The canvas squeaked under the rubber-soled pacing of Japan Wrestling’s newest rookie sensation, Tyler Briggs.
Briggs was a cruiserweight built on muscle reflexes and boundless stamina. He wore aerodynamic blue and white tights, his hands covered in gloves. He moved with the kind of crisp fluidity that reminded veterans of a certain phenomenal youngster, chaining together sequences that relied on spatial awareness.
He hit the ropes on the far side with terrifying acceleration. Billy Bones was standing dead center, his heavily taped fists lowered just enough to expose his jaw.
Briggs launched himself into the air, twisting his torso to deliver a devastating springboard back-elbow. The attack caught Billy flush against the cheekbone. The older wrestler staggered backward, his boots sliding awkwardly against the mat. Before Billy could reset and get himself, Briggs was already in motion again.
The rookie hit the adjacent ropes, soared horizontally through the air, wrapped his legs tightly around Billy’s neck, utilizing his own momentum to snap off a flawless flying headscissors takedown.
Billy crashed hard onto his shoulder, rolling aggressively toward the bottom rope to escape the onslaught.
The Osaka crowd buzzed with genuine appreciation, clapping in an up-tempo rhythm to support the young high-flyer.
[Commentator 1: Tyler Briggs is putting on a show tonight! He is keeping the tempo impossibly high, refusing to let Billy Bones do anything.]
[Commentator 2: It’s the only strategy that works against a brawler of this caliber. If Briggs slows down for even a fraction of a second, Billy might just tear the rookie apart.]
Billy pulled himself up using the middle rope, his breathing unsteady as he staggered to the corner. His shirt was already plastered to his skin with sweat, the fabric tearing slightly at the shoulder seam. The bags under his exposed eye were dark and heavy, a manifestation of whatever he had been relying on to keep going.
He didn’t look angry. He looked numb.
Briggs didn’t wait for any invitation. The rookie charged into the corner where Billy was, leaping up to the second turnbuckle to rain down mounted punches. The crowd counted along with every strike.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
On the fifth strike, Billy finally pierced through his sluggishness. He didn’t try to block the punch. Instead, he dropped his hips, shoved his taped hands under Briggs’ thighs, and stepped forward, carrying the rookie out of the corner. With a grunt, Billy tossed Briggs backwards into the air and let him crash face-first onto the top turnbuckle pad.
The thud of Briggs’ jaw hitting the turnbuckle echoed through ringside. The rookie collapsed backward, falling flat onto his back like a sack of cement.
The clapping in the auditorium died out instantly.
Billy didn’t immediately follow up. He stood in the diagonal corner, leaning his forehead against the padded ring post, his chest performing breathing in shallow exhales and inhales. He raised his right hand, rubbing his taped knuckles against his temple as if trying to physically massage the brain fog away.
[Commentator 1: A massive shift in momentum! Billy Bones just cut off the rookie’s offense with raw power.]
[Commentator 2: That is the danger of wrestling a man with years of experience and nothing left to lose. Billy is fighting tonight.]
Billy finally turned around. His stride was noticeably uneven, his stance stiffening up as the match dragged into its fifteenth minute. He reached down, grabbing Briggs by his brown hair, and dragged the younger man up to his feet.
Briggs swung a desperate, blind left hook. Billy caught the wrist effortlessly, twisting the arm wrenching it over his own shoulder, and drove a stif elbow directly into Briggs’ exposed ribs.
The rookie gasped, his eyes going wide.
Billy followed up immediately, delivering a strong clothesline that practically turned Briggs inside out. The back of the rookie’s head bounced off the canvas.
Billy dropped to his knees, pressing his forearm against Briggs’ throat, casually choking him against the mat while the referee began the mandatory five-count.
"One! Two! Three! C’mon!"
Billy released the pressure before four, rolling his shoulders back. He hauled Briggs up again, whipping him violently into the ropes. As the rookie rebounded, Billy lowered his stance, preparing to launch him up for a back body drop.
But Briggs was agile. The rookie planted his hands on Billy’s shoulders, vaulted over the older wrestler, and landed gracefully on his feet. Billy spun around, Briggs immediately capitalized, delivering a lightning-fast Pelé kick--a breathtaking half flip kick strike that caught Billy on the crown of his head.
Billy dropped to one knee, stunned.
Briggs scrambled under the rope to the ring apron not ringside, pulling himself up using the top rope. He wiped a streak of sweat from his lip, his eyes locked on his downed opponent. The rookie grabbed the top rope with both hands, measuring the distance. As Billy was getting up slowly, he leaped, springboarding off the top with incredible vertical height, extending his arm to deliver his signature Flying Forearm Smash.
It was a picture-perfect maneuver.
Billy knew the timing of a desperate high-flyer intimately.
Before the forearm connected, Billy surged upward from his knee. He thrust his heavily taped right fist straight up, catching Briggs in the solar plexus(upper abdomen), mid-flight.
The impact practically folded the rookie in half. Briggs plummeted to the canvas clutching his stomach, unable to draw oxygen into his lungs.
The Grand Auditorium let out a collective wince.
Billy stood over the gasping rookie. The ruthlessness that had defined his consecutive attacks on the World Champion finally bled back into his posture. It was time to pick up his first win in Japan Wrestling.
Billy bent down, snatching Briggs by the waistband of his blue tights. He hoisted the lighter man up, easily maneuvering the rookie’s head firmly between his own thighs.
[Commentator 1: How many times have we seen this over the past few weeks!]
Billy locked his hands tightly around the rookie’s waist. Briggs was completely limp, his arms dangling helplessly. Billy didn’t pause for dramatic effect this time. He just straight up, went for it.
The high-angle front flip was executed with terrifying speed, generating even more rotational force due to Briggs’ lighter frame.
They crashed into the canvas.
The Mexican Destroyer.
Briggs’ head and neck absorbed the entirety of the blow. The rookie’s body went stiff before collapsing outward, his limbs splayed awkwardly across the mat.
The crowd jeered.
Billy rolled backward, getting to his feet. The referee immediately dropped to his knees beside Briggs, checking the rookie’s dilated pupils and preparing to count the pinfall.
Then, a strange, low murmur rippled through the front rows of the Grand Auditorium.
There was no lighting change. No pulsing bassline or sound blasting through the arena’s sound system.
But, out strolled Ray Jr.
He was dressed in a simple black hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, paired with jeans and white sneakers. The only thing tying him to the wrestling industry was the mask concealing his facial expressions.
The murmur in the crowd rapidly swelled into a massive wave of noise. The fans realized who was descending the ramp without the aid of a jumbotron graphic or entrance music. The pop was now deafening.
[Commentator 1: Wait... what is happening? Is that...]
[Commentator 2: It is! Ray Jr. is out here! He doesn’t look like he’s here to fight though.]
Billy froze, his hands dropped slowly to his sides. His uncovered eye locked onto the figure casually strolling down.
Ray Jr. didn’t even bother to look at his older brother. His pace was agonizingly deliberate, his hands tucked casually into the front pocket of his hoodie, only removing them to shake and fist bump fans.
Ray Jr. reached the bottom of the ramp. He walked past the steel steps, still ignoring the man standing inside the ropes.
Instead, Jey approached the broadcast table.
Commentator 1 and Commentator 2 scrambled slightly, pulling their headsets back as the masked superstar rounded the desk. Jey extended a hand, firmly shaking Commentator 1’s hand, "Braxton, good to see you," then reaching over to shake Commentator 2’s hand, "Tanaka, how’re you doing."
His demeanor was polite, almost aggressively casual.
Jey gestured to a spare folding chair sitting just behind. A ringside attendant immediately scrambled to unfold it, sliding it right beside the two broadcasters.
Jey sat down. He reached across the desk, grabbed a spare broadcast headset, and calmly slipped it over his head, pulling the microphone down to his jaw.