The limousine glided silently along the winding road, a shadow cutting through the darkness, carrying Saikō Sasori back to where his legend had been born. Inside the car, the dim light cast a sepia glow, flickering over his costume's dark yellow and black. His shoulder pads, jagged and scorpion-like, gave him the look of an armored warrior, ready for battle. His hands, encased in black gloves, rested on his lap, steady and calm, yet his thoughts swirled like a storm behind the mask that concealed his face.
The driver, a silent sentinel in a black mask, was a ghostly presence up front, guiding them with practiced ease. Outside, the landscape grew wilder as they ascended, the dense forests becoming thick, shadowed walls that seemed to close in around them. Sasori watched the moonlight play across the mountain, illuminating the path ahead, his gaze steady yet distant, as if he saw something only he could understand.
In his hand, he held a glass of Japanese whisky, its amber glow a rare warmth in the cold confines of the limousine. He brought it to his lips, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat—a ritual that grounded him. The whisky tasted of the earth, aged oak, and bitterness that lingered, reminding him of sacrifices and the unforgiving path he had chosen. This journey to the mountain felt as heavy and sacred as the whisky tasted, each sip a promise renewed, a vow of loyalty and endurance.
His mind drifted back to the Tokyo Dome, the night Tanaka had called AAPW’s warriors to arms, summoning them like ancient samurai before a siege. He remembered the electricity in the air, the way the room had filled with the weight of their collective resolve, like the coiled tension before a storm.
Tanaka: This is not just a battle for supremacy in the ring. This is a battle for respect. A battle for our very identity as Japanese warriors, as the standard-bearers of professional wrestling in Asia.
Tanaka’s words still echoed within him, a call to honor, a reminder that their legacy was at stake. Sasori had always understood that his life was a series of battles, that his victories were not merely for himself but for something larger—something timeless, bound by blood and tradition. He was more than a champion; he was a guardian, the living embodiment of a legacy he could never betray.
Sasori: The question isn’t whether we’re ready, Ryota. The question is whether we have a choice.
In truth, he’d never had a choice. Not from the moment he survived the Trial of the Scorpion, the test that had forced him to confront his fears, his mortality. He remembered the evil creatures that had surrounded him, crawling over his skin as he knelt in the wilderness, their tiny stings a reminder of how close he’d come to death. And yet, he had survived, earning the title of Saikō Sasori and the mask he now wore—a mask that had become not just a symbol but an oath, binding him to his path.
The road grew steeper, and the car slowed, the engine straining as they neared the base of Mount Kurama. Outside, the trees loomed like silent watchers, their branches clawing at the sky. The air seemed to thicken, charged with familiar energy, a force that stirred memories of the rigorous training, the long nights alone in the mountains, and the voices of his fallen mentors guiding him from beyond. He knew every curve of this path, every shadowed corner. Here, he had been reborn, molded from flesh and bone into something sharper, harder.
He lifted his glass in a silent toast to those memories, the mountain that had shaped him, the mentor who had sacrificed everything for him, and the countless warriors who had walked this path before him. He felt the weight of their spirits, their unspoken expectations pressing down upon him like armor. The whisky burned his throat as he swallowed, the warmth spreading through his chest like a promise kept.
Outside, a faint mist began to creep across the road, swirling in ghostly patterns around the tires as they moved higher. The mountain seemed to breathe, its presence palpable, as if it recognized its son and called him home. Sasori felt a shiver of anticipation, his senses heightened by the silence and the solitude, each second bringing him closer to the battle he knew awaited him.
His thoughts drifted to Chuluun Bold, the Ultimate Wrestling Heavyweight Franchise Champion. He could feel the weight of Bold’s reputation even from here and could see the image of the towering Mongolian warrior standing in the ring, an unstoppable force driven by the same pride and purpose. In many ways, Bold was a mirror—a reflection of everything Sasori himself valued: strength, honor, resilience. Their clash would be more than a fight; it would be a test, a reckoning of who was truly worthy to carry the title of undisputed champion.
The limousine slowed, and Sasori knew they had reached the mountain's base. He finished his whisky, placing the glass gently on the seat beside him. The burn lingered in his chest, grounding and steadying him for what lay ahead. He breathed deeply, savoring the scent of the mountain air seeping into the car—a mix of pine, earth, and something deeper, an ancient musk that reminded him of the rituals he had once performed here.
The driver stepped out, moving around to open Sasori’s door. The night air was cold and bracing as Sasori emerged, the silence wrapping around him like a familiar cloak. He looked up at the mountain, it's dark shape outlined against the star-streaked sky, the faintest glow of moonlight tracing its jagged ridges. In the distance, he could see the narrow path that led upward, winding through the trees to the monastery that waited at the summit. Kageyama Monastery—a place of solitude and secrets, where the air seemed steeped in wisdom and mystery.
The driver waited, his masked face turned toward Sasori in silent deference. Sasori gave him a slight nod, his voice calm and measured as he spoke.
Sasori: Stay in town, eat, drink, and return at dawn. It will take time to reach Kageyama Monastery.
The driver bowed, his silence a mark of respect before he returned to the car. As the limousine pulled away, its taillights disappearing down the dark road, Sasori felt the full weight of solitude settle over him. He stood there, alone in the shadow of Mount Kurama, his gaze fixed on the path ahead.
The mountain loomed above him, vast and unyielding, as if daring him to take that first step. He felt the weight of his mask, the scorpion-shaped shoulder guards pressing down on him, grounding him to the earth. This journey was a rite, a test of resolve, just as it had been the first time he’d ascended these slopes as a boy, trembling yet determined. Now, he was returning as a man, champion, and Scorpion King.
He took a deep breath, the chill of the mountain air filling his lungs and sharpening his senses. This was more than a return; it was a reckoning, a reminder of the blood, sweat, and sacrifice that had forged him. As he stood at the foot of the path, he felt the spirits of his ancestors watching, their silent approval granting him strength.
Without another word, he began his ascent.
Sasori’s Ascent: The Mountain’s Trial
The chill wrapped around Sasori like a shroud, each step sinking him deeper into the mountain’s icy embrace. His breath misted in the moonlight, condensing into pale clouds that faded into the cold night air. The dirt path below had turned into loose gravel and scattered rocks, forcing him to pick his way carefully, his footsteps muffled in the eerie silence of the wilderness. Above him, the shadowed cliffs loomed, the distant lights of Kageyama Monastery barely visible against the stars.
Each footfall echoed in his mind, carrying him back to a time when these mountains had been his entire world. As he climbed, memories surfaced unbidden, conjured by the biting wind and the rugged terrain.
The Trial of the Scorpion. His mind returned to that brutal test, a memory as vivid as the stars above. He had been barely fifteen, alone in the heart of this wilderness, surrounded by the creatures he had feared since childhood. The scorpions skittered over rocks, their shadows sharp in the moonlight. He remembered the feel of their stings—sharp, relentless like fire igniting under his skin. His body had writhed with pain, yet he could not allow himself to scream; the monks had been watching from somewhere, judging his endurance, his resolve.
Master Jiro: A warrior is not forged in comfort but fire.
The voice of his master, cold and unyielding, had echoed through his mind as he struggled against the venom coursing through his veins. Alone and feverish, he had pressed his forehead to the frozen earth, his heart pounding with each excruciating minute. The pain had threatened to break him, to strip away the last vestiges of his strength. Yet he had endured, not for himself, but for the man who had taken him in and believed in him when no one else would.
Years later, as he clambered over a jagged outcrop, the memory clung to him like the mountain’s mist, heavy with unspoken guilt. He reached a sheer rock face, and his hands found purchase on the rough stone, each grip testing his resolve. His body protested, muscles straining against the weight of his past and the treacherous path before him. The chill bit into his fingers, numbing them, but he tightened his grip, pulling himself higher.
The wind howled, carrying another memory—a painful echo of his master’s final moments. Master Jiro stood alone in the courtyard, his robes fluttering as shadows crept from every corner. Sasori was watching, paralyzed, consumed by a youthful pride that had whispered he could save his master alone.
Sasori: I failed him.
The words slipped out, a confession lost to the mountain winds. His heart twisted with raw and unrelenting regret. He could still see it: his master’s blood staining the courtyard, his eyes filled not with anger but with sorrow—a sorrow that had lingered, haunting Sasori’s every step since that day. The shame was like a blade that never dulled, a wound that never healed.
Each inch upward was a confrontation, the mountain demanding more of him than just physical endurance. It demanded atonement, a reckoning with the sins he had buried deep beneath the weight of his mask.
At last, he reached the top of the rock face, his body aching from the climb, but he did not pause to catch his breath. The path was only growing more treacherous, winding through dense underbrush and over uneven stones that threatened to slip beneath him. The wind shifted, and for a moment, he could almost feel his master’s hand on his shoulder—a silent, guiding presence.
He pressed on, the weight of his history pressing down on him as he relived that fateful night. It had not been a mere failure; it had been betrayal—an arrogance that had led him to defy his master’s orders to try and protect the monastery alone. In doing so, he had left Master Jiro vulnerable, leaving him to face their enemies without the support he deserved. That choice had led to his master’s death. Every victory in the ring and cheer from the crowd meant nothing in the shadow of that loss.
The climb ended abruptly, and before him lay a sheer cliff—a wall of stone reaching toward the sky with no path in sight. His journey would end here unless he dared to climb it by hand, scaling the mountain’s face to reach the monastery above. It was as if the mountain itself were testing him, offering no forgiveness, no respite, only a challenge as relentless as the past he carried.
He grasped the first stone, his fingers digging into the cracks and crevices, and began the climb; each pull bringing him closer to the monastery, closer to his past. The cold seeped into his bones, his fingers numb as he reached for the next hold. The memories clung to him, whispering doubts with each labored breath. Was he worthy of the title he bore? Could he ever atone for the life he had failed to protect?
His grip slipped momentarily, and he steadied himself, drawing a sharp breath. The mountain demanded everything of him, but he welcomed it. This was his trial, as much as any fight in the ring, and he would see it through.
As he neared the top, he saw the monastery’s stone walls, shadowed and ancient, looming against the night sky. The cold wind whipped around him, stinging his face as he remembered the words of his master—the quiet man who had given him the name he bore.
Master Jiro: The mask does not make you, Sasori. It is only a reminder—of what you must protect and what you must become.
He pulled himself over the final ledge, his body aching and his breath ragged. He simply lay there for a moment, staring up at the monastery gates, his mind swirling with memories and regrets. His mask was more than a symbol; it was a burden, a reminder of the life he had sworn to honor, even as he struggled to find redemption.
The night was silent, save for the soft rustling of leaves, the distant call of a night bird, and his breathing. He rose slowly, gazing at the monastery that had been his home, prison, and sanctuary.
Sasori: I will prove I am worthy,” he whispered, though no one could hear it except the mountain and the shadows of his past.
For tonight, he was not only Saikō Sasori, the champion of AAPW but also the boy who had once walked these paths with nothing but a hope and a promise. The journey was not over—it had only begun.
With one last look at the sky, he turned toward the monastery, his heart heavy with purpose and the knowledge that he still had much to prove.
Sasori stepped through the village, past the whispers of reverence from villagers and the quiet admiration of the children who followed him in awe. Ascending the mountain path to the topmost edge of the village, he approached the mouth of the ancient cave—a place of deep legend and mystery, a gateway into the spiritual heart of his journey.
The cave loomed before him, dark and solemn, the entrance framed by scorpion-carved talismans and silk banners that had withstood countless seasons. The air was thick with the scent of incense, blending with the earthy cold of stone, and faint wisps of smoke curled along the floor as if the ground itself were breathing.
At the center of the cave, two thrones carved from the ancient rock awaited. On them sat the Immortal Elders—figures as timeless as the mountain that held them, their forms almost fused with the cavern, draped in shadow and ancient armor that gleamed like the carapace of a scorpion.
The first elder sat with serene authority, his sightless eyes gazing unerringly toward Sasori. His face, framed by an exoskeletal shell around his shoulders and brow, bore a long beard that flowed down his chest. Despite his blindness, he held a wisdom that seemed to pierce the very fabric of reality.
Beside him, the second elder reclined with an air of wry amusement, his features twisted into a knowing smile. His armor coiled around him like a living thing, jagged and asymmetrical, giving him an otherworldly and playful look. Though his eyes were also veiled, they sparkled with mischief, as though privy to secrets hidden from even his fellow elder.
Sasori stepped forward, placing a small jade scorpion—a sacred offering—upon the altar before them. He then knelt, bowing his head in reverence.
The first elder inclined his head as though sensing Sasori’s presence through the air. As Sasori knelt, his gaze steady and respectful, the first elder spoke with the serene weight of ages past.
Elder One: Returned, you have, Saikō Sasori, guardian of scorpion’s way. Great change blows from distant lands… a storm stirred by those who know not our ways, nor respect our spirits.
The second elder, lounging in his throne as if he were part of the shadows themselves, offered a cryptic smile, his voice lilting with mystery.
Elder Two: Storms are tricky things, you know. Some bring rain, others lightning… but some, well, they only leave ruins. And your storm, Sasori, comes clothed in silver chains and blood that sings of shadows. What would you call a beast bound by thirst yet blind to the leash around its own neck?
The elder’s words swirled like smoke, elusive yet weighty. Sasori felt the subtle weight of their meaning settles around him.
Sasori: Chuluun Bold… bound to the Yakuza by an addiction to Yokai blood. A slave masked as a conqueror, his dark gift turned against him.
The first elder nodded, his face impassive but his voice layered with quiet certainty.
Elder One: Twisted he is, strength not his own. A weapon wielded, unaware. Yet strong, he remains—a danger he will be, should he enter our land unchecked.
The second elder chuckled softly, his expression shifting as he leaned forward, eyes gleaming with playful malice.
Elder Two: Ah, but strength alone is a house made of paper, don’t you think? One spark, and poof! Gone. But there’s a spark, oh yes—a spark that dangles from his neck, or rather, his waist… an orb from the sky, dripping with secrets. Tell me, Sasori, what would you do with a star plucked from the heavens?
Sasori blinked, caught by surprise. He had heard whispers of the unusual orb embedded in Bold’s championship belt, but he’d thought it little more than decoration. Now, in the cave’s shadows, the truth hovered beyond his grasp, daring him to reach for it.
Sasori: You speak of the crimson orb he carries. It’s more than mere adornment, isn’t it?
The first elder’s sightless gaze seemed to narrow, his tone grave and guiding.
Elder One: Yes, yes… not of this world it is. A power woven by the stars and dangerous if left untended. To those worthy, it must belong; claim it, you must, for the harm it may bring, greater still.
The second elder’s laugh echoed through the cavern, his voice slithering into riddles once more.
Elder Two: It dances with fate, that orb… a little song spun of stardust and shadow. Dangerous in the wrong hands—just imagine what a chained beast would do if he ever truly felt its fire. But ah, the question, Sasori, is this: can you tame the flame? Will you cradle it, or will it burn you?
Sasori bowed his head, absorbing the weight of their mandate. His mission, he understood now, went beyond honor or victory; he was tasked with safeguarding something far greater—a fragment of the heavens that held both promise and peril.
Sasori: Then it is not just for myself or for AAPW that I must defeat Bold… I must do it for the honor of protecting what is sacred, what must not fall into unworthy hands.
The first elder’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, heavy with wisdom.
Elder One: A burden you carry, yes, but purpose gives it strength. Strong, you must be—not just in body, but spirit, mind. The heavens will test you… they test us all.
The second elder watched him closely, his grin shifting into something almost sinister, a glint of secrets known but unshared.
Elder Two: Oh, and they test hard, Sasori. After all, the stars do love a twist, don’t they? But remember this: even the brightest orb must submit to the hand that holds it, lest it be snuffed out. So, tell me, champion… are you ready to see the stars bow to you?
Sasori’s heart beat with a mixture of purpose and unease, but his resolve held firm.
Sasori: I will face the storm and take what must be protected. Bold may fight for power, but I fight for something far greater—honor, legacy, and the promise of the scorpion’s path.
The elders grew silent, their forms melding back into the shadows, yet Sasori could feel their eyes on him, watching as he rose to his feet. He had come to seek guidance, and now he left with a mission ordained by forces beyond his understanding.
With each step, he felt the mountain’s weight lift, replaced by a power older and stronger than he had ever known.
As Sasori descends from the ancient cave, the weight of his mission settles over him in a way that feels both sacred and foreboding. He is not simply a warrior preparing for a match; he is the last sentinel against forces seeking to corrupt something otherworldly, entrusted to only the most worthy.
He could reflect on the elders' words about the orb, recalling how they described it as "woven by the stars" and dangerous in unworthy hands. He remembers the second elder’s riddle about taming the flame, pondering how his strength and resolve will face their ultimate test. As he moves back down the path, he imagines the upcoming battle with Bold not just as a confrontation but as a rite of purification, a moment in which he must become more than himself to protect the very order of things.
Preparing for the showdown, Sasori might begin a series of rituals—physically and spiritually—training his body as a vessel capable of enduring not just the fight with Bold but the energy of the orb itself. These rituals could be steeped in the teachings of his fallen master, ways to channel his spirit and ground his resolve. He will need more than physical prowess; he will need unwavering clarity, resilience, and the mastery of his inner storm.
As he trains, visions can come to him—visions of the orb glowing and pulsating with light and the shadows it casts. In his mind’s eye, he can see Bold's vampire form, bound and raging, corrupted by the same power that fuels his strength. This foreshadowing builds tension, making Sasori’s quest feel not just like a physical confrontation but a metaphysical battle, a test of Sasori’s spirit to overcome darkness and wield celestial power righteously.
In the days leading to the match, Sasori could find himself haunted by thoughts of his fallen master, feeling his presence both as a comfort and a reminder of the stakes. As he reflects, the lines between the past and his present mission might blur, painting his journey as both a redemption and a final test bestowed by the heavens.