Player Number 23
♪ "Yeah, WE Comin' now!" ♪
The sixth entrant was, of all people, Bubba Ray Dudley.
As explosive rock music thundered through the arena, he climbed into the ring to the crowd's feverish roar.
And then he began mercilessly beating the hell out of me.
"Kugh?!"
He was hitting me for real.
Bubba Ray Dudley. A tag-team specialist, famous alongside D-Von Dudley as the Dudley Boyz, an all-out big family gimmick. This man's defining trait was his merciless aggression. In truth, he didn't bother pulling his punches — against opponents at his own level or below, he hit for real, and the impact was, frankly, enormous.
……So I hit him back, real too.
CRACK!
A chop, swung with everything I had.
SMACK!
A shot straight to the face.
Bubba staggered backward, staring at me with bewildered eyes.
Ah~ this is fun.
I flashed a wide grin and demanded an attack. Bubba grinned right back and threw a fist my way.
After a hammering exchange, Bubba hoisted me up with all his strength and slammed me down flat.
A body slam.
BOOM!
I lay sprawled and motionless for a while — and taking advantage of that, Bubba turned around to help out J-Train.
Russell was down, and Bubba smashed his chest into J-Train's — his temporary partner (?), of all people — and bellowed at the top of his lungs.
"J-TRAIN!!"
The Dudley Boyz had won people over through steady activity, a fierce obsession with putting opponents through tables, and a devastating move called the 3-D. And the crucial thing about the 3-D was that it was a combination finisher — a move performed by two people together. D-Von grabs the charging opponent's legs and lifts them up, while at the same moment Bubba leaps to snatch the head — and the two of them fall backward together.
The 3-D.
The beauty of this move was that it worked just fine even without D-Von or Bubba on hand.
J-Train looked around, bewildered, and the fans who caught on erupted into a massive cheer.
By then I'd gotten up and was stumbling toward Bubba, ready to attack him —
— and J-Train, who had just shoved Bubba away, grabbed my legs on the spot and lifted me.
A dizzying follow-up. Bubba, moving with shocking agility for a man his size, launched himself into the air and snatched my head.
THWAAACK—!
The 3-D landed with a glorious crash. The crowd went absolutely insane, chanting J-Train and Bubba's names over and over.
The problem was that the next number belonged to D-Von Dudley.
Number seven.
The moment D-Von stepped into the ring, he marched straight up to Bubba and started interrogating him. D-Von was Black and Bubba was white — not actual blood brothers — but they were every bit as close as the real thing.
"You pulled off a 3-D without ME?!"
"Wh-what?!"
Furious, D-Von launched a full-on assault on Bubba.
The brothers' brawl nobody saw coming broke out, and the audience burst out laughing. J-Train tried to break it up, but no one was stopping an enraged D-Von.
I got back to my feet again, woozy, trying to shake the cobwebs loose —
— and the approaching D-Von demanded that I chop his chest. Hard!
"……?"
[3-D! 3-D! 3-D! 3-D! 3-D! 3-D! 3-D! 3-D! 3-D! 3-D!]
A relentless 3-D chant.
Startled, I turned around — then swung a thunderous chop into D-Von's chest and roared along with them.
"D-VOOON!!"
[3-D!!]
A cry like rolling thunder.
"GRAAAAGH!!"
Bellowing, D-Von grabbed the legs of the staggering Bubba and lifted him up.
I leapt magnificently, seized Bubba's head, and dropped straight down with him.
BOOM!!
"YEAH!"
I screamed my own cheer.
I did it!
That I got to pull off this beautiful move in the ring, helping D-Von himself!
Give me number eight!
With that thought, I turned toward the entrance ramp — and my eyes went round in a hurry.
♪ "Can you dig it, SUCKA~~!!" ♪
Out came Booker-Lee.
Number eight. As a main eventer, he was a man with a connection even to me.
Which was exactly why I turned to look at Russell with a strange, complicated feeling stirring in my chest.
A former partner.
And the partner before that.
The drama that spilled out of those pairings was what dragged people into a match.
That was what the Rumble was built on.
Just as some people walk into your life, wrestlers carry careers. The Rumble reaches into that career, takes out the brightest, most shining part of it, and puts it on display — a wonderful flourish you can only get away with in a Rumble match.
And so the match rolled on, with wrestlers entering and getting eliminated in an endless cycle.
Even so, every single man who went over the top rope drew at least one enormous pop from the crowd. Whether their throats simply refused to give out, the reactions stayed at an absolute fever pitch.
And the match pressed forward along one unbroken through-line.
Number twelve, Jack Hardy.
Number fifteen, Shawn Cena.
Number eighteen, Lance Orton.
We cooperated, we fought, and one by one we eliminated the main eventers who stood above us.
Number eight, Booker-Lee.
Number thirteen, Gert Angel.
Number sixteen, Kane.
But at number twenty-three, the momentum of the young guns had no choice but to cool.
♪ "Dead man… Walking." ♪
The Casket-Taker.
Every wrestler's dream — and every wrestler's nightmare.
Rolling out astride a Harley-Davidson, he strode into the arena and began sweeping the rest of us away, one and all.
[Taker! Taker! Taker! Taker! Taker! Taker! Taker! Taker!]
The ovation was colossal.
From the back of the ring, I spotted Russell going down helplessly under the Taker's assault.
Then it was my turn. I charged the Taker with all the bravado I could muster, throwing fists, hurling myself at him —
— but before long he had me by the throat, and with that impossible strength of his, he lifted me straight up into the air.
WHAM!
A chokeslam.
Flattened by the crushing move, I went flying, tumbling across the ring apron. I scrambled into a corner, played dead, and simply watched the match unfold.
As the Lead Boy, this was how I read the flow of the match.
The Taker beat Jack Hardy down without a shred of mercy.
And right at that moment, the countdown ran out and Matt Hardy made his entrance.
Number twenty-four. Matt came out to a huge pop thanks to his brother's presence, and immediately went on the attack against the Taker.
The two of them pressed the Taker harder than expected, keeping the offense rolling…… or so I thought. It was nothing but an illusion.
Jack and Matt found themselves seized in the Taker's grip and eliminated from the ring one after the other.
It was overwhelming strength. None of us, not yet, could stand against the Taker.
He circled the ring with that gravel-voiced charisma, then locked onto Orton as his next target and started his attack.
Still flat on my back, recovering my stamina, I gave an instruction to Russell, who was lying right beside me.
"Russell. Your turn."
Hearing that, Russell groaned and hauled himself up, charging the Taker.
The Taker began driving Russell into the corner without pause. He displayed his overwhelming dominance, and before long Russell was slumped in the corner, arms draped over the top ropes, sunk down to the mat in total defeat.
The Taker had completely cleaned house.
He turned around and raised one arm to the rafters, as if declaring himself the undisputed king of this place.
An uncharacteristic gesture — and the Taker calls came pouring down. No matter how well we did, was there simply no beating the Taker?!
……And to that faintly deflating bit of storytelling, I prepared my answer.
The Taker, standing at the center of the ring, charged straight at Russell — one huge leg swinging up, the Big Boot, the move that leaves a bootprint across your face.
But Russell slipped out of the way with flawless timing.
"Kugh?!"
The Taker's leg sailed clean over the top turnbuckle, his body wedging itself on the ropes.
Seizing the opening, I charged in and grabbed the Taker's leg — and lifted.
Over the top rope he went.
[Ooooooooooooohhhhhhh!!]
The crowd was stunned.
The Taker had been eliminated from the Rumble match without ever coming close to winning it!
Truly an unprecedented event!
Even so, the people sent their cheers our way. It was proof that the rookies' characters were landing.
"Haha, Taker! How's that?!"
Leaning over the ropes, I gleefully taunted the Taker below. He dusted himself off and rose, staring up at me like he couldn't believe his eyes.
The match carried on.
Forty minutes had passed. I steadied my breathing and took the temperature of the ring.
Eight wrestlers remained in total. Us four, who would survive as the Final Four — plus two mid-carders and two low carders.
Cena and Orton, who had entered in the relatively late stages, kept carrying the match forward.
But the cheers cooled somewhat there. Orton and Cena weren't yet at the point where their in-ring craft had fully matured, the way mine had.
Then twenty-four and twenty-five came out, and number twenty-six kept injecting fresh life into the match.
But the true climax came at twenty-eight.
KEEEEEEEEEIIIN—!!
The final main eventer of tonight's match. With the entrance of Greg Hart, the atmosphere blazed back to life.
[Yeeeeeaaaaahhhhhh!!]
The crowd welcomed his arrival with absolutely ferocious heat.
Greg sprinted to the ring, vaulted in — and attacked me on the spot.
"Kugh?!"
By selling it as hard as I did, I cranked the atmosphere up another notch all over again.
Russell even joined in on his uncle's house-cleaning, and an impromptu Hart Family tag team was born. The two of them caught Cena and Orton and locked in Sharpshooters at the same time.
In the blink of an eye, Greg was colonizing the ring with his charisma alone.
Having cleared out every wrestler except the Final Four, he next designated me as his target.
"Nghk?!"
Seized by the back of the neck, I took the full force of that still-brimming strength. Caught in a suplex, thrown out cold by a slam — with my stamina completely drained, I couldn't put up any resistance at all.
And then I was shoved against the third rope, driven to the very brink of elimination.
"Ghhh……!"
Greg pushed against me, determined to shove the man clinging to the ropes out by any means necessary.
The countdown announcing entrant twenty-nine began.
[10! 9! 8! 7! 6! 5! 4! 3! 2! 1……!]
BEEEEEEEEEP—!
The buzzer sounded — and what followed was music nobody could possibly have predicted.
Stacey Chigler.
[Waaaaaaaaaaaagghhhh!!]
Every man's fantasy.
The WWF Diva whose allure lived in her 180-centimeter frame and endlessly long legs.
The instant she appeared, the wrestlers in the ring froze mid-motion.
She came out in a short dress, swaying her hips just so, and in a single heartbeat she owned the entire atmosphere of the arena.
Truly incredible, honestly.
Grinning even as I hung on for dear life, I had all but forgotten a show was in progress. All the bodies we'd thrown around out here, and she was charismatic enough to steal every ounce of this attention in a single moment.
Granted, part of the fuss was undoubtedly the blazing question of why on earth Stacey was entering a men's Rumble.
Her target was me.
Greg moved to intercept Stacey as she climbed onto the apron.
"Get down, Stacey. A men's Rumble is in progress."
"Excuse me? Who decided a Rumble was for men only? Can't I enter and go after Wrestle Imperium too?"
Slipping into the ring in that exact moment, I crept up behind Greg, clamped a firm grip on the back of his neck —
— pivoted my body, and hurled him with everything I had over the top rope.
With a perfect throw, Greg tumbled clean over the third rope and crashed to the floor below.
Elimination.
[Uuuuoooooooooooohh!!]
The crowd screamed all over again at Greg's absurd elimination.
Gulping down ragged breaths, I met eyes for a moment with Greg, who sat on his rear on the arena floor.
"……."
He shook his head slowly, brushed off his backside, and walked out of the arena. I watched his retreating figure for a beat, then turned back toward the ring.
"Stacey……."
"How was that? Nailed it, right?"
I answered her question with a sigh and a shake of my head — then scooped Stacey up into my arms in one motion.
"Kyaa♡"
……She is way too good at acting.
Playing the sexy, adorable woman to perfection, Stacey kicked her long legs — her signature selling point — high into the air the instant I lifted her.
I lifted her over the third rope and set her down outside.
"You'd better win!"
Blowing me a kiss, Stacey made her exit amid a wall of cheers.
"Damn it."
Shaking my head, I turned to face the three men standing before me.
Shawn Cena.
Russell Hart.
Lance Orton.
While I'd been working the spot with Stacey and Greg, the three of them had been running their own portion of the match the whole time.
And on perfectly matched timing, the four of us each took a separate corner, sizing each other up.
The fans began thundering our names, each section of the crowd roaring for their own favorite.
But two of the chants rose above all the rest.
[Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena!]
[SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN!]
But it wasn't over yet — the final entrant had yet to make his entrance.
The screen lit up with the number 10.