The belt was already gone. No ceremony. No honor. No sendoff. Just a bell. A roar. And a hand slapping the mat. Chuluun Bold sat alone in the locker room, spine stiff and cold, arms crossed over his chest

“They say the winner writes history. Me? I write headlines.” Blood on the mat. Cheers drowning in the distance. A few smashed bodies. And a few broken egos. That’s the price for a little excitement in

The chamber stilled, save for the crackle of torches and the rustling of parchment. Sir Lionel de Montbar stood before the war table, a map of the tourney spread before him like a battle standard. Only

( He drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain carving through him like jagged glass. His hunger gnawed at his insides, rendering his body useless, his wounds refusing to knit, his life force spilling

Lionel de Montbar, watched on the magic box, his tag team partner in his second match for the evening. It was bloody, gory, and destructive. People were not walking away from this one without scars, bruises,

Bold listened to the chime of the bell. No interference, no run-ins, nobody to ruin his moment. He held his titles high, leering down at the battered Oswald. A strong foe, unique style, he will go far,

The thing about chaos is that it doesn’t knock—it kicks the door in and drags you out before you can ask if you’re still dreaming. The night sky stretched wide and clear, the stars brighter than usual

Scene: Backstage, dimly lit locker room. Sir Lionel de Montbar kneels in front of a small medieval scroll from Medieval England hung on the wall, reciting old prayers. Across from him, Kim Jong Un’s son,

Even though his eyes were closed, his whole world spun. The deafening sounds of the crowd, the shuffling of the riot police, and the wail of sirens cascaded into his pounding skull. His eyes fluttered

​ Bold stumbled backstage. The battle took a toll on him. Had it not been for the powerful effects of the Yokai blood, he would have faltered and handed over his first title to Takoma Sato. He limped towards

The Mongolian was victorious, and his victory couldn’t taste sweeter. He stood over his slumped opponent, the cyborg couldn’t stand tall any longer. In a short period, Bold went from losing handily to

Lionel had been victorious, overcoming immense odds in the process. His opponent was talented and larger than life. If Lionel hadn’t managed to use his resilience in the ring, he was certain he could have

The Mongolian warrior sat at a secluded table at the newly established bar underneath the Tokyo Dome, his Submission Title displayed pridefully as a centerpiece. The battle had worn on him greatly, his

Lionel rubbed his neck and nursed his ribs. It was a rather long carriage ride after the carnage that was the great Slam of Ultra 2, despite the carriage moving at speeds much faster than any others he

Ultimate Wrestling: The Shadows of Tokyo: A Crimson Midnight

Sir Lionel de Montbar sat tending to his righteous wounds within the blood works. He was not disgraced after his defeat. He fought hard and well in the gladiatorial ring. Now there was none that could

The bell’s ringing filled the air, drowned out in cheers for the group, but these were only cheers for Valora. The bloodthirsty crowd cared little for Bold or for his team mates, they were just an extension

Thoughts flew through the Mongolian’s mind as fast as the blood left his jugular. The steel chair, the humiliation in front of the crowd, that… that Thing that bit him, tearing his throat out. He stumbled

The house shook under the detonation, debris falling from buildings nearby. Flames crackled and sparked across the street from the residence. The house was completely in disarray and crumbled under the

Images went through the Mongolian’s mind. WENDE, the War, his Mandolin, his ancestors, his gods. The dream was delirious, memories, visions, and predictions flying through his mind from the toxic substance