The Road to Wrestle Imperium
The script for my feud with Greg Hart sent shockwaves through the entire industry.
It had been two weeks since the feud began.
And roughly three weeks remained until Wrestle Imperium in early April.
While experts from all corners heaped praise on it, something rather peculiar began to happen — the experts started holding back their explanations.
Even the newsletter editors who made their living siphoning every scrap of WWF intel chose to take a step back here.
Riding in the team bus, I cocked my head at the exchange.
What's gotten into those guys?
These were the parasites who leeched every piece of company information they could get their hands on just to milk it on their radio shows — and now they wanted to just gloss over the hottest storyline going, the one between Greg and me?
"……What's going on?"
Orton asked lazily, face-down on the seat. He'd been sulking all morning about his flat reaction, muttering something about whether he'd survive to retirement age.
"Guess, ssay."
Russell tilted his head. "You didn't take some under-the-table money, did you? I'm doing that when I get cut from the company."
"You hate wrestling."
"I don't hate it. I just want to have fun and make easy money doing it."
"……."
How on earth did a guy like that become Shawn Cena's rival in the future?
Listening to the two of them banter, I smirked and explained.
"It's a dream, you could say."
"A dream?"
"Yeah. It's their own way of paying respect to Greg."
And that was exactly right.
"What about the script?"
As Orton cocked his head, Russell quickly nodded. "Oh, so it's moving? That's the point."
"Exactly. They're highlighting something most people don't even know."
"But they're staying quiet out of respect for Greg?"
"Yeah."
"Why would they bother?"
"Because that's what deepens the emotional payoff of the script."
I flashed a knowing smile.
The jeers raining down on Greg right now were, in fact, a reverse reaction — or at least, that was what we were presenting it as.
Throughout this entire build, we had cleverly exploited crowd psychology. People booed Greg because they believed he was clinging to his ambition — when the truth was something else entirely.
But what happens the moment that truth comes out?
They'll have no reason left to boo him.
We had already prepared a contingency script that would paint Greg as an irredeemable villain just in case. But it looked like we wouldn't be needing it after all.
Greg can just carry his character forward exactly as it is.
Perhaps it was because I'd sensed that this era — the most underrated era in WWF history — was drawing to a close. Everyone, from every corner, paid their respects.
And once things had unfolded that way, there was nothing left to hesitate about.
Feeling the promise of something enormous in this storyline, I rode the rest of the way to our destination in comfortable silence.
That destination was the Maxen estate in Malibu, California.
Russell and Orton nearly choked on their own tongues when they saw the sprawling garden stretching out from the massive entrance — acres and acres of manicured grounds.
Orton's soul practically left his body. "What… what IS all this?"
"What do you think? It's a mansion."
"And Tiffany Maxen inherits ALL of this someday?"
"No idea. She's got a brother — Kane Maxen — so I doubt she gets everything."
"What does Kane do?"
"Some kind of business in Asia, from what I hear."
"Ooh~."
"What?"
"Nothing, just — isn't your name about to become 'Sin Maxen' soon enough?"
"You don't even know my real name, do you?"
"……Huh?"
"You know it. Don't you?"
"Jun-Jae Kim."
"……Russell."
"Junho Kim."
Russell's pronunciation was flawless. As I narrowed my eyes at him, Orton broke into a cold sweat beside me, visibly flustered.
"Y-you don't know it either!"
"Lance Kay-Cave Orton."
At that, Orton shut his mouth like a bee had stung it.
Russell swooped in as his savior. "So, are you two getting married?"
"Guess, ssay."
The sudden question threw me off a little. Honestly, it was the second time today — Orton's 'Junho Maxen' comment had already rattled me once.
Would that actually happen?
Me, the son-in-law who married in?
No, wait — in my past life, when I married Hunter, I'm pretty sure Tiffany kept both surnames.
Tiffany Marie Maxen-Reeves.
Huh. Then in this life, if things went well, it would be Tiffany Marie Maxen Kim?
……My mind went completely blank for a moment.
Could that really happen?
I mean, obviously, I loved Tiffany now too — we shared the same goals, never fought, ate the same food. She even brushed her teeth left to right like me, and she didn't snore. Honestly, perfect compatibility.
"……."
"U-uh, Sin. Sorry. That was uncalled for. I mean, I shouldn't be prying into personal stuff like that anyway."
"What, are you two actually getting married?"
"……Orton."
"My mom always said that when you find someone to marry, you should try each family's cooking first. That way you won't end up fighting over food once you're combined."
"……What ethnicity is Maxen, anyway?"
"Irish, I'd guess. No idea if you've been eating that cuisine all along."
"Haha! Irish food?!"
Orton burst out laughing.
But more than that, I found myself worrying whether Tiffany could handle kimchi.
And wait — if we merged households someday, would my family end up putting kimchi inside bread?
"……You look troubled?"
Tiffany's eyes went wide the moment she saw me, still stewing over my unsolvable dilemma. She was wearing a dress today — something about being home, apparently — and the look was refreshingly new.
"You look beautiful today."
"Puhaha! Why so stiff all of a sudden? It doesn't suit you. Anyway, thanks for making the trip, all of you."
Tiffany drew close and planted a soft kiss on my cheek. A crisp hint of lemon teased my nose. She beamed and turned to Russell and Orton behind me.
"Welcome, you two as well."
"Th-the honor is ours!"
"Haha, no need to be so stiff. If you're Sin's friends, you're my friends too. Relax and enjoy your stay."
The three of us would be spending the night at the estate. I had business of my own to attend to, while the others were simply here to rest. Either way, after accepting Tiffany's warm hospitality, we were shown to our rooms.
"Orton, you'll take this room. Russell, the one across the hall."
"These rooms are huge."
The ceilings were absurdly high as well.
"Feels practically like the Palace of Versailles in France."
"……Versailles."
When I corrected Orton, Tiffany giggled all over again. "Anyway, you two — unpack and come downstairs. Dinner's waiting."
I asked, mildly puzzled. "Tiffany? And my room is……?"
"Hm? You have one, don't you?"
She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
After kicking Russell and Orton — each snickering — one good time apiece, I headed to Tiffany's room and unpacked my things. Then, after a dinner so extravagant Orton was nearly moved to tears, I got straight to work.
Outside, night had fallen completely. Guided around to the back of the estate by Tiffany, I first laid eyes on an enormous outdoor pool — and along one side of it, a projector beaming a standby screen onto a massive display across the water.
"……I'm dying of envy here."
"Hehehe, for the record, I watch every single pro wrestling broadcast on this thing."
"I'll be visiting often, then."
Exchanging light banter, we settled into the lounge chairs set up behind the screen and got down to talking 'business.'
As I said — Russell and Orton were here to rest. I wasn't.
"Is the material ready?"
"Everything's prepared exactly as you asked. Although…… may I ask you one thing?"
"What is it?"
"What exactly did you need this much footage for?"
"It's material for the feud."
"How are you planning to use it?"
What I'd requested from Tiffany was video footage of John Michaels and Greg Hart in their prime.
Fortunately, the WWF had released it on DVD, so there was plenty of it still in circulation.
"I'm going to mock the era of Greg Hart and John Michaels."
"……Are you sure that's wise?"
"It has to be done. That's the frame our whole feud was built on, isn't it?"
The hottest new-generation star versus the last surviving pillar of the old guard.
"I just wonder — you're the babyface. Is it really okay for you to be mocking anyone?"
"For now, maybe."
I smiled. "But over the next three weeks, that reaction is going to shift, little by little."
"In what way?"
"The people who remember the past will start cheering for Greg instead."
"Which means……"
Tiffany fell into brief contemplation. "You're going to recreate the past and strike a nerve with his pride, aren't you?"
"That's the idea."
When I mocked him in a way that stung, Greg would push back — and in doing so, drag out the truth of what his past actually looked like.
And from there, he would come to realize just how far his present self had fallen. The script built itself.
And then, finally — the hero, Greg Hart, would throw everything he had into his battle against me.
"That's brilliant."
Letting out a low whistle, Tiffany picked up the remote. A moment later, footage from 1996 flickered to life across the giant screen. I sank into my lounge chair, and Tiffany settled in beside me, resting her head on my arm.
Champion Greg Hart versus challenger John Michaels — the WWF Championship Match. The match of two young lions rolled on beneath the announcers' commentary.
[He's walking on the sky itself!]
[Whoa!]
[No — he's on the canopy! This man has a talent for astonishing us every single time, folks! Headliner! Main eventer!]
With the announcer's introduction, John Michaels made his appearance — on the canopy of a dome stadium packed with 100,000 fans.
[THE HEARTBREAK KID!! JOHN MICHAELS IS DESCENDING!!]
Back then, in front of 100,000 spectators, John Michaels had made his entrance by zip-lining down from the roof of the arena along the house line rope.
His theme hit, a hundred thousand people erupted, and his body soared through the air. It was a historic sight.
"That's…… incredible."
"That stunt bled money like you wouldn't believe. They needed specialists, camera rigs, perimeter safety crews — John even went through separate safety training for it."
"Hmm."
"And even then, if you look closely, the calculations were off — he had to stop midway and climb down the rest of the way. A genuinely dizzying moment."
Tiffany shuddered at the shoulders.
Then a thought struck me. John Michaels back then was unquestionably a rising deity.
But because Greg Hart stood on the opposite side of him, he was able to draw far more reaction still.
Come to think of it, it had always been that way.
Captain Logan and Gigante. Greg Hart and John Michaels. Rock Cold and Bart Maxen.
Or The Pock.
And lastly, Shawn Cena and……
"You know, that could look pretty spectacular."
At that very moment, Tiffany Maxen floated an idea. "Hm?"
"That zip-line descent. The arena's gotten so much bigger now — it would look absolutely breathtaking."
"That thing?"
The idea intrigued me considerably, and I gave her words my full attention. She'd been tossing out fun ideas the entire time we'd been watching the footage.
That could be fun.
Weighing what the future had in store against what was unfolding now, I thought I could probably assemble one hell of a segment.
When John Michaels returned in 2005, he worked as a babyface for the rest of his career, always drawing huge reactions.
But at one point — feuding with 'Captain Logan,' who had returned around the same time — he'd briefly turned heel.
Roughly a month of playing the villain.
Michaels had unleashed his degenerate brilliance to its fullest extent, baiting the crowd with everything he had. Using Hogan's age against him, he birthed what was, by any measure, a legendary segment.
I had drawn my inspiration from that segment to design this one.
Greg and John listened to my pitch with evident interest.
"I'm going to mock the two of you over your age."
"How, exactly?"
"I'll draw wrinkles on my face, wear an outfit that's a proper mashup of your two attires — and I'll make my entrance in a wheelchair."
"To my music?"
"That part is essential."
In a few short words, Greg caught on to the concept I was going for. Michaels, on the other hand, regarded Greg with some concern.
"Are you going to be all right with this, senpai?"
"Hm? Sounds like fun to me."
"I just worry it might make your final bow end on an ugly note."
"Nah. Sending each other off on the highest possible note — that's our way, isn't it?"
"Um, hold on a second."
I paused to set the tone. There was something the two of them were misunderstanding.
"I don't actually want to trash Greg's legacy. That'd be a one-dimensional cheap shot, wouldn't it?"
"Then what would you do?"
"I want to fight the people's hero — Greg Hart — and beat him."
Only then would his final run shine, and the winner — me — walk away with my image fully intact.
"So when I mock you and deny everything you were, you'll tell me: if I truly believe that, then step into the ring and fight me."
"……Ahh."
Greg nodded slowly. "And from there, we deny it — and show the audience the old footage with our own hands."
"Exactly. That way it doubles as an education for the fans who never saw you two in your prime."
"And watching all that, I reclaim the will to fight one last time?"
"That's right. And on those finer details, honestly, the two of you are far better suited to craft them than I am."
"A fantastic idea."
Greg smiled.
What this really was, you could say, was quiet groundwork to restore Greg and John's prestige to the heights of their golden era. Only then would the drama land perfectly when I retired Greg for good.
And my own standing will climb even higher with it.
Pro wrestling was, in the end, a drama played out on a stage, and the short-term wins and losses mattered surprisingly little. What mattered was how vast a picture you could paint on the far side of defeat.
Seen in that light, losing the Intercontinental Championship had been a genuinely beautiful piece of storytelling — it gave me a reason to beat Greg while simultaneously winning the crowd over to his side.
And with that, the preparations were complete.
The month of shows leading up to Wrestle Imperium carries a special name: the 'Road to Wrestle Imperium.' Simply put, it means the journey toward Wrestle Imperium itself.
Now that month had been whittled down to three weeks remaining — Monday Night Burning Kong.
When I stepped out of the locker room, the crowd of staff burst out laughing. The outfit I was wearing was beyond ridiculous.
Simmons, one of the few who actually remembered that era, saw through it instantly.
"PUHAHAHA! That's too far, man!"
"What do you think of the current look?"
"You're going OUT there like that?! Wow, you really are…… a lunatic. Genuinely."
"Booker, thoughts?"
"Don't talk to me. I'm embarrassed for you."
"What a cold-hearted man you are."
I poked Booker in the ribs as he did his best to avert his gaze — and the white wig slid down into my eyes.
Right now I was dressed as what could only be described as an absurd, comic mashup of Greg Hart and John Michaels. Wrinkles drawn across my face, one cracked lens in my sunglasses, a leather jacket with the sleeves torn clean off.
Toddle along with a trembling shuffle, and you'd swear you were looking at a decrepit old man with something badly wrong with him.
As every crew member who caught sight of me dissolved into laughter, I made my way to Gorilla Position. Greg and Michaels, already waiting there, couldn't hold it in either.
"Isn't this a bit much?"
"Man, you're REALLY walking out like that?"
"Don't I look magnificent?"
"That's not the issue, but…… don't look behind you. Bart is glaring daggers into your back right now, and I mean daggers."
"He's probably praying I drop dead on the spot."
"He wouldn't actually, though. Right?"
"Of course not."
And so I waited for the show to begin.
The atmosphere was unmistakable. People who saw my clownish getup and prayed, earnestly, that I would fail. Not just Bart — anyone who simply disliked me, or stood against me politically.
But just as numerous were the ones who believed in me and wanted to see this succeed.
The opening video played, and then came a recap package once again compressing last week's chapter of the Greg–Sin feud.
The fallen hero, Greg Hart.
And the rising deity, Sin.
I felt it was time. I lowered myself into the wheelchair we'd prepared — and one of the staff, who'd agreed to help with the bit, took hold of the handles.
"I'm counting on you."
"Yes, sir!"
He seemed a little nervous, honestly. Which was probably better anyway.
[Monday Night Burning Kong! And we are LIVE!]
With the commentator's call, the sound director gave me my signal.
[Keeeeeeeeeeee—!]
A searing guitar riff tore through the arena.
[Boooooooooooooo!!]
The crowd, waiting for exactly this moment, unleashed a tidal wave of boos toward Greg — and with my head hung low, I began my performance, shambling along like a chicken with its neck wrung.