The Dome dimmed to a velvet hush. One white spotlight fell to center ring, catching Miyu Kojima in a black, slit-cut gown, chrome microphone poised like a gavel.
Miyu Kojima: Tokyo Dome… this is your Main Event. Survivor Series rules—four on four, eliminations by pinfall, submission, count-out, or disqualification. When you’re eliminated, you’re gone. Last team standing wins the night.
A slow taiko heartbeat rolled under her words. The crowd leaned in.
Scott Slade: When Miyu says it, you feel the floor breathe.
Chris Rodgers: The ceremony before the storm.
Miyu lifted her free hand toward the stage. Magenta strobes detonated as “Cyber Samurai” by Carpenter Brut ripped through the dark. A neon grid bloomed across the ramp—kanji and code racing like liquid lightning.
Miyu Kojima: Introducing first… from Shibuya, Tokyo—The Neon Ronin… Takeshi Nomura!
Nomura stepped through cold vapor in black tactical gear traced with cobalt filaments, mirrored visor swallowing the light. He halted at the ramp’s crest, drew an invisible blade—an LED line blooming down his forearm—and slashed the air. The screens GLITCHED, then he was already halfway down the ramp, movement too smooth for human eyes. At ringside he slingshotted to the apron, vaulted the rope without touching it, and skimmed along the cables with two fingers, mapping exits like a thief. He crouched in the red corner, visor tilted—calculating.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Precision incarnate.
Takeshi Suzuki: Blink wrong and he edits your future.
The neon snapped to iron. Bagpipes and drums kicked “Warrior’s Code” into gear. A Syndicate banner unfurled above the stage, red kanji for JUDGMENT dripping down the cloth.
Miyu Kojima: From Osaka… the iron hand of The Syndicate… Daichi Sasaki—The Sentinel!
Daichi marched out alone—no pyro, no grin—just shoulders that looked built to move walls. At center stage he stopped, cracked his wrist tape, and stared down the hard cam until it blinked first. Then the long walk. At ringside he rolled under the bottom rope, rose without hurry, and pressed one palm to the canvas. The ring shivered like it had been sworn in. He posted on the middle rope and never looked away from the aisle.
Scott Slade: Look at the arrogance of this man, Chris. You’d think he was the one who delivered the heart punch to Sato at the Ronin Rumble.
Chris Rodgers: His confidence seems to know no bounds.
Takeshi Suzuki: He’s confident because knows his opponents are unworthy! Hahahahaha!
Everything died. Light. Sound. Hope. A sub-bass groan crawled up from the floor as “Infernal Wrath” by Akira Yamaoka bled into the Dome. Blood-red smoke boiled from the stage and birthed a silhouette too big to be kind. Yasha Gorō walked through it, hair a burning banner, skin ghost-pale in the hellglow. He didn’t pose; he consumed space. Each footfall hit like a hammer dropped from a bell tower. At ringside he palmed the top rope and stepped over without breaking stride. The ropes trembled. He turned his head—Nomura, Daichi, then the crowd—as if deciding which world to end first.
Scott Slade: The building just… sank.
Chris Rodgers: That’s not an entrance. That’s an omen. This guy looks like trains with Satan himself!
Yushiro Fujimoto: Not much known about Yasha, but what we do know is he’s a dangerous force in the ring Rodgers-san.
Silence cut the dread in half. A single shakuhachi note drew a silver line through the dark. Lanterns bloomed one by one until the aisle became a golden river. Drummers formed a corridor and struck in perfect unison as “Rising Sun” rose like a tide. Sliding shoji doors parted and Saikō Sasori emerged in black and gold, mask lacquered like burnished armor, the Undisputed Championship held with both hands across his chest like scripture.
Miyu Kojima: Their captain… from Kyoto—he is the Undisputed Heavyweight Champion of this sport… Saikō Sasori—The Scorpion King!
Sasori paused at the threshold, bowed to the four corners—heart, sky, earth—then descended through the drumline with measured steps. At ringside he presented the title to the timekeeper with both palms, ascended the steps, and wiped his boots with ritual care. He crossed the ropes and the noise sharpened—higher, reverent. He met his three with a quiet circle: fingertips in, one pulse outward.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Honor made flesh!
Takeshi Suzuki: Look at those Championship belts!
Miyu lowered the mic, letting the scene breathe: Nomura crouched cat-ready, visor up a sliver; Sasaki square as a courthouse statue; Yasha center, breathing like a forge; Sasori at the point, mask tilted toward the empty stage, the championship gleaming at ringside like a second sun.
Scott Slade: The invaders are assembled.
Yushiro Fujimoto Four storms under one banner… and they’re not here to share the sky.
Miyu lifted the mic one last time, voice silk over steel.
Miyu Kojima: All Asia Pro Wrestling… awaits their opposition.
The house lights settled into fight-night white. AAPW’s line didn’t flinch. They simply stared up the ramp—daring Ultimate Wrestling to walk through the door. AAPW held the ring like a fortress—four different storms sharing one sky. The house lights steadied in fight-night white until Miyu Kojima glided back to center, gown catching the light like spilled ink. She raised the mic and let the silence sit on everyone’s shoulders for one luxurious, terrible second.
Miyu Kojima: And their opponents… representing Ultimate Wrestling!
A PA wall snapped from zero to rage—Tom Morello’s guitar tore across the Dome and the ramp flash-cut from pitch to wildfire. “Guerrilla Radio” roared. The screen blotted with brushstroke ink that resolved into a coiled fist. Smoke split. Takuma Sato stepped through—half mask, eyes like knife points, ribs taped and cinched. He pressed his palms together at his heart, bowed once, then flowed into a razor-clean kata: step, cut, pivot, elbow—each strike punctuated by a burst of white strobe.
Miyu Kojima: From Detroit, Michigan—“The Most Dangerous Man in Wrestling”… Takuma Sato!
Scott Slade: There’s no swagger there—only math and intent.
Chris Rodgers: I been part of Ultimate Wrestling long enough to know that Sato is the real deal. I might not like his politics back home but when it comes to his ability the ring he’s as dangerous as he claims to be.
Halfway down, Sato stopped, faced the hard cam, and opened his right hand—from a fist to a flat palm over his chest. The camera found Sasori; the Scorpion King answered with a small nod that read like a promise. Sato hit the steps, wiped his boots, and entered on an angle that never exposed his back, settling just off center with his lead foot turned toward AAPW—coiled and quiet.
The gold of the screens melted into champagne brass. “Victory” blasted through the PA—horns and thunder. The tron filled with a glittering “LB” that cracked in the middle and rained coins. LuLu Biggs swaggered out draped in an obscene tapestry coat, chains stacked in layers, pinky rings stalking the spotlight. He spread his arms like he owned the building and let the heat wash over him with a grin that said try me.
Miyu Kojima: From The Bronx, New York—LuLu Biggs!
LuLu strutted to the ramp’s edge, rolled his neck, and tore off the coat, flinging it to a stagehand like yesterday’s bill. Out came a small sumo salt pouch; with ceremony unbecoming his grin, he cast three arcs into the air—purifying the path—then stomped, boom, stomped again, BOOM, the boards responding in kind. At ringside he hauled himself to the apron, yanked the top rope until the turnbuckle bolts complained, and stepped over with surprising spring for a man carved from city blocks.
Chris Rodgers: Six hundred and six reasons to reconsider charging that corner.
Takeshi Suzuki: Hah - Yasha Gorō calls that and all you can eat buffet!
Yasha and LuLu locked eyes across twenty feet of canvas. LuLu tapped his jaw and smirked; Yasha answered with a slow inhale that fogged the nearest camera lens. The tone cooled to winter silver. A throat-sung growl rolled out like a storm crawling over a plain. “Wolf Totem” by The Hu shook the rafters; wind chimes whispered somewhere in the darkness. Chuluun Bold emerged in a blood-red coat, prayer beads coiled at his wrist, breath pluming white in the cooled light. He didn’t hurry. He arrived.
Miyu Kojima: From Dundgovi, Mongolia—Chuluun Bold… The Great Khan!
At the ramp’s crest, Bold lifted both hands to the Dome and drank in the answering howl from the upper decks. He chopped the air—pah!—two concussive Mongolian claps that snapped like ice splitting rock. As he walked, the hard camera glided beside him, catching the old scars at his collarbone and the cold calm in his eyes. At ringside he slid under the bottom rope and rose with fluid menace, shrugging off the red coat to reveal a barrel chest and the thick, brutal hands of a man who had thrown a thousand bodies before breakfast.
Scott Slade: Stillness like a mountain—until it moves.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Simplicity is a weapon. So is inevitability.
Bold drifted to the rope near Daichi Sasaki. Daichi’s jaw twitched; Bold tapped his own sternum twice and then tapped the canvas. The conversation required no translator. The arena inhaled as if to hold its breath for one last arrival.
A piano line crept in like frost—delicate, sinister. “The Devil Within” bled through the speakers one note at a time as the tron painted a jagged mosaic of ancient glyphs that twisted to form a mask’s split visor—cool blue and burning ember. Drake Nygma stepped from shadow in a sleeveless hood, chin tucked, that thin, intelligent smile that never reached the eyes.
Miyu Kojima: From Chicago, Illinois—he is the winner of the Ronin Rumble… “The Sphinx” Drake Nygma!
The ramp lights narrowed to a corridor. Nygma paced it like a judge walking to the bench—unhurried, inevitable. Halfway down he stopped and tilted his head toward the ringside timekeeper where the Undisputed title rested—a tiny, hungry angle. The lens cut to Sasori; the Scorpion King didn’t blink. Nygma resumed, slid in, unfolded to his full 6’5”, and drifted to the point of the UW wedge opposite Sasori. For a single filament-thin moment, neither man moved. The Dome made the only sound that mattered: sixty thousand people forgetting to breathe and then remembering all at once.
Sato, bouncing on the balls of his feet, fingers testing the air like he could feel the angles of the ring. LuLu, rolling his neck and popping each shoulder like a pair of safes, mouthing come on at the largest man in the other corner. Bold, expressionless, pupils dilated, the ghost of a smile that might mean war or prayer. Nygma, a living ellipsis—three dots that promise more sentence.
Across from them…
Nomura, visor tipped, two fingers tracing a tiny square in the air as if he’s already redrawing the geometry. Daichi, arms folded over a chest built like a courthouse, the corners of his mouth refusing to move. Yasha, hands hanging like wrecking balls, breath a forge. Sasori, mask angled, hands loose, the champion’s gravity bending the noise toward him.
Miyu Kojima: Tokyo Dome… Ultimate Wrestling has arrived.
Miyu dipped to the ropes with a final, velvet nod to both benches and slipped out as if the ring might explode behind her.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Four storms under each banner… Only one sky to share.
Chris Rodgers: And not enough oxygen for eight egos. Something’s got to give.
The referee looked left, looked right. Eight chests rose as one. The bell hovered. It waited—for that last heartbeat that makes men do brave or stupid things—then snapped the air in two. The referee shows the tag ropes, slaps each wrist tape, and points at the timekeeper.
Scott Slade: Survivor Series… now.
Takeshi Suzuki: Finally AAPW will show the world we are the dominate wrestling promotion on the planet!
DING!
Sasori and Nygma don’t circle—they collide. Drake buries a palm strike into the sternum; Sasori answers with a knife-edge kesagiri of his own, then turns the hips—Scorpion’s Sting: jab, jab, elbow, spinning back kick. Drake staggers two steps and ricochets from the ropes with a shoulder block that bulldozes the champion to a knee. Sasori springs up, chest to chest again.
Chris Rodgers: They’re not starting fast—they’re starting fatal.
Takeshi Suzuki Death or glory pace. Beautiful.
They hook a collar-and-elbow; Drake rips free and launches a big boot—Sasori catches the ankle, spins it through, and whips the Scorpion Tail roundhouse at Drake’s temple. Nygma ducks by a breath and spears Sasori clean in the ribs. The ring booms. Drake sprawls across him.
One… tw—Sasori explodes out and snaps straight to a single leg, dragging Drake to the canvas and folding his ankles—hands laced—Scorpion Death Lock tease. Drake mule-kicks, claws forward, and rakes a forearm across the mat to snag the bottom rope.
Referee: Break! One—two—three—
Sasori releases on three and a half, palms up. Drake rolls to the apron, smirking through the ache, then slingshots with a rolling cutter already coiling—
Scott Slade: Sphinx’s Judgement—early!
Sasori parries in midair, turning through and dumping Drake belly-first in a snap takedown. He stacks the hips, pivots, and spikes a Serpent’s Bite knee flush to the temple. Cover! One… two… Drake drapes a boot over the rope and the Dome groans.
Chris Rodgers: Rope saves count in Survivor Series as much as any other night—live by them or die by three.
Daichi slaps the turnbuckle pad in a slow tattoo—Yasha just watches, smiling without teeth. Sato paces the apron like a caged knife; LuLu tells the ref to “count faster, baby” and gets a warning for his trouble.
Back in center, Sasori draws a bead and Kyoto Crusher-lifts—Drake wriggles, hammerfists free, and answers with a sudden uppercut that snaps the champion’s head. Big boot lands this time—CRACK—Sasori spills to the floor through the ropes.
Referee begins the count: One… two…
Takeshi Suzuki: Count-out is death. He must return.
Drake follows, stalking, and bounces Sasori’s back off the barricade. Three… four… Sasori fires a body shot and posts Drake shoulder-first. Five… six… Sasori slides in to break the count—but rolls back out on purpose, grabbing Drake by the cowl and dragging him to the announce side.
Scott Slade: Careful, champ—regular rules apply!
Sasori palms Drake’s jaw, steps to the apron, and Venom Strike-drops with the diving elbow—Drake yanks free at the last heartbeat and the elbow cracks padding. Seven… eight…
Yushiro Fujimoto: Risk and consequence—magnificent!
Sasori clutches the arm, dives under the bottom rope at nine—Drake heaves himself in at nine-and-three-quarters, collapsing against the buckles as the Dome exhales in one piece. They rise on equal counts. Drake feints the spear, stops short, and hooks a bear hug—crushing. Sasori’s ribs flare; his arms jackknife and he ear-claps to break the seal, dropping low, tripping Drake to a stack—high pin.
One… two… Nygma bridges raw power and rolls through, hands to wrists, and yanks Sasori into a flatliner across his knee. Cover! One… two… Sasori turns the shoulder and snakes an underhook—chains to a small package—two!—Drake hammers free and they roll apart to a roar.
Scott Slade: They’re throwing finishers like jabs. This is going to shorten careers.
Chris Rodgers: Or make legacies.
They crash again. Sasori snaps a waistlock—Drake mule-knees, runs him to the corner, and pelts the chest with short shoulders. The ref counts—one, two, three, four—Drake breaks at four and a half, hands up, then palm-strikes the jaw and chops the champion’s thighs out. He drags Sasori center—Bear Hug cinched once more—lifts and rattles him. Sasori’s arms dangle for a heartbeat—
Yushiro Fujimoto: He’s fading!
—then fire back to life. He wedges an elbow, switches to Drake’s back like a grappling ghost, and Scorpion Death Drop plants Nygma flat. Sasori doesn’t waste the breath—rolls through the legs—Scorpion Death Lock cinched dead center.
Takeshi Suzuki: There it is! Now we learn something true.
Drake claws, drags, scrapes canvas—LuLu pounds the turnbuckle; Sato barks, “Hold him!”—Daichi stands still as stone. Drake’s fingertips brush paint—so close—Sasori leans back, bridging for torque.
Scott Slade: He’s going to tap—he’s—
Drake rolls the hips, shocking burst of strength, and flips the entire lattice, pushing Sasori to his back. Sasori releases rather than be pinned, kips to a knee, and walks straight into a Spear that carves him in half. Drake drags him by the wrist away from the ropes and folds the legs. One… two… KICKOUT! The Dome detonates; both men lie open-mouthed under the lights, chests heaving like bellows.
Chris Rodgers: This looks like Empire’s End, not the opening stretch of Survivor Series!
Nygma crawls to a corner, pounding his fist against the mat—calling for judgment. Sasori claws the opposite ropes, mask angled, not blinking. They meet in the middle and just start swinging—forearm, forearm, palm, elbow—no guard, pride for armor.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Tamashii! Spirit!
Takeshi Suzuki: And poor decisions.
Sasori feints a right and heel clicks low—calf kick to kill the base—then snaps a roundhouse, Scorpion Tail Whip, that kisses Drake’s crown. Drake doesn’t fall—he smiles, staggered, and answers with a brutal uppercut that lifts Sasori to his toes. Simultaneous collapse—double down. The referee begins a count. One… two… three…
Both sets of teammates reach in with open palms. Sato shouts for the tag; Nomura leans hard over the red rope; LuLu is drumming the turnbuckle like it owes interest; Yasha simply watches, hungry. Four… five… Sasori plants a hand. Drake rolls to a knee. Six…
Scott Slade: Who blinks first?
Drake lunges—and waves off his corner. He wants more. Sasori pushes up—waves off his own. The Dome howls. They clash again. Drake shoots for another spear; Sasori leaps, vaulting, and traps the head midair—rolling cradle—one, two—Drake power-bridges and turns it into a deadlift spinebuster that bounces Sasori half a foot. Cover—one, two—Sasori wrings a shoulder free and instantly bolts to the ropes, springing to the second—Venom Strike diving elbow finds heart this time. Cover! One… two… Nygma kicks at 2.9 and shoots both hands to the bottom rope to prove he’s still present.
Chris Rodgers: Two monsters, one ring, and a referee with carpal tunnel.
Referee Bob Sigro: Stay back! Tag legal only! Weapons and you’re out!
Nomura has a chair half under the apron skirt—he smirks and slides it back out of sight, palms up. LuLu whistles like he wasn’t reaching for the timekeeper’s hammer. The ref points to his eyes. Sasori draws a breath he doesn’t have, pulls Drake up, and sets for Kyoto Crusher again. This time it lands—BOOM—Drake’s legs splay. Sasori hooks the far leg deep and leans across the shoulders. One… two… Nygma’s foot snakes the rope by inches.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Ring sense. He lives.
Sasori stands slow, the mask unreadable but the shoulders honest. He looks to his corner; his hand hovers… then closes into a fist. He’s not done. He hauls Drake upright, steps behind—Scorpion’s Wrath in his eyes: Death Drop into Death Lock— Drake spins out, wrenching wrist control, whips Sasori to the ropes, and catches him on the rebound—Sphinx’s Judgement coiled—
Scott Slade: If he hits it—!
Sasori shifts in the spin, plants, and spikes a second Serpent’s Bite knee that stops Drake cold. Both men sway, refusing gravity out of spite. The ref slides between them for a heartbeat to check the eyes. Both nod—still here. They take two crooked steps backward, then charge—and collide with a double lariat that obliterates them to a fresh double down. The Dome stands as one.
Referee: One… two… three…
Sato slaps the pad, urging life back into Sasori; LuLu chants “TAG! TAG!” at Drake like it’s owed. Four… five… six… Sasori flattens a palm. Drake rolls to his belly, jaw clenched. Seven… Sasori crawls toward Nomura—Drake toward Bold? No—he veers last second, eyes locked on Sasori like magnets. Eight… They both refuse the tag and drag themselves to the same center point, fists on the mat, heads bowed like bulls about to crash.
Chris Rodgers: They’re going to burn the whole match down in the opening stretch.
Scott Slade: And no one here wants them to stop.
They rise—trembling, grinning, defiant—and swing again as the Survivor Series war finally, fully ignites around them… They rise and swing again—Sasori’s elbow peels Drake’s cheek, Drake’s palm detonates under the champion’s jaw—and both men finally stagger into their own corners. A glance, a nod.
Tag to Nomura.
Tag to Sato.
The tempo snaps tight. Sato prowls low, testing range with feints; Nomura’s knee twitches—Neon Strike always a half-inch away. Sato shoots an Ipponseoi and Nomura glitches sideways, stabbing a shin kick to the ribs. Sato rides the pain, hops to the middle rope and whips out a rope-walk chop—CRACK—followed by a springing double stomp to the deltoid. Nomura absorbs, slide-steps, and lasers a Glitch Kick to the taped ribs, then snaps into the Circuit Lock.
Scott Slade: Arm-trap crossface! Center ring!
Sato turns his head into the pressure, posts on a knuckle, and in one breath rolls his shoulders through—clean escape. Nomura smiles behind the visor and answers with a Ronin’s Edge backfist; Sato catches the arm, torques it, and flips him with the Ipponseoi after all. Cover—one… two—Nomura bridges, skate-slides backward and finds red tape.
Tag to Daichi.
The ring tilts. Daichi steps in like a courthouse with legs, absorbs a trio of Sato’s body kicks, and punishes the fourth—Iron Sentinel spinebuster. The canvas jumps. He clutches a wrist and hammers Vanguard’s Wrath forearms—deliberate, mean—before ripping Sato into the corner for a driving knee. The ref counts; Daichi breaks at four without blinking.
Chris Rodgers: He breaks the rules in perfect compliance.
Sato slips under a second knee and explodes with a Wushu Butterfly Kick, heel skimming Daichi’s temple. It buys breathing room and one desperate leap—
Tag to Bold.
The Dome rumbles. Bold wades in and meets Daichi with a pair of Mongolian chops that sound like boards splitting. Daichi’s eyes flare; he shoots, looking for a second spinebuster—Bold sprawls, claps Daichi’s ears (legal), and Gorilla Press-lifts him like luggage. Two steps—drop—then a short spinebuster of his own, more insult than art. Cover—one… two—Daichi powers out and bails to one knee, jaw hard.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Iron concedes nothing to avalanche.
They collide again—Daichi cuts Bold’s knee with a low lariat and drags him to AAPW soil. Nomura sneaks a tag on Daichi’s back; Bold swings at the wrong man and Nomura springboards in with a precision forearm to the jaw. He pivots, running knee—Neon Strike—Bold sways but won’t fall. Nomura reloads; Bold just… walks through it and clamps The Claw over Nomura’s face, squeezing until the visor squeals.
Takeshi Suzuki: He squeezes code into silence.
Sasori slips a hand out, touches Nomura’s boot—tag—but Bold yanks Nomura away with one arm and plants him. The ref waves off: tag stands. Sasori is legal. Sasori shoots in smooth, chopping Bold’s inner thigh to steal balance, then hot-swaps to a front chancery and spikes a kneelift. Bold answers with a palm thrust to the chest that sends Sasori skidding. They reset; mutual respect hums.
Drake calls for the world and gets it—Sato’s hand grazes his. Tag to Nygma. The Dome pitch spikes. Sasori and Drake take two steps and bang forearms again—pride over prudence—before Sasori ducks and sweeps the leg, looking for the Death Lock. Drake skitters to rope with ring sense and hauls himself up—Big Boot—Sasori collapses to a knee and fires back a short Serpent’s Bite to the jaw. Both men tag out by instinct more than strategy.
Tag to Yasha Gorō.
Tag to LuLu Biggs.
The air changes temperature. LuLu rolls his shoulders and slaps his own chest; Yasha simply exists. They collide—shoulder-to-shoulder—LuLu moves two feet. Yasha doesn’t. Two sumo shoves from LuLu, hands like shovels—Yasha gives him a single step, then answers with Yasha’s Fury—a discus clothesline that nearly takes LuLu off his boots. LuLu lands on a knee, grins through the stars, and pimp smacks Yasha across the face. The slap echoes.
Scott Slade: The audacity!
Yasha’s lips peel off his teeth. Demon’s Grasp—one hand around the throat—LuLu’s feet leave the mat. He fights it, hammers the forearm, chunks of gold chain bouncing, but Yasha hoists anyway and slams him so hard the buckles shiver. Cover—one… two… Bold stomps in to break it, and Yasha rises with him still on the cover, shoving Bold back two steps without letting go of LuLu’s leg.
Chris Rodgers: That strength is not fair.
The ref corrals Bold out. Yasha snarls, drags LuLu by the wrist to the far buckle… and climbs. The Dome stands—six-ten and three hundred pounds going high.
Takeshi Suzuki: Abyssal Stomp.
Yasha steadies for the dive—Sato slaps LuLu’s boot behind the ref’s back. Blind tag. Yasha leaps—Sato slips in and dropkicks both feet midair! Yasha crashes awkward, absorbing more in the knees than the chest. He pops up furious—Sato hits a running knee straight to the face and follows with a second and a third, legal, legal, legal—eyes rattling.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Target the face—within the rules. Clever.
Sato springboards, aiming to take the big man down with a flying armbar—Yasha snatches him out of the sky into Yasha’s Embrace and squeezes. The bear hug crushes air and sound together; Sato’s arms slacken, then reanimate as he digs thumbs legally along the jaw hinge to pry space. Not enough. The ref lifts an arm—one… it drops. Two… Sato’s hand stalls halfway and then fires, balled fist cocked.
Scott Slade: He’s loading the Iron Fist!
Before he can throw the heart punch, Daichi reaches over the rope and clubs Sato’s shoulder; the ref spins to warn him. Five-count begins. Nygma darts in—shoulder block to the gut—and Yasha actually grunts. Sato wriggles loose and inverted atomic drop (tailbone—legal) staggers the demon. A superkick from Sato to the face follows—Yasha rocks, but his eyes are still there, hateful and bright.
LuLu slaps Sato’s chest—tag—and Pancake Flop crashes across Yasha’s sternum. It barely gets a two before Yasha throws him off with a bench-press. LuLu rolls and tags Bold. The big men double chop Yasha’s shoulders and double whip—Yasha bulls through both with a pair of clotheslines that fold them inside out. He roars and running powerslams Bold clean, then turns and running powerslams LuLu on top of Bold—two bodies stacked like luggage.
Chris Rodgers: That’s two sumo seats for the price of one!
Cover on Bold—one… two… Sato dives to break; Yasha swats him from midair into the buckles.
Nomura begs off a tag hand; Sasori lifts his own—Yasha hears and smirks, then finally slaps the champion’s palm. Sasori steps back against Sato. They trade lightning—Sasori to the ribs, Sato to the knee, both hands on the clock. Sato ducks a roundhouse, hooks Emerald Flowsion—Sasori rolls out and spikes a Kyoto Crusher—Sato somehow spins with it and lands kneeling, mask cracking a grin under the paint—then whips a Dragon Sleeper grip from nowhere! The Dome pops.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Center ring!
Sasori flails for angle, creates a pocket, and slides to his hip, freeing his windpipe long enough to hand-fight to the ropes. Break on three. As they rise, Drake slaps Sato’s shoulder—tag in. Sasori smiles at the fate of it and nods. They collide again—forearms and pride—until both swing and miss, and Drake finally plants him with Sphinx’s Judgement—NO! Sasori back-bridges, Drake skids through, and they collide chest-first. Both men stumble backward to hands up—stalemate and a roar.
Daichi tags himself in off Sasori’s back with no warning, storms Nygma with a Crimson Guillotine knee—Drake collapses to a corner—Executioner lariat lines up—Drake spears Daichi out of his boots instead. Both down. Drake crawls, hand out—LuLu slaps it.
LuLu barrels in and just starts pimp smacking Daichi in the chest, then turns and bonks Nomura off the apron for insurance. He hoists Daichi for a power bomb—Sasaki wriggles, backdrops LuLu, and tags Nomura on the rebound. Nomura springboards—LuLu snatches—Butterfly Backbreaker out of the sky and a cocky cover—one… two… Nomura kicks. LuLu shrugs and looks at the hard cam, spreads his arms wide—crowd reads it—The Ass Load incoming.
Scott Slade: If he lands it, that’s a county ordinance.
LuLu scales the second rope. Nomura kips—Glitch Kick to the inner thigh—LuLu’s footing slides and he has to step down or die. Nomura flash-tags Sasori and Shibuya Breaker-lifts LuLu’s head—he can’t—LuLu is too heavy. Sasori cuts the legs with a low sweep and both AAPW men time it—knee to face from Nomura as Sasori hits a snap DDT. Legal double-team; the ref hits four and they’re gone. Sasori covers—one… two… LuLu throws him off at deadly two.
Takeshi Suzuki: Even mountains move when you drop a city on them.
Bold reaches—LuLu slaps the tag and collapses to the floor to breathe. Bold barrels through Sasori with a choke slam and dares AAPW’s corner with outstretched arms. Yasha answers with a cold smile and a hand out; Sasori chooses Nomura. Tag. Bold points at Yasha and then at his own chest. The Dome chants for the collision. Nomura… tags Yasha’s wrist with a smirk. The demon steps in and the sound drops an octave.
They meet. Bold’s first chop staggers no one. Yasha’s first forearm moves the earth. Bold answers with a second chop that bites deeper—Yasha blinks and grins. They volley—chop, forearm, chop, forearm—until Yasha just palms Bold’s skull and muses at it, then lifts into a jack-knife—the Yasha Bomb winds up—
Drake darts in—legal five-count—big boot to the face, Sato follows with a spinning back kick to the jaw, Bold shoves free, resets the hips—Mongolian Slam (Samoan Drop) and the ring booms like a drum. The ref waves UW out at four; Yasha rolls to his knees, actually hurt, but alive—and angry.
Scott Slade: They put dents in the demon—finally.
Yasha crawls to black and yellow. Sasori extends a palm. Yasha ignores it, stands, and beckons for more. Bold obliges—spinebuster—no, Yasha floats, lands behind, and crushes a bear hug around Bold’s ribcage. Bold’s hands hover, searching—he plants both thumbs along Yasha’s brow ridge, legally prying the face back, exposing those eyes without gouging. Sato reaches in and claps Bold’s back—tag—then slings the rope and Iron Fist Heart Punch cocks—Yasha drops Bold into the path to use him as a shield and Sato has to pull the shot, fist grazing Bold’s chest instead of caving it in. The whole building gasp-laughs at the near-catastrophe.
Chris Rodgers: That punch lands, somebody forgets their address.
Sato whips a roundhouse to Yasha’s face, then a second; the big man sways and roars. He doesn’t fall. Sato hits the ropes for speed—Yasha decapitates him with a lariat that would break most men’s calendars. Cover—one… two… Nygma saves, sliding in with a forearm to the face. The ref forces him out; Yasha stares after Drake with something that looks like interest.
Nomura slaps Yasha’s back—tag he doesn’t like—and springboards for a high knee at Sato. Sato snatches the leg and whips him into Emerald Flowsion—BOOM—stack cover—one… two… Daichi stomps it apart and hauls Sato up by the mask. Sentinel’s Judgment load-up—Sato slips rear, shoves Daichi forward—
—straight into LuLu, who pimp smacks him without even tagging in. The ref warns UW’s corner while Nomura small-packages Sato—one… two… no—Sato uncoils and Dragon Sleeper latches again. Nomura flails toward red—Sasori leans and claps the tag over Nomura’s legs; the ref signals it’s good. Sasori sprints in and kicks the grip apart with a surgeon’s precision. He checks Nomura, then faces Sato, both heaving, both nodding.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Captain’s duty. Again.
They trade—clean, sharp, surgical—Sasori wins the pocket, threads Scorpion’s Sting, and lines the roundhouse—Sato catches mid-swing and sweeps the supporting leg, flash-cover—one… two… Yasha yanks Sato off by the ankle and stares at him like a cat staring at a laser dot.
Scott Slade: That’s a conversation Sato shouldn’t answer… but will.
The ref explodes at Yasha—“Back to the corner or you’re gone!”—and the demon raises both hands, actually smiling. Sasori takes advantage with a schoolboy—two!—Sato rockets out, and both men spring to standing in the same heartbeat.
All eight are vibrating on the apron or in the ring, every tag hand twitching, every rope strand singing. The Dome’s chant fractures into competing storms—“SA-TO!” “SA-SA-RI!” “YA-SHA!” “NYG-MA!”—as the Survivor Series chessboard gleams under the lights, no kings captured yet, every piece blooded. The referee shouts that he wants two legal men and no more. For the moment, he has them: Sasori and Sato circling, each with three wolves behind them, each one step from chaos.
Sasori and Sato tightened their circles—two razors looking for skin. Sato feinted high, dipped low for the single; Sasori sprawled, chopped the inner thigh, and came up slashing with Scorpion’s Sting—jab, jab, elbow. Sato rode the third strike, snapped a counter elbow, and spun for the Dragon Sleeper—Sasori rolled his shoulder through, popped free, and both men reset, eyes bright.
Scott Slade: Every exchange tells you why they’re captains.
Chris Rodgers: And why this ring is too small for both.
Sato cut the angle, tagged the near buckle, and rope-walked—down-cut chop to the chest. Sasori ate it, returned fire with a Serpent’s Bite knee that glanced—enough to stun—then slung Sato into UW’s corner. Tag—LuLu slapped Sato’s shoulder and rumbled in. Sasori met him with a snap DDT that bounced the big man, then shot to his corner.
Tag—Takeshi Nomura.
Nomura springboarded into a high forearm; LuLu swatted at air, and Nomura’s Glitch Kick thumped taped ribs for good measure. He spun, hit ropes—Neon Strike running knee—LuLu swayed, grinned, and Pimp Smacked him so hard the visor clicked. Nomura rolled, came up smiling behind the mask, and speed-bagged LuLu’s thigh with two fast low kicks before peeling to center to reset the geometry.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Cut the tree at the roots.
Takeshi Suzuki: Or wake it up.
LuLu thundered forward—Nomura slipped like bad code, ripcording into a short Shibuya Breaker brainbuster… got him half up… and LuLu just sandbagged, then answered with a butterfly backbreaker. Cover—one… two—Nomura bridged, slid away to red tape. Sasori’s palm hovered—Nomura didn’t tag. He wanted speed and power.
Nomura juked left and right, then darted in and rolled LuLu into a cradle for a long two. LuLu barrel-rolled to his corner and slapped Sato back in, exhaling hard. Sato slid low, Nomura leveled for Circuit Lock—Sato posted his forehead to kill the angle, spun out, and chained Ipponseoi—CRASH. Cover—one, two—Nomura kicked free toward AAPW soil. Drake’s hand shot up in UW blue. Sato looked right, read the moment, and slapped it.
Scott Slade: Here we go. The riddle meets the glitch.
Drake Nygma stepped through the ropes like a verdict. Nomura didn’t wait—he sprinted, wheel-kicked at jawline; Drake ducked, answered with an uppercut that rang the visor like a bell. Shoulder block—Nomura ricocheted. Another—Nomura slid through the legs on the second return, popped up behind, and dropkicked the back of Drake’s knee. The Sphinx dropped to a knee, hands out to base—Nomura struck—Neon Strike to temple!
Chris Rodgers: He clipped him flush!
Cover—one… two… Drake launched a shoulder and rolled to a knee, smiling with his eyes and nowhere else. Nomura pointed skyward, climbed, and springboarded in a tight arc—missile dropkick—Drake took it, bounced to the ropes, returned with a Big Boot that snatched Nomura out of the air like swatting a fly. Drake covered, forearm grinding—one… two… Nomura kicked and immediately snaked to Sasori’s side—hand out—
Sasori leaned… and Nomura yanked back. He wanted the read. He wanted the mistake.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Pride is a sword with two edges.
Drake stalked. Nomura sprang—springboard cutter—Drake caught him mid-turn and Bear Hug cinched, tossing him like a rag doll and squeezing the fight out of his ribs. Nomura’s hands fluttered, then found Drake’s ears, legally prying space; he slipped free, hit rope, and slashed a lightning Ronin’s Edge back fist. Drake ate it and kept walking.
Takeshi Suzuki: He does not chase. He corners.
Drake herded Nomura to the ropes with palm strikes, thick and mean, then slung him hard across. On the rebound, Nomura rolled under the Spear, sprang to the second rope, and moonsaulted back into a glancing crossbody that Drake turned into raw momentum—scooped, pivoted—swinging side slam. Cover—one… two… Sasori stepped halfway through the ropes—Drake looked at him and shook his head once. Sasori stayed put. Message received.
Nomura burst to life, hit the ropes, and caught Drake on the turn with a knee to the jaw. He bounded to the high rent district—fingertips on the top buckle, half-crouched—and squared his shoulders.
Scott Slade: He’s thinking Neon Decimator—flash finish!
Drake surged at the corner to cut him off—Nomura leapt over him, corkscrewing into the center, landed cat-clean behind the Sphinx and seized a waist. He popped hips—Shibuya Breaker try—Drake widened his base and rocked a backward headbutt into Nomura’s faceplate, staggering him two steps. Spear. Cut in half.
Chris Rodgers: He got all of that!
Drake hooked the near leg—one… two… Nomura flung the shoulder and rolled toward his captain on instinct. Sasori’s palm extended—Nomura’s fingertips grazed—and he stopped, stubborn, staggered to his own feet, visor cocked like a dare.
The Dome split itself, half chanting “TA-KE-SHI,” half roaring “NYG-MA.”
Drake stepped to center and opened the gate with an outstretched palm. Nomura nodded and sprinted hard. He went through—feint back fist, plant, whip—Glitch Kick to kneecap—Drake dropped, hands to mat—Nomura hit the ropes and came low for a running basement knee—Drake rolled, popped up, and punted the ankle out from under him with a brutal kick. Nomura face-planted, rolled quick, and springboarded from sheer habit—caught midair—Drake muscled him into a fireman’s carry and dumped him throat-first across the top rope. Nomura whiplashed back into Drake’s waiting arms.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Now.
Drake hauled him to the dead center—no ropes, no salvation—then spun the wrist, stepped through the hip, and coiled.
Scott Slade: Sphinx’s Judgement!
The rolling cutter scythed Nomura down like tall grass. Drake didn’t pose; he sprawled, trapped the far arm with his shin, and hooked deep.
One…
Two…
Daichi started through the ropes—LuLu hit the apron and grabbed his ankle—no weapon, no strike, just dead weight—and the ref’s already at three.
DING!
Miyu Kojima: Takeshi Nomura… has been ELIMINATED!
The Dome erupted—some in fury, some in awe. Nomura rolled to his side, visor skewed, staring up into the lights like he was mapping a new route only he could see. Sasori crouched, palm to Nomura’s shoulder—a brief, respectful press—before the Neon Ronin slid under the bottom rope and started the longest walk, shaking his hands loose, already calculating.
Chris Rodgers: Ultimate Wrestling strikes first blood—Nygma makes the math ugly.
Scott Slade: It’s four-on-three now—AAPW down a blade, but not their edge.
Takeshi Suzuki (low, angry): The glitch will be corrected.
Yushiro Fujimoto (even): Elimination is instruction. The lesson continues.
In the ring, Drake rose slow as a sunrise, eyes cutting from Sasori to Yasha to Daichi—three storms left—while Sato clapped once and reached for the tag with a grin that said, your move, champion. The referee waved the chaos back to their corners and pointed to center, where the night had just tipped for the first time.
The referee shoved the ropes, herding corners back after Nomura’s exit. Drake stood in the center like a verdict; Sato slapped the buckle once—“your move.”
Sasori stepped through for AAPW, palm open.
Scott Slade: Captain answers captain… but the Sphinx just cashed one check—he may want another.
Drake let the seconds breathe… and tapped Sato’s shoulder.
Chris Rodgers: He wants fresh lungs and open angles. Smart.
Sato slid in low and met Sasori mid-ring—hands quiet, eyes loud. They traded clean: Sato’s rope-walk chop—CRACK; Sasori’s Serpent’s Bite knee clipped the cheekbone; a cut opened at Sato’s lip. They clashed a third time—Sasori ducked under, hit the ropes—and Yasha tagged his back with a meaty slap.
Takeshi Suzuki: Yes. Now the math changes.
Yasha stepped over the rope and the temperature dropped. Sato didn’t backpedal—he accelerated, low and narrow, hacking calf kicks, then a spinning back kick that split the guard and thudded directly across the demon’s face. Yasha blinked and smiled without teeth.
Yushiro Fujimoto: He chose the right target—eyes and face, legal and cruel.
Sato hit the far ropes for speed—Yasha ate the line and scythed him out of the air with a lariat that snapped the rib tape. Cover—one, two—Sato bridged and rolled away on instinct. He tagged Bold without looking.
The Dome rumbled. Bold and Yasha met like landslides. Bold’s first Mongolian chop drew a grunt; Yasha’s forearm didn’t move him, it rearranged him. They volleyed until Yasha simply palmed Bold’s skull and lifted—jackknife powerbomb coiling—
Scott Slade: Yasha Bomb—!
Bold swam the grip mid-air and crashed a Mongolian Slam, the ring booming like a drum. He covered on momentum—one, two—Yasha shoved him off at dead two and rolled to a knee, angry now. They rose; double-clothesline, double down. Both corners erupted with open hands.
Tags chained like lightning—LuLu in a heartbeat to bully Yasha with sumo shoves; Sasori slipped in on the next touch to sting LuLu with a snap DDT; Drake swiped the rope to break a cover and the ref started a five, hands windmilling—
Chris Rodgers: Keep it legal, keep it moving—this is a knife fight with rules.
Bodies spilled and reset until one beat synced perfectly: AAPW’s corner thrust out a palm, and Daichi Sasaki took it. The Dome’s sound tightened like a wire.
Scott Slade: Here we go.
Drake looked at Sato; Sato didn’t ask—he took the tag and stepped straight through the ropes toward Daichi. No circling, no collar-and-elbow—just hate with footwork.
Daichi jabbed a fingertip to his sternum—remember?—and then sprinted. Crimson Guillotine knee—Sato dipped and the kneecap blew past the jaw by an inch. Sato answered with a shovel uppercut to the solar plexus, then another, then spun the shoulders and uncorked a Wushu Butterfly Kick that snapped Daichi’s ear. Daichi staggered two steps, planted, and Iron Sentinel spinebustered Sato so hard the bottom rope quivered. He didn’t cover. He mounted and hammered Vanguard’s Wrath forearms—each one driven to the left chest.
Takeshi Suzuki (low): Yamamoto will be pleased when the heart stops.
Referee counted; Daichi broke exactly at four, eyes never leaving Sato’s face. He hauled Sato up by the mask, head-and-arm cinch—you could feel the Reaper’s Grip choke loading—then rolled hips and dumped him, releasing to a knee atop ribs, knuckles punching sternum.
Chris Rodgers: This is not about the fall; this is about damage.
Sato hooked an ankle, coiled and snapped Daichi over in a tight inside trip, then folded his own arm across Daichi’s throat and arm-triangle cinched. Center ring. Daichi’s hands pried, not panicked; he stacked Sato to threaten shoulders—one—Sato rolled the angle, kept the squeeze. The face darkened; Daichi drove a short knuckle to Sato’s rib tape—legal—another, another—Sato grimaced, shifted to keep the artery blocked, and Daichi tilted his hips enough to drag the pair an inch toward the rope. Two more inches. Fingertips.
Yushiro Fujimoto: He is measured, even in pain. That is why he wears iron.
Rope break on three. Sato stood first, blood bright at his lip, breath measured. He looked down at Daichi’s chest. The Dome knew. Sato spread his fingers, curled them into a fist, and drew it to his hip.
Scott Slade: He’s dialing the Iron Fist Heart Punch!
Daichi saw it and charged to smother distance, chopping Sato’s thigh, then blasting a body knee—left chest again—until Sato’s stance buckled. Sato shoved him off, stepped back into clean geometry, and threw. The fist hit a forearm—Daichi sacrificed his arm to save his heart and still shuddered on impact, breath catching, hand flying to his sternum for a half second he couldn’t hide.
Chris Rodgers: Even blocked, that punch changes causes chaos.
Daichi’s face didn’t break. He surged on spite, hoisted Sato like a debt, and ran him into the red buckle. Shoulder after shoulder buried in the tape—ref hits four—Daichi backs out, stalks, and tries to tear Sato in half with the Executioner lariat. Sato ducked; Daichi hit ropes and caromed back into Sato’s arms—Ipponseoi slam planted him plum. Sato rode it over, palms on canvas, and popped back to his feet—rope-walk again—down-cut chop to Daichi’s chest that landed like a defibrillator.
Daichi collapsed to a seat, one hand to the mat, one over the heart he swore wasn’t hurting. Sato stayed on him—Emerald Flowsion try—Daichi dead-weighted, dug a forearm over the stitches of Sato’s tape, then rolled through and Death’s Embrace triangle snapped around the neck and arm. Center ring again.
**Scott Slade: **Triangle choke! He’s cutting airflow and blood.
Sato postured, stacking, frame through the knee, turning his chin toward daylight. Daichi flexed calves, hauled down on the head, elbows prying Sato’s ribcage like a vice. The ref hovered: “Do you give?” Sato’s hands answered with geometry, not words—he turned the trapped elbow, stepped across, and folded Daichi—half Boston, half stack—enough pressure on the knee to force the break.
They tumbled apart and rose in the same angry breath. Daichi sprinted—Crimson Guillotine landed clean, knee smashing Sato’s cheek and skidding him sideways. Cover—one… two—Sato shot a shoulder and clamped both hands over his chest, breathing hard, but eyes bright.
Takeshi Suzuki: Finish him. Now.
Daichi stood slow and set his hands—Sentinel’s Judgment in his bones. He hooked the waist, lifted—Sato knifed both hands under Daichi’s knee, blocked the sit-out, and slid down the back, heel kicking Daichi’s calf to break the base. The break was tiny, the opening huge. Sato rocked him with a thrust kick to the face, then brought the fist to the hip again.
Yushiro Fujimoto: If it lands clean, he is finished.
Sasori tapped the top rope, the slightest sound; Daichi moved on anger and instinct, not caution. He swung—Sato’s fist pierced the sternum this time, not full chakra, but enough to turn Daichi’s legs to code. The crowd gasped in one voice. Daichi dropped to a knee, palm glued to his chest.
Scott Slade: He hit it! He hit it! Not flush—but he HIT it!
Sato collapsed across him—one… two—
Yasha stepped in and toed Sato off with the gentlest nudge a six-ten monster can manage, then raised both hands and returned to the apron by the ref’s four. Legal save. The Dome let out a boo it didn’t know it had.
Chris Rodgers: That’s why you keep a demon on your bench.
Sato crawled, equal parts rage and oxygen. Daichi rolled to his belly, pounding the mat once, jaw set. He waved off his corner’s hand—don’t you dare. Sato waved his off too. They met on their knees and threw—short, cruel hooks to the body; then forearms to the jaw; then Sato whipped a headbutt that rang his own skull; Daichi answered with one that made both men blink.
They stood. Daichi chained a wrist, pulled Sato into a Reaper’s Grip, and tossed him with a suplex that rattled the ropes—rolled through—Iron Sentinel spinebuster a second time for punctuation. Cover—one… two… Drake slid in and shoved Daichi off with a forearm to the back; the ref chased him out, barking: “One more and you’re gone!”
Drake backed away smiling, palms up; Sasori leaned across the rope, mask tilted—understood—this war had multiple fronts. Daichi rose slow, hand still hovering near the sternum like the afterimage of Sato’s fist burned there. He refused the tag again and motioned Sato up, thumb drawn across the throat. Sato obliged, ribs screaming, and stepped into the pocket—front kick to the face, spinning back kick to the jaw, then a feint low that brought Daichi’s guard down—
—Sato feinted the heart punch third time and hooked the arm instead, wrenching Dragon Sleeper from nowhere, his knee planted in the spine for leverage. The Dome surged. Sasori was in like a scalpel—one stride, one well-aimed shin to the forearm to break the hands—then out on the ref’s two, as clean as a prayer. Daichi collapsed, sucking air in hard gulps, the whites of his eyes showing just a sliver. He crawled and finally—finally—slapped Sasori’s palm.
Scott Slade: Pride paused—that’s leadership.
Sato tagged out to Drake and staggered to the blue rope, clapping his own chest twice—alive, angry, thinking of that opening he nearly made permanent.
Sasori and Drake met like magnets snapping back together—palm, elbow, kick, knee—until LuLu stole a tag off Drake’s back and Sasori winked him in with a “come on.” LuLu barrelled, swung wild—Sasori skated past, carved a pair of rib-shots and a short DDT, then waved Bold in with a tag nobody argued. Bold and Sasori clattered, clean and heavy, as Yasha slapped the turnbuckle once—hungry—and Daichi clutched the strand, knuckles white, jaw granite, chest heaving, a bruise blooming over the heart like a black flower.
Chris Rodgers: The demon wants meat, the captain wants control… and the Sentinel wants a life.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Sato and Sasaki are not done. Neither man will accept a half-answer.
The ref screamed for one-in, one-out; the ring obeyed in bursts. Bold muscled Sasori to a corner; Sasori turned the ropes into a slingshot, Venom Strike elbow to the heart for even vengeance; tag chains ticked in both corners like spent shell casings. Through it all, Daichi’s stare never left Sato’s chest, and Sato’s fist never unclenched at his hip—two men re-writing the next minute in their heads, neither satisfied that the other was still breathing.
Scott Slade: No eliminations since Nomura, but the next one’s stalking this ring like a shadow.
Chris Rodgers: And I’ve got a nasty feeling it wants a heart.
Yasha Gorō tagged in.
Yasha stepped over the rope like a gallows being wheeled into place. Bold met him, chest to chest. Forearm—chop—forearm—chop—until Yasha palmed Bold’s skull and simply walked him backward. The Great Khan slammed a forearm across the bicep to break the grip, then rattled the demon with a Mongolian chop that shook the hard cam. Yasha blinked—and smiled.
He hooked Bold around the waist. The ring tilted. Bold thudded free with a headbutt and shoved off, hand stretching to blue.
LuLu’s palm smacked his.
Chris Rodgers: Oh we’re doing this…
LuLu stepped through the ropes, rolled his shoulders, and slapped his own chest so hard sweat flew in a halo. He and Yasha met at center—two planets, one orbit. LuLu shoved. Yasha did not move. LuLu tried again, sumo steps carving the canvas, salt still glinting on his wrist—Yasha gave him a single grudging step and then erased him with a forearm that sounded like sheet metal folding.
Takeshi Suzuki (delighted): Now we feast.
LuLu hit a knee, grinning through stars. He stood right back up and pimp smacked the demon across the jaw. The Dome went up. Yasha’s lips peeled back. One giant hand rose—Demon’s Grasp—LuLu’s feet left the ground and then BOOM—chokeslam planted him so hard the buckles shivered.
Cover.
One… two—LuLu shoved him off at two and a half with a bench press that made the crowd gasp.
Scott Slade: Six. Hundred. Pounds. Kicked out!
Yasha’s eyes narrowed—interest, then anger. He dragged LuLu to the corner, climbed to the second rope, and without theatrics launched for the Abyssal Stomp.
Sato sprang down the apron and dropkicked both ankles at once in midair (legal; five-count ticking). Yasha’s landing turned ugly—knees, then chest. LuLu rolled sideways like a capsized boat and crawled through a forest of legs. Tag—Sato. Tag—Drake. Tag—Bold. Blue became a conveyor belt of pain.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Now they test the giant with volume. Acceptable strategy.
Sato slid in first—blistering three-kick combo to the face, all above the eye-line—whap-whap-WHAP—the third shin rattling teeth. Drake hit ropes and speared the demon’s thigh to plant him on a knee without touching the knee joint. Bold followed with twin Mongolian chops that caved the chest just enough to make air hurt. The ref’s count hit four and both big men bailed clean. Yasha surged to his feet on fury alone and swung a murder-lariat—Sato ducked and spun a head kick that clapped the ear. Yasha finally reached—Sasori’s hand lingered—but the demon waved it off, nostrils flaring. He wanted meat.
Chris Rodgers: Pride is a cruel coach.
Sato tagged out—he’d done his surgical work. Drake took the string and shoulder-blocked Yasha back to center, then whipped him—Yasha reversed and mowed the Sphinx down with a discus that knocked spit into the sixth row. Cover—one… two—Drake powers out and smirks as if that was a math problem solved.
Yasha turned—and the building tilted.
LuLu slapped Drake’s back—tag—and charged.
They collided and the ring yelped. Yasha underhooked, lifted—the struggle looked like a crane fighting gravity—and the Dome flatlined into silence as the demon picked up the 600-pound LuLu Biggs, took two grinding steps, and Fiery Retribution running powerslammed him flat.
Scott Slade (hoarse): He… picked him UP—! GOOD LORD!
Cover—Yasha hooks both legs and presses a forearm across the jaw.
One… two… KICKOUT!
The roof came off. LuLu’s chest heaved. His eyes were glassy marbles—and then he smiled, just a little.
Takeshi Suzuki (angry laugh): Impossible… and yet.
Yasha sat back on his heels, breathing through his nose. He stood to finish, reached down to haul LuLu up by the head—and ate a short headbutt for his escort troubles. It bought exactly one beat. LuLu rolled and flung an arm—tag to Bold. The Great Khan entered like a landslide—spinebuster tried to land; Yasha posted, hammered Bold to a knee, and bear hugged him until vertebrae argued. Sato reached across the rope and clapped Bold’s shoulder—tag—then springboarded and axe-kicked Yasha across the face to force a peel-back.
Sato flooded the pocket—rope-walk chop; spinning back kick; another head kick above the brow ridge—each legal, each meant for the eyes and face. Yasha still wouldn’t fall. He swatted Sato away on the fourth entry and crushed him with a short lariat that ricocheted the taped ribs off the canvas. The ref yanked Yasha back by the invisible leash of a five-count—“Out now!”—and the demon actually moved his hands to show he understood.
Sato, half folding, rolled and tagged Drake. Drake strolled in and stared up—up—at the demon. He said one word the mic didn’t catch. Yasha grinned.
They collided—Drake bounced and came back with a Big Boot that snapped Yasha’s head. No cover. He pointed to the corner. The building read it, first as a rumor, then as an inevitability.
Drake slapped LuLu’s forearm—tag—and immediately grabbed a fistful of chain and trapezius, helping haul the giant onto the second buckle. Bold dropped to the floor, braced both forearms under LuLu’s boot and calf, and with Drake heaved him to the top in one wobbly, heart-stopping surge. The ref’s count hit three—four—Drake slid out at five, hands up. Legal assist, no extra man in the ring.
Chris Rodgers (laughing in disbelief): No way. NO WAY.
Yasha turned—too late.
LuLu stood stooped on the top rope, arms out like a gilded billboard, the Dome a sea of phones and open mouths.
Scott Slade: SUPER… PANCAKE… FLOP!
Six hundred pounds of LuLu Biggs left the sky and collapsed the world. He met Yasha square—sternum to sternum—with a wet, awful whump that killed sound for half a heartbeat. When noise returned, it came with a spray of red mist from Yasha’s mouth, lit ruby by the Dome lights.
Yushiro Fujimoto (quiet, shaken): That… is decisive pain.
LuLu didn’t bounce. He stayed on him, forearm across the face, both legs hooked deep, cheek pressed to the demon’s chest. The ref slid into perfect position.
One.
Two.
Three.
DING!
Miyu Kojima (voice tight with shock): Yasha Gorō… has been ELIMINATED.
The Dome exploded—horror and awe braided together. LuLu rolled off, clutching his ribs, eyes wide at what he’d just survived and done. Drake and Bold pulled him by the wrists to the blue corner, half dragging, half hugging the biggest man breathing, while Sato hovered in front as a wall with eyes.
Scott Slade: The demon bled. The demon fell. And it took a building’s worth of steel to make it happen.
Chris Rodgers: Super Pancake Flop from the top—that’s not a move, that’s a natural disaster.
On the far side, Yasha coughed once, a thin ribbon of red at his lip, rolled to a side, and sat up on spite alone. He looked at Sasori. The Scorpion King’s mask didn’t move—his hand did: a single, solemn nod. Daichi’s jaw clenched so hard his temples jumped; he pounded the turnbuckle once—metal cried out.
Takeshi Suzuki (seething): This… debt is noted.
Yushiro Fujimoto (measured): The mountain is mortal. The war remains.
Officials slid in to guide Yasha out—he shoved them away and walked under his own furnace heat, leaving a small constellation of crimson spots drying in his wake.
In the ring, LuLu tagged Sato with a grateful slap and sank to the floor to catch oxygen, while Drake and Bold kept the trench. Across from them: AAPW down to Saikō Sasori and Daichi Sasaki, two blades honed to razors, staring at four men who had just done the impossible and looked hungry for more.
Scott Slade: Four-on-two now. But look at those two.
Chris Rodgers: That’s not a deficit. That’s a death pact.
The ref waved the corners quiet and pointed to center. Sato stepped in. Sasori answered. Behind them, Daichi curled his fingers against the rope, feeling for the pain blooming over his heart… and smiling at the thought of making someone else feel worse.
They didn’t sprint. They listened—to footsteps, to breath, to the crowd’s pulse. Collar and elbow, clean break at the rope. Sato rope-walked off the second strand into a down-cut chop—crack—Sasori took it, drifted a half-step, and answered with a short elbow that caught the jaw flush. Sato’s lip bled brighter; he smiled anyway and shot a single. Sasori sprawled, rolled the wrist, came up smooth with the Scorpion’s Sting rhythm: jab, jab, elbow—Sato slipped the third, glued his forearms together and slid behind for a waist… Sasori hip-checked free and made distance.
To Be Continued In PART - 5