The lights dim.
A low, ominous hum rolls through the arena as Cantata to Comrade Kim Jong Il begins to echo through the speakers. The reaction is immediate—boos, sharp and unified, cutting through the air. Tae-Hyun Lim emerges first. He steps through the curtain with the posture of a conquering tyrant, shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes cold and unforgiving. He wears his robe loosely, his massive frame barely contained, fists clenched as if already itching to crush something fragile. He does not acknowledge the crowd. He does not need to.
Scott Slade: The Pyongyang Powerhouse has arrived—and wherever Tae-Hyun Lim goes, suffering follows.
Chris Rodgers: You don’t survive the Death Sports Tournament by being merciful.
Tae-Hyun stops at the foot of the ramp and waits. The music shifts.
“The Duke of Death” by Wumpskut bleeds into the arena, its dark rhythm heavy with dread and solemnity. The boos soften—confusion replacing pure hatred—as Sir Lionel Montbar steps into the light.
Lionel’s eyes are distant, almost haunted, yet resolute. He carries himself like a knight summoned to war, shoulders back, chin raised, absorbing the chaos around him as if it were a battlefield from another age. He joins Tae-Hyun without a word. No camaraderie. No acknowledgment. Just alignment through necessity.
Yashiro Fujimoto: This is not friendship. This is a temporary pact forged in violence.
Takeshi Suzuki: I completely agree Fuji-san. These go together like oil and water! Hahahaha!
Together, The Royal Alliance walks to the ring. Tae-Hyun climbs the steps with deliberate menace. Lionel steps through the ropes and removes his cloak with ritualistic care, folding it neatly before placing it in the corner.
They wait.
Then—Thunderstruck. The arena erupts.
The opening guitar riff detonates the crowd as Yamato Ikari storms onto the stage, veins bulging, jaw clenched, eyes burning with barely contained chaos. He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and pounds his chest once before charging down the ramp like a coming storm.
Scott Slade: Kyoto’s own Storm Bearer looks ready to tear this place apart!
Moments later, Tsurugi Yama follows. The crowd’s reaction deepens—respect, awe, and a hint of fear. Tsurugi moves with controlled power, each step heavy, deliberate. His eyes never leave the ring. He does not rush. He does not posture. He endures.
Chris Rodgers: That is a frightening amount of mass moving with purpose. I don’t envy Montbar and that North Korean idiot.
The champions enter the ring together. Yamato paces like a caged animal, jaw twitching, while Tsurugi plants himself in the center and stares down Tae-Hyun. The visual contrast is staggering—two titans from different philosophies, measuring each other without a single word exchanged.
The referee steps between both teams, holding the AAPW Tag Team Championships high. The crowd roars. Belts are handed off. Final instructions are given. Yamato leans toward Tae-Hyun, snarling something inaudible.
Tae-Hyun smirks.
Tsurugi and Lionel lock eyes—strength meeting conviction, chaos meeting order.
The referee calls for the bell.
DING—DING.
The arena tightens. Yamato immediately steps forward—but Tsurugi places a massive hand on his chest, stopping him. Tsurugi Yama steps through the ropes. Tae-Hyun Lim answers. Two heavyweights. No wasted motion. No theatrics. They circle. The first lock-up is imminent. Tae-Hyun Lim exploded out of the corner first. He didn’t test the waters—he charged.
The ring shook as he smashed into Tsurugi Yama with a thunderous shoulder block that barely moved the champion. The two men snarled inches apart before unloading with simultaneous forearms, the impact echoing like gunshots. Tsurugi answered with a headbutt that snapped Tae-Hyun’s head back, then immediately tagged Yamato Ikari in.
Yamato burst through the ropes and flattened Tae-Hyun with a Whirlwind Charge, nearly cutting him in half. Tae-Hyun staggered—and Yamato followed with a Cyclone Knee that sent the Pyongyang Powerhouse crashing into the corner.
Scott Slade: This is already out of control!
Yamato tagged Tsurugi back in instantly. Quick tag. No wasted time. Tsurugi hauled Tae-Hyun out of the corner and planted him with a massive scoop slam, rolling through into a cover.
One!
Scott Slade: Tae-Hyun powered out at one, shoving Tsurugi off him with raw strength.
Chris Rodgers: You’re not pinning Tae-Hyun Lim that easily.
Tae-Hyun rolled to his corner and slapped Lionel Montbar’s hand. Montbar entered—and immediately regretted it. Tsurugi charged and crushed him with a shoulder block that turned Montbar inside out. Montbar tried to rise—Tsurugi yanked him up and dumped him with a thunderous belly-to-belly suplex, then another, then a third for good measure.
The crowd roared.
Tsurugi tagged Yamato again. Yamato sprinted in and dropped a Typhoon Slam that spiked Montbar flat. Yamato covered.
One!
Two!
Montbar kicked out, barely, gasping for air as Yamato loomed over him.
Yashiro Fujimoto: Sir Lionel Montbar is being dismantled!
Yamato dragged Montbar up and unleashed a Storm Surge—punches, elbows, knees—driving him backward into the ropes. Montbar rebounded and was cut in half by a Whirlwind Charge that sent him flipping through the air. Yamato went for another cover.
One!
Two!
Montbar kicked out again, slower this time, eyes glassy.
Takeshi Suzuki: He is running out of strength!
Yamato pulled Montbar up—Montbar fired a desperate elbow to the jaw. Then another. Then a third. The crowd surged as Montbar summoned something deep and battered Yamato with a snap suplex, buying himself precious seconds.Montbar crawled—Tae-Hyun reached in and dragged him back by the ankle.
The referee warned him.
Too late.
Tae-Hyun tagged himself in. He stomped Montbar mercilessly, grinding his boot into the ribs before hauling him up and launching him with a Supreme Leader Slam. Montbar bounced hard, clutching his spine.
Tae-Hyun hooked the leg.
One!
Two!
Tsurugi Yama broke it up with a diving forearm to the back of Tae-Hyun’s head. The ring descended into chaos. Yamato stormed in and leveled Lionel with a Cyclone Knee while Tsurugi and Tae-Hyun traded haymakers in the center. The referee shouted orders as bodies collided everywhere. Montbar tried to stand—
Tae-Hyun grabbed him again and spiked him with the Kim Dynasty Driver. Another cover.
One!
Two!
Montbar kicked out at the last possible moment, the crowd exploding in disbelief.
Scott Slade: I don’t know how Sir Lionel is still alive!
Tae-Hyun snarled and dragged Montbar up for the Nuclear Nemesis—but Montbar slipped free and collapsed into his corner, slapping Yamato’s hand on instinct. Yamato entered like a storm breaking loose. He flattened Tae-Hyun with a running shoulder block, then another. He spun him into a Tornado Throw that sent the Pyongyang Powerhouse tumbling across the ring. Yamato roared and charged—
Tae-Hyun caught him mid-run and powerbombed him into the mat. Both men down. The crowd was on its feet now.
STOMP—STOMP—CLAP
STOMP—STOMP—CLAP
Tae-Hyun crawled to his corner and tagged Montbar back in. Montbar stumbled through the ropes, battered, bruised—but still standing. Tsurugi tagged himself in.The two heavyweights met in the center, Montbar throwing everything he had left—shoulder blocks, forearms, sheer stubborn will—until Tsurugi finally caught him and dropped him with a Samoan Drop that nearly folded him in half.
Tsurugi covered.
One!
Two!
Montbar kicked out again. Barely.
Chris Rodgers: This is insane!
Tsurugi rose slowly, chest heaving, eyes locked on Montbar as he dragged the knight back to his feet. Yama stayed on Sir Lionel Montbar, looming over him like an executioner who refused to grant mercy. Montbar tried to rise on instinct alone—one knee under him, teeth clenched—but Tsurugi grabbed him by the back of the neck and snapped him down with a short-arm snap suplex that rattled the canvas. Tsurugi floated over immediately.
One!
Two!
Montbar kicked out again, this time with nothing left but reflex. The crowd buzzed in disbelief.
Scott Slade: This man refuses to stay down!
Yashiro Fujimoto: Refusal alone will not save him much longer.
Tsurugi drove a knee into Montbar’s midsection, then another, folding him in half before planting him with a thunderous body slam. Tsurugi turned and tagged Yamato Ikari back in with a sharp slap.
Quick tag.
Yamato stormed in and immediately ripped Montbar off the mat, spinning him into a Tornado Throw that sent Montbar skidding across the ring like discarded armor. Yamato followed with a running Cyclone Knee that snapped Montbar’s head back violently.
Yamato covered.
One!
Two!
Montbar kicked out again—barely lifting a shoulder off the mat. The Ultimate Wrestling desk erupted.
Chris Rodgers: This is a mismatch. He’s being sacrificed.
Scott Slade: And yet—he keeps surviving!
Yashiro Fujimoto: Survival is not victory.
Yamato dragged Montbar up by the wrist and whipped him toward the corner. Montbar hit hard—and Tae-Hyun Lim reached in, tagging himself in again with a sharp smack to Yamato’s shoulder. The referee allowed it. Tae-Hyun entered like a wrecking ball.
He crushed Montbar with a running body avalanche, then scooped him up and dumped him with a sit-out powerbomb that shook the ring. Montbar bounced helplessly as Tae-Hyun stayed on him, grinding a forearm across his face before dragging him into another pin.
One!
Two!
Tsurugi Yama broke it up again, this time by launching himself into Tae-Hyun’s back. The ring descended into chaos. Yamato charged in and flattened Tae-Hyun with a Whirlwind Charge. Tae-Hyun rolled to his knees and smashed Yamato with a lariat that turned him inside out. Tsurugi grabbed Tae-Hyun from behind—and Tae-Hyun powered out, backing him into the corner and driving shoulder after shoulder into his ribs.
The referee shouted warnings as Montbar crawled blindly toward his corner.
Scott Slade: This has become an all-out collision between worlds!
Chris Rodgers: And AAPW is proving why they run Japan!
Takeshi Suzuki: Ultimate Wrestling did not send its best to lose quietly!
Montbar finally reached his corner and slapped Tae-Hyun’s hand by accident in the scramble—only to be yanked back by Yamato, who tagged himself in yet again. Yamato grabbed Montbar and hurled him with a snap German suplex, bridging deep.
One!
Two!
Montbar kicked out at the last fraction of a second. The crowd was fully standing now.
STOMP—STOMP—CLAP
STOMP—STOMP—CLAP
Yamato released the bridge and stared down at Montbar, breathing heavy, sweat dripping from his brow. He shook his head slowly, almost in disbelief, before dragging Montbar back to his feet. Tsurugi leaned in, tagging himself one last time.
Quick tag.
The champions were tightening the noose. And Sir Lionel Montbar—bloodied, battered, barely conscious—was somehow still refusing to fall. The question now wasn’t if this match would end. It was how much more punishment Montbar could endure before it did. Tae-Hyun Lim stood on the apron, chest heaving, eyes locked on the carnage unfolding in front of him.
Sir Lionel Montbar crawled toward the corner on instinct alone, one arm useless, ribs caved in from repeated impact. He reached—fingers brushing the bottom rope—when Tsurugi Yama hauled him back by the ankle and yanked him flat onto the canvas.
Montbar screamed. Lim slapped the top rope once, shouting something in Korean, demanding the tag. Montbar turned his head, blood in his mouth, eyes unfocused—but he nodded. He crawled again. Tsurugi stomped his hand.
Montbar collapsed.
Chris Rodgers: He needs that tag right now or this is over.
Scott Slade: Tae-Hyun Lim is begging him—this is the only way out.
Yashiro Fujimoto: Begging is weakness.
Montbar forced himself up again, wobbling on one knee, and finally lunged—
TAG!
The sound echoed. But Lim didn’t enter. The referee pointed. The crowd buzzed. Montbar looked back. Tae-Hyun Lim stared at his hand… then at Montbar… then slowly shook his head. Montbar’s eyes widened.
Sir Lionel Montbar: LIM—NOW
!
Lim leaned through the ropes, face twisted in fury.
Tae-Hyun Lim: You are a fool.
He raised his hand. And flipped Montbar the middle finger. The Tokyo Dome erupted—half in shock, half in disbelief.
Scott Slade: Oh my God—he’s walking out on him!
Chris Rodgers: I knew that North Korean couldn’t be trusted!
Lim stepped down from the apron. He didn’t look back. He walked up the ramp.
Yashiro Fujimoto: Cowardice. Absolute cowardice.
Takeshi Suzuki: That’s smartest decision I’ve seen all day. Maybe there is hope for Lim after all!
Montbar reached for him. Lim disappeared through the curtain. Silence fell—then it shattered. Tsurugi Yama crushed Montbar with a running shoulder block that turned him inside out. Yamato Ikari tagged himself in immediately, the champions circling their prey like wolves.
Quick tag.
Storm Surge. Punch. Elbow. Knee. Elbow again.Montbar staggered, glassy-eyed, arms limp. Yamato grabbed him by the throat and launched him with a Typhoon Slam that shook the ring so hard the cameras rattled.
Yamato backed into the corner. Tsurugi tagged himself in. Tsurugi lifted Montbar—dead weight now—and folded him with a brutal German suplex. He didn’t release. Second German. Still didn’t release. Third German—this one snapped Montbar’s head back violently, his body collapsing face-first into the mat. The referee checked him. Montbar tried to move. He couldn’t.
Scott Slade: This has gone too far.
Takeshi Suzuki: This is AAPW dominance.
Yashiro Fujimoto: Finish him.
Tsurugi dragged Montbar up by the hair and spiked him with a devastating powerbomb. Yamato tagged back in one final time.
Quick tag.
Yamato climbed the ropes slowly, deliberately, savoring the moment as the Japanese crowd roared, Thunderclap. The double axe handle crashed down like divine punishment. Yamato hooked the leg.
One.
Two.
Three.
The bell rang.
AAPW retained. The champions rose, standing tall as the crowd exploded—Japanese fans on their feet, cheering, chanting, pounding the barricades in approval.
Yashiro Fujimoto: AAPW stands supreme!
Takeshi Suzuki: This is what happens when strength meets loyalty!
Chris Rodgers: That wasn’t a match—that was an execution.
Scott Slade: And it never happens if Lim doesn’t walk out.
Yamato Ikari and Tsurugi Yama raised the AAPW Tag Team Championships high above their heads, basking in the roar, while Sir Lionel Montbar lay broken and abandoned in the center of the ring. Medics slid in quietly. Lim never returned. And Ultimate Wrestling had just learned—brutally—that AAPW’s champions do not forgive weakness.
The noise of Empires End still bled faintly through the walls.
Even back here, tucked away in the concrete arteries behind the arena, the building never fully stopped vibrating. Every bass hit from the music. Every roar from the crowd. Every distant ring bell. It all traveled through the bones of the place like a pulse. The show had moved on, but the sting of the opening match had not.
Lightning Man sat alone on a steel bench in the locker room area, still half in gear, elbows on his knees, his mask tilted toward the floor. Sweat had dried cold against his body. His breathing had settled, but his posture had not. There was a tension in him that had nowhere to go now, no opponent to hit, no rope to spring off, no moment left to save. Just the quiet humiliation of knowing he had gone out there with the Young Blood Championship in reach and failed again.
The cheap fluorescent lights above him buzzed and flickered. His yellow-and-black gear, so bright under the arena lights, looked harsher here. Dirtier. The colors of a hero costume left in a gutter.
Not far from him, leaning against a bank of dented gray lockers, Chuluun Bold watched in silence.
Bold had tried to look relaxed. He had even managed the shape of it from a distance. Arms folded. Shoulder against the metal. Expression flat, unimpressed, unreadable. But up close the illusion broke apart. His skin had a pallid, strained look to it. The edge had gone out of him. His eyes still carried that predatory weight, but the body beneath it looked just a little too still, just a little too exhausted, like a blade left too long in bad weather. There was a faint tremor buried in one hand before he tucked it beneath his opposite arm.
The Yakuza had cut off his supply.
Yokai blood had once burned through him like sacrament. Now its absence sat in his veins like winter.
Still, he pushed off the locker and stepped forward.
Chuluun Bold: You fought well.
Lightning Man didn’t look up.
Lightning Man: No, I didn’t.
Chuluun Bold: Oswald Knight is not easy prey.
Lightning Man let out a bitter laugh.
Lightning Man: I’m tired of people saying that after I lose.
Chuluun Bold said nothing to that at first. He came to stand a few feet away, hands at his sides now, jaw tightening for the briefest second as another wave of weakness seemed to move through him.
Lightning Man finally lifted his head enough for Bold to see the anger burning behind his eyes.
Lightning Man: I had him.
Chuluun Bold: For a moment.
Lightning Man: That’s the problem. I keep having people for a moment.
He stood up too fast and paced away, dragging one hand over the top of his mask. His boots scraped hard against the concrete floor.
Lightning Man: I’m sick of moments. Sick of almost. Sick of hearing how close I was. Close doesn’t mean anything. You either take the title or you don’t. You either matter or you don’t.
Bold watched him move, saying nothing until Lightning Man turned sharply and slammed a fist into the nearest locker. The metal rang through the room like a gunshot.
Chuluun Bold: And what do you think tonight made you?
Lightning Man turned toward him, breathing hard.
Lightning Man: Weak.
That answer came too fast. Too honestly.
Bold’s expression shifted. Not soft. Never soft. But something colder and older sat behind his eyes now.
Chuluun Bold: Then you are already doing your enemy’s work for them.
Lightning Man looked away.
For a second, the room was filled only by the distant muffled voice of an announcer somewhere out in the arena, swallowed by walls and crowd noise.
Bold moved closer.
Chuluun Bold: One loss is not a funeral.
Lightning Man: It feels like one.
Chuluun Bold: Then rise from it.
Lightning Man shook his head and sat back down hard, rubbing at his jaw.
Lightning Man: You ever get tired of sounding like an immortal fortune cookie?
That almost got something out of Bold. Almost.
Chuluun Bold: Constantly.
Lightning Man snorted despite himself, but the humor died quickly.
Before either man could say anything else, the air in the hallway shifted.
It was subtle at first. A presence. A wrongness. The sort of change the body noticed before the mind gave it language. Bold felt it before he heard it. His eyes slid toward the open doorway.
Then came the sound.
Slow footsteps.
Unhurried.
Confident.
A figure appeared in the doorway and stopped there like he had every right in the world to be seen.
He was dressed in yellow and black, but not with the clean symbolism of a hero. There was something uglier in the design, something meaner. The costume clung to him like a skin built for theater and violence. A high yellow collar framed his face. Heavy, insect-like goggles hid his eyes beneath dark tinted lenses. A narrow antenna protruded from the side of his headgear. Black material hugged the neck and jaw beneath the mask, giving him the silhouette of a man who had dressed himself up to become an accusation.
A smile curled beneath it.
Lightning Man froze.
Then all at once he surged to his feet.
Lightning Man: You.
The word came out like a blade.
Yellow Jacket spread his hands slightly, amused already.
Yellow Jacket: Miss me?
Lightning Man launched forward.
He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. One second he was at the bench, the next he was charging across the room with murder in his shoulders.
Bold intercepted him before he got halfway there.
It happened fast, almost casually. Bold stepped in, caught Lightning Man around the upper chest and one arm, and locked him in place with impossible strength. Lightning Man thrashed against him instantly, furious, boots grinding against the concrete, but Bold held him there like iron wrapped in flesh.
Lightning Man: Let me go!
Chuluun Bold: No.
Lightning Man fought harder, twisting, trying to tear free.
Lightning Man: I’ll kill him!
Yellow Jacket laughed.
It was not a warm laugh. It was the delighted sound of someone seeing an old wound split open exactly where he remembered it.
Yellow Jacket: There he is. That’s the face I came for.
He stepped into the room just enough that the overhead lights caught the grime and wear on his costume. He looked like a man who had been living off spite and long memory.
Yellow Jacket: Not the brave little mascot. Not the crowd-pleasing spark plug. This one.
Lightning Man strained against Bold’s grip, every muscle in his body drawn tight.
Lightning Man: You shouldn’t be here.
Yellow Jacket: And miss that?
He nodded back toward the arena, toward the match that had already ended.
Yellow Jacket: Miss you getting your ass kicked by Oswald Knight in front of everybody?
His grin widened.
Yellow Jacket: No chance.
Lightning Man snarled and tried to lunge again. Bold’s arms tightened. The veins in Bold’s hands stood out sharply. Even weakened, even starved, the vampire strength in him was monstrous.
Chuluun Bold: Control yourself.
Yellow Jacket tilted his head, savoring the scene.
Yellow Jacket: You know what my favorite part was?
Lightning Man said nothing. He was beyond words now, vibrating with rage.
Yellow Jacket: It wasn’t the loss. Losses happen. It was the look on you right after. That little crack in the armor. That split second where everybody watching could see it.
He tapped a finger lightly against the side of his goggles.
Yellow Jacket: You started believing what I always knew.
Lightning Man: Shut up.
Yellow Jacket: That you’re weak.
The room went dead still around that word.
Even Bold’s eyes narrowed.
Yellow Jacket took another step in, just enough to show he feared neither of them.
Yellow Jacket: You wear lightning on your chest like it means something. Like it makes you special. Like it makes you dangerous. But every time it matters, every single time, you fall apart. You lose the match. You lose the moment. You lose yourself.
Lightning Man bared his teeth beneath the mask.
Lightning Man: Keep talking.
Yellow Jacket: Gladly.
He pointed lazily toward the hallway, toward the arena beyond.
Yellow Jacket: I came here tonight for one reason. I wanted to see it with my own eyes. I wanted to stand in the same building and watch you fail in person.
That one landed.
Lightning Man stopped struggling for half a beat, and that stillness was worse than the rage.
Yellow Jacket saw it too. He fed on it.
Yellow Jacket: And you didn’t disappoint me.
Bold shifted slightly, repositioning his grip as Lightning Man started fighting again, more violently this time.
Chuluun Bold: You came a long way to talk.
Yellow Jacket turned his head toward Bold for the first time, measuring him.
Yellow Jacket: And you look like death trying not to yawn. Rough night?
Bold’s stare hardened into something predatory and ancient.
Chuluun Bold: Leave.
Yellow Jacket gave him a mock nod.
Yellow Jacket: Soon.
Then he looked back to Lightning Man.
Whatever mockery had been in his face before thinned out now. What remained underneath was uglier. More personal. Less playful.
Yellow Jacket: Watch your back tonight.
Lightning Man went still again.
Yellow Jacket: Because when you least expect it…
He leaned in just slightly, just enough for the moment to sharpen.
**Yellow Jacket: I’m going to end you.
Silence.
No crowd.
No music.
No announcer.
Just that sentence hanging in the locker room like poison.
Yellow Jacket straightened, satisfied with the damage, then turned and started walking back down the hallway.
Lightning Man exploded again.
Lightning Man: Get back here!
Bold had to plant his feet to hold him. For a moment, the effort showed. The weakness in him flashed across his face like a crack in stone, but he held.
Chuluun Bold: No.
Lightning Man: Let go of me!
Chuluun Bold: No.
Yellow Jacket never looked back.
His footsteps echoed down the corridor, slow and certain, until they were swallowed by the machinery of the building.
Only then did Bold finally release him.
Lightning Man stumbled forward a step, ready to sprint after him, but he stopped at the doorway. His chest rose and fell hard. Every muscle in him screamed to run. To fight. To make this simple.
But Yellow Jacket was gone.
The hallway beyond was empty.
Lightning Man stood there for a long second, staring into nothing.
Then he drove his fist into the doorframe so hard the metal casing buckled.
Behind him, Bold drew a slow breath through his nose.
Chuluun Bold: That was not a threat made for theater.
Lightning Man didn’t turn around.
Lightning Man: I know.
Chuluun Bold: Then tonight you do not walk alone.
That got Lightning Man to glance back.
For the first time since the match, the anger in his face shared space with something else. Not fear exactly. Recognition. History. The understanding that some enemies did not arrive by accident.
Lightning Man: He’s been waiting for this.
Bold stepped forward, the weakness still in his limbs, the hunger still in his blood, but his voice remained steady.
Chuluun Bold: Then let him come.
Lightning Man looked back down the empty hallway where Yellow Jacket had vanished.
Out in the arena, the crowd roared for something else.
Back here, another fight had just begun.
To Be Continued In PART - 4