The house lights rippled from cobalt to electric-gold as Miyu Kojima stepped beneath the spotlight. A nervous hum rolled through each essential-worker pod; even masked faces betrayed excitement for the night’s lone singles title bout.
She raised the microphone, her voice ringing clear. “Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is a triple-threat match, scheduled for one fall, and it is for the YOUNGBLOOD CHAMPIONSHIP!”
A jagged bolt of pyro split the stage while Skillet’s “Hero” blasted through the PA. as Lightning Man burst from the curtain in a full sprint, leaping into a forward handspring before landing in superhero stance at center stage. Blue sparks chased him down the ramp as he slapped gloved hands and shouted encouragement to the masked nurses in the front pods. Reaching ringside, he sprang to the apron and vaulted the ropes in a single bound, rolling to his feet and pounding his chest twice.
Scott Slade: Lightning Man is pure kinetic energy—speed and courage wrapped in spandex, and he’s unbeaten in singles action.
Chris Rodgers: He’d better channel a lightning strike; Drake Nygma’s no storm cloud—he’s the thunder god tonight.
The lights cooled to glacial white as Ruelle’s “Deep End” seeped from the speakers. Oswald “Mr. Penguin” Knight slid onto the stage knee-first, gliding halfway down the ramp like an Olympic skater. Popping up, he executed a picture-perfect pirouette, tipped an invisible top hat, and bounded to the apron. With fluid grace he front-flipped over the ropes, landing light as frost, then sprawled on one elbow, posing cheekily at Lightning Man.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Unorthodox, unpredictable, and absolutely fearless—Knight survives on momentum and misdirection.
Takeshi Suzuki: And weighs a buck-forty soaking wet. Nygma will fold him like origami if he’s caught mid-flight.
Total darkness swallowed the Dome. A slow heartbeat bassline throbbed as Digital Daggers’ “The Devil Within” flooded the arena. A single crimson beam revealed Drake “The Sphinx” Nygma standing motionless atop the ramp, the Youngblood Championship over his shoulder and Dollia Trypp by his side. The Egyptian Dreamer pressed her palms together, eyes closed, whispering something ancient. Nygma tilted his hooded head as though the Sphinx within answered her in silence. Together they descended the ramp—Nygma’s measured strides oozing cold authority, Dollia just behind, fingertips skimming the golden belt like a protective talisman.
Scott Slade: Six nights ago this man outlasted fifty-nine others, winning the Ronin Rumble from the number one entry—cementing his shot at Saikō Sasori’s newly unified world titles.
Chris Rodgers: Two million dollars, a golden ticket to the summit, and he hasn’t even had to defend the Youngblood strap yet. Talk about high stakes: lose here and that momentum gets gutted.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Let’s not forget the blackout, the sandstorm, and whatever… entity… appeared after that victory. The Sphinx’s puzzle grows darker by the hour.
Takeshi Suzuki: Dollia Trypp calls herself a Dreamer; I call her an insurance policy. She knows how to calm the monster if that mask of sanity slips.
Nygma climbed the steps; Dollia parted the ropes. He entered last, towering over both challengers, and handed the championship to referee Yumiko Tanabe without breaking eye contact. Dollia settled in his corner, whispering a final invocation as she pressed two fingers to his temple.
Tanabe hoisted the gold toward the rafters; the plate reflected prismatic light over the three contenders. She passed the belt outside, checked each man once more, then backed away.
Lightning Man crouched, heels bouncing. Knight rolled his shoulders, eyes flicking between foes. Nygma exhaled slowly, lowering his hood to reveal an unblinking gaze.
Scott Slade: Title on the line—champion doesn’t need to be pinned to lose.
Chris Rodgers: And remember, if Nygma retains he goes to Sasori with both momentum and mystique. If he falls, that whole Rumble coronation spins sideways.
Tanabe signaled the timekeeper.
[DING! DING!]
Fans in every pod shot to their feet as the Youngblood Championship triple-threat officially began.
Lightning Man burst from his corner the instant the bell rang, rocketing forward with a blur-fast drop-step and a stinging palm strike aimed for Drake Nygma’s jaw. Nygma anticipated the speed, leaning just enough to let Zelmore’s hand whistle past his ear, then pivoted and blasted a thudding shoulder block into the hero’s chest. Zelmore left his feet, hit the mat, and skidded backward into the turnbuckles as if struck by a freight train.
Scott Slade (amazed): Drake Nygma shrugs off Lightning’s opening volley like it’s nothing—raw horsepower beats velocity on that exchange.
Chris Rodgers (smirking): That’s ten points of strength on the stat sheet, Slade. You can’t teach power like that.
Oswald Knight tried capitalizing, springboarding in with the Antarctic Assault spinning forearm. Nygma turned, caught Knight mid-rotation around the waist, and hurled him overhead with a snap fall-away slam. The impact jolted the lightweight Australian across the canvas. Knight scrambled for the ropes, nursing his back while searching for another angle.
Nygma dragged Zelmore upright by the wrist and yanked him into a short-arm big boot that leveled him again. He dropped for a quick cover—just to test the waters—and Lightning kicked out at one and three-quarters, more stunned than damaged.
Takeshi Suzuki: Lightning Man already tasting the canvas—Mr. Penguin tasting the air. The Champion is dissecting them.
Yushiro Fujimoto: The Rumble winner looks fresh—six days removed from an hour in hell, and somehow stronger.
Zelmore rolled beneath the bottom rope to regroup; Knight seized that opening, scuttling behind Nygma to hook a schoolboy. Instead of falling, Nygma planted his feet wide, reached back, and pried Knight’s fingers apart one by one. He hoisted the lighter man high into a torture-rack position, paused, then tossed him forward into a rib-crunching backbreaker across his broad knee. Knight cried out, clutching his side, and Nygma let him spill to the mat.
At ringside, Dollia Trypp clapped her hands once, offering calm encouragement. Nygma gave the faintest nod, eyes never leaving his prey. Lighting Man vaulted to the top turnbuckle, looking for a high-impact equalizer. He launched into the Whisper in the Wind—Nygma sidestepped, letting Zelmore crash and burn on the empty canvas. Before Lightning could rise, Nygma pounced, cinched a waist lock, and dead-lifted the 245-pounder into a release German suplex that bounced him off his shoulders. Knight slid in, trying a low front drop-kick to Nygma’s knee. Drake absorbed the shot, answered with an uppercut that snapped Knight’s head back, then planted him with a one-arm spinebuster.
Scott Slade: The Sphinx is dominating, and you can see the confidence—almost clinical.
Chris Rodgers: If the Scorpion King wants to rattle the future challenger, he’d better bring fangs longer than these kids’ combined résumés.
Takeshi Suzuki: Bah! That’s what you said about Bold as well and Sasori handled him easily. The cleaning crew were picking up Bold’s teeth off the floor at the end of the match!
Knight crawled toward the corner and covertly tugged at the bottom turnbuckle pad, loosening it just enough before rolling away. Lightning Man staggered up near the opposite post, shaking cobwebs. Nygma stalked after him, but Knight darted in again—this time raking Drake’s eyes while Tanabe’s view was blocked by Zelmore’s body. The champion recoiled, blinking off the blur; Knight followed with a quick toe-kick and snapped on the Glacial Grip arm-twist, wrenching Nygma’s elbow like an ice pick.
Lightning Man seized the moment, sprinting the ropes twice to build steam, and leveled both opponents with a tandem springboard clothesline. The crowd popped as the hero finally stood tall. He peeled Knight off the mat, whipped him to the corner—unknowingly the one with the loosened buckle. Knight reversed, sending Lightning crashing sternum-first into the exposed steel. Zelmore stumbled back, gasping; Knight rolled him up with a handful of tights—
ONE!… Nygma thunder-stomped Knight’s spine to break it.
Yushiro Fujimoto (dry): Mr. Penguin proves the old adage: cheat early, cheat often.
Scott Slade: But you need more than a fistful of spandex to hold Lightning Man, especially with Drake looming overhead.
Nygma hoisted Knight onto his shoulder and drove him head-first into Lightning’s mid-section, sandwiching both challengers in the corner. He stepped back, measured, and crushed them with a running spear that folded Lightning around Knight’s body. Knight slid to the apron, gasping for breath; Lightning slumped, eyes glassy.
Nygma dragged Zelmore out by the ankle, hooked the leg high, and muscled him into a standing bear hug, the champion’s forearms bulging as he squeezed the life from the hero. Lightning clawed at Drake’s face, but the grip only tightened. Dollia’s voice drifted softly—an almost soothing chant—while Nygma lifted Zelmore off his feet and shook him like a rag doll before dumping him to the mat in a heap.
The champion straightened, rolled his neck, and beckoned Knight back into the ring with a flick of his wrist.
Chris Rodgers: That’s dominance, Slade. Nygma’s ready for the big time! I can feel it!
Scott Slade: Knight might rethink the definition of cold after tasting that invitation.
Knight hesitated, eyeing the exposed buckle he’d loosened earlier. He slipped through the ropes, gestured for Lightning to rise, and then motioned as though proposing a temporary alliance. Lightning, still dazed, nodded warily.
They rushed Nygma together—Lightning unloading a barrage of lightning-quick forearms while Knight peppered calf kicks. The double assault staggered Drake a step, two steps—Knight called for the ropes. Lightning whipped him in for a tandem charge, but Nygma exploded forward with a double shoulder block that flattened both challengers at once.
Before either could recover, the champion hauled Lightning Man up into a high vertical suplex—holding, holding, letting the blood drain—then transitioned mid-air into a twisting powerslam that rattled the canvas. Knight crawled for the exposed buckle pad again. Nygma stalked him, but Knight yanked the pad off completely and hurled it away, baiting the champion in. As Drake lunged, Knight drop-toeholded him—face colliding with raw steel. The Dome gasped.
Knight scrambled for a flash cover—ONE!… TWO!… Nygma powered out, bench-pressing Knight into the air and launching him halfway across the ring.
Takeshi Suzuki: He tried to steal it—almost clipped the Sphinx’s crown.
Scott Slade: Nygma kicked out at two-and-a-whisper, but that exposed buckle drew first blood—look at the cut over Drake’s eyebrow!
A thin crimson line trickled down Nygma’s temple. He wiped it with the back of his wrist, snarled, and advanced. Knight back-pedaled straight into Lightning Man’s grasp—Zelmore popped him into a Lightning Slam high-angle bomb that left Knight sprawled. Lightning popped up, ran to the ropes, and came back with the Lightbuster blockbuster on Nygma—but the champion simply rolled through, came up, and plastered Zelmore with a thunderous big boot that spun him 180 degrees.
Nygma stood center-ring, chest heaving, blood seeping from the small cut, yet every muscle coiled tighter—dominant, unshaken.
Scott Slade (tense): Champion bleeding, challengers reeling—momentum still squarely in Drake Nygma’s grasp.
Chris Rodgers: And the Rumble winner reminded everyone why he’s next in line for Sasori’s throne.
Lightning Man lay near one corner, clutching his ribs. Knight crawled opposite, plotting his next underhanded strike. Nygma, blood in his eye and Dollia chanting softly at ringside, turned slowly—ready to punish whoever stood first as the title clash pressed on.
The masked hero hauled himself upright, ribs screaming, while Drake Nygma stalked Oswald Knight near center ring. Zelmore darted to the far ropes, built momentum on a second pass, then sprang off the middle strand into a corkscrewing Lightbuster blockbuster that hooked Nygma’s neck. The champion lost his footing—Knight’s shove to the small of Drake’s back added just enough force—and Nygma sailed between the ropes, flipping awkwardly before thudding spine-first onto the thin ringside concrete floor.
Scott Slade: Lightning Man finally sends the champion out—and Nygma landed hard on those Rumble-battered ribs!
Chris Rodgers: That’s the price of overconfidence, Slade. The Sphinx just tasted gravity.
Dollia Trypp rushed from her corner, silk slacks swishing as she dropped beside Drake. She cupped his face, whispering in rapid Arabic, then pressed her palm to the cut above his brow. Nygma blinked, disoriented, one hand clutching his ribs. Inside the ring Lightning Man pumped a fist, while Oswald Knight skulked in the opposite corner, plotting another cheap trick.
The lights above the stage suddenly strobed venom-yellow. A burst of frantic cheers erupted from the Japanese half of the announce desk.
Yushiro Fujimoto (ecstatic): そこだ！サソリ様が来たぞ！(Yes! Lord Sasori is here!)
Takeshi Suzuki (laughing): The Scorpion King strikes! Vengeance for AAPW!
Saikō Sasori exploded from behind the curtain, still in his jagged gold-and-black gear, dragging two limp security guards by their collars. He flung them aside and sprinted down the ramp, eyes blazing. A pair of Tokyo Dome officers stumbled after him, faces bloodied, nightsticks useless in their trembling hands.
Scott Slade: That’s the undisputed champion—and he’s bulldozed half of Dome security to get here!
Chris Rodgers: He wants Nygma’s head before the title match can even be signed!
Scott Slade: Looks deranged though… what on Earth is he thinking?
Sasori hurdled the bottom rope, planted one boot on the apron rail, and launched himself off it with a diving forearm that flattened Nygma against the barricade. Dollia shrieked and scrambled clear. The Scorpion King mounted Drake, raining piston-fast elbows. Nygma covered up, blood smearing across his forearms.
Lightning Man and Knight watched wide-eyed from inside the ropes. Knight gave a theatrical shrug and rolled out—only to dive under the ring skirt, deciding discretion beat valor. Zelmore half-stepped through the ropes, then thought better of it as four more security guards raced past him.
Sasori flung Nygma into the steel steps; the top section flew off with a clang. Security swarmed. Sasori whipped the first guard over his hip, sent a second sprawling with a spinning back elbow, and head-butted the third so hard the man’s cap flew off. He hoisted Nygma in a fireman’s carry, roared, and ran him like a battering ram through the timekeeper’s barricade. Metal folded; fans scattered.
Yushiro Fujimoto (cheering): 打て！もっと痛めつけろ！(Hit him! Hurt him more!)
Takeshi Suzuki: Nygma’s learning real pain, courtesy of Japan’s apex predator!
Drake swung wild fists, catching Sasori on the jaw. The Scorpion King laughed—a feral bark—and bit down on Nygma’s forehead, reopening the cut. Blood streaked yellow gear as Sasori dragged the champion up the aisle. Dollia chased, pleading in Arabic and English, but a battered officer grabbed her arm, urging her back for safety.
The melee crashed over the rail into the first row. Plastic chairs scattered. Sasori hurled Nygma onto a concrete stairwell, then sprinted up three steps to deliver a leaping knee to Drake’s temple. Security kept coming—ten, twelve men—and Sasori swatted them away with savage elbows and knee strikes, each blow leaving a body tumbling down steps.
They fought halfway up the lower bowl. Nygma caught Sasori with a desperation uppercut, staggered him, but the Scorpion retaliated with a throat thrust that silenced Drake’s breath. Fans pressed phones to record, security barked futile orders, and the Japanese announcers continued their jubilant narration.
Yushiro Fujimoto: 見ろ！王者が逃げ場を失った！(Look! Nygma has nowhere to run!)
Takeshi Suzuki: The Scorpion drags his prey into the desert sands of Tokyo Dome!
Sasori hooked Nygma by the hair, smashing his face into a concrete pillar, then disappeared with him through the concourse exit, leaving a trail of toppled stanchions and groaning guards. Dollia tried to follow; two medics restrained her gently, guiding her down a service tunnel in search of a safer route.
Back at ringside, Lightning Man stared up the aisle in shock, hand pressed to his heart, while Oswald Knight peeked from under the ring skirt, eyes wide with opportunistic calculation. Referee Bob Sigro conferred with timekeeper Makoto, unsure whether to halt the match or wait for order to be restored—the Youngblood Championship bout now teetering in chaos, its champion dragged into the labyrinth of the Tokyo Dome by a furious, masked berserker.
Lightning Man balanced on the middle rope, anxiously tracking the brawl clawing its way into the upper concourse. Drake Nygma and Saikō Sasori had vanished beneath a sea of scattering fans and toppled chairs, their muffled grunts and the crash of steel still echoing through the Tokyo Dome. Clifford Zelmore’s chest heaved; every instinct in him screamed to help, but the referee kept waving him back, insisting the match must continue.
Oswald Knight slithered out from under the ring apron on the hard-cam side, dust streaking his tuxedo-print top. He peeked through the bottom rope, eyes darting between Lightning’s distracted form and the referee’s blind spot. Seeing his window, Knight slid in on his belly and rose behind Zelmore with predatory silence.
Scott Slade (urgent): Lightning’s focused on that melee—he doesn’t know Knight is back in the hunt!
Chris Rodgers (grim): Penguins may waddle, Slade, but this one poaches prey.
Knight wiped sweat from his brow, then yanked Zelmore backward into a tight O’Connor roll, hooking both tights and a handful of waistband. He kicked his legs onto the middle rope, adding leverage the referee couldn’t see.
Yushiro Fujimoto: やった！完璧な丸め込み！(Yes! Perfect roll-up!)
Takeshi Suzuki: Penguin power for the steal!
Referee Yumiko Tanabe dropped to count.
ONE!
Lightning’s arms flailed, fingers just brushing the bottom cable.
TWO!!
Knight buried his face in Zelmore’s back, pushing harder with boot-tips balanced on the rope.
THREE!!!
Tanabe’s palm slapped the mat and she signaled for the bell just as Knight kicked free, tumbling through the ropes to the floor.
DING-DING-DING!
Gasps shot through the Dome, followed by an eruption of stunned chatter. Knight scrambled up the aisle, wide-eyed and laughing, as the timekeeper shoved the Youngblood Championship into his hands like hot coals.
Miyu Kojima: Ladies and gentlemen… here is your winner—and the new Youngblood Champion—“Mr. Penguin”… OSWALD KNIGHT!
A half-second of disbelief hung in the air—then the Japanese announce table went wild.
Yushiro Fujimoto (pounding desk): 新王者だ！ペンギンが歴史を盗んだ！(A new champion! The Penguin just stole history!)
Takeshi Suzuki (laugh-shouting): Lightning blinded by heroism—Penguin swoops in for the fish!
In the ring Lightning Man slammed both palms on the mat, eyes bulging, veins flaring in his neck. He argued with Tanabe, pointing at the ropes, at his yanked tights—Tanabe could only shake her head and spread her hands: decision final.
Knight back-pedaled up the ramp, clutching the belt to his chest like stolen treasure. Confetti cannons remained silent; this crowning was larceny, not ceremony. He kissed the side plate—still smeared with Drake’s blood from earlier collisions—then cackled loud enough for the floor mics to catch.
On the big screen a shaky security feed flashed: Sasori and Nygma still throwing bombs in the service corridors, a blur of yellow claws and crimson fists surrounded by toppled vending carts and frantic officers. Dollia Trypp sprinted into frame, pleading for calm as more guards rushed in.
Scott Slade (breathless): While the Scorpion drags the Sphinx into the depths of the Dome, Mr. Penguin has nicked the Youngblood crown in broad daylight!
Chris Rodgers: Drake Nygma never lost the belt—he never even knew it was being contested! And Lightning Man just got mugged twice—first by chaos, then by cunning.
Knight reached the stage, spinning once with arms wide. Zelmore leaned over the ropes, bellowing challenges, promising retribution. Knight only tapped an imaginary wristwatch and bowed.
Yushiro Fujimoto (chuckling): Lightning may strike fast, but penguins plan for winter.
Takeshi Suzuki: And winter just froze that title around Knight’s waist.
Security finally herded Knight through the curtain while medics and referees swarmed the aisle, torn between chasing the backstage brawl and calming Lightning Man’s fury. Camera crews couldn’t decide where to point.
Scott Slade: Chaos reigns in Tokyo. Oswald Knight is champion by daylight robbery, Drake Nygma’s fate hangs in Sasori’s claws, and Lightning Man’s quest for justice just detoured into vengeance.
Chris Rodgers: Friday Night Clash promised fire—tonight it delivered an inferno!
The final shot lingered on Lightning Man, fists gripping the top rope, eyes ablaze—while backstage monitors showed scuffling silhouettes disappearing deeper into the bowels of the Dome, the echo of Saikō Sasori’s war cry reverberating through concrete halls.
The backstage area buzzed with quiet urgency. Camera crews shuffled into place as paper lanterns cast warm light across the Ultimate Wrestling banner. Standing just off-center, gripping his microphone with careful precision, Hiroshi Nakamura gave a stiff bow to the camera, his voice slightly wavering but full of reverence.
Hiroshi Nakamura: Ah… g-good evening, fans watching around the world. I am Hiroshi Nakamura, backstage journalist for Ultimate Wrestling… and I-I am very humbled to be standing here with one of the most—how you say—uh, graceful… yet deadly athletes in all of All Asia Pro Wrestling. She is three-time Aerial–X Champion… the Dragon Princess herself… Tatsu Hime-san.
Tatsu Hime stepped into frame with quiet majesty. She wore her crimson and gold mask, its sharp crown catching the light like the edge of a blade. Her eyes were unreadable behind the polished veneer. She bowed to Hiroshi, calm as ever. He swallowed nervously and bowed lower in return.
Hiroshi Nakamura: Ah—arigatou gozaimasu, Hime-san. You… y-you are only moments away from defending your title… against perhaps the most unpredictable challenger yet—Kami Nakada. The match will not be decided by pinfall or submission, but by three… uh, successful aerial attacks from above top rope, yes?
He fumbled briefly with his notepad but continued, voice cracking with nervous energy.
Hiroshi Nakamura: Some say… this style favors Kami-san. She is—uh—how do you say… unpredictable. Strange! Even… spooky? But you… you have built your legacy on taking flight with precision and honor. What is… your mind right now? Before you go… into the sky again?
Tatsu Hime didn’t speak right away. The tension was thick. Then she turned her gaze toward the camera, her tone poised but intense—like a poem spoken through a storm.
Tatsu Hime: The wind does not question the mountain. The sky does not fear the shadow. I will rise—again and again—until the storm becomes silent.
Hiroshi blinked behind his wire-frame glasses, awed.
Hiroshi Nakamura: H-hai… so poetic… Ano, you—y-you speak of storm… but tonight, if Kami hurts you—takes your wing—will you still fly?
Tatsu’s voice grew softer, yet carried even more weight.
Tatsu Hime: She may take my wings… but she cannot take my spirit. I was born of dragons. Even falling… I bring fire.
She turned, her robe flaring slightly as she walked off camera with serene confidence. The sound of her boots echoed against the floor as the camera held on Hiroshi’s stunned expression. He looked to the lens, visibly shaken.
Hiroshi Nakamura: O-ohh… so strong… so scary… uh—f-for Ultimate Wrestling… I am Hiroshi Nakamura… G-good luck, Hime-san…
He bowed to no one in particular, awkwardly, and the feed cut as the crowd beyond the curtain roared to life.
The lights in the Tokyo Dome dimmed once more, a haunting pink hue cascading across the entrance ramp as the camera panned to the ring. Miyu Kojima stood center-stage, microphone in hand.
Miyu Kojima: The following contest is am off the Top Rope Aerial–X Challenge for the AAPW Aerial–X Championship! To win, a competitor must land three successful high-risk maneuvers from above the top rope! Introducing first, the challenger…
"My Name Is" by Once Monsters pulsed through the speakers, the bassline slithering like a predator through the dark. A single blood-red spotlight illuminated the stage as Kami Nakada emerged, her figure wreathed in smoke and rose petals. Her face was unreadable, cold and expressionless—eyes rimmed in crimson, her black twin tails draped with red blossoms that gave her the air of a demon in disguise.
Yushiro Fujimoto: The mysterious agent of chaos, Kami Nakada—elegant, dangerous, and utterly unpredictable. She represents True Chaotic, but no one truly knows where her loyalties lie.
Scott Slade: Kami is the sword that cuts both ways. A beautiful serpent and tonight, she might end the reign of your precious Dragon Princess.
Kami made her way down the ramp in silence, never looking at the crowd or the ring. Her pace was deliberate, almost ritualistic. When she reached ringside, she slid in under the ropes like a shadow slithering into the light and immediately sat cross-legged in the corner, her gaze fixed on the entrance.
Scott Slade: What a haunting presence… Kami doesn’t just fight—she infiltrates. Mind games, martial arts, hacker roots—this woman is as lethal as she is enigmatic.
Chris Rodgers: No question, Slade. But she’s not walking into just any title match. She’s walking into Tatsu Hime’s kingdom.
Takeshi Suzuki: Damn straight, Roidger-san! Tatsu Hime is a legend and has been Aerial - X champion for years.
Suddenly, the Tokyo Dome erupted into color as “Rising Sun” by BABYMETAL screamed into life. Flames exploded from both sides of the stage as a golden dragon graphic circled the titantron, coiling around itself until it shattered into embers.
Miyu Kojima: And her opponent… from Kyoto, Japan… representing The Sacred Order… she is the reigning, defending, three-time AAPW Aerial–X Champion… TATSU HIME — THE DRAGON PRINCESS!
Tatsu Hime burst through the smoke with a spin, her golden crown glinting beneath the arena lights. Her crimson and sapphire mask shimmered like lacquered armor, and her arms spread wide as the crowd roared. Her red cape fluttered behind her like dragon wings, and the sacred kanji symbols lining her outfit glowed faintly under the lights.
Takeshi Suzuki: There she is! The queen of the skies. The greatest Aerial–X Champion in AAPW history!
Scott Slade: Three title reigns. Six successful defenses. Tatsu Hime is the bar in this division. Her legacy is built on precision, fearlessness, and loyalty to something greater than herself.
Chris Rodgers: Pah! She’s a relic of tradition. Tonight, tradition crumbles.Trust me takes old man to know when a Champion is past her prime.
Tatsu walked the ramp like a warrior of old, nodding toward the masked fans chanting her name. She raised her arms again at ringside, then sprinted and leapt—vaulting clean over the top rope into a flawless roll. She rose to her feet in a single motion, unfastened her cape, and handed it to the referee. As she turned, her gaze locked with Kami’s.
The challenger slowly rose to her feet. They approached one another in the center of the ring, eyes locked, bodies perfectly still.
Scott Slade: Tatsu Hime may be the champion—but Kami Nakada? She’s the wildcard. This is no ordinary pinfall match. It’s a battle of aerial dominance. You hit three top rope attacks—you win. Simple rules. Terrifying execution.
Chris Rodgers: And Tatsu’s made a career out of executing in mid-air. But Kami’s background in martial arts and submission wrestling… if she grounds the champion early, this gets ugly fast.
Yushiro Fujimoto: AAPW gave birth to this division. Hime fights for our legacy. She won’t let us down.
The referee stepped between them, raised the Aerial–X Championship high above his head, then passed it to the timekeeper.
He checked both corners, nodded, and called for the bell.
[DING! DING! DING!]
Chris Rodgers: The Tokyo Dome is ready… the crowd is on fire… and the Dragon Princess has taken flight!
As the bell rang, the crowd inside the Tokyo Dome leaned forward in anticipation, watching two of the most enigmatic women in professional wrestling circle one another with poised intensity. Tatsu Hime raised her hands, beckoning Kami into a collar-and-elbow tie-up. The challenger hesitated, then lunged, but Hime slipped under her arms and took her back with a waist lock. Kami reversed with a slick standing switch, grabbing hold of Hime's wrist and yanking her into a grounded hammerlock.
Scott Slade: Kami Nakada wasting no time showing off her technical background. Look at the precision on that hammerlock.
Tatsu winced, but remained calm. With a burst of motion, she flipped over, arched her body into a bridge, and used her free arm to hook Kami’s ankle, rolling her backward into a pinning predicament—but the referee waved it off, no pinfalls in this match.
Chris Rodgers: She forgot the rules for a second there, Slade! Gotta be off the top rope, not out of an amateur wrestling handbook.
Tatsu released the hold and both women popped up to their feet in a standoff. The crowd responded with a ripple of respectful applause.
Takeshi Suzuki: This is what true Japanese wrestling looks like. Not your barbed wire, hot dog-fed backyard American garbage!
They locked up again. This time, Tatsu took control with a sharp arm drag, flipping Kami over and following through with a lightning-quick dropkick to the face. Kami rolled to her feet but was clearly rattled. Tatsu dashed toward the ropes, springboarded off the middle one, and soared into a twisting crossbody—but Kami pivoted and countered with a mid-air knee strike to the ribs, knocking the wind from the champion’s lungs.
Scott Slade: Brutal counter! That’s the kind of strike Kami Nakada has built her reputation on—surgical, sudden, and suffocating.
Kami stalked Hime as she crawled toward the ropes, grabbing her by the hair and dragging her to the center of the ring. She transitioned into a rear chin lock, then drove a hammer fist down across Tatsu’s collarbone before whipping her hard into the corner. Kami charged, landing a stiff uppercut that snapped Tatsu’s head back.
Chris Rodgers: She's trying to pin the Dragon Princess to the mat. Not to beat her—but to stop her from climbing that top rope.
Kami hoisted Tatsu up onto the top turnbuckle, her eyes narrowing. She climbed up with her, looking for a superplex—but Tatsu suddenly came to life, smashing Kami with two hard forearms to the temple. Kami staggered, and with perfect poise, Hime pushed her challenger off. Kami landed on her feet, barely catching her balance.
Tatsu stood tall then leapt. A high-angle missile dropkick exploded across Kami’s chest, sending her flying back into the opposite corner.
Yushiro Fujimoto: That’s one! That counts!
Chris Rodgersi: No! She jumped from the top rope but didn’t flip or dive! That was just a dropkick!
Scott Slade: The referee’s signaling that it counts—first aerial strike of the night goes to Tatsu Hime!
The crowd erupted as Tatsu pumped her fist and took a deep breath, adrenaline surging. Kami crawled toward the edge of the ring and rolled out to the floor, buying herself a moment to recover. She slammed both hands against the barricade in frustration as the fans jeered, sensing her control slipping.
Chris Rodgers: Tatsu just drew first blood, and Kami doesn’t like being one step behind.
The Dragon Princess wasn’t about to let her breathe. She hit the ropes, built up speed, and launched herself over the top rope in a soaring corkscrew plancha—but Kami dodged, and Tatsu crashed hard on the thin ringside mats!
Scott Slade: She missed! Nobody home!
Chris Rodgers: Damn! That looked like it hurt.
Kami, now smirking faintly for the first time in the match, grabbed Tatsu by the arm and yanked her to her feet, then whipped her into the steel ring post shoulder-first. The champion cried out and collapsed to the ground, clutching her arm in agony.
Scott Slade: The Dragon just lost a wing! Kami’s going to rip her apart now—bit by bit!
Kami rolled back into the ring to break the count, then rolled back out and dragged Tatsu to the apron. She slammed her repeatedly into the edge of the ring before sliding her back in and climbing the ropes.
Chris Rodgers: She’s going up! This could be her first aerial move if it connects!
Kami steadied herself, then took flight with a corkscrew diving shoulder block from the top rope—landing clean across Tatsu’s chest.
The referee signaled.
Scott Slade: And now they’re tied at one apiece!
Both women writhed on the mat, chest heaving, sweat already pouring down their foreheads. This wasn’t just a test of athleticism anymore—it was becoming a war of attrition.Tatsu pulled herself up using the ropes, while Kami waited in the center, bouncing on the balls of her feet. They collided again, trading stiff forearms and palm strikes.
Chris Rodgers: These two are wearing each other down. Whoever gets that second aerial strike might start to pull away here.
Tatsu ducked a spinning backfist and retaliated with a Golden Crown—her springboard forearm smash—clipping Kami hard across the jaw and sending her reeling backward. Tatsu ran to the corner, leapt, and hit a flawless Phoenix Wing crossbody from the top!
The ref raised two fingers.
Scott Slade: That’s number two for the Dragon Princess! One more and she retains the title!
Kami thrashed in frustration, slamming her fists against the mat as Tatsu knelt beside her, breathing heavily, sweat clinging to her face and mask.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Kami Nakada is slipping. She needs something big—and soon.
Chris Rodgers: Don’t count her out yet. Chaos is her element.
Tatsu Hime soared toward the ropes with fluid grace, her body a blur as she leapt for a flying forearm smash. But Kami Nakada was already two moves ahead—she dropped to the canvas like mist under moonlight, slipping under the strike and rising with the eerie poise of a shadow given form. Before the champion could turn, Kami spun and lashed out with a snapping Dragon’s Tail—her reverse roundhouse kick connecting clean with Tatsu’s left knee. The crack echoed through the Tokyo Dome, and the Dragon Princess crumpled to one leg with a strangled cry.
Chris Rodgers: That’s the joint she’s targeting! Tatsu’s down—and she’s not getting up fast!
Scott Slade: Kami’s slicing through her like a scalpel! That kick wasn’t just brutal—it was surgical.
The crowd’s cheers faltered into anxious murmurs as Kami closed in, her expression still a mask of calm. She didn’t gloat. She didn’t revel. She just moved—calculating, efficient, lethal. She twisted Tatsu’s leg beneath her, rolled into a kneeling position, and locked in a modified knee bar that twisted the joint at an unnatural angle. Tatsu shrieked in pain, fingers clawing at the canvas as her body convulsed with resistance. Referee Hiroshi Yamazaki dropped to a knee, checking if the champion wanted to give in, but the Dragon Princess shook her head violently, her mask hiding a grimace that was more growl than expression.
Scott Slade: This is Kami at her purest—no wasted movement. She’s not fighting the match. She’s dissecting it.
Chris Rodgers: A dragon can’t fly with a broken wing. And Kami Nakada just shattered it.
With cold precision, Kami transitioned again, her legs threading through Tatsu’s in a seamless flow into a knee-torquing figure-four variation. She arched backward, bridging her body like a predator coiled to strike, pouring pressure onto the ligaments as Tatsu beat her fists against the mat in agony. The masked crowd began stomping their feet, a primal drumbeat of support for the champion, but Kami just leaned back deeper, whispering something inaudible—possibly to herself. Possibly to no one.Tatsu dug into the canvas, dragging her battered body toward the ropes inch by inch—but Kami rolled them right back to center ring with unsettling ease. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink.
Scott Slade: Tatsu’s trying to dig deep, but Kami’s shutting down every ounce of momentum. This is pure technical domination.
Chris Rodgers: You’d think she had the champion’s medical chart in her corner! She’s tearing the knee apart, and the fans know it—look at their faces!
After an agonizing stretch that felt like hours compressed into seconds, Kami finally released the hold and stood. The camera caught a flash of sweat dripping from her brow—her only betrayal of effort—as she looked down at the writhing Dragon Princess.
No mercy. No hesitation.
She stepped through the ropes and climbed the turnbuckle like a ritual priestess ascending a shrine. Her fingers curled around the top rope. She turned, balanced, and launched——a twisting moonsault double knee drop, slamming both knees down across Tatsu’s chest and thigh with explosive impact. Tatsu let out a guttural gasp as her body folded beneath the blow. Kami rolled backward from the impact and landed on her knees in perfect form.
Miyu Kojima: Kami Nakada has scored her second aerial maneuver!
Chris Rodgers: It’s tied up 2-2! And look at Tatsu—she’s barely moving!
Scott Slade: Kami Nakada, the Phantom of Analei—cold, calculated, inevitable. Just one more aerial—and she claims the skies for herself!
The referee checked on Tatsu again, her hands trembling as she tried to push herself off the canvas. Her knee buckled under her own weight. Every breath was a war. But still… she didn’t stop. Kami circled her from a distance—calm as ever. Waiting. Watching. Like a hawk ready to dive for the final kill.
The Tokyo Dome trembled with the collective heartbeat of thousands, masked and wide-eyed as Tatsu Hime, Japan’s beloved Dragon Princess, clawed her way toward the ropes. Her cape long gone, her crown nearly dislodged, and her knee mangled by Kami’s precision assault, she looked more human than myth now… and that made her all the more defiant.
Kami Nakada stood in the corner, emotionless, watching the champion struggle. No smirk. No gloating. Just the cold, silent anticipation of inevitability. Like a winter storm waiting to drop the final flake that would collapse the roof.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Tatsu Hime is hurt, but damn it, she’s not backing down!
Chris Rodgers: She’s running on fumes, Yushiro—dragon fire doesn’t burn forever.
Yushiro Fujimoto: No! Not like this… She can still fight! Stand, Hime! Please!
Tatsu reached the ropes and began to rise, sweat glistening on her mask, her body trembling as she pulled herself upright with sheer force of will. The crowd chanted her name rhythmically, reverently, as though trying to will strength into her broken limbs. She turned and Kami struck. Like a whisper cutting through silence, Kami sprinted forward, spun into a sweeping kick that crumbled Tatsu’s leg from under her. The Dragon Princess hit the mat hard—but Kami wasn’t done. She darted to the ropes, ascended in a flash, and for the first time all night, the stoic assassin showed urgency.
She perched atop the turnbuckle. Her fingers flexed once, then again. She leapt. A breathtaking Corkscrew Shooting Star Press twisted through the air like a blade dancing in the wind.
Scott Slade: She’s airborne—LOOK AT THIS!
Chris Rodgers: Oh my God, that rotation—
Kami came crashing down on Tatsu’s ribcage like a guillotine from heaven, folding the champion in half. The moment her body made contact, the crowd screamed—not in awe, but in disbelief.
Miyu Kojima: KAMI NAKADA HAS COMPLETED HER THIRD HIGH-RISK MANEUVER! SHE IS THE WINNER AND NEW AAPW AERIAL–X CHAMPION!
[DING! DING! DING!]
Silence. Then outrage.
Yushiro Fujimoto: NO! NO! THIS CAN’T BE! That woman—this outsider—she desecrates our sacred division!
Takeshi Suzuki: Kami Nakada… the hacker… the traitor… she’s just stolen one of AAPW’s greatest treasures! What madness is this?!
The referee presented the Aerial–X Championship to Kami, who accepted it without expression. No joy. No triumph. She simply stared at the golden plate, the red and white dragon etching now hers to bear. Then she turned her back on Tatsu Hime, still unmoving on the mat.
She climbed the ropes again—not to celebrate, but to look down on the sea of stunned faces, crimson eyes piercing the veil of tradition she’d just shattered.
Scott Slade: Kami Nakada has done the unthinkable. She’s grounded the Dragon Princess. She’s dethroned a legacy. And she’s done it with precision so sharp it’s surgical.
Chris Rodgers: I don’t know whether to fear her or respect her… but I know this—Kami Nakada just changed the entire landscape of AAPW.
Tatsu Hime rolled to her side, clutching her ribs, her mask hiding her pain but not her defeat. The lights dimmed, casting Kami in an eerie pink glow as she stood atop the ropes, championship in hand, and Tokyo beneath her feet.
INT. UNDERGROUND TRAINING HALL – NIGHT
A towering facility hidden beneath the surface of Tokyo, bathed in the eerie hum of electric blue light. The walls pulsed softly with the glow of a dozen silent screens. Each one looped a different match—brutal, methodical, unpredictable. The identities of the wrestlers were masked by intentional shadow, aggressive edits, and glitching overlays. Their moves were clinical. Precise. Violent.
August Knight stood alone.
His expression was unreadable—somewhere between monk-like focus and machine-like detachment. Sweat glistened across his chiseled frame, but his breathing was steady, almost too calm. In one hand, he held a battered remote; in the other, a notebook with pages warped from overuse.
The only sounds: the hum of static... the thump of mat on screen... the occasional shuffle of August’s footwork echoing off cold cement.
August Knight (V.O., flat, controlled): They say instinct wins fights... that emotion is a weapon of the gods. But instinct is just math unresolve… and emotion?…Emotion is a glitch in the code.
He clicked a button. A screen froze on a high-flyer twisting through the air. August rewound the footage frame-by-frame, then stepped into the light, mimicking the landing with eerie perfection onto a sparring mat. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Just the cold imprint of repetition. A second screen cut to a slugfest—elbows smashing skull, fists hammering ribs.
August slowed the video, studying the precise placement of an elbow strike. His eyes narrowed. Then he shifted, placing his own body in the exact trajectory to avoid it—by a threadbare margin. He repeated the motion. Again. Again. Each time, he adjusted an inch. Each time, he grew colder.
August Knight (V.O.): Every warrior leaves a fingerprint. Every fight... a blueprint. If you can read the rhythm, you can break the body.
In the center of the ring now, stripped to the waist, August moved with the silence of a man who had become a weapon. His sparring partner charged. August slipped under a punch, pivoted, and delivered a crisp hybrid combo—an aerial crescent kick, a judo sweep, and a sudden downstrike elbow that landed like a guillotine. The sparring partner collapsed. August didn’t blink. He stood still for a long moment, staring down at his own hands.
August: But what I still can’t figure out…
His fists clenched. A muscle twitched along his jaw.
August: …is why they keep getting up.
He walked back to the monitor wall. The screens continued their brutal ballet behind him—chaos playing on repeat. He opened his notebook. Diagrams. Angles. Arrows. Calculations scribbled across the pages like a madman’s war map and at the center of it all, circled in angry red ink:
August: YOU CAN’T LOGIC OUT HEART.
He stared at it. Then closed the notebook with a heavy exhale… and turned back toward the ring. Not to train. To solve the unsolvable.
To Be Continued In Part - 3