The 30,000-Dollar Man

A few days had passed since then.

We carried on as usual. We trained and trained, and in the meantime, the aspiring wrestlers kept washing out of the tryout. They would watch my matches ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with Russell, then come asking for advice far too late to do them any good.

In the end, four men survived.

Me and Russell.

Eddie Morris, an elite Black rookie out of New York who stood over two meters tall.

And finally, Shawn Cena.

He barely squeaked by, honestly.

I remembered how Cena had only just barely managed to take a proper bump on a body slam right before Baku was about to kick him out for good. If he'd failed that one, we never would have become classmates.

Just thinking about it gave me chills. Because if it weren't for Cena, my training routine would have wandered aimlessly down the lost road, just like Forrest Gump.

I was lost in that thought when I noticed Baku standing right in front of my face.

"Wha—?! What is it?!"

"You little punk. I'm trying to talk to you here and you're not even paying attention?"

"......I'm paying attention. I am."

I sighed and backed away, and Baku snorted at me.

And so, once every examination was over, we gathered at the training facility one last time to make our vows for the future—or something in that vein.

Except the number of successful candidates wasn't four.

It was eight.

At the sound of a giggle, I looked up to see a group of small young women watching me with obvious interest. That's right—the women's division had been running its own tryouts all along.

"Anyway. Yeah. You lot are going to sign official contracts with this GCW and train here from now on."

Baku's expression was unusually serious.

"Any one of you could become the future WWF World Champion. And some of you won't."

His gaze landed on me.

"But I intend to train every single one of you as if you have the talent to become that first one. Am I understood?"

We answered as one, a booming "Yes, sir!" and Baku laughed heartily, satisfied.

"Good. Good. Now, one at a time, come into the office. The rest of you, keep practicing on your own."

So he's going to show us the contract.

More precisely, he wanted to talk terms.

How much did I get last time, again?

I distinctly remembered it not being much. Back then, I'd scraped through by the skin of my teeth, after all.

But I did get paid.

Around $5,000?

And even that was only because Baku had taken pity on the poor kid and lobbied for about twenty percent extra on my behalf.

Yet even after I'd made the main event, my treatment never really changed. An annual salary of $100,000. No additional royalties. No merchandise. No t-shirt line. I was ignored, thoroughly and completely.

It looked like a lot on paper, but the WWF was a global corporation. Its main eventers were pulling in around $10 million a year before bonuses and royalties even entered the picture.

How much will I get this time?

As I sank into thought, Cena was the first to emerge from the office, standing stiff as a board, the contract fluttering openly in his hand.

At least put it in an envelope.

No—knowing Cena, he probably didn't even realize it needed one.

Snorting a laugh, I dropped into a bridge pose and watched each candidate file in and out of the office. Some wept with joy. Some cried outright. Some simply nodded, as if it were only natural.

That was the kind of place the WWF was.

"Jun, you're up."

Russell, the last one out, pointed at the firmly closed office door.

I switched out of the pose, stood, and walked inside with my mind wiped clean.

"Oh, there you are. Been waiting."

Baku, seated behind the table, slid a sheet of paper across to me. The line marked Signing Bonus sat there, completely blank.

"Write down whatever amount you want."

"......?"

"Seems to me like the right move is to just give you whatever you ask for. I'm taking responsibility for it, so have at it! Write a number that matches your ambition! Kahahahat!"

"Understood."

"So how much are you writing?"

"One hundred billion dollars."

"Kahaha! Knock yourself out!"

Baku was still laughing when I wrote the very first digit—a 1—and his eyes, buried in muscle, went wide as saucers.

"......You're actually writing it?"

"You told me to write whatever I wanted."

"No—no, my bad. That was on me. Let's actually talk this through."

"You could've led with that."

I set down the pen, mulled it over for a moment, and then named my price.

"Twenty thousand dollars. Please."

"Twenty thousand......?"

"Russell probably took home about ten, so isn't that a fair bump for me? Not to mention I won't have to worry about falling out of the chairman's favor, so you'll get plenty of mileage out of me."

"How on earth do you know our company's finances in that much detail......"

"I'll be responsible for putting asses in the seats for the time being, so let's make it twenty."

I grinned. Baku fell deep into thought.

Hmmm, hmm...... He'd think of something, recall it, decide that wasn't it, and sink right back into deliberation. I smirked.

"Then tell me—who's the highest-paid signee in GCW history?"

"Hmm. We debuted him, but he's since jumped to another promotion—Samoa Goe took $15,000."

"Then twenty thousand. Please."

"......Wait. Hearing that, shouldn't you be talking yourself down to match?"

"Samoa Goe only left because he couldn't adapt to the WWF and jumped to TMA, didn't he? I've got no such concerns, so pay me."

TMA was another American pro wrestling promotion, roughly one-hundredth the size of the WWF.

"N-no, well. You never know how people turn out."

"As a man, Baku, have you ever once seen me say one thing and then take it back?"

The momentum had swung to me. I stared up at him with bright, eager eyes while he squirmed.

"Phew. Fine...... It's true that the guys I've trained—no, there wasn't even much to train. Out of every trainee I've ever watched come through here, you're the best. That part's true."

He toyed with the pen in his hand.

"But listen here, Junho Kim."

He remembers my full name.

Was that how much affection he had for me? Looking at his eyes, it seemed so.

"This business is a hard road. Why do you think Booker-Lee didn't get to be World Champion this time around?"

"Because he came from a promotion the WWF absorbed?"

"That's a side issue."

Baku averted his gaze.

Truthfully, I knew exactly what he was trying to say.

Race. He was worried about me collapsing in front of an unclimbable wall.

Even so, I gave him a slow, deliberate nod.

"Then promise me this."

"What?"

"Before I retire, by any means necessary, I will become the WWF World Heavyweight Champion."

"......You do realize not a single Asian champion has ever existed in WWF history?"

"I do. Everyone from Japan who's active right now has barely touched a jobber streak, a tag belt, or a hardcore title—that's the whole extent of it."

"And yet you believe you can surpass all of them and become great?"

"That's exactly what I'm going to do."

I said it with complete sincerity.

"I swear it. And if I'm the one making the money, even a lunatic like Bartholomew Maxen won't be able to stop treating me like his crown jewel."

"......Fine. You win."

Baku let out a long sigh.

"Come to think of it, I owe you an apology, Junho. I'm the one who said I'd treat you as a future World Champion."

"Everyone makes mistakes."

"Which is why you're writing down thirty thousand."

"I'm sorry—what?"

"The way I see it, you've got at least twice the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠talent Samoa Goe does. So we're betting on that."

"Is Harley going to approve this?"

"He'll have no choice."

Baku flashed a sly grin. Then he slipped his hand deep into his pants and rummaged around in there—and pulled out a newspaper.

No. Why on earth was that in there.

I could feel the cold sweat breaking out as Baku thrust it toward me.

"Read it, ya scamp."

"No, why do you keep calling me that since that day—"

"Just ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠read."

I took the newspaper. A few pages in, a musty smell wafted up from the paper—Baku's scent. Fighting down my gag reflex, I kept turning pages until I found it: my face, in the Arts & Culture section.

"......?"

There was an old Korean children's song, I seemed to recall—I wanna be on TV~. Well, it wasn't television. It was a newspaper. And a fairly big one at that.

There was the shabby photo they'd taken of me when I'd first come in as a tryout ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠candidate. But the journalist, Robin Connor, had wrapped it up beautifully.

"......A freak show, huh."

I snorted. I'd like to think I'm far too handsome to appear in a freak show.

He'd written such a wonderful article from just a few words out of my mouth. I was genuinely moved.

"Great article, isn't it?"

"Yes. It really is."

"That journalist fella brought his kids to the last show. And he was asking why you didn't appear."

"You could've told him I was off learning Tai-Ken-to."

"Kahaha. Now that's discrimination. Anyway—everyone who heard what you said that night was moved by it."

Baku held out the pen.

"Write it down. Thirty thousand dollars."

Accepting it, I did exactly as he proposed and wrote $30,000 with my head held high.

The largest signing bonus in GCW history.

"Good. Still, better safe than sorry—let me go run this by Harley first."

With a smile, Baku squared his shoulders and strutted proudly out of the office.

About five minutes later, despite that enormous frame of his, Baku shuffled back in looking distinctly sheepish.

"Th-thirty thousand's a no-go, apparently......"

"......"

Even a pro wrestler famous for being a human weapon, once retired, is ultimately just another office worker.

......We settled on twenty thousand in the end.

With the contract signed, we threw ourselves straight into GCW's training program.

The curriculum was extensive. Beyond the conditioning that formed the foundation, and the technique drills, we learned how to actually conduct a match all over again. On top of that, we were instructed in vocal projection and performance techniques for working the crowd from inside the ring.

A pro wrestler is an entertainer. Acting ability was every bit as important as in-ring skill. Fortunately, drawing on the experience of my past life, I found my footing quickly.

So that we could focus on training, we didn't cross paths with the other wrestlers for a long stretch. Dorm, training facility, dorm, training facility. Occasionally downtown on the weekends. Repeating that cycle over and over, I built up my competitive edge piece by careful piece.

The body, first of all.

Youth in your early twenties is a dazzling thing. Every time I ate and trained, I could feel muscle stacking onto my frame, pound by pound. Of course, the fact that I'd already used my body hard in my previous life counted for a lot too.

Even so, I grew it with careful, deliberate calculation. Bulging, overflowing muscle is a great asset for a pro wrestler, but I didn't chase it for its own sake—chasing it can cost you your athletic performance. So I built muscle with balance in mind.

And to develop that muscle into something that actually worked, I trained in several martial arts beyond pro wrestling.

Amateur wrestling. Boxing. Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Muay Thai.

Those four.

Fortunately, GCW was full of experts in all these disciplines. Every one of them had failed at life somewhere and drifted here. But their skills were the real deal, and they worked as trainers, quietly passing their techniques down to the roster.

I was probably the first to ever ask to learn in earnest, because they all gave me looks of genuine surprise.

It'll come in handy one day.

With that thought, I drove myself relentlessly into the training. I had a basic foundation in all of them, but the experts were on another level entirely. When I bought the necessary equipment out of my own pocket just to beg for their instruction, the teachers threw themselves into teaching me with everything they had.

And so the summer passed.

"Good, Jun. Very well done."

The man teaching me boxing was an old-timer named Mikey, who'd worked as a trainer for years back in the day. These days he was hiding from loan sharks and working at GCW, and he raised my understanding of boxing to a whole new level.

"Thank you."

"Yeah, I don't know where you plan to use all this, but you'd make a decent tough-luck fighter at this rate."

He'd started out calling me "Punching Bag," and now he was giving me credit. The other teachers were the same. They'd all doubted me at first, and now it was the exact opposite.

My understanding of combat sports from my past life was what made it possible.

Well. Still a long way to go.

With that thought, I headed into the showers to wash off a body soaked head to toe in sweat. Under the hot water, as the fatigue drained away, I checked out my frame in the mirror.

Three months of training. I now had, unmistakably, the hard, impressive body of a true pro wrestler.

Nice work, Junho Kim.

Feeling fired up, I admired my own physique, striking pose after pose.

And that was the exact moment it happened.

"Jun......"

The door burst open and Baku strode in. He froze for a solid moment at the sight of me mid-pose.

I froze too.

"J-just—finish up and come talk to me."

Flustered, he answered himself, wiped his hands on the door, and quietly slipped back outside.

Damn it all.

Having been caught in such an embarrassing scene, I wanted to die.