Ultimate Wrestling Season 3 - Ch.8: Ronin Rumble Night One: PART - 6

The Tokyo Dome was buzzing with an electric anticipation, the audience restless as they awaited the highly anticipated Young Blood Championship Match. The air in the arena felt heavy, as if something foreboding was about to unfold. The ring, bathed in an eerie glow, stood at the center of the tension, as the crowd’s chatter began to die down.

Miyu Kojima: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is for the Young Blood Championship!

Her words sliced through the noise, amplifying the tension in the Dome. Before the crowd could fully react, the haunting melody of Bach’s Goldberg Variations began to echo through the speakers, sending a chill down the spines of those in attendance.

Holly Hudson: That’s… an odd choice of music for such a high-stakes match, don’t you think, Scott?

Scott Slade: Odd? Sure, but fitting for Jeffrey James Roberts. There’s something about him that’s just... unsettling.

Chris Rodgers: Unsettling? The man’s a psychopath. He’s being escorted to the ring like a death row inmate for a reason.

True to Chris’s words, Jeffrey James Roberts emerged at the top of the ramp, flanked by a group of stoic, black-suited guards. Each guard was armed with batons and sidearms, adding a menacing aura to the already dangerous presence of Roberts. Dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit, unzipped at the chest to reveal a massive black cross tattoo, Jeffrey’s face was a blank canvas of apathy. His hands and feet were bound with thick shackles, the clinking of metal chains echoing through the arena as he descended the ramp.

Scott Slade: Look at the security detail. They don’t take chances with this guy. Every time he steps into that ring, it’s like they’re letting a predator off its leash.

Holly Hudson: This is his first shot at the Young Blood Championship, and you can tell just by looking at him… Jeffrey James Roberts isn’t here to wrestle. He’s here to hurt someone.

The crowd watched in silence as Roberts slowly made his way to the ring, his eyes scanning the audience with eerie detachment. He ignored the boos and jeers from the fans, his focus unbroken as his guards unlocked his shackles and allowed him into the ring. Standing in the center of the squared circle, Roberts rolled his neck, his expression cold and unreadable, waiting for his opponent.

Miyu Kojima: Introducing first, the challenger... weighing in at 235 pounds, from Gainesville, Florida... Jeffrey James Roberts!

Roberts gave no reaction to the announcement, simply pacing back and forth, his eyes occasionally darting toward the entrance ramp. The sinister calm was unsettling, like the quiet before a storm.

Chris Rodgers: This guy doesn’t just want to win, Scott. He wants to destroy.

Suddenly, the arena lights dimmed once more, and the ominous tones of "The Devil Within" by Digital Daggers filled the air. The crowd erupted in boos as the reigning Young Blood Champion, Drake Nygma, emerged from the curtain, flanked by his enigmatic manager, Dollia Trypp. With her ethereal presence and Drake’s brooding demeanor, the two made an intimidating pair. Dollia held the Young Blood Championship over her shoulder, her gaze calm yet focused as she walked beside the towering figure of Drake Nygma.

Scott Slade: And here he is, the reigning Young Blood Champion, Drake Nygma, accompanied by Dollia Trypp. There’s no denying the power that these two hold—Drake’s a force in that ring, and Dollia... she’s always in the background, but there’s something about her. She’s always in control.

Holly Hudson: Dollia’s more than just a manager, Scott. I’m told she’s the spiritual anchor for Nygma, the one who keeps him grounded. But can even she prepare Drake for the kind of madness that Jeffrey James Roberts brings?

The camera zoomed in on Drake Nygma’s face, his expression as unreadable as ever, his eyes cold as they fixated on the ring. With every step, he radiated confidence and power, towering over Dollia as they made their way down the ramp. The Young Blood Championship gleamed under the lights, a symbol of his dominance, but tonight... his focus wasn’t on the title. His focus was on the man already in the ring, waiting for him.

Miyu Kojima: And his opponent... accompanied by Dollia Trypp, weighing in at 177.5 pounds, he is the reigning and defending Young Blood Champion... Drake Nygma!

As the crowd booed, Nygma didn’t acknowledge them. His eyes never left Jeffrey James Roberts, a silent intensity burning beneath his calm exterior. Dollia, with the title still draped over her shoulder, stood just outside the ring, her gaze locked on Roberts as well. There was no grandstanding, no taunting—just a tension-filled silence as Drake stepped into the ring.

Scott Slade: Look at the way these two are sizing each other up. This isn’t just about the title—this is a collision between two predators, both looking to prove they’re the most dangerous force in that ring.

Referee Bob Sigro stood between the two wrestlers, holding up the Young Blood Championship for the audience to see before handing it to the timekeeper. He motioned for the two competitors to approach the center of the ring, and neither man hesitated. Jeffrey James Roberts and Drake Nygma stood face to face, their gazes locked in an intense, silent standoff.

Chris Rodgers: You can feel the tension. These two look like they’re ready to tear each other apart, and we haven’t even heard the bell yet.

Scott Slade: There’s no love lost here. Drake Nygma is defending his title for the first time, and Roberts... he’s not here to wrestle. He’s here to break Drake in half.

The camera zoomed in on the cold stares between the two men, the tension in the air almost palpable. The crowd roared in anticipation, and for a moment, it felt like time stood still.

DING! DING! DING!

The bell sounded, and in an instant, both men exploded into action, throwing wild lefts and rights as the match erupted into chaos. The slugfest had begun. The crowd exploded as the two men began trading vicious strikes, fists flying with reckless abandon. Jeffrey James Roberts, with his cold, calculated demeanor, threw heavy punches, each one landing with malicious intent. Drake Nygma, fueled by raw power and determination, fired back with stiff uppercuts, rocking Roberts but not backing him down.

Scott Slade: It’s an all-out brawl from the start! Neither of these men are holding anything back!

Holly Hudson: This is about more than the Young Blood Championship. This is about dominance. Both of these guys are trying to prove they’re the most dangerous competitor in Ultimate Wrestling!

Drake Nygma connected with a brutal palm strike that staggered Roberts, but before he could capitalize, Jeffrey lashed out with a knee to the gut, doubling the champion over. Roberts wasted no time, grabbing Drake’s arm and twisting it behind his back, transitioning into his vicious joint manipulation, targeting the elbow.

Chris Rodgers: Roberts is like a surgeon out there! Look at him twist Nygma’s arm like it’s nothing!

With sickening precision, Roberts torqued Nygma’s arm, eliciting a pained grimace from the champion. Drake tried to fight back, throwing wild punches with his free hand, but Roberts was relentless, twisting and pulling at his joints. Finally, with a burst of strength, Drake broke free, shoving Roberts off and catching him with a thunderous big boot that sent the crowd into a frenzy.

Holly Hudson: What a shot from Nygma! That boot nearly took Roberts’ head off!

Scott Slade: But look—Roberts isn’t staying down! He’s already getting back to his feet!

Roberts staggered but refused to stay down, his eyes filled with cold, detached fury. Drake wasn’t about to let him recover, charging forward with a devastating shoulder block that sent Roberts crashing into the turnbuckle. The impact echoed through the arena as Roberts’ body smacked against the corner, but even then, his expression didn’t change. Drake closed the distance, grabbing Roberts by the hair and driving his knee into his midsection repeatedly.

Chris Rodgers: Nygma’s using his size and strength to punish Roberts! This is pure brutality!

With a final knee, Drake grabbed Roberts by the head and slung him to the mat with a violent snapmare, but Roberts quickly rolled to his feet, clutching his ribs. Nygma rushed forward, looking to finish the job with a spear, but Roberts countered with a leapfrog, sending Nygma crashing into the turnbuckle shoulder-first.

Holly Hudson: Roberts just dodged a bullet! Nygma’s shoulder hit hard!

Seeing his opening, Roberts immediately pounced, wrapping his arms around Drake’s waist and pulling him out of the corner with a savage German suplex. Nygma hit the mat hard, his body folding awkwardly from the impact. Roberts, always methodical, didn’t stop there. He rolled his hips and pulled Nygma up for a second German suplex, sending the champion crashing into the canvas again.

Scott Slade: Roberts is dissecting Nygma! He’s showing everyone why he’s so feared!

Chris Rodgers: Two German suplexes, and Roberts doesn’t look like he’s done yet!

With brutal efficiency, Roberts pulled Drake to his feet for a third time, but the champion, sensing the danger, threw a sharp elbow into Roberts’ jaw, breaking his grip. With Roberts momentarily stunned, Drake spun around and hit a devastating uppercut, sending Roberts staggering back into the ropes. The crowd roared as Nygma took control once more, driving forward with a series of stiff shots to Roberts’ head and body.

Holly Hudson: Nygma’s back in control! He’s not going down without a fight!

The two men stood in the center of the ring, trading wild strikes, their bodies showing signs of the punishment they’d endured. Nygma, with his size advantage, began to overpower Roberts, delivering a series of palm strikes that sent him reeling. With Roberts on the back foot, Drake hit the ropes and charged forward, looking for a massive big boot. But Roberts, with his sadistic awareness, ducked under the kick and immediately grabbed Nygma’s leg, tripping him to the mat.

Scott Slade: Roberts is like a predator—he’s always watching, waiting for his chance to strike!

With Drake on the ground, Roberts seized the opportunity, stomping viciously on his knee and ankle, targeting his limbs with brutal precision. Each stomp landed with a sickening thud, and Drake writhed in pain, clutching at his leg as Roberts methodically tore him apart.

Chris Rodgers: This is where Roberts is at his most dangerous. He doesn’t just want to win—he wants to dismantle his opponent, piece by piece.

Roberts, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure, grabbed Drake by the ankle and twisted, locking in his submission hold, Bull’s Angelito. The arena erupted in boos as Roberts cranked back on the hold, contorting Drake’s leg in unnatural directions. Nygma’s face twisted in agony, but he refused to tap, clawing at the mat as he tried to find a way out.

Holly Hudson: Roberts has that hold locked in tight! Nygma’s in serious trouble!

Scott Slade: He’s got nowhere to go! If he can’t break this hold, we could have a new champion right here!

Drake, using every ounce of strength he had left, managed to drag himself toward the ropes, his fingers just inches away from grabbing the bottom rope. The crowd cheered him on, willing him to escape. Finally, with a desperate lunge, Nygma grabbed the rope, forcing Roberts to release the hold. The referee stepped in, and Roberts reluctantly let go, but the damage had been done.

Chris Rodgers: Nygma might’ve escaped, but look at him—his leg is in bad shape. Roberts has done some real damage.

With Nygma clutching his injured leg, Roberts stood over him, his face devoid of any emotion. He reached down, grabbing Drake by his strange mask and pulled him to his feet. But as Roberts went for another German suplex, Drake, in a moment of desperation, hit a savage headbutt, catching Roberts square in the face.

Holly Hudson: What a counter by Nygma! That headbutt might’ve bought him some time!

Both men staggered, clearly exhausted from the grueling battle. Drake, his leg visibly damaged, hobbled toward Roberts, his fists clenched. He wasn’t going to back down, not now. With a roar, he charged forward, nailing Roberts with a spear that sent both men crashing to the mat.

Scott Slade: Drake with the spear! That could turn the tide!

Both men lay on the mat, breathing heavily, as the referee began the count. The crowd was on its feet, the energy in the arena reaching a fever pitch.

Chris Rodgers: This match has been nothing short of brutal! Both men are giving everything they’ve got, but it looks like they’re both down!

The referee’s count reached six before both men began to stir, dragging themselves to their feet. They locked eyes once more, and despite their battered bodies, neither man showed any signs of backing down. The war between them wasn’t over yet.

Holly Hudson: They’re both back on their feet! These two are going to tear each other apart before this is over!

Scott Slade: We knew this would be a brutal match, but I don’t think anyone expected it to be this intense. It’s anyone’s game at this point.

With the crowd at the edge of their seats, the battle between Jeffrey James Roberts and Drake Nygma raged on, both men determined to prove they were the most dangerous force in Ultimate Wrestling.

The intensity of the match continued to rise as both Jeffrey James Roberts and Drake Nygma, despite their grueling back-and-forth, refused to yield. The audience could feel the bad blood between these two, and each move was delivered with the kind of viciousness that could only come from two men trying to outdo each other in brutality.

Scott Slade: This is one of the most violent Young Blood Championship matches I’ve ever seen. These men are doing everything they can to tear each other apart!

Holly Hudson: Neither one is backing down. This isn’t about wrestling anymore—it’s about survival.

Drake Nygma, still dazed from the Mask of Sanity, dragged himself to his feet, but Roberts, sensing an opportunity to press the attack, grabbed Drake’s arm and yanked him into the corner. Jeffrey wasted no time as he hoisted Nygma onto the top rope, looking to deliver a high-impact move that could shift the match entirely in his favor. But Nygma fought back with desperation, slamming a series of hard punches into Roberts' ribs, trying to fend him off.

Chris Rodgers: Drake’s fighting for his life up there! He knows if Roberts hits something big here, it could be over.

With a roar, Drake delivered a final headbutt, sending Roberts stumbling backward into the center of the ring. The crowd gasped as Nygma stood tall on the top rope, taking a moment to catch his breath before leaping off with a flying shoulder block, connecting perfectly with Roberts and sending both men crashing to the mat.

Scott Slade: What a move! Nygma’s not known for flying, but he just took a massive risk, and it paid off!

Nygma rolled to his feet, visibly limping but determined. He saw Roberts on the ground and quickly pulled him up by the arm, locking him into a crushing Bear Hug once again, trying to squeeze the life out of him. Jeffrey’s face twisted in agony, his breath coming in short gasps as Drake poured all his remaining energy into the hold.

Holly Hudson: He’s got the Bear Hug locked in! Nygma’s trying to finish this right here!

Chris Rodgers: He’s going to crush Roberts’ ribs if he keeps this up!

Roberts, despite the pain, refused to go down easily. His arms flailed for a moment before he drove a sharp elbow into Nygma’s head, forcing Drake to loosen the hold. Another elbow strike followed, and then a third, until Nygma finally released him, stumbling backward as the pain coursed through his skull.

Scott Slade: Roberts fights out of it! He’s still in this, but Nygma had him close to breaking!

Wasting no time, Roberts sprang forward, locking Nygma in a tight waistlock before delivering a thunderous German Suplex, bridging perfectly for a quick pin attempt.

1… 2—

Nygma powered out, rolling to his knees as Roberts cursed under his breath. The two men were drenched in sweat, bruised and battered, but neither showed any signs of giving up. Both had broken the rules, bent the referee’s patience, and put everything on the line. But it was clear: they weren’t finished.

Chris Rodgers: This is madness! I don’t know how these two are still standing!

Holly Hudson: Barely, Chris. They’re running on fumes, but neither one will stop until they’ve destroyed the other.

Roberts, with a sadistic grin, stalked over to Nygma, kicking him hard in the ribs to roll him onto his stomach. Without a second thought, he twisted Nygma’s arm behind his back, locking in his notorious Manipulator submission move, wrenching the shoulder and elbow with expert precision.

Scott Slade: This is bad news for Nygma! Roberts is targeting that arm with the Manipulator, and if Drake’s not careful, his shoulder could pop out of its socket!

Drake screamed in pain, his arm contorted in ways it shouldn’t bend. Roberts leaned in, increasing the pressure, enjoying the agony on Nygma’s face. But as the referee moved in to check on Drake, Dollia Trypp quickly leapt onto the apron, drawing the official's attention and shouting in protest. The distraction was just enough for Nygma to reach up with his free arm, grabbing a handful of Roberts' hair and yanking him backward, causing Jeffrey to release the hold.

Holly Hudson: There’s Dollia, causing the distraction! I didn’t think she had it in her, but desperate times call for desperate measures!

Chris Rodgers: She’s smart, Holly. Nygma’s in trouble, and she knows Roberts would’ve torn his arm off if given the chance.

Freed from the submission, Nygma rolled to the corner, clutching his shoulder, grimacing in pain. Roberts, angered by the interference, lunged at Drake with a running knee, but Nygma dodged at the last second, sending Roberts crashing into the turnbuckle. Seizing the moment, Drake spun him around and delivered a brutal uppercut, staggering Roberts. Without missing a beat, Nygma lifted Roberts off his feet and drove him into the mat with a savage spinebuster, shaking the ring with the impact.

Scott Slade: Nygma with the spinebuster! This could be his moment to turn the tide!

Nygma wasted no time, dragging Roberts to his feet and setting him up for the Sphinx’s Judgement. But Roberts, with a burst of adrenaline, broke free, raking his nails across Drake’s eyes again, sending him stumbling backward in pain.

Chris Rodgers: Another eye rake! Roberts isn’t done yet!

With Nygma momentarily blinded, Roberts capitalized, running off the ropes and delivering a Slinging Shadows knee drop directly onto Nygma’s chest, knocking the wind out of the champion. Roberts grinned as he stood over the fallen Nygma, clearly savoring the damage he was inflicting.

Holly Hudson: Roberts is ruthless! He’s dismantling Nygma piece by piece!

Scott Slade: If Roberts keeps this up, we might be looking at a new champion by the end of the night!

Jeffrey James Roberts circled his fallen prey with a calculated malice, his cold eyes locked on the struggling champion. Drake Nygma gasped for air, every movement labored from the barrage of brutal attacks he had endured. His chest heaved, drenched in sweat, while Roberts showed no such weakness, only an eerie, methodical composure.

Scott Slade: Roberts looks like he’s toying with Nygma now, waiting for the right moment to strike!

The crowd buzzed with anticipation, sensing the brutality that was sure to follow. Roberts took his time, savoring each second. He stalked Nygma, his boots echoing ominously across the mat, before suddenly lunging with a vicious knee aimed squarely at Nygma’s temple. But Nygma, with sheer survival instincts kicking in, rolled out of the way just in time. The crowd gasped as Roberts’ knee collided with the unforgiving turnbuckle.

Holly Hudson: That was close! Nygma narrowly avoids disaster!

The force of the impact sent Roberts stumbling backward, clutching his leg in pain. Nygma, seizing the moment, shot up from the mat with whatever energy he had left and launched a desperate Big Boot into Roberts’ chest. The thud of the strike reverberated throughout the arena, and Roberts crashed to the canvas.

Nygma wasted no time, collapsing onto Roberts for the pin attempt. The referee dropped down, the crowd on edge.

1… 2…

Roberts kicked out at the last second, his body jerking to life just before the three-count. Nygma sat up, his face contorted in disbelief. His eyes darted toward the referee, silently pleading, but the referee’s call stood firm.

Chris Rodgers: How in the hell did Roberts kick out of that? Nygma’s frustration is written all over his face!

With a snarl, Nygma dragged himself up, every muscle in his body screaming for mercy. His fists clenched in anger, and without hesitation, he yanked Roberts to his feet. He unleashed a flurry of savage palm strikes to Roberts’ midsection, each hit sending a resounding thud through the arena. But despite the relentless assault, there was no sign of fear in Roberts’ eyes. He grimaced, his body absorbing the blows, yet his gaze remained unsettlingly cold.

Suddenly, with serpentine speed, Roberts ducked under Nygma’s next strike and, in one fluid motion, swept Nygma’s legs out from beneath him. The champion’s back slammed into the mat, his spine arching in pain. Roberts pounced, grabbing Nygma by the legs and hooking him into a tight pin.

1… 2…

Nygma kicked out just in time, his chest heaving as the referee’s hand hovered mere inches from the mat. The arena exploded into cheers and gasps.

Holly Hudson: Another near fall! This match is as intense as they come! Neither of these men will stay down!

Roberts, frustration etched across his usually stoic face, pounded the mat with both fists. He stalked Nygma again, dragging him to his feet, a sadistic smile now playing at the corners of his mouth. This time, there would be no escape. He flung Nygma toward the corner with a violent Irish whip, following closely behind to deliver a thunderous Art of Suplex from the ropes. Nygma’s body bounced off the mat with sickening force, his limbs limp as he hit the ground.

With the champion sprawled out, Roberts dropped down for another pinfall, his expression confident.

1… 2…

Once again, Nygma kicked out, barely lifting his shoulder off the mat. Roberts sat up slowly, his eyes narrowing. There was no emotion, no anger—just cold calculation. He reached down, pulling Nygma by the hair, lifting him like a rag doll. His face inches from Nygma’s, Roberts whispered something sinister before locking his arms around Nygma’s waist, lifting him high for a brutal Mask of Sanity.

But at the last second, Nygma reversed it, slamming his elbow into Roberts’ temple. The crowd gasped as Nygma slipped free and, using the ropes as leverage, leaped into a savage Spear, driving Roberts into the mat with a sickening crunch. The impact left both men sprawled out, the crowd on their feet, unsure of who had the upper hand.

Nygma crawled over, draping an arm over Roberts' chest.

1… 2…

Roberts kicked out again, and this time, the arena erupted into disbelief. Fans screamed in shock, some standing with their hands on their heads.

Scott Slade: How?! How did Roberts kick out of that?! These men are running on fumes now!

Both men lay motionless on the mat for a moment, the brutal toll of the match showing in their ragged breaths and pained expressions. The fans, feeding off the intensity, began chanting, urging both men to their feet. Slowly, they obeyed, each man struggling to stand but refusing to give in. Suddenly, Roberts lashed out with a stiff punch to Nygma’s jaw, snapping his head back. Nygma responded with a powerful uppercut that staggered Roberts. The two stood toe to toe, trading brutal shots, the crowd roaring with every sickening connection.

Holly Hudson: Neither man is willing to back down! This is absolute carnage!

Nygma swung for the fences with a wild Big Boot, but Roberts ducked underneath and, in one fluid motion, executed a brutal back suplex. He didn’t stop there—Roberts transitioned, lifting Nygma into a vicious brainbuster, slamming the champion’s head into the mat with devastating force.

Jeffrey James Roberts, still groggy from the punishing brainbuster, clutched the back of his neck as he struggled to get up. Meanwhile, Drake Nygma paced around him, his eyes narrowing as he calculated his next move. He knew Roberts was a beast of technical mastery, but he had to use his power and cunning to outsmart the calculating sociopath.

Scott Slade: This match has been an absolute war, but neither man is backing down. Nygma has the upper hand right now, but Roberts has shown he can absorb incredible amounts of punishment.

Nygma leaned down, grabbing Roberts by the hair and lifting him to his feet. Roberts, seemingly down for the count, suddenly lashed out with a vicious elbow to Nygma’s ribs. The crowd gasped as Roberts followed up with a knee to the midsection, doubling Nygma over.

Holly Hudson: Roberts won’t go quietly! He’s trying to turn this match back in his favor!
With Nygma stunned, Roberts hooked him under the arms, his eyes gleaming with malevolent intent as he prepared to deliver another brutal Mask of Sanity brainbuster. The audience was on the edge of their seats, anticipating a devastating move that could potentially end the match. Roberts lifted Nygma high into the air, but Nygma, knowing his chances were dwindling, twisted his body mid-air and managed to slip out of Roberts’ grip, landing on his feet behind him.

Before Roberts could react, Nygma spun and blasted him with a brutal Big Boot to the back of the head. Roberts staggered forward, his balance faltering as he dropped to one knee. The crowd roared as Nygma wasted no time, bouncing off the ropes and charging back with a savage running Palm Strike that connected flush with Roberts’ jaw, sending him crashing to the mat.

Chris Rodgers: Oh, what a strike! Roberts is down! But is it enough to keep him there?

Nygma, still feeling the effects of Roberts’ relentless assault, dropped to his knees and went for the cover, hooking Roberts’ leg as the referee slid into position.

1… 2…

Roberts kicked out, his shoulder shooting off the mat just before the three-count. The crowd erupted, and Nygma looked momentarily frustrated, his breathing heavy as sweat dripped from his face.

Scott Slade: I can’t believe Roberts kicked out! This man just doesn’t know when to stay down!

Nygma, realizing he needed to dig deeper, quickly strategized. His usual brute force tactics weren’t enough to keep Roberts down for the count, and he knew it was time to outthink him. With Roberts groggily pushing himself up to his hands and knees, Nygma grabbed both of his legs and dragged him toward the center of the ring.

The crowd began to buzz as Nygma, his face contorting in determination, crossed Roberts’ legs and twisted him into the position for the Lion Tamer. The audience’s reaction grew louder as they realized what was coming next.

Holly Hudson: Wait a minute! Nygma’s going for the Lion Tamer! He’s looking to end this with a submission! He defeated Barsa using this move in his debut match!

Chris Rodgers: Roberts is in trouble now! If Nygma locks this in, there might be no way out!

With a grunt of effort, Nygma flipped Roberts over and sat deep into the Lion Tamer, wrenching back on his opponent’s neck with brutal force. Roberts’ face twisted in pain, his hands clawing at the mat as Nygma applied maximum pressure. The crowd was electric, unsure whether Roberts would find a way to escape or if this would be the end.

Scott Slade:He’s got it locked in! Roberts is trapped! Can he fight his way out of this hold?

Roberts, his teeth gritted in agony, tried to crawl toward the ropes, his fingers scraping across the canvas as he struggled. Nygma leaned back further, his face a mask of pure concentration as he poured every ounce of strength into the hold. The referee dropped down, asking Roberts if he wanted to submit, but Jeffrey shook his head vehemently, refusing to give in.

Holly Hudson: Roberts is refusing to quit! He’s a man possessed, but how much more can his body take?

The crowd erupted in cheers and jeers as Roberts clawed his way inch by inch toward the ropes. His hand reached out, fingers just shy of the bottom rope. Nygma, sensing the danger, stood up higher and torqued Roberts’ neck and spine, pulling him back to the center of the ring. Roberts screamed in pain, his body writhing as the hold took its toll.

Chris Rodgers: He’s dragging him back! Nygma’s not letting him escape! He wants to break Roberts right here!

The agony etched across Roberts’ face was palpable. He tried again to push up, his incredible pain threshold allowing him to withstand the torment for a few moments longer. But with each second that passed, his strength began to fade. The relentless pressure of the Lion Tamer was too much, even for him.

Roberts’ hand hovered above the mat, his body trembling. His eyes, filled with cold fury, met Nygma’s, but the exhaustion was evident. With no escape in sight, Roberts’ hand finally slapped the canvas.

The referee called for the bell.

DING! DING! DING!

The crowd erupted into a mix of cheers and boos as Nygma, his face a mask of exhaustion and relief, released the hold. He staggered backward, his chest heaving, while Roberts lay motionless on the mat, his body twisted in pain but still eerily calm despite his defeat.

Scott Slade: Drake Nygma has done it! He’s retained the Young Blood Championship with that perfectly executed Lion Tamer!

Holly Hudson: Roberts didn’t tap because he was weak. He held on for as long as he could, but Nygma outsmarted him. That’s the mark of a true champion!

Nygma dropped to his knees, his eyes scanning the audience as the referee raised his hand in victory. Dolia Trypp quickly entered the ring, holding the Young Blood Championship over her shoulder. She placed it into Nygma’s hands, and he clutched it tightly, the reality of his victory sinking in.

Meanwhile, Roberts slowly rolled to his side, his face expressionless once again, as if the pain had never happened. He glanced at Nygma with a detached curiosity, seemingly more intrigued by the outcome than upset. The loss hadn’t broken him—he had simply been outsmarted, and in Roberts’ mind, that was something to be studied and learned from, not feared.

Chris Rodgers: I’ll give Roberts credit where it’s due—he didn’t give up easily. But tonight belongs to Drake Nygma.

Scott Slade: It was a brutal match, a test of wills, and in the end, Nygma proved he has the heart of a champion.

As Nygma held his championship high, the tension in the arena slowly dissipated, the crowd buzzing from the intensity of the match. Roberts, now on his feet, calmly exited the ring, walking past the prison guards who had been standing by the entire time, their presence a reminder of the dark world he would return to after the night’s events.

But even in defeat, there was something about the way Jeffrey James Roberts carried himself—cold, calculating, and patient. His time would come again.

And as for Drake Nygma, his reign as Young Blood Champion continued, his resilience and cunning having won the day.

Rupert Mudcock lounged behind his imposing oak desk, a crystal glass of whiskey untouched at his side. The room was dimly lit, a few flickering lamps casting long shadows across the walls decorated with memorabilia from his wrestling empire. The soft hum of a muted television filled the background with the ongoing chaos from tonight’s match. Rupert leaned back in his leather chair, massaging his temples when suddenly, the door burst open without warning.

Dasha Ivanova, her tall, commanding figure framed by the doorway, strode in, her expression a storm of concern and barely-contained fury. The room felt colder instantly, and Rupert’s eyes flicked up to meet hers. There was no smile, no pleasantries—only the heavy tension that had followed her in like a dark cloud.

Rupert Mudcock: Dasha... you don’t believe in knocking, I see.

His voice oozed false calmness, a thin veneer of confidence trying to mask his underlying annoyance.

Dasha Ivanova: Spare me the jokes, Rupert. This isn’t a social call.

She didn’t bother sitting, instead planting her hands on the desk, leaning in close. Rupert, always so smug, didn’t flinch, but his eyes sharpened, studying her closely. Something was off, he could tell—her usual icy demeanor was cracking, and beneath it was a tension that set off alarms in his gut.

Dasha Ivanova: Boris. He's missing. Forty-eight hours, Rupert. Gone. Not a word, not a trace.

There was a tremor in her voice, one she desperately tried to suppress. Rupert arched an eyebrow, shifting slightly in his chair as if trying to find the right words to dismiss her concerns without stoking her fire.

Rupert Mudcock: Missing? Come on, Dasha. He’s probably blowing off steam somewhere, or nursing a hangover. Men like him—

Dasha Ivanova (cutting him off): Do not insult my intelligence.

Her voice, now ice-cold, cut through Rupert’s patronizing tone. She straightened up, looming over his desk, her piercing blue eyes locked on his. Rupert felt the tension tighten like a noose around his neck. This wasn’t Dasha being paranoid—this was something more. Something dangerous.

Dasha Ivanova: He told me he was visiting an old friend. That was two days ago. He doesn’t just disappear, not like this.

There was a palpable fear creeping into her words, an edge Rupert hadn’t heard from her before. He leaned back in his chair, hands steepling in front of him as he tried to maintain control of the conversation.

Rupert Mudcock (sighing): You’re overreacting, Dasha. These things happen. He’s probably laying low, or maybe—

Dasha Ivanova: No. He said he’d be back. Boris is never late, Rupert. You know that.

She leaned in, her voice low, controlled, but laced with the kind of danger that made Rupert sit a little straighter. Her eyes bore into him, scanning for even the slightest hint of a lie.

Dasha Ivanova: Something happened to him, and I know it’s not random. I want answers.

The room fell into a tense silence. Rupert could feel her suspicion hanging in the air, thick and suffocating. He tried to maintain his composure, though his fingers twitched, betraying his nerves.

Rupert Mudcock (sighing, carefully choosing his words): Dasha, listen to reason. If Boris is really missing, it’s because of the Yakuza. You’ve seen what Tanaka and his thugs have been doing to our wrestlers ever since they declared war on Ultimate Wrestling.

Dasha’s lips twitched, a bitter smile curving her mouth.

Dasha Ivanova: The Yakuza? Convenient scapegoat, isn’t it?

Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but there was an undercurrent of real fear—fear she was trying to bury deep beneath her steely exterior. She turned, pacing the room with the precision of a soldier assessing a battlefield.

Dasha Ivanova: Boris and I have made enemies, yes. But it’s not just the Yakuza we’ve crossed. We’ve been living with a target on our backs since we spoke out against Putin.

She turned back to Rupert, her face hardening, the years of being under scrutiny and suspicion etched in the tightness of her features. The Kremlin loomed large in both their pasts, a shadow neither could shake.

Dasha Ivanova: The Red Reapers... they’ve been watching us. I know they’re in Japan, Rupert. You let them in.

Rupert stiffened. The name Red Reapers hung in the air like a blade, its very mention making him shift uncomfortably in his seat. His fingers tapped lightly on the desk, a subtle tic that didn’t go unnoticed by Dasha.

Rupert Mudcock (tightly): The Kremlin’s got nothing to do with this. You’re paranoid.

Dasha Ivanova (snarling): Am I? How convenient that the North Koreans, the Chinese, and the Red Reapers all showed up in Japan just after COVID. Don’t think I don’t know about the deal. Putin paid you a handsome sum, didn’t he?

She leaned in close, her voice dripping with venom.

Dasha Ivanova: I know you and Zeagal orchestrated it all, pulling the strings, greasing the palms of Japanese officials to let them in.

Rupert’s expression hardened, and his facade of calm began to crack under her accusations. For a moment, he struggled to find the right words, the silence between them growing heavier with each passing second.

Rupert Mudcock (snapping): Enough of this conspiracy crap! Boris isn’t missing because of some grand plot—he’s missing because the Yamamoto Yakuza are out for blood!

He stood up, the desk between them no longer providing any sense of safety. His voice rose, fueled by frustration and the effort to regain control of the situation.

Rupert Mudcock: They’ve been picking off our wrestlers, injuring and killing some. They declared war on us, Dasha. This is real. If Boris is gone, they’re responsible. Not Putin, not some Kremlin death squad. The Yakuza.

Dasha didn’t flinch. If anything, his outburst only confirmed what she suspected all along. She studied him for a long moment, the silence between them thick with unspoken threats.

Dasha Ivanova: I don’t believe you.

Her words were slow, deliberate. She turned her back on him, staring out the large window overlooking the Tokyo skyline. The city glowed beneath them, but for her, it was dark and full of danger.

Dasha Ivanova: Boris never would have been careless enough to get caught by the Yakuza. Not like this. I know the Kremlin has its hands in this. And if I find out you had anything to do with it...

She turned back to face him, her face an unreadable mask of cold fury.

Dasha Ivanova: I’ll make sure you regret every ruble you took. You’ll wish the Yakuza had come for you instead.

Her words hung in the air, a direct threat that hit Rupert harder than he let on. He could feel the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead, but he held his ground, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Rupert Mudcock (calmly): You’re too smart to let anger blind you, Dasha. Let’s focus on the real enemy. Boris is my asset too, remember? We want the same thing—his safe return.

Dasha didn’t respond. Instead, she straightened her posture, and with one last, cold glance in his direction, she turned on her heel and strode toward the door.

Dasha Ivanova: We’ll see.

The door slammed behind her, the echo reverberating through the room. Rupert let out a long breath, his hand absently reaching for the glass of whiskey he hadn’t touched earlier. He stared into the amber liquid, his mind racing.

Rupert Mudcock: Damn it, Boris... what have you gotten yourself into?

The camera lingered on Rupert’s face for a moment, catching the flicker of guilt and the knowledge that Boris Drago was gone for good. The camera panned to the untouched whiskey on the desk, then faded to black.

The lights in the arena dimmed as the anticipation soared to a fever pitch. The crowd murmured with excitement, their eyes glued to the entrance, knowing they were about to witness a clash of two very different warriors. The Submission Specialist Championship match was about to begin, and the tension in the air was palpable.

Miyu Kojima: Ladies and gentlemen... the following contest is scheduled for one fall and is for the Submission Specialist Championship!

A roar erupted from the audience as Miyu’s announcement echoed through the arena. The camera panned across the fans, some standing with signs in support of Oswald, others waving Mongolian flags, eagerly awaiting The Great Khan.

Suddenly, the pounding rhythm of "Wolf Totem" by The Hu rumbled through the speakers, and the crowd’s excitement turned to awe. From the shadows of the stage emerged Chuluun Bold, The Great Khan, standing 6'8" and weighing 295 pounds of pure, unrelenting force. His massive frame seemed to dwarf everything around him as he took each step with the weight of someone who commanded respect. His eyes were fixed ahead, locked onto the ring, where his next conquest awaited.

Scott Slade: Here comes the reigning Submission Specialist Champion and the reigning Ultimate Wrestling Franchise Champion, The Great Khan, Chuluun Bold. Just look at the size of him—295 pounds of Mongolian brute force.

Chris Rodgers: He’s like a living wrecking ball, Slade. The man’s a beast, and he’s dominated since his arrival here in Japan. Oswald Knight better have a death wish, getting in the ring with him.

As Chuluun marched down the ramp, the ground beneath seemed to tremble. His presence alone was enough to silence parts of the crowd, who could only stare in awe as he made his way to the ring. He unstrapped the Submission Specialist Championship from around his waist, raising it high for all to see before handing it to the referee with a deliberate, cold stare.

But before the crowd could catch their breath, a new sound cut through the air—“Deep End” by Ruelle. The haunting tones signaled the arrival of Oswald Knight, Mr. Penguin, a stark contrast to the giant who had just entered. At 5'11" and weighing only 143 pounds, Oswald bounced out onto the ramp with a surprising confidence. His slim frame was a far cry from the mountainous stature of Bold, but the crowd knew better than to count him out.

Holly Hudson: Here comes Oswald Knight! He may not have the size, but his agility and technique are his weapons. This is a true David versus Goliath match.

Oswald moved gracefully down the ramp, his eyes fixed on The Great Khan, a determined glint in his gaze. The haunting music followed him as he slid into the ring, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a lightness that seemed to mock the grounded brute standing across from him.

Scott Slade: Oswald knows exactly what kind of mountain he has to climb tonight, but if anyone can outthink and outmaneuver a giant, it’s him.

As Oswald stood in the ring, the size difference between the two competitors became even more apparent. Chuluun towered over him, his massive shoulders and bulging arms making Oswald look like a child in comparison. But there was no fear in Oswald's eyes—only focus.

Chris Rodgers: He’s a dead man, Slade. You don’t outsmart a force of nature like The Great Khan. This guy is going to get crushed.

Holly Hudson: Don’t underestimate Oswald, Chris. He’s resilient, and his speed may be the key to getting out of those submission holds.

The referee held the Submission Specialist Championship high in the air for the crowd to see, the anticipation rising to its peak. He then called both men to the center of the ring, where the two locked eyes in a long, tense stare-down.

The Great Khan sneered down at the much smaller Oswald, his lip curling in disdain. Oswald, unfazed, stared back, his body taut, ready for whatever would come next. The crowd murmured as they absorbed the contrast—the hulking, powerful Khan and the sleek, agile Penguin. Both were masters of their craft, but only one would leave with the title.

Scott Slade: Look at the tension. Neither man is backing down. This is going to be brutal.

Chris Rodgers: This little penguin's about to get smashed, and I can’t wait to see it.

The referee glanced between the two, then stepped back, signaling for the bell.

DING! DING! DING!

The match was officially underway. The crowd erupted as both men lunged at each other with the kind of intensity that promised a brutal, no-holds-barred fight for survival. Chuluun Bold wasted no time, charging straight at Oswald Knight with the force of a steam locomotive. Oswald, eyes wide, ducked under the incoming clothesline, barely escaping Bold’s outstretched arm. He hit the ropes, coming back with a flying forearm, but Bold swatted him away like a gnat.

Scott Slade: Right out the gate, Bold’s trying to end this! But Oswald’s quick on his feet.

Chris Rodgers: Bold’s a beast! Oswald’s not getting through this unscathed.

Oswald circled around the ring, eyes calculating as Bold stalked toward him. He knew he was outmatched in raw power, and as much as he liked to play mind games, Bold was not the type to be rattled easily. So, he darted back to the ropes, rebounding for a sliding dropkick aimed at Bold’s knee. It connected, and Bold staggered back—but just for a moment. Oswald, sensing an opening, rushed in with another kick to the leg, trying to chop the giant down. Bold grimaced but retaliated with a brutal forearm smash that sent Oswald tumbling across the ring. The smaller man’s chest heaved as he gasped for breath, the reality of the challenge before him settling in.

Holly Hudson: Bold’s strength is just overwhelming. Oswald’s quick, but he’s not making much of a dent.

Bold’s face twisted into a snarl as he reached down, yanking Oswald off the mat with ease. He lifted Oswald high into the air, parading him in a Gorilla Press Slam before tossing him across the ring like a ragdoll. The impact was bone-rattling as Oswald crashed hard onto the mat, wincing in pain. Oswald rolled out of the ring to catch his breath, clutching his back. The crowd was split—some booing Oswald’s evasiveness, others cheering for Bold’s dominance. Oswald smirked, soaking in the mixed reaction as he paced outside, taunting Bold with sly gestures.

Scott Slade: Oswald’s trying to get into Bold’s head. He knows he can’t win this on power alone.

Chris Rodgers: He’s going to need more than mind games. Bold’s not the kind of guy you play around with. This a man who in the past two months has defeated both Valora Salinas and Takuma Sato.

Bold, growing impatient, climbed out of the ring, stalking Oswald like a predator. But Oswald was quick, slipping back in under the ropes and catching Bold with a sliding baseball kick as he attempted to re-enter the ring. Bold stumbled, his massive frame shaking the ropes as he stood tall again, glaring daggers at Oswald. Oswald pounced with a flurry of quick strikes, targeting Bold’s knee once more. He had found the weak spot and hammered away at it, each kick landing with precision. Bold roared in frustration, but Oswald was relentless, driving him into the corner with a series of well-placed kicks.

Seizing the moment, Oswald sprinted to the opposite corner, gaining momentum for a running elbow smash. But as he charged in, Bold exploded out of the corner with a Mongolian Chop that nearly took Oswald’s head off. The crowd gasped at the impact as Oswald hit the mat hard, clutching his chest in agony.

Holly Hudson: That chop echoed throughout the entire arena! Oswald’s in serious trouble now.

Bold, breathing heavily but still in full control, grabbed Oswald by the hair, lifting him effortlessly into the air before slamming him down with a Spinebuster. The ring shook with the force of the move, and Oswald’s body bounced off the mat like a ragdoll. Bold dropped to his knees, locking Oswald in a devastating Claw Hold, his massive hand engulfing Oswald’s face. The crowd roared as Oswald flailed in desperation, his arms swinging wildly as he tried to break free.

Scott Slade: This could be it! Bold’s got that Claw locked in!

Oswald’s eyes darted around, his mind racing. With the referee’s back turned, he subtly slipped a finger into his waistband and jabbed something small and sharp into Bold’s side—a hidden shank or small blade. Bold grunted, loosening his grip just enough for Oswald to slip free. The referee missed the dirty move, but the crowd caught it, and a wave of boos washed over Oswald as he rolled to the outside, gasping for air as dark vampiric blood oozed from Bolds midsection. Chuluun Bold’s face twisted into a snarl, But his movements barely faltered, a testament to his superhuman resilience. He clutched his side for only a moment before standing tall once again, his eyes narrowing at Oswald Knight, who was smirking at the chorus of boos from the crowd.

Scott Slade: Did... did you see that? I swear Oswald just stabbed Bold with something, but Bold barely flinched!

Holly Hudson: That’s not human! Look at him! Chuluun Bold is still standing, and Oswald looks like he’s seen a ghost.

Chris Rodgers: If I didn’t know better, I’d say the guy’s indestructible. I don’t know what’s keeping Bold going, but it sure isn’t just sheer willpower.

Scott Slade: Sigro needs to disqualify Knight! Everyone in the entire arena saw that. You can’t tell me he missed it! Is he blind?

Oswald was visibly shaken now, realizing his desperate tactic didn’t have the impact he’d hoped for. He needed a new plan, and fast. Slipping back into the ring, Oswald circled Bold cautiously, his mind racing as he tried to devise a strategy to take down the behemoth. Bold, fueled by the rising pain and an unsettling hunger in his eyes, lunged forward, swinging a massive arm toward Oswald’s head. Oswald ducked just in time, slipping behind Bold and landing a swift chop block to the back of his injured knee. Bold staggered, his massive frame dipping as his leg gave way for a brief moment.

Sensing his opening, Oswald capitalized. He hit the ropes, rebounding with lightning speed, and launched himself into a low dropkick aimed at Bold’s knee once more. This time, the giant dropped to one knee, his towering height still making him an imposing figure, even while grounded.

Scott Slade: Oswald’s found his target—he’s going for that knee! This is his chance to wear the big man down!

Holly Hudson: Bold’s weakened, but it’s going to take more than a few kicks to keep him down for good.

Oswald moved in swiftly, grabbing Bold’s massive arm and wrenching it backward, locking in a modified armbar, using his body weight to try and twist the limb. He grimaced as he pulled with everything he had, hoping to at least wear down the giant’s limb strength. But Bold’s endurance was otherworldly. With a furious roar, he flexed his arm, lifting Oswald clean off the ground and throwing him across the ring as if he were nothing more than a feather. Oswald crashed into the ropes, wincing as his body collided with the steel cables.

The crowd erupted as Bold rose to his feet once more, his hand clutching the ropes for balance. The vampire’s body seemed to be healing even as the match progressed, the blood from his side now slowing to a mere trickle. The sight left the crowd murmuring in confusion and awe.

Scott Slade: What... how is he still going? There’s no way anyone should be standing after the punishment he’s taken.

Chris Rodgers: That’s not normal, Slade. It’s like Bold’s got some kind of superhuman recovery. Whatever Oswald did to him isn’t enough!

Bold’s eyes burned with a savage intensity as he marched toward Oswald, who was desperately trying to regain his composure. With a powerful grip, Bold hoisted Oswald up by the throat, lifting him high into the air before slamming him down with a vicious Choke Slam that rattled the entire ring. The crowd gasped as Oswald’s body lay motionless on the canvas, his chest heaving as he struggled for breath. Bold stood tall, wiping the remaining blood from his mouth with a sneer, his eyes fixed on his prey.

Bold pulled Oswald to his feet and locked in the Claw Hold again, his massive hand crushing Oswald’s skull with terrifying force. Oswald flailed, his legs kicking as he desperately clawed at Bold’s wrist, but the Mongolian giant wasn’t letting go this time. The pain etched across Oswald’s face was evident as his struggles grew weaker with every passing second. Just as the referee moved in to check on Oswald, looking for a potential submission, Oswald’s hand shot out, grasping for the ropes. He barely managed to hook his fingers around the bottom rope, forcing the referee to call for a break.

The crowd booed loudly as Bold, seething with frustration, was forced to release the hold. Oswald, battered and bruised, slumped against the ropes, gasping for air. His mind raced, knowing he had to outthink Bold if he had any chance of survival.

Scott Slade: I don’t know how Oswald keeps escaping, but he’s got to find a way to turn this around soon!

Chris Rodgers: He’s surviving by the skin of his teeth, Slade. But I’m not sure how much more punishment he can take.

With a surge of desperation, Oswald, still clinging to the ropes, pulled himself to his feet. His body ached, and every breath came with a sharp sting, but he knew he couldn’t give up. Summoning every ounce of strength left in him, Oswald charged at Bold with a burst of speed, hoping to catch him off guard. Bold swung wildly, but Oswald ducked beneath the blow, rebounding off the ropes and delivering a dropkick to the back of Bold’s knee. The giant collapsed to one knee again, giving Oswald the opening he needed.In a last-ditch effort, Oswald leaped onto Bold’s back, locking in the Permafrost Lock once more. His arms and legs wrapped tightly around the giant’s neck and shoulder, squeezing with everything he had. The crowd erupted as Bold flailed, trying to shake Oswald off, but the smaller man held on like a vice.

Holly Hudson: Oswald’s got the Permafrost Lock locked in tight! Could this be it?!

But Bold, with an animalistic growl, rose to his feet with Oswald still clinging to him. In an incredible display of power, he backed up into the corner, crushing Oswald against the turnbuckles with his massive frame. The impact forced Oswald to release the hold, and he crumpled to the mat, gasping for air. Bold, breathing heavily, staggered out of the corner, his eyes burning with fury. He turned, glaring down at Oswald, and moved in for the kill. The match was far from over, but the Great Khan was determined to prove that even in the face of dirty tactics, raw power and unrelenting strength would prevail.

As the match continued, Oswald Knight knew he was playing a dangerous game. Chuluun Bold had dominated most of the match with his sheer power, but Oswald was too smart to go down without using every trick in the book. He’d already dodged the worst of Bold’s assaults, but it was time to step up his strategy if he had any hope of surviving the Mongolian monster.

As Bold moved in for another crushing blow, Oswald slipped out of his reach, darting behind him and delivering a quick, sharp kick to the back of Bold’s knee. The bigger man staggered slightly, and Oswald wasted no time. With the referee’s back momentarily turned, Oswald lunged forward and raked his fingers across Bold’s eyes, blinding the giant.

Scott Slade: Oh, come on! That’s blatant cheating! Oswald’s desperate to stay in this match!

Holly Hudson: He’s trying to even the odds any way he can. Bold’s been overwhelming him with pure strength, but Oswald’s going for the dirty tactics now.

Chris Rodgers: Smart move! You do whatever it takes to win, and if that means bending the rules, so be it!

Bold growled in pain, clutching his eyes as Oswald seized the moment. With a cocky grin, he slipped behind Bold, hooking his arm around the Mongolian’s neck and locking in a sleeper hold. The crowd booed loudly as Oswald tightened his grip, but Bold’s size and power made it difficult for the smaller man to maintain control for long. Bold thrashed wildly, swinging his arms and trying to dislodge Oswald from his back. But Oswald held on, his eyes wide with determination. He knew he had to wear the big man down if he had any chance of winning.

Holly Hudson: Oswald’s doing everything he can to keep Bold off his feet, but how long can he hold on?

Scott Slade: Bold is a powerhouse, and you can see him getting more frustrated by the second. If Oswald can’t put him away soon, it’s only a matter of time before Bold snaps.

Oswald, feeling the momentum shift in his favor, delivered a stiff kick to Bold’s lower back, causing the Mongolian giant to stumble forward. Bold was visibly dazed now, and Oswald took the opportunity to leap onto the middle turnbuckle, launching himself into the air with a flying crossbody. He connected, but Bold barely moved, catching Oswald mid-air before tossing him aside with a snarl.

Oswald hit the mat hard but scrambled to his feet, desperation creeping into his expression. He knew he couldn’t match Bold’s strength, so he reached into his waistband again, pulling out a small object—a foreign object, unseen by the referee. He crouched low, ready to strike as Bold turned around.

But this time, Bold had enough.

The second Oswald lunged at him with the hidden object, Bold’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the throat. His eyes, bloodshot and filled with rage, locked onto Oswald’s. With a deep, guttural roar, Bold hoisted Oswald high into the air, his hand tightening around Oswald’s neck as the smaller man gasped for breath.

Chris Rodgers: Uh-oh. Oswald poked the bear one too many times!

Holly Hudson: Bold’s had enough! He’s about to tear Oswald apart!

In a moment of pure power, Bold slammed Oswald down to the mat with a brutal chokeslam, the impact reverberating through the ring. Oswald’s body bounced off the canvas, his face twisted in pain, but Bold wasn’t finished. The Mongolian giant’s rage had boiled over, and he wasn’t about to show mercy. With a savage growl, Bold yanked Oswald to his feet by the hair, dragging him across the ring like a ragdoll. The crowd gasped as Bold threw Oswald into the corner, delivering a series of devastating strikes—hard forearm smashes, vicious knees to the gut, and bone-crunching elbows to the head. Oswald had no time to defend himself as Bold unleashed an onslaught of violence, each blow more brutal than the last.

Scott Slade: Chuluun Bold has snapped! He’s absolutely destroying Oswald Knight!

Holly Hudson: This is what happens when you push a man like Bold too far. Oswald’s getting exactly what he asked for!

Chris Rodgers: I’ve never seen Bold like this before—he’s out for blood!

Bold’s eyes were wild, his chest heaving with fury as he grabbed Oswald by the legs, dragging him to the center of the ring. The smaller man squirmed, desperately trying to escape, but there was no way out. Bold lifted Oswald’s legs, flipping him onto his stomach before locking in a double-legged Boston Crab. The submission was locked in tight, and the pain was immediate. Oswald screamed in agony, his hands clawing at the mat as Bold sat down hard, putting immense pressure on Oswald’s lower back. The crowd erupted, watching in awe as the massive Mongolian pulled back, bending Oswald’s spine in ways it was never meant to bend.

Scott Slade: The Boston Crab! Bold’s got it locked in, and Oswald’s in serious trouble!

Oswald’s face contorted in pain, his eyes wide with panic as he reached out for the ropes. But they were too far away, and Bold was too strong. Every time Oswald tried to inch forward, Bold pulled back harder, increasing the pressure on his back.

Holly Hudson: Oswald’s got nowhere to go! He’s in the center of the ring with the Great Khan sitting on his back. There’s no escape from this!

Oswald gritted his teeth, refusing to tap out. But the pain was too much. His hand hovered over the mat, trembling as he fought to hold on. Bold, sensing victory, roared in triumph, pulling back even harder, his muscles straining as he bent Oswald’s body to its breaking point.

Finally, with no other option, Oswald slammed his hand down on the mat, tapping out in submission.

DING! DING! DING!

The bell rang, and the referee immediately called for the break. Bold released the hold, standing tall over the broken body of Oswald Knight as the referee raised his hand in victory. The crowd roared with approval, the Submission Specialist Championship still securely around the waist of The Great Khan.

Scott Slade: It’s over! Chuluun Bold retains the Submission Specialist Championship in dominant fashion!

Holly Hudson: Oswald gave it everything he had, but in the end, Bold’s strength and brutality were just too much.

Chris Rodgers: And let’s not forget—Bold isn’t human! Whatever Oswald threw at him, it just wasn’t enough to stop the Great Khan.

As Bold stood tall, the crowd’s cheers echoed through the arena. He had proven once again that he was a force to be reckoned with, a monster that could not be outsmarted or outlasted. And as Oswald lay defeated at his feet, the question remained—who could possibly stop The Great Khan?

To Be Continued In Part - 7