The Tokyo Dome erupted in dazzling fireworks and pulsating music, illuminating the expansive yet sparsely filled arena, which was populated exclusively by essential workers and medical personnel, all safely grouped in work pods and dutifully wearing masks amid the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic. The crowd, though limited, radiated fierce enthusiasm, applauding and cheering in appreciation. Cameras swiftly shifted to ringside, where the dual commentary teams of Ultimate Wrestling and AAPW sat prepared to guide viewers through the night's explosive action.
Scott Slade: Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Friday Night Clash! I’m Scott Slade, joined tonight by my longtime broadcasting partner, Chris Rodgers, and we’re joined at ringside by our counterparts from All Asia Pro Wrestling, Yushiro Fujimoto and Takeshi Suzuki. Despite the circumstances, the Tokyo Dome is alive with an energy that can only mean one thing—Ultimate Wrestling is ready to deliver another unforgettable night!
Chris Rodgers: Energy or not, Slade, the fallout from Ronin Rumble has left scars that won't heal anytime soon! Ultimate Wrestling and AAPW took their feud to new extremes, and tonight, I don't expect things to calm down. If anything, we're heading straight into the fire!
Yushiro Fujimoto: And AAPW stands ready to bring honor and skill back to the forefront, unlike the vulgar spectacle that Ultimate Wrestling has made of this sacred sport. The Tokyo Dome remembers the invasion not as a tragedy—but as a reckoning.
Takeshi Suzuki: That’s right, Yushiro. You western dogs thought you could run roughshod over Japanese wrestling, but the Ronin Rumble proved otherwise. And tonight, I expect another beautiful humiliation for Ultimate Wrestling’s so-called stars.
Scott Slade: Strong words, gentlemen. But let’s take a moment to reflect on what brought us here. Ronin Rumble Nights One and Two shook the very foundation of this company. Prior to Night One, Haruki Tanaka and his loyalists stormed Friday Night Clash, sending a clear message that AAPW wouldn’t kneel to anyone. We saw bravery, betrayal, and bloodshed.
Chris Rodgers: It was chaos, plain and simple. We saw heroes and villains both pushed beyond their limits.
Scott Slade: Drake Nygma—"The Sphinx"—entered the 60-Man Ronin Rumble at number one and did the unthinkable: he survived. He outlasted everyone, including your Syndicate’s Daichi Sasaki, and eliminated Sakura Ishikawa to win it all for Ultimate Wrestling.
Chris Rodgers: Two million dollars and a shot at the Undisputed Heavyweight Championship! Love him or hate him, Nygma proved he’s the most calculating mind in this industry. He’s not just a riddle—he’s the damn answer.
Yushiro Fujimoto: A hollow victory. The match itself was a disgrace to true competition. It was a circus act!
Takeshi Suzuki: While your twisted Sphinx played games, Saikō Sasori—the Scorpion King—did what no one else could. He made Chuluun Bold tap out! AAPW’s champion became the undisputed champion of both companies. You can dress that up however you want, but it’s a humiliation for Ultimate Wrestling.
Chris Rodgers: That was a damn fluke! Bold had been defending that belt nonstop for months and Sasori just slithered in with his Death Lock and—
Scott Slade: Enough, both of you! Whether you like it or not, history was made. Saikō Sasori is now the undisputed heavyweight champion of this entire sport, and Drake Nygma holds the golden ticket. The balance of power has shifted, and tonight, it could tilt even further.
Chris Rodgers: Or blow up in our faces.
Scott Slade: And that brings us to tonight’s opening contest. The first semi-final match in the Ultimate Wrestling Tag Team Tournament—The Royal Alliance, comprised of the brutal Tae-Hyun Lim and the honorable Sir Lionel Montbar, face off against the newly-formed New Valor Vanguard, Maki Nishimura and Takuma Sato.
Chris Rodgers: Maki was forced to make that call after losing her partner, Wolfie Ricky King, to Blovid-13. Tragic doesn’t even begin to describe it. But now she’s aligned herself with Sato—and that’s a gamble considering the amount of injuries and punishment Sato went through during the main event of night one against the Emperor Avengers.
Scott Slade: Sato doesn’t back down from a challenge. He was in worse shape last Sunday and he still was a force to be reckoned with during the Ronin Rumble.
Takeshi Suzuki: Yushiro and I are just looking forward to laughing these pathetic excuses for tag teams. Hahahahaha!
Chris Rodgers: The stage is set, folks. Let’s take you to the ring now as the Tag Team Tournament semi-finals begin—right here, right now, on Friday Night Clash!
The Tokyo Dome dims once more, a wash of regal red bleeding across the stage as a deep horn blast echoes through the air like the prelude to war.
Miyu Kojima: Ladies and gentlemen, the following is a semi-final match in the Ultimate Wrestling Tag Team Tournament! Introducing first… at a combined weight of five hundred pounds… representing The Royal Alliance… ‘The Pyongyang Powerhouse’ Tae-Hyun Lim, and ‘The Knight of Crimson Valor’ Sir Lionel Montbar!
A cascade of crimson spotlights sliced through the rising fog as “The Duke of Death” by Wumpscut rumbled through the stadium. Sir Lionel Montbar emerged, his cape trailing behind him, chin lifted as if surveying a kingdom only he could see. He dropped to one knee at the top of the ramp, drew an imaginary longsword, and offered a dramatic salute to the unseen forces of his delusion before rising to his feet.
He began a slow descent toward the ring, his gait stiff with purpose. Behind him, the music distorted—horns giving way to the eerie swell of “Cantata to Comrade Kim Jong Il.” From the shadows stepped Tae-Hyun Lim, his body wrapped in a deep red trench coat lined with faded DPRK insignias. His eyes burned with silent hatred, his face unreadable. Each of his footfalls landed with the weight of history.
Chris Rodgers: There he is. Sir Lionel Montbar—the only knight I know who thinks medieval tax collection is a wrestling strategy.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Because what screams 'victory' like a man who thinks dragons are real?
Montbar reached the ring first and ascended the steps with ritualistic grace. He handed off his tabard to a nearby attendant as though offering an heirloom. Lim followed behind him, removing his coat revealing all of the half healed scars from the barbed wire rope hell in the cell 4 vs 4 match he was involved in against Sato, Valora, Dresden, and Lighitng Man. As he crumpled it into a ball he hurled it to the floor like the remnants of a forgotten war. He stepped through the ropes and into his corner with slow, deliberate motion, head bowed and fists clenched.
Suddenly, the arena lights cut to black.
A blast of red lightning snapped across the stage, followed by the thunderous opening riff of “Heartless Scat” by NINGEN ISU.
Miyu Kojima: And their opponents… at a combined weight of four hundred eighty-five pounds… ‘The Juggernaut Jewel of Japan’ Maki Nishimura… and ‘The Most Dangerous Man in Wrestling’ Takuma Sato… THE NEW VALOR VANGUARD!
The crowd roared as Maki Nishimura stormed onto the stage, her fists raised high, body rippling with power and determination. She stomped the steel ramp with such force that the floor seemed to vibrate beneath her. Her hair whipped behind her as she unleashed a guttural war cry, sending a shock of adrenaline through the masked audience.
Takuma Sato emerged beside her, his scared face covered with a mask, his ribs taped, his jaw tight. He moved slowly, methodically, as if measuring each step with the weight of pain and resolve. He paused at the top of the ramp and glanced toward Maki. She gave him a sharp nod, and he returned it, eyes narrowing as he looked toward the ring.
Scott Slade: There they are. Sato and Maki. No titles, no fanfare—just heart, fury, and grit. They’re walking wounded… but walking anyway.
Chris Rodgers: You could rebuild civilizations with less guts than these two have. I don't care what kind of knight or dictator they’re facing—this is a tag team forged in hellfire.
Takeshi Suzuki: Two sacrificial lambs. Dressed fancy for the slaughter if you ask me!
Together, Maki and Sato marched down the ramp. Maki reached out and slapped the hands of masked nurses and essential workers along the barricade, offering them nods of gratitude. Sato kept his eyes forward, ignoring the noise, locked in on Tae-Hyun Lim like a missile zeroing in on its target.
At the ringside, they slid into the ring simultaneously. Maki stood tall, pounded her fists together, and let out another battle cry that echoed through the Dome. Sato climbed the turnbuckle and raised one clenched fist to the rafters, his bruised frame a testament to his defiance.
From across the ring, Lim stepped forward. Sato stepped down to meet him. They locked eyes. The building fell into a tense hush.
Scott Slade: This isn’t just a match. This is a reckoning.
Chris Rodgers: Blood was spilled. Friends were lost. And now? Now we settle it the only way we know how—in the ring.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Let the fools fight. None of this will matter once Sasori ends your little empire.
[DING! DING! DING!]
The bell rang and with it, all restraint disappeared. Tae-Hyun Lim lunged forward first, his body a missile of brute muscle and fury, but Takuma Sato darted to the side with precision, evading the charge like smoke slipping through a closing fist. Lim turned to adjust, but Sato was already moving—driving a rapid-fire series of low roundhouse kicks into Lim’s thighs, each one smacking with a sharp, echoing crack that sent ripples of pain through the Pyongyang Powerhouse’s foundation.
The strikes kept coming—sharp, surgical. Sato unleashed a spinning back kick to the midsection that staggered Lim just long enough to allow him to pivot, bounce off the ropes, and spring back with a rolling koppu kick that clipped Lim across the side of the head. Lim reeled but did not fall. The beast refused to drop.
Sato rushed in again—but this time, Lim caught him. The moment Sato leapt into a flying forearm smash, Lim grabbed him mid-air like a child snatching a bird from the sky and drove him into the canvas with a thunderous uranage. The mat buckled. The sound shook the Dome.
Scott Slade: Sato started hot with that barrage of martial arts strikes—he’s trying to wear down Lim’s legs early, maybe even neutralize that base of power. But the second Lim got his hands on him? It was like gravity tripled.
Chris Rodgers: That’s what makes Lim so damn dangerous. You can outpace him for fifteen seconds, and then he just decides to end you in one move.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Your golden boy got caught. Fast feet don’t mean much when your bones shatter on contact.
Takeshi Suzuki: He’s lucky Lim didn’t break him in half. Yet.
Lim pulled Sato up like a sack of rice, gripping his arm and wrist. He yanked him into a brutal short-arm lariat that twisted Sato mid-air and sent him thudding back-first into the mat. Without hesitation, Lim stomped hard on Sato’s taped ribs with the heel of his boot—not once, but three measured times.
Sato twisted on the mat, grimacing beneath the mask, clutching his side. Lim dragged him upright again, one arm around his waist, the other around his thigh—and hurled him overhead with a belly-to-belly overhead suplex, sending Sato crashing dangerously close to his own corner.
Maki reached out for a tag, her eyes wide, fists clenching the turnbuckle. But Sato didn’t crawl. He didn’t roll. He sat up slowly, defiant, breath ragged, fists still clenched.
Chris Rodgers: That’s what I’m talking about! The kid’s got no quit in him. He’s too stupid or too proud to stay down.
Scott Slade: He’s holding himself together with grit and gauze, and he’s still daring Lim to come at him again. That’s not strategy—that’s heart. And sometimes, the heart is enough.
Yushiro Fujimoto: No. It isn’t.
Lim charged again, but Sato used the ropes to pull himself upright. At the last moment, he ducked under Lim’s charging arm and pivoted behind him. With one desperate heave, he wrapped Lim in a rear waistlock and attempted a German suplex—but Lim didn’t budge.
Instead, Lim threw a savage back elbow that caught Sato on the side of the skull. Sato staggered back, dazed—but in that split second, he slapped Maki’s outstretched hand.
Takeshi Suzuki: Oh no.
Chris Rodgers: Oh yes!
Maki exploded into the ring like a tsunami with fists. She met Lim chest-to-chest and didn’t back down an inch. The crowd roared as the two collided, exchanging a rapid series of knife-edge chops, each strike echoing like gunshots. Maki’s power came with rhythm—palm thrust to the chest, sumo-style slap to the neck, another chop across the pectoral—and for the first time, Lim staggered backward.
He tried to shove her off, but she planted her feet and whipped him into the ropes. On the rebound, she caught him clean with a running hip attack, knocking the breath out of him. Lim dropped to one knee. The crowd came alive.
Scott Slade: She’s got Lim reeling! Maki Nishimura is defying gravity, logic, and legacy all at once! The Juggernaut Jewel just moved a mountain!
Chris Rodgers: And she’s not done—look at her go back to the sumo base, she’s setting up for something big!
Maki hit the ropes and came charging back, looking for her Earthquake Slam—but as she extended her arm, Lim exploded upward with a sudden exploder suplex, using Maki’s momentum against her. She slammed into the mat with a sickening impact.
Both wrestlers lay sprawled on the canvas, breathing hard. Lim crawled toward Montbar. Maki crawled toward Sato. The crowd pulsed, the Dome alive with rhythm and anticipation.
Scott Slade: We’re barely minutes into this, and it already feels like a war.
Chris Rodgers: Two titans crawling for reinforcements. This isn’t just a tournament match—this is survival.
The crowd began to chant: MA-KI! SA-TO! MA-KI! SA-TO!
Lim reached the outstretched hand of Sir Lionel Montbar, and the knight of crimson valor stepped into the ring with a burst of noble urgency. Across the mat, Maki slapped Sato’s hand, and the masked warrior vaulted over the ropes, bruised but burning with fresh resolve.
Sato and Montbar circled one another like old rivals, each radiating a different brand of intensity—Sato with tightly coiled focus, Montbar with wide-eyed, messianic grandeur. Montbar struck first, lunging forward with a shoulder block, but Sato ducked under and countered with a slick arm drag takedown, rolling through and popping to his feet. Montbar spun to his knees, eyes gleaming, and charged again—this time catching Sato in a snap suplex that planted him dead center in the ring. But Sato absorbed the blow, rolled onto his stomach, and used his elbows to push himself back upright.
Scott Slade: Both men reading each other like open scrolls—this is rapid-fire, no wasted motion. It’s Montbar’s brute efficiency versus Sato’s reactive instinct.
Chris Rodgers: You’ve got to wonder how much more Sato can take, though. Montbar’s a knight in body and lunatic in mind—he’ll break his bones if it means claiming victory in the name of some make-believe kingdom.
Takeshi Suzuki: Better a delusional knight than a gasping dojo reject in a Halloween mask.
Montbar pressed his advantage, grabbing Sato by the wrist and whipping him into the turnbuckle with knightly force. Sato slammed back-first into the corner, only to be met with a charging diving headbutt from Montbar that connected square with his sternum. The impact folded Sato forward, and Montbar capitalized immediately, grabbing him into a front facelock and planting him with a high-angle hangman’s neckbreaker.
Montbar floated into a cover, hooking the leg.
ONE! T— Sato kicked out, shoving Montbar off with the last ounce of strength in his ribs. Montbar didn’t show frustration—he grinned. He sat Sato up and locked in a camel clutch, wrenching back with both arms under the chin, barking some archaic battle hymn as if summoning strength from another century. Sato’s mask twisted from the torque, his fingers scratching at the canvas.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Look at Montbar. He’s dragging Sato through a medieval torture rack of his creation. This is artistry!
Scott Slade: Artistry? That’s a glorified rest hold with pageantry! Sato’s not giving up—he’s digging deep.
Sato managed to inch his knee forward, then another, shifting his base. With a loud growl, he twisted his body to the side and rolled through, breaking the hold and flipping Montbar over his shoulder. The crowd popped. Sato collapsed, chest heaving. He began to crawl again, toward Maki. Montbar scrambled after him, grabbing the ankle—but Sato rolled, spun on his back, and launched Montbar off with a desperation upkick to the face. That gave him just enough room to dive—tagging in Maki!
Scott Slade: The Juggernaut Jewel is back in!
Chris Rodgers: And the knight might just lose his head!
Maki roared into the ring like a tempest. Montbar barely made it to his feet before she caught him with a running clothesline that flipped him inside out. As he stumbled up, she lifted him effortlessly into the air and dropped him with a thunderous Olympic slam that made the canvas quake. The crowd roared as Maki powered to her feet, pointing directly at Tae-Hyun Lim, who stood fuming in the corner, his fists shaking on the ropes.
Scott Slade: Maki Nishimura is throwing royalty around like garbage! That power! That fire!
Takeshi Suzuki: Tag out, Lionel! Tag out before she eats your soul!
Montbar staggered toward his corner, arms outstretched, but Maki didn’t let him get far. She grabbed him by the hair, spun him around, and battered his chest with a brutal series of sumo-style open palm strikes, driving him back into the ropes. The audience, though masked, bellowed in unison with each slap.
She whipped him across the ring, caught him on the rebound, and hoisted him up for a sitout jawbreaker—the Juggernaut Jawbreaker—but Montbar flailed wildly, slipping free and falling to his knees. He threw a wild European uppercut, clipping Maki in the chin and sending her back a step.
Yushiro Fujimoto: He lives! The knight survives another charge!
Chris Rodgers: Barely. She nearly decapitated him. He’s not surviving—he’s delaying.
Montbar crawled toward Lim, who reached out, fingers stretching, and tagged him in. Tae-Hyun Lim stormed into the ring like a bomb with legs. Maki charged him at full speed, and the two titans collided mid-ring like crashing continents. The impact of Maki and Lim’s collision echoed through the Tokyo Dome like thunder. Neither woman nor monster budged at first—then Maki stepped back, roared, and unleashed a stiff forearm smash that rocked Lim’s jaw.
Lim answered with a clubbing lariat, but Maki ducked it, rebounded off the ropes, and came back with a leaping shoulder tackle that sent the Pyongyang Powerhouse stumbling. She tried again—this time going for a flying clothesline—but Lim caught her mid-air, twisted, and delivered a sudden spinebuster so hard it bounced Maki off the mat like a skipped stone.
Scott Slade: Tae-Hyun Lim with the detonation! He just spiked her like a political prisoner!
Chris Rodgers: Good God, did you see the torque on that?! He made the whole ring jump!
Yushiro Fujimoto: That is what true strength looks like. Not this fan-pandering farce Maki plays at.
Lim didn’t waste a second—he dropped into a lateral press, hooking the far leg.
ONE!
TWO!!
Maki kicked out, twisting her hips and shoving Lim off her with raw instinct. Lim stayed on her, pulling her up by the wrist. He whipped her into the corner, followed with a corner body avalanche, and then caught her as she stumbled out with a release overhead belly-to-belly suplex, folding her into the opposite turnbuckle.
Chris Rodgers: Jesus! She landed like a pancake getting stomped by a tank!
Scott Slade: And Lim's not stopping—he smells blood in the water!
Lim dragged her from the corner and lifted her into a fireman’s carry, clearly signaling for the Red Eclipse Driver—but as he spun, Maki elbowed him viciously in the temple. Once, twice, three times—until Lim lost balance. She dropped behind him, grabbed him from behind—and with a primal scream, executed a brutal German suplex that landed Lim directly on the back of his neck. The crowd gasped. Maki bridged for the pin.
ONE!
TWO!!
Lim powered out, arching his body with terrifying strength to break the bridge. Both wrestlers stayed down for a beat, heaving, staring at opposite ring posts like they were fading stars. Maki was first to move—she crawled on all fours and reached out tagged to Sato.
Takuma Sato surged through the ropes with his soul ablaze. He ran straight at the recovering Lim and hit a basement dropkick to the side of the head, sending the Pyongyang Powerhouse reeling. Sato didn't hesitate. He springboarded off the middle rope and landed a clean missile dropkick to Lim’s chest, knocking him backward into the turnbuckle. As Lim slumped, Sato charged and hit a punishing corner knee strike, using the ropes to elevate and crush Lim’s face against the turnbuckles.
Scott Slade: Sato’s channeling that pain—his body’s a war zone, but look at the speed, the precision!
Chris Rodgers: This is the same guy who went toe-to-toe with the Syndicate and the Sacred Order at Ronin Rumble. He’s a surgeon when he’s in this mode.
Sato dragged Lim from the corner, lifted him with a guttural roar, and dropped him with a picture-perfect bridging fisherman suplex.
Scott Slade: A fantastic bridging suplex! This is the first time I’ve seen Sato use that move and power to bring a two-hundred-seventy-five-pounder along for the ride! ONE! TWO!! T—NO!! Damn that Montbar!
Montbar dove in and broke the pin, hammering the back of Sato’s neck with a stiff double axe handle. That brought Maki in like a missile—she ran across the ring and hit Montbar with a spinning backfist, then pulled him in and nailed him with a saito suplex that dumped him outside the ring under the bottom rope.
Takeshi Suzuki: That woman’s a menace! She's gonna cripple someone!
Yushiro Fujimoto: Illegal entry! Where is the order?! Where is the honor?!
Maki slid back to her corner, the legal chaos momentarily reset. Sato pulled Lim to his feet again and attempted a dragon suplex—but Lim fought it, dropped to a knee, and countered with a jawbreaker that stunned Sato long enough for him to tag in Montbar, who had crawled back onto the apron. The Knight of Crimson Valor leapt into the fray with theatrical flourish, scaling the turnbuckle and flying with a top-rope European uppercut that caught Sato flush in the side of the head.
Scott Slade: And now Montbar is back in with a vengeance! Airborne and unhinged!
Chris Rodgers: He flies like a lunatic and hits like a guillotine!
Montbar scooped Sato up, spun him around, and planted him with a savage pumphandle backbreaker, then flowed into a high-angled camel clutch/half nelson combination hold, wrenching back with wild eyes. Sato flailed, agony burning through his ribs, refusing to quit. The masked crowd clapped in sync, urging him on. Sato twisted sideways, using the momentum of his pain, and rolled out of the submission, yanking Montbar into a small package pin.
ONE!
TWO!!
Montbar kicked out at two-and-three-quarters, barely escaping the trap.
Scott Slade: Sato nearly stole it!
Chris Rodgers: Montbar didn't see that coming at all. Sato’s got counters for days—you never know where it’s coming from.
Montbar pounded the mat in frustration, rising to his feet with fire in his eyes. Sato was already climbing up, limping, clutching his ribs. The two met again, standing mid-ring, and the brawl began anew.
Sato and Montbar traded blistering forearms mid-ring—each blow snapping the other’s head side-to-side—until Montbar halted the exchange with a surprise inside cradle so tight the knight howled with triumph.
Bob Sigro: ONE—TWO—
Sato powered out at two-and-three-quarters, rolled backward to his feet, and fired a point-blank straight-blast palm strike into Montbar’s sternum. The impact launched the knight into his own corner. Tae-Hyun Lim slapped Montbar’s shoulder so hard it sounded like a gunshot and vaulted over the top rope, hunger blazing in his eyes.
Lim charged; Sato sidestepped, snaring the wrist and snapping a judo-style arm drag that bounced Lim onto his face. The Pyongyang Powerhouse roared straight up—and swung a haymaker born of pure hate. Sato slipped underneath, chopped the inside of Lim’s knee with a low oblique kick, then flowed into a finger-jab to the throat and a rapid lead-hook to the liver. Each Jeet Kune Do strike was surgical, designed to enrage rather than drop.
Scott Slade: Sato’s baiting him—every kick and jab is gasoline on Lim’s fire!
Chris Rodgers: He’s really lighting up the North Korean piece of garbage! Classic JKD principle, Slade: “Using emotional content.” Make the monster reckless, then carve him apart.
Lim lunged again; Sato wheel-kicked at the shoulder joint, spun behind, and cracked off a blistering spinning backfist to the temple. Lim staggered to one knee, eyes glassy—but fury kept him upright.
Seeing his partner wobble, Sir Lionel Montbar dove through the ropes, ignoring Sigro’s warnings. He sprinted at Sato with sword-less valor—only to meet Maki Nishimura exploding from the apron. She launched across three meters of canvas and speared Montbar mid-stride, her 275-pound frame driving him spine-first into the mat. The whiplash cracked like a rifle; Montbar’s eyes rolled back, body going slack.
Takeshi Suzuki: That woman just ran a man through like a battering ram!
Yushiro Fujimoto: A disgraceful ambush! Knights deserve duels, not demolition!
Paramedics sprinted to Montbar as Maki returned to her corner, pumping a victorious fist while Lim watched his partner carried out—rage now molten and undirected. Lim bellowed and snatched Sato into a brutal Kim Dynasty Driver setup—hoisting him for the Michinoku Driver II. Sato jackknifed mid-air, rolled across Lim’s shoulders, and landed behind. Lim swung a wild back elbow—missed—then seized Sato by the mask and whipped him chest-first into the turnbuckles.
The moment Sato’s torso struck, he planted a foot on the middle pad, another on the top, and ran straight up the corner. In a single cinematic blur he moonsaulted backward—crowd gasping—looped an arm around Lim’s thick neck mid-rotation, and landed on his feet, arching full bridge: DRAGON SLEEPER—standing variant.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Holy shit! What a move!
Takeshi Suzuki: Alright… maybe this Sato guy is for reall after all…
Lim thrashed—trying to hurl Sato over his shoulder. Sato grape-vined his right leg around Lim’s hip, sank his left knee between the shoulder blades, and wrenched deeper. Lim’s free arm clawed at Sato’s forearm, veins bulging, face purpling. He surged once—twice—knees buckling—before slumping to both knees.
Scott Slade: Lim’s fading! The Pyongyang Powerhouse is losing power!
Chris Rodgers: Lim’s neck is trapped, airway compressed—blood flow cut off!
Lim’s hand pawed weakly at the air… then fell. Bob Sigro checked the wrist—no response. He lifted the arm—dropped—deadweight.
Bob Sigro: He’s out! Ring the bell!
DING—DING—DING!
Sato released the hold; Lim collapsed face-first. Maki burst into the ring, wrapping Sato in a fierce embrace before raising both their arms high. The essential-worker crowd thundered approval, chanting through masks:
“SA-TO! MA-KI! SA-TO! MA-KI!”
Paramedics rolled Montbar to the back while another crew tended to Lim, still unconscious but breathing. Confetti cannons remained silent—this was victory earned in blood and breath, not pomp.
Scott Slade: Valor vindicated! The New Valor Vanguard overcome politics, pandemics, and pure hatred to punch their ticket to the tournament finals!
Chris Rodgers: Sato used Lim’s anger like a scalpel; Maki erased a knight with one catastrophic spear. That’s synergy, Slade—painful, beautiful synergy!
Yushiro Fujimoto: Enjoy your fleeting triumph. The Scorpion King still waits atop the mountain.
Takeshi Suzuki: And when he strikes, no clever footwork will save you.
Maki helped Sato onto the middle rope so he could salute the masked fans—one fist raised, the other clutching bruised ribs—while cameras zoomed in on Lim’s fallen frame, the once-unstoppable giant rendered silent by a warrior’s technique and a strategist’s mind.
Friday Night Clash faded to a commercial break with the image of Sato and Maki standing tall—proof that heart and discipline could topple tyrants, and that the road to the finals now ran through the indomitable spirit of the New Valor Vanguard.
The door creaked open without a knock.
A rectangle of light spilled across imported carpet, slicing through shadows. Two silhouettes crossed the threshold like they owned it. Colton Hurst swaggered in first, broad-shouldered, dust on his boots from battles he hadn’t finished yet. Cassie Hurst, eyes sharp beneath her blonde ponytail, shut the door behind her with a soft, deliberate click.
Behind the desk sat Rupert Mudcock, hunched over a steaming bowl of miso ramen. He didn’t look up immediately—just let the silence hang. When he finally did, his glasses slid a little down his nose, eyebrows lifting in sour disbelief.
Rupert Mudcock: How the hell did you two get in here again? Locked office. Executive floor. You know, private?
Cassie: Private just means “not fortified enough.”
She strolled to the minibar, inspecting his top-shelf whiskey like she owned the inventory. Colton dropped into a leather chair with a grunt, stretching out like he was on a front porch.
Rupert Mudcock (putting down his chopsticks): You've got two minutes before I call security. If this is another lecture about Ronin Rumble, spare me. I didn’t see loyalty or strategy out there—just egos blowing up under spotlights.
Colton (voice flat): What you saw was a team poisoned from the inside.
Rupert (scoffing): And you think that’s my problem?
Cassie (pouring herself a drink): You’ve got the Red Reapers tearing through your locker room like they’re the Horsemen of the Apocalypse—and somehow we’re the issue?
Rupert leaned back slowly, ramen forgotten.
Rupert Mudcock: I didn’t ask for the Red Reapers. But I didn’t ask for you either. You and your brother just waltzed into my penthouse uninvited like you had the cure to a disease I didn’t catch.
Colton: You should’ve caught it by now. The Reapers aren’t a gimmick. They’re unnatural, Rupert. We’re seeing things backstage that don’t make sense.
Cassie (stepping forward, gaze locked on Rupert): Svetlana got in Kami’s head. Twisted her. What she did to Hara in that Rumble… that wasn’t anger. That was something else. Something dark.
Rupert (laughing dryly): So now I’m running a haunted house? Christ. Next, you’ll tell me she’s a vampire too.
Cassie: She doesn’t drink blood. She drains control. I saw Kami’s eyes—she wasn’t there. Whatever Svetlana did, it shattered one of the deadliest teams you had.
Rupert Mudcock (raising a finger): Let’s be clear—I didn’t pair them, I didn’t break them. Kami kicked Hara in the balls in front of a live crowd. I chalked it up to a lovers’ spat and moved on.
Colton (leaning in, slow and stern): Then you weren’t paying attention. This isn’t about romance. It’s about corruption. Kami’s off the rails, and Hara’s spiraling. They’re weapons without safeties now.
Rupert: Good. Weapons are useful.
Cassie: Until they misfire. You want to go back to the States and still have a company to run? You need them working together again on the same side. Before one of them kills someone, or worse, turn on you.
Rupert: Oh, please. You think I’m scared of your little Texas melodrama? I’ve dealt with Valora Salinas, I’ve survived Yakuza threats, the Emperor of North Korea taking my entire roster hostage, international lawsuits, and at least two assassination attempts. I can handle a pissed-off ex-tag team and a cold war goth stripper with mind games.
Cassie (voice lowering): Then prove it. Book Kami and Hara as a tag team. One match. See if they can hold the line together. You do that; we handle the rest.
Rupert studied her, now visibly uneasy. The light above his desk flickered for half a second.
Rupert (muttering): Fine. You’ve got your damn tag match for Showdown next week. But if it goes sideways—if they melt down again—it’s your mess to clean up. Not mine.
Colton (rising to his feet): No, this is your problem fat ass. Kami isn’t just a wrestler; she's a trained assassin with more blood on her hands than you could imagine! And right now, she’s a loose cannon with no direction!
Cassie (stepping beside her brother, quiet now): And if you don’t help pull them back together… what happens next won’t be a match. It’ll be a massacre. I promise you—she won’t stop until someone stops her.
Rupert: I fail to see how this is my problem! If she’s that dangerous, I’ll have her round, put her in a straitjacket, and commit her! Perhaps Valora Salinas could use a roommate down in Guantanamo Bay? All it takes is one phone call to President McStrump, and it can be arranged.
Colton: You better tread carefully, Mudcock. Try something stupid like that and you’ll be dead and we’ll all be gone way before the Military plane touches down in Tokyo.
The siblings turned to leave.
Rupert: Is that a threat?
At the door, Cassie looked over her shoulder one last time.
Cassie: No, it’s a promise.
House lights dimmed, the titan-tron flickered to crimson, and a sinister, minor-key blend of Red Army horns and industrial metal blasted through the Dome’s sound system.
Miyu Kojima: Ladies and gentlemen, Match Two of Round Three in the Ultimate Wrestling Tag-Team Tournament! Introducing first—accompanied by the Red Reapers—at a combined weight of 445 pounds… ‘Chyornaya Vedma’ Svetlana Kazakova and ‘Chernyy Kostyor’ Mikhail Mordokrov… TSAR’S TORMENTORS!
A wall of scarlet fog rolled across the stage as Viktor Zlovred, Olga Pavlova, and Snezhnayya Barsa marched out in military formation. Between them strode the Tormentors: Kazakova in black Spetsnaz combat trousers and a floor-length cloak of hammered chain, Mordokrov bare-chested beneath a Soviet greatcoat, skeletal tattoos glowing under strobes. Their entrance theme—an ominous mash-up of “Soviet March” and Slavic choral chants—reverberated like tanks on cobblestones.
The Reapers formed a phalanx on either side of the ramp. Mordokrov raised a gloved fist; Zlovred saluted with two fingers to his temple; Olga cracked her knuckles; Barsa vaulted onto the barricade, squatting like a prowling cat. Together, they created an aisle of intimidation all the way to ringside.
Scott Slade: Look at that procession—Putin’s personal wrecking crew just darkened the Dome.
Takeshi Suzuki: Every one of ’em’s a walking war crime.
Yushiro Fujimoto: At least these Russians understand pageantry. Better than your flannel-and-fireworks routine, Rodgers.
Chris Rodgers: Tsar’s Tormentors don’t need fireworks. They bring fallout.
Kazakova slid beneath the ropes with serpentine grace, then perch-sat on the middle buckle, eyes cold as Siberian steel. Mordokrov climbed the steps slowly, peeled off the coat, and spread his scarred arms wide—inviting judgment from a masked, uneasy crowd. Red Reapers assumed posts at opposite corners like sentries.
Scott Slade: The entire Red Reaper stable is out here tonight… If I’m the Devil’s Dreamers right now I’d be worried.
Chris Rodgers: Perhaps they should pray to Satan then for help! HAhahahaha! You not going find any sympathy from this Christian Slade!
The lights died; a lone purple spotlight swirled. A metallic gong chimed once… twice… thrice. “Shadow’s Fall” merged into “Whispers of the Abyss,” a collage of industrial beats and eerie shakuhachi flutes.
Miyu Kojima: And their opponents… at a combined weight of 375 pounds… ‘The Sinister Enigma’ Kazuo Oni and ‘The Harbinger of Nightmares’ Yume Kui Mei… THE DEVIL’S DREAMERS!
Kazuo Oni emerged first, hood drawn, exhaling a plume of black mist that curled like smoke around his tattooed face. Yume Mei followed barefoot, arms painted in violet sigils, eyes half-closed as though sleepwalking. She traced a crescent in the air; Oni answered with an inverted cross hand-sign—ritual completed.
They glided down the ramp in near-silence—no entourage, no pyrotechnics, just an oppressive aura that made the masked nurses in the front pods step back. Oni’s dark eyes never left Mordokrov; Mei’s gaze fixed on Kazakova, lips curling in an enigmatic smile.
Scott Slade: If Tsar’s Tormentors are a sledgehammer, Devil’s Dreamers are a scalpel dipped in poison.
Chris Rodgers: And neither team gives a damn about rules. Bob Sigro’s got the toughest assignment of the night.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Dreamers lost the moral high ground when they spat heroin in AAPW’s face. This is villain versus villain—let chaos choose.
Takeshi Suzuki: I’m just here for broken bones and broken spirits. Proceed.
Once in the ring, Mikhail Mordokrov started opposite Kazuo Oni. The size difference looked obscene—Oni’s 6'2", 240 lbs to Mordokrov’s 6'6", 260—but Oni advanced fearlessly, circling with feline footwork. Mordokrov lunged for a collar-and-elbow. Oni slipped under, slapped the back of Mordokrov’s head, and darted away—baiting the Soviet juggernaut.
Mordokrov charged; Oni answered with a stinging low dropkick to the left knee, then spun up with a spinning knife-edge chop right to the scarred sternum—borrowing Kazakova’s specialty for insult. Mordokrov barely flinched; he snagged Oni’s wrist, yanked him forward, and hurled him up for the Spectral Slam (flapjack). Oni’s stomach smacked the canvas, air blasting from his lungs.
Mordokrov dragged him up, locking in the Moscow Mauler iron claw across Oni’s face. The crowd groaned as the fingertips dug into nerve points; Oni writhed, finally kicking off the ropes to spring backward, flipping Mordokrov with a surprise arm-drag counter. Both men popped up—Oni coughed, wiped blood from his nose, and tagged in Yume Kui Mei.
Mei vaulted the ropes with a springboard high-cross body, colliding with Mordokrov’s chest—but the Russian caught her, muscles bulging. He pivoted into a Stalin Stunner (swinging flatliner). Mei slammed face-first, but momentum bounced her into a kneeling position, and she lashed out with the Crescent Moon Kick that clipped Mordokrov’s ear.
Svetlana barked for the tag; Mordokrov obliged. Kazakova vaulted over the top rope into a slingshot Olympic slam, folding Mei in mid-air and spiking her near her corner. Mei crawled for Oni—Kazakova stomped her hand, then dragged her by the braid to center ring. She attempted the Volga Vengeance early, hooking for the Cobra-Clutch Driver—but Mei somersaulted out, rolled to her feet, and connected with Ethereal Elusion—sidestepping a lariat and drilling a discus back elbow to the jaw and the dove to her corner to tag in Oni.
Oni bounded in, launched from the second rope with the Moscow Missile—weaponizing Svetlana’s own move—driving both boots into her chest. He covered, hooking inside leg:
ONE!
TWO— Kazakova power-pressed him off. They reset. Kazakova shotgun-kicked Oni toward the Russian corner, where Zlovred barked ecouragement and slammed the apron. Mordokrov tagged back in, cracking his knuckles. Red Reapers pounded the mat in unison—a Soviet drumline egging their leader on.
Mordokrov lifted Oni for a powerbomb, perhaps aiming for Tsar Bomba—but Mei sprinted across, leapt onto Mordokrov’s shoulders, and snapped him into a poison-rana before rolling out. Oni capitalised, hooking both arms and spiking Dark Descent (Black Fire driver).
ONE!
TWO!!
Olga Pavlova reached under the bottom rope and yanked Oni’s boot, breaking the pin. Bob Sigro wheeled around, shouting warnings—Red Reapers feigned innocence. The crowd booed behind masks.
Scott Slade: The Reapers’ numbers game is already paying dividends—Sigro’s losing control!
Chris Rodgers: When six angry Russians prowl ringside, it’s basically Soviet roulette.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Perhaps the officials of Ultimate Wrestling should force them to leave? What kind of company allows something like this? Bah!
Takeshi Suzuki: Good point Fujimoto!
Kazuo cursed, hauling Mordokrov towards his corner. Mei tagged back, scaling the turnbuckle for Nightmare Dive—but as she launched, Viktor Zlovred jerked Mordokrov to safety. Mei crash-landed on her knees. Mordokrov answered with a ruthless ankle-pick takedown, transitioned to the Gulag Lock (Rivera cloverleaf), bending her spine at a sickening angle.
Mei screamed, claws raking the canvas. Oni tried to intervene, but Kazakova met him with a forward Russian leg-sweep that spiked him face-first. Red Reapers roared approval. Mei’s fingertips stretched… inches from the bottom rope.
Suddenly, the arena lights flickered—purple strobe. Oni, still dazed, spat Hell’s Bile—a jet of black mist—BLINDING Kazakova and Sigro simultaneously. Chaos erupted. Mei twisted free of the cloverleaf in the confusion, rolled Mordokrov into a tight school-boy pin, but no referee could see the fall.
By the time Sigro wiped his eyes, the ring was pandemonium: Kazakova swung blindly, Mei ducked; Oni slid to the apron gasping; Mordokrov lumbered up, veins pulsing. Sigro signalled for order, threatening disqualification if anyone else interfered. The crowd buzzed—momentum teetered between nightmare and iron curtain.
Mikhail Mordokrov broke free of Oni’s grasp and slammed a hammer-fist across Mei’s spine just as she tried to stand. He hauled her up by the braid, muscling her into the Tormentor corner, where Svetlana drove a knee between her shoulder blades and wrenched her throat backward over the top rope. Bob Sigro counted—
One! Two! Three!—
Kazakova released at four, but only long enough for Viktor Zlovred on the floor to yank Mei’s ankles, jerking her neck first against the cable. Mei whiplashed hard and crumpled to her knees, clutching her windpipe.
Scott Slade: Viktor Zlovred just mugged Mei from the outside—Sigro never saw a thing!
Chris Rodgers: That’s Russian loyalty for you. They move like a unit—one mind, six fists.
Kazuo Oni tried to rush in, but Olga Pavlova reached in, snagged his boot, and yanked him face-first against the apron edge. Oni’s jaw bounced off steel. Inside, Mordokrov re-tagged Kazakova; the Spetsnaz operative vaulted the ropes, sprinted, and crashed a running Moscow Missile dropkick square between Mei’s shoulder blades, driving her into the buckles. She followed with rapid-fire crucifix elbows, ten in succession, each landing behind the ear before Sigro’s count forced separation.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Pure military discipline—target the spine, target the brain stem, dismantle.
Takeshi Suzuki: Mei spat that cursed bile on Viktor weeks ago—this is Russian retribution, Slade. They collect debts in blood.
Kazakova tagged Mordokrov back, but the big man motioned to Zlovred. The Siberian Warhammer stepped onto the apron—Sigro protested—too late. Mordokrov whipped Mei toward the ropes; Zlovred launched a scissors kick from the apron that decapitated her mid-stride. Mei spun in mid-air, crashed, and lay motionless. Mordokrov dropped a knee the size of a kettlebell across her ribs, then rolled her up in a tight lateral press.
ONE!
TWO!! - Oni sprang with a sliding kick to Mordokrov’s temple, breaking the fall.
Olga roared, climbed onto the apron, and tried to enter, but Sigro blocked her path. While the referee argued, Barsa vaulted to the top rope, sprang, and planted a pinpoint Frost-Flip 450 onto Oni’s back. The masked cruiserweight slithered out just as Sigro turned, leaving Oni writhing while the officials saw nothing but aftermath.
Scott Slade: It’s a mugging! Every Red Reaper is hitting the ring whenever Sigro’s head turns!
Chris Rodgers: Mei and Oni are basically in an five-on-two handicap. It’s organized crime, not tag wrestling.
Mordokrov dragged Mei by the hair to the Russian corner again, stiff-armed her gut, and lifted her for the Tsar Bomba. He spun—Mei flailed mid-air—yet instead of planting her, he hurled her toward Kazakova’s waiting arms. Svetlana caught her upside-down and drove a forward Russian legsweep that spiked Mei face-first.
Kazakova floated into the Witch’s Claw mandible grip, her fingers jerking Mei’s jaw open in cruel pincers. Mei kicked, arms thrashing, but Mordokrov and Zlovred leaned over the ropes to hold her wrists down like executioners. Oni lunged again, blind rage pushing through pain, but Barsa shot in with a springboard Blizzard Breaker hurricanrana that slung Oni throat-first across the middle rope. Olga followed with a colossal forearm smash that sent Oni spilling to the floor.
Yushiro Fujimoto: That purple mist turned Viktor into a superstitious wreck last month. Now they’re exorcising their trauma with systematic brutality.
Scott Slade: Mei might have cracked ribs and a dislocated jaw—someone stop this!
Chris Rodgers: Sigro’s outnumbered and outgunned. The Dreamers need a miracle.
Mei’s boots kicked weakly; Kazakova released just before unconsciousness and tagged Mordokrov. The ancient giant stepped through, yanked Mei vertical by her hair, and slapped her so hard the echo rang into the cheap seats. He cinched a gut-wrench, hoisted, spun, and planted her with a crushing wheelbarrow driver—borrowing Zlovred’s own VZD—to further humiliate.
Rather than cover, Mordokrov pointed at Oni’s prone body outside. Zlovred and Olga dragged Oni to his feet; the Warhammer hooked the arms, and Olga delivered a staggering Behemoth Bomb powerbomb onto the floor mats. The crowd gasped behind their masks.
Inside, Mei crawled by instinct alone. Mordokrov pressed a boot on her fingers, then cranked her wrist backward until she whimpered. He knelt, whispered something in Russian—then stood, tagged Kazakova, and offered her the honor of finishing the punishment.
Svetlana stepped in calmly, wiped blood from her lip, and lifted Mei into a stretched-out suplex stall—holding for a humiliating ten-count—before driving her down with the Volga Vengeance. She didn’t cover; she pulled Mei up yet again, thrust her into the ropes so she slumped on the middle strand, and beckoned Barsa to the top rope.
Snezhnayya Barsa perched, sprang, and delivered a gorgeous Arctic Assault spinning frog splash across Mei’s back, then rolled out under the bottom rope before Sigro could turn. Mordokrov and Kazakova backed away, arms raised, feigning innocence as Bob checked on the barely conscious Mei.
Scott Slade: Mei is broken in half! This is—this is sanctioned torture!
Chris Rodgers: And the Russians are wearing halos while their stablemates do the devil’s work. The Dreamers are in hell, Slade.
Oni clawed at the apron, glassy-eyed, trying to rise despite the floor bomb he’d eaten. Kazakova seized Mei again, dragging her to the Russian corner, locking on the top-rope-assisted cobra-clutch choke while Mordokrov tagged in and battered Mei’s ribs with clubbing forearms.
Sigro launched another five-count; the Tormentors milked it to four every time, always breaking in the nick of legality. Each reset only invited a fresh piece of cruelty: rope-hung uppercuts from Mordokrov, stiff spinning knife-edge chops from Kazakova, a sneaky ankle lock outside by Zlovred, even Olga stuffing the ring skirt into Mei’s mouth to stifle her screams when the referee’s back was turned.
The Tokyo Dome buzzed—a low, uneasy rumble—watching the systematic dismantling of the Devil’s Dreamers as the Red Reapers commanded every inch of ringside territory. Inside the ropes, Mei lay motionless under Mordokrov’s boot, Oni crawled toward his corner with blood trickling from his lip, and the Russians stood tall, smirking beneath crimson lights.
Mikhail Mordokrov hoisted the limp Yume Kui Mei off the canvas, legs hooked beneath his arms, and sank back into the Gulag Lock—a punishing Rivera cloverleaf. He leaned so far that Mei’s boots nearly brushed her own head, spine corkscrewing in agony. Kazuo Oni scrambled toward his partner, but Svetlana Kazakova intercepted with a brutal soccer kick to the ribs that dumped him into the ropes.
Mei clawed uselessly at the mat. Her free hand fluttered—then slapped three frantic taps.
Bob Sigro: She taps! Break the hold—ring the bell!
DING-DING-DING!
Mordokrov kept the cloverleaf cinched a heartbeat longer, savoring the scream, before flinging Mei face-first onto the canvas. Oni dragged himself over her body, shielding her from further harm, but Kazakova planted a boot between his shoulders, driving him down.
Miyu Kojima (over the jeers): Your winners—advancing in the Ultimate Wrestling Tag-Team Tournament—‘Chyornaya Vedma’ Svetlana Kazakova and ‘Chernyy Kostyor’ Mikhail Mordokrov… TSAR’S TORMENTORS!
A torrent of crimson light bathed the ring as “Soviet March” thundered through the Dome. Outside, the Red Reapers—Viktor Zlovred, Olga Pavlova, and Snezhnayya Barsa—pounded apron and barricade like a war drum, daring security to test the perimeter.
Paramedics rushed to the apron, but Zlovred blocked the steps with a single outstretched arm. Pavlova loomed beside him, massive and snarling. Inside, Kazakova scraped her heel across Mei’s cheek, smudging purple mist residue into a painful bruise, while Mordokrov stalked toward ring announcer Miyu Kojima.
He snatched the microphone from her trembling hand, jerked his scarred thumb across his throat, and wheeled back to center ring. With a guttural bark in Russian—
Mordokrov: “Музыку… прекратить!” (Cut the music!)
The anthem screeched to silence. Every spotlight in the Tokyo Dome snapped to a blood-red hue, locking on the towering Soviet relic and his Spetsnaz partner. Around them, the Reapers closed ranks: Barsa posed like a snow-leopard gargoyle on the top turnbuckle; Zlovred stood ram-rod straight at the timekeeper’s table; Olga flexed massive forearms over the top rope, daring the medics to try again.
Mordokrov surveyed the masked pods of essential workers—an arena forced into uneasy quiet by the sight of Oni and Mei broken at his feet. He raised the mic to his lips—
—and the crowd felt the air tighten, waiting for whatever dark manifesto might follow.
Mikhail Mordokrov: You boo now because you are afraid. Because tonight, you saw your beloved Dreamers broken… like twigs in the Siberian cold.
The crowd erupts in hostile noise—some even throwing trash into the ring. Mordokrov sneers, unmoved.
Mordokrov: You weak Americans chant for dreams… but dreams end. Russia wakes up and conquers.
Svetlana steps forward, flag still draped behind her like a war banner, her voice like venom-laced velvet.
Svetlana: Takuma Sato. Maki. Your people scream your names now…
The crowd begins chanting in waves—“MA-KI! SA-TO! MA-KI! SA-TO!”—as the camera cuts to young fans banging the barricade.
Svetlana: …but next Saturday, they will scream in grief. Your gold will leave your waist… and return home.
Mordokrov: Next week at Saturday Night Showdown, we take what should have never been yours. The Tag Team Championships will belong to Russia. And you—you two little heroes—will fall to your knees and witness the rise of a new empire!
He points directly into the camera.
Mordokrov: Your spirit will break. Your legacy will be erased. And your precious Ultimate Wrestling… will bleed red.
Svetlana drops the Russian flag over the center of the ring like a symbol of conquest as the camera zooms in on her ice-cold glare.
Mordokrov: MARK MY WORDS… the next time we stand in this ring, it will be as champions.
“Voennaya March” hits again as the crowd’s boos become thunderous. The Russian duo exit the ring, leaving the flag draped over the UW logo as an act of total disrespect. “MA-KI! SA-TO!” chants echo to the rafters, setting the stage for a Tag Team Championship showdown soaked in nationalism, vengeance, and pride.
To Be Continued In Part - 3