms hung loosely at his sides, his chest convulsing in shallow, jerky movements. His fingers twitched with every pulse of blood that filled the arena. His mouth was still slightly open, his tongue running across his lips as if the very scent of fresh blood was sending him deeper into madness.

Sasori watched all of it. He wiped the blood from his forehead again and took a step forward. Bold’s eyes immediately snapped back to him. The Mongolian exhaled sharply. His whole body tensed, muscles locking, fingers digging into his own palms. Then—he moved. Faster than before. Faster than he should be able to. He lunged at Sasori like a ravenous wolf.

Sasori barely had time to react before Bold lunged at him with unnatural speed, his fingers clawing at the Scorpion King’s flesh, his jaws snapping dangerously close to his throat. Sasori dropped his weight, twisting his body into a hip toss, sending Bold crashing to the canvas! But Bold rolled through the impact, popping back up, and charged again—wild, unpredictable, rabid.

Sasori had no choice. He sidestepped at the last possible second, using Bold’s momentum against him and LAUNCHED HIM THROUGH THE ROPES TO THE OUTSIDE! The Mongolian crashed onto the hard floor with a sickening thud, his massive frame landing awkwardly on his shoulder, rolling into the barricade.

Scott Slade: Sasori had to get him out of there! It was either that or get his throat torn open!

Chris Rodgers: That’s cheap! That’s desperation! That’s—

Beast Bogan: BROTHER, HE’S FIGHTIN’ A DAMN VAMPIRE! AIN’T NO RULEBOOK FOR THAT!

The Tokyo Dome remained a cathedral of chaos, but there were no fans in the front rows—only the Akebi 360 VR cameras, sleek, mechanical sentinels silently capturing the carnage for the millions watching through headsets around the world. The upper bowl of the Dome was filled with a essential workers, distant figures leaning forward in their seats, their eyes glued to the monstrous battle unfolding below. The atmosphere was unreal, a battle being fought before the cold, unblinking gaze of technology, beamed across the globe in immersive detail.

Chuluun Bold lay twitching on the outside floor, his fingers curling against the mat, his breath coming in uneven hitches. His massive chest expanded and contracted like something inside of him was failing, breaking down. His limbs shuddered, his tongue flicking over his lips in a slow, deliberate motion, but his body remained still, like a machine struggling to reboot.

Sasori wasn’t going to wait. He hit the ropes, sprinted back, rebounded, and LAUNCHED HIMSELF over the top rope in a HIGH-VELOCITY SUICIDE DIVE! CRASH! Both men SLAMMED into the barricade with bone-crunching force! The steel BUCKLED inward, the impact so savage that even the VR cameras trembled in place. Sasori’s entire body collided against Bold’s chest, the force so immense that it would have shattered a lesser man.

Takeshi Suzuki: MY GOD! SASORI JUST USED HIS BODY AS A MISSILE!

Yasuhiro Fujimoto: But look at Bold! He is STILL trying to move!

The Akebi 360 cameras zoomed in on Bold’s face, capturing the horrifying, unnatural movements of the Mongolian’s body and two large canine teeth. His head twitched, his neck jerking violently, his fingers digging into the floor. His chest rose and fell in staggering motions, his mouth slightly open, his lips twitching. It was an image of something no longer entirely human.

Sasori pushed himself to his feet first, wiping a smear of his own blood from his forehead, his breath heavy but controlled. He gritted his teeth, grabbed a handful of Bold’s sweat-slicked head, and pulled him up.

Bold wobbled, his knees weak—but the second he was vertical, HE RAKED HIS FINGERS ACROSS SASORI’S EYES! Sasori let out a sharp, pained yell, stumbling back, gripping at his face! His vision blurred, his hands instinctively coming up to shield himself, but the distraction was fatal. BOLD GRABBED SASORI BY THE THROAT AND SWUNG HIM LIKE A BATTERING RAM INTO THE STEEL STEPS!

BOOM!

The top half of the steps EXPLODED OFF, flying several feet away! Sasori’s body contorted violently on impact, his shoulder and upper back colliding with the unforgiving steel. He slumped to the floor, one arm draped over the bottom half of the steps, his chest heaving in jagged breaths. The Tokyo Dome itself felt like it shuddered from the impact.

Chris Rodgers: YES! YES! HE BROKE HIM IN HALF!

Beast Bogan: DAMMIT, BROTHER! HE JUST LAWN-DARTED SASORI INTO THAT DAMN STEEL!

Takeshi Suzuki: This brutality… I’ve only seen it from warriors like Goro. The strength and power of Bold is incredible.

Bold staggered back, his body swaying. His eyes were unfocused, his hands trembling violently. His breath was erratic, each inhale a labored, grotesque sound. He seemed to flicker between worlds, between consciousness and primal instinct. Then—his tongue ran over his lips. His pupils shrank into pinpricks. Slowly, his head turned… toward the ringside camera operator.

Scott Slade: Wait—wait—what the hell is he doing?!

The cameraman BACKPEDALED in fear, his grip on the expensive equipment shaking uncontrollably. He could feel it. The predatory gaze. The hunger. Bold stumbled forward. He wasn’t looking to win. He was looking to feed. Then—SASORI EXPLODED TO LIFE! CRACK! A BRUTAL KICK to the back of Bold’s knee sent the Great Khan BUCKLING! The Mongolian fell to one knee, his balance completely compromised!

Sasori was already moving—his instincts overriding pain, overriding exhaustion. He sprinted forward, LEAPT onto the barricade with cat-like precision—SPRINGBOARDED OFF—AND DROVE BOTH FEET INTO BOLD’S FACE WITH A MISSILE DROPKICK! BOOM! BOLD WENT FLYING BACK, CRASHING INTO THE TIMEKEEPER'S TABLE, SENDING CHAIRS AND EQUIPMENT EXPLODING IN ALL DIRECTIONS!

The ring bell bounced across the floor, security scrambling to avoid the debris!

Beast Bogan: HOLY HELL, BROTHER! THIS—THIS IS A DAMN CARNAGE-FEST!

Sasori landed in a crouch, his hands gripping the floor for balance, his mask now streaked with sweat and blood. He slowly looked up, his sharp gaze cutting through the chaos. Bold was sprawled in the wreckage, his chest rising and falling violently. But even then… his lips curled into a bloodthirsty grin. Sasori rose to his feet, stepping closer, ready to end the slaughter. Then—Bold suddenly SAT UP. His head snapped to the side, his mouth hanging open. His hands flexed—twitched—curled into claws. His voice was ragged, broken.

Chuluun Bold: …So… hungry… I… must…feed!!!

Bold lunged forward on all fours, his fingers clawing at the floor, his lips curled back in a grotesque, blood-hungry snarl. His body moved with an unnatural, animalistic speed, his breath ragged, his eyes locked on Sasori like a starving predator locking onto prey. He was beyond reason, beyond tactics—this was pure, primal hunger.

But Sasori was ready. The moment Bold launched himself, Sasori twisted his body, pivoting on his heel, and drove a VICIOUS ROUNDHOUSE KICK straight into Bold’s temple! The impact was thunderous, the Mongolian’s head snapping violently to the side as his body was sent spiraling into the floor!

Scott Slade: MY GOD! SASORI JUST NEARLY KICKED BOLD’S HEAD CLEAN OFF!

Chris Rodgers: NO! NO! GET UP, BOLD! DON’T LET HIM DO THIS!

Beast Bogan: BROTHER, DID YOU HEAR THAT CRACK?! BOLD AIN’T MOVIN’ RIGHT—HE’S ON DREAM STREET!

Bold’s body jerked, his limbs twitching, his fingers scraping against the mat as he struggled to get back up. But for the first time tonight, his movements were failing him. His muscles weren’t responding the way he wanted. Sasori didn’t hesitate. His instincts screamed at him—FINISH THIS BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE. With an animalistic roar, Sasori grabbed a handful of Bold’s sweat-drenched head, his fingers twisting into the Mongolian’s scalp as he DRAGGED him toward the steel ring post. Bold groaned, his knees dragging against the floor, his body too weak to resist—but Sasori wasn’t showing mercy.

SLAM! Sasori WHIPPED BOLD’S FACE INTO THE RING POST WITH A SICKENING CRACK! The crowd gasped in horror as blood SPLATTERED against the steel, a deep, thick black-red liquid oozing down the post. But Sasori wasn’t done.

SLAM!

SLAM!

SLAM!

HE KEPT SMASHING BOLD’S HEAD INTO THE RING POST—AGAIN AND AGAIN—WITH UNRELENTING, BRUTAL, SURVIVAL-DRIVEN FORCE! The Mongolian let out a ragged, gargled growl, his body going limp between the repeated, horrific blows. Blood poured down his face, streaking through his beard, soaking into the mat.

Takeshi Suzuki: HAHAHA! YES! SASORI IS FIGHTING LIKE A MAN POSSESSED!

Yasuhiro Fujimoto: HE HAS TO! THIS IS NOT A HUMAN HE IS FACING—THIS IS A CREATURE OF NIGHTMARES!

Scott Slade: LOOK AT THAT BLOOD LOSS! BOLD IS FADING!

Then—A HORRIFYING SNAP! Sasori smashed Bold’s head one final time—AND HIS LONG, VAMPIRIC CANINES SHATTERED ON IMPACT! The Tokyo Dome fell into an eerie, stunned silence. Bold’s upper lip twitched, blood leaking from his mouth, his once fearsome fangs now jagged, broken remnants. His body jerked weakly, his arms barely able to lift. He tried to snarl, but the sound was wet, desperate—more human than before.

Beast Bogan: HOLY HELL, BROTHER… HE BROKE HIS DAMN TEETH! HE’S TAKING THE VAMPIRE RIGHT OUT OF HIM!

Sasori stepped back, breathing hard, his fists clenched, his entire body still coiled like a beast in fight-or-flight mode. But he wasn’t done. With a savage yell, Sasori grabbed Bold by the waist, pivoted, and WHIPPED HIM INTO THE STEEL BARRICADE! CRASH! BOLD’S MASSIVE FRAME SAILED OVER THE GUARD RAIL, SMASHING INTO A ROW OF AKEBI 360 VR CAMERAS! The equipment EXPLODED IN A SHOWER OF METAL, WIRES, AND SPARKS!

The footage from the Akebi cameras flickered and distorted, the VR feed to millions of viewers worldwide cutting into glitchy static before returning. The Tokyo Dome echoed with the sound of malfunctioning electronics and the heavy, gasping breaths of two warriors pushing their bodies beyond their limits. Sasori stood tall, his chest rising and falling with primal intensity. Bold, on the other hand… wasn’t moving. His limbs twitched, but his body refused to respond. For the first time since the match began—Chuluun Bold looked mortal.

Chuluun Bold lay in the wreckage of shattered Akebi 360 VR cameras, his once-fearsome frame slumped, motionless, save for the slow twitching of his fingers in the debris. The Mongolian warlord, once an unstoppable force, was unrecognizable. His face was a mask of gore, his forehead and mouth pouring dark, almost tar-like blood onto the floor. His once-imposing canines lay shattered, broken remnants of his former self.

Scott Slade: My God… look at him. Bold has never—NEVER—been this vulnerable!

Beast Bogan: I don’t know if it’s the blood loss, brother, or if Sasori has just found the key to slayin’ a vampire, but the Great Khan ain’t so great right now!

Chris Rodgers: THIS AIN’T RIGHT! GET UP, BOLD! GET UP, DAMN YOU!

Sasori exhaled deeply, his body dripping sweat, his mask smeared with his own blood. His eyes were locked onto Bold’s lifeless, twitching frame. He had to end this. Now. With a deliberate, focused stride, Sasori marched toward Bold, grabbed two fistfuls of his wrestling singlet, and dragged his massive body from the wreckage. The cameras flickered as their VR feed stabilized, the world watching in immersive detail as Saikō Sasori pulled the Great Khan back toward the ring, step by agonizing step.

Bold’s legs barely moved beneath him. His boots scraped the concrete, his breath ragged and shallow. The Mongolian was conscious, but his body wasn’t responding. Sasori reached the apron and, with a primal grunt, HEAVED BOLD UP AND ROLLED HIM UNDER THE BOTTOM ROPE! The Mongolian’s blood-slicked body flopped onto the mat, chest rising and falling erratically.

Sasori stepped onto the apron, gripped the ropes, and SLUNG HIMSELF OVER with a fluid motion.

Scott Slade: Back in the ring! Sasori’s putting this one to bed!

Takeshi Suzuki: This is it! The final moments! Will the Scorpion King claim victory?!

Bold groaned, barely pushing himself up onto all fours. Sasori didn’t hesitate. HE STALKED BEHIND BOLD… HOOKED HIS HEAD… AND DROVE HIM DOWN INTO THE CANVAS WITH A BRUTAL SCORPION DEATH DROP!

BOOM!

BOLD WENT LIMP! Blood spurted from his broken mouth on impact, staining the mat beneath him!

Chris Rodgers: NO! NO! THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!

But Sasori wasn’t finished. With the precision of a hunter finishing his prey, Sasori rolled through, pivoted his body, and SNAPPED BOLD’S LEGS INTO THE SCORPION DEATH LOCK! THE CROWD EXPLODED INTO AN EARTH-SHAKING ROAR!

Beast Bogan: SCORPION’S WRATH! IT’S LOCKED IN, BROTHER!

Sasori sat deep, his muscles bulging, his back arched—applying MAXIMUM PRESSURE! Bold’s eyes shot open in agony! His fingers flexed violently, his jaw clenched so hard that more blood leaked from his gums! He ROARED in pain, his body twisting, but Sasori only cranked back harder!

Scott Slade: CHULUUN BOLD HAS NEVER TAPPED! NOT ONCE! NOT EVER! BUT LOOK AT HIM!

Bold thrashed, clawing at his own thighs, at Sasori’s legs, anything—ANYTHING—to relieve the pressure! His mouth opened in a silent scream, blood pouring from his lips. Then—HE TRIED TO CLAW HIS WAY TO THE ROPES!

Chris Rodgers: YES! YES! DRAG HIM! GET TO THE ROPES, BOLD! YOU’VE DONE BEFORE YOU CAN DO IT AGAIN!

The Mongolian’s nails dug into the canvas, raking through the mat, his body twitching with sheer, desperate willpower. Inch by inch… Step by agonizing step… HE DRAGGED BOTH MEN TOWARD THE ROPES!

Sasori felt it happening. He shook his head, sweat flying from his brow, but he refused to let go. The Tokyo Dome was on fire with tension! Bold’s hand stretched out… fingers trembling… reaching…

Chris Rodgers: HE’S GONNA MAKE IT! HE’S GONNA—

…But his body gave out. The Mongolian’s arms buckled. His fingers twitched—but they never reached the ropes. His face slumped forward into a pool of his own blood. HIS BODY WENT COMPLETELY LIMP. Sasori kept the hold locked in, refusing to believe it was over. Referee Bob Sigro DROPPED to his knees, checking for any sign of life. He lifted Bold’s hand into the air… and let it drop.

THUD.

One.

He lifted it again…

THUD.

Two.

One last time…

…He lifted it—paused—AND LET IT FALL A FINAL TIME.

THUD.

IT WAS OVER. BOB SIGRO CALLED FOR THE BELL!

DING! DING! DING!

THE TOKYO DOME ERUPTED!

Miyu Kojima: YOUR WINNER… AND THE UNDISPUTED HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD… SAAAAAIKŌOOOO SASOOOOOOOORIIIIIIIII!

Sasori released the hold, falling onto his hands and knees, his breath ragged. His body shuddered from exhaustion, from battle, from the sheer force of what he had just survived. Bold’s motionless, blood-drenched body lay in the center of the ring, defeated.

Beast Bogan: CHULUUN BOLD JUST GOT PUT TO SLEEP! THAT DAMN SCORPION BROKE THE UNBREAKABLE!

Scott Slade: BOLD HAS NEVER LOST LIKE THIS! NEVER! HE WAS UNSTOPPABLE UNTIL TONIGHT—UNTIL SASORI!

Chris Rodgers: (Incoherent screaming!)

Sasori staggered to his feet, the referee raising his hand in victory. The AAPW Heavyweight Championship was placed into his hands, followed by the Ultimate Wrestling Franchise Heavyweight Championship. For the first time, Saikō Sasori stood above the world as THE Undisputed Heavyweight Champion. The Tokyo Dome felt like the eye of a hurricane. A mixture of shock, triumph, and a lingering, eerie tension filled the air. The battle was over, but its brutality remained burned into the memory of everyone who had just witnessed it.

In the center of the ring, Chuluun Bold lay motionless, sprawled out in a growing pool of his own darkened blood. His chest rose and fell in slow, ragged convulsions, his limbs twitching involuntarily as his body fought to function despite its ruined state. His once piercing, predatory eyes were now glassy and hollow. His face was unrecognizable, his forehead split open, his mouth an exposed mess of jagged, broken teeth, his jaw slack as more blackened ichor oozed from his lips.

And for the first time since setting foot in Ultimate Wrestling, he had been humbled. A hush rippled through the arena before—MEDICAL STAFF RUSHED DOWN THE RAMP! Trained emergency responders and AAPW/Ultimate Wrestling physicians sprinted toward the ring. Bob Sigro had already dropped to his knees beside Bold, waving them forward. Medics slid under the bottom rope, their gloved hands immediately pressing gauze to his open wounds, trying to contain the grotesque bleeding.

One of them pressed two fingers to Bold’s neck, checking for his pulse. His eyes widened slightly. The Mongolian was barely responsive.

Doctor Drake: He’s in shock! Keep the pressure on his forehead! He needs oxygen!

Another medic quickly snapped an oxygen mask over Bold’s mouth, but his body barely responded. His fingers flexed, his broken nails scraping weakly at the mat as if his mind still believed he could fight.

Scott Slade: We have NEVER seen Bold like this… NEVER. My God, is he even—?

Beast Bogan: Brother, that ain’t a man anymore. That’s a pile of broken bones and bad decisions layin’ in a pool of its own blood.

Chris Rodgers: NO! NO, DAMN IT! WE WERE SO CLOSE! SO CLOSE OF ENDING THIS THING!

Takeshi Suzuki: (Look at the doctors—they’re not even sure if they should move him! They have NEVER had to do this for Bold before! Hahahaha!

Yasuhiro Fujimoto: He is not a God. Not a monster. Not anymore. He is just another man… who has been conquered by the Scorpion.

And the man who conquered him… was standing. Through the chaos, Saikō Sasori had pulled himself upright. His entire body trembled, his muscles quivering from the sheer effort it had taken to break the Great Khan. Sweat dripped from his mask, his bare arms and chest smeared with a mixture of his own blood and the black ichor of Bold’s. His breathing was deep, controlled—but his hands clenched the championship belts with a grip like iron.

He had not just won. He had survived. Sasori’s head tilted slightly upward. His eyes locked onto the luxury skybox overlooking the arena. There, behind the glass, Haruki Tanaka and Etsuji Yamamoto stood in eerie stillness. Tanaka’s sharp features curled into a smirk, the kind that masked an entire storm of calculations happening beneath the surface. He gave a single, deliberate nod before slowly clapping.

Yamamoto, the shadowed puppet master of AAPW, remained composed as always. He did not clap. He did not smile. He simply took a slow, measured sip of his sake, his dark eyes peering down at the ring, as if examining a weapon he had just seen forged in battle. Sasori exhaled sharply. Then, with his body screaming in exhaustion, he turned toward the nearest turnbuckle and began to climb.

The Tokyo Dome erupted as the Scorpion King ascended, step by agonizing step, until he stood tall upon the ropes. And then—HE HOISTED BOTH CHAMPIONSHIP BELTS HIGH ABOVE HIS HEAD. The AAPW Heavyweight Championship gleamed in the arena lights, its emerald centerpiece glowing with a sense of tradition, of legacy. The belt that carried the honor of puroresu itself was now secured in Sasori’s grasp.

But it was the Ultimate Wrestling Franchise Heavyweight Championship that told the real story. Its gold plates were smeared with dark blood, its once-pristine face marred by the destruction of its former holder. The massive blood-red gemstone at the center no longer pulsed with unnatural power—instead, it simply reflected the brutality that had unfolded tonight.

Sasori turned his head, pointing one bloodied finger directly at Tanaka and Yamamoto. The message was clear. AAPW had been saved.

Takeshi Suzuki: (In Japanese, voice cracking!) HE HAS DONE IT! SAIKŌ SASORI HAS SAVED AAPW!

Yasuhiro Fujimoto: But his war is not over.

Just as the words left Fujimoto’s mouth—the Titantron flickered. For a brief second, the screen cut to static. Then—Drake Nygma. His face, twisted in exhaustion and triumph, as he collapsed to his knees after surviving the Ronin Rumble. His final moments in the ring, victorious but spent, as Dollia Trypp knelt beside him. And then—his head turned toward the camera. That eerie, knowing smirk curled at the corner of his lips. Like he had known all along this moment was coming. Like he had been waiting for it.

Scott Slade: Oh my God… It’s happening.

Beast Bogan: You can’t run from fate, brother. Sasori vs. Nygma. One match. One war. One company standing at the end.

Chris Rodgers: NO! NO, NO, NO! THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING! BOLD IS BROKEN! AAPW IS STILL ALIVE! AND ONLY HOPE IS DRAK NYGMA?

In the ring, Sasori lowered the belts slightly. He watched the Titantron as it flashed images of his next challenger, his next war. Drake Nygma. The man who had survived the impossible. The man whose fate was now intertwined with his own. Sasori breathed deeply, slowly, his fingers tightening around the titles. The battle was over. But the war? It had only just begun.

FADE TO BLACK.

24 Hours Later
Tokyo – A Private Lounge in the Tokyo Dome, Post-Show

The private executive lounge was silent, save for the distant hum of Tokyo. Cigar smoke lingered in the air, mixing with the rich aroma of whisky. Haruki Tanaka sat at the head of a polished mahogany table, composed as ever, swirling his glass of 18-year Yamazaki. Across from him, Rupert Mudcock paced like a caged beast, his shirt unbuttoned, cigar clenched between his teeth, frustration radiating off him.

Mudcock slammed his cigar into the ashtray.

Rupert Mudcock: This is some first-class horseshit, Haruki.

Tanaka exhaled slowly, setting down his glass.

Haruki Tanaka: Is that so?

Mudcock leaned in, seething.

Rupert Mudcock: I should be celebrating. Instead, I'm stuck here because of your damn fine print!

He slapped a contract onto the table.

Rupert Mudcock: Shared promotional efforts leading to the Undisputed Heavyweight Championship match... (mocking) You sneaky son of a bitch.

Tanaka smirked.

Haruki Tanaka: I am simply a businessman, Rupert. Stability matters.

Mudcock scoffed.

Rupert Mudcock: Stability? You got one guy who saved your ass tonight. If Sasori lost, you'd be drowning in your own blood.

He leaned in, voice dark.

Rupert Mudcock: When Nygma buries Sasori, AAPW is done. Japan is mine. And you? You'll be nothing but a forgotten old man in a suit.

Tanaka's eyes darkened. Slowly, he stood, adjusting his jacket.

Haruki Tanaka: You assume much. But that is your nature—to mistake arrogance for strength. Tell me… what happens when you fail to see the blade at your throat?

Mudcock hesitated, then clicked his tongue.

Rupert Mudcock: …Joint shows. We do the goddamn joint shows.

Tanaka nodded.

Haruki Tanaka: Yes. We do.

Mudcock stormed out, slamming the door. Tanaka gazed at the Tokyo skyline, took another sip of whisky, and remained unreadable.