The Answer of the Sharpshooter
Fireworks erupted behind me.
The crowd's reaction was thunderous. Two hundred thousand people had risen from their seats and were going absolutely wild — the tremor of it carried all the way up here.
But in stark contrast to the response I'd just pulled out of them, I was thinking something profoundly unromantic.
I almost got my legs caught on the way down.
It had been a stunt for the ages, truly. Even with every precaution layered on top of every precaution, leaping down from dozens of meters with the crowd spread out below was no small thing.
Still, I did it.
And the reaction it earned was cooler than anything I'd imagined.
[SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN!]
Everyone was welcoming me with everything they had. I thrust both arms into the air, answered their roar, and climbed straight into the ring.
Greg Hart was smiling. Perhaps seeing me ride the zip line down had brought back old memories.
We faced each other once more.
The referee stepped between us and lifted the Intercontinental Championship belt high. But I didn't spare the belt so much as a glance — I looked only at Greg, and steeled my resolve all over again.
Tonight, I was going to shatter Greg Hart and take the era for myself.
The arena fell silent for a moment. The crowd watched intently as the two of us underwent the referee's pre-match inspection, every eye locked on the ritual. For a match of this magnitude, the theatrics were meant to be drawn out and grand.
And so, after savoring the tension to its fullest—
Bell! Bell! Bell!
The match began.
[Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhh!!]
Only then did the crowd's long-suppressed roar burst free.
Greg and I, like two gunslingers in an open field, kept our distance and circled each other lightly around the ring, letting the atmosphere build. We'd agreed to bring this match along slowly, letting it climb pitch by pitch. Part of it was Greg's stamina — but honestly, it wasn't a match that needed to start hot anyway. The reason was simple.
[SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN!]
[Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart!]
We'd laid the groundwork properly. Even with the crowd simply standing there, the reactions came pouring in. Two hundred thousand voices chanting was utterly overwhelming — the kind of sound that rivaled a clash between nations.
Right after that, Greg stomped the mat hard and charged straight at me. But I ignored his signal to start chain wrestling and slipped casually to the side.
"......?!"
Greg stopped dead in his tracks and looked back over his shoulder. I shrugged with an exaggerated air, playing mind games with him.
Which was when Greg closed in from the side and cracked me hard across the cheek.
Smack—!
[Woooooooooo!]
The crowd shrieked. I'd taken it for real — I licked the stinging, burning taste off my cheek and smiled. Then, in return, I laid one right across the face of Greg, who stood there looking utterly composed.
No holding back. Full power.
Smack—!
Greg's head snapped around. But he smiled the same way I had, and swung his fist without a beat of hesitation.
The speed escalated in an instant.
[Waaaaaaaaaaghhhh!!]
As we began trading hammering blows back and forth, the crowd cheered us on. Like an engine finally turning over — or like two racehorses bursting into a full gallop.
Trading those heavy hands, I pushed Greg back exactly as we had planned. But the moment he felt himself being driven off his feet, Greg dropped flat to the mat. Then, timing it to the instant my arm sliced through empty air, he crawled in behind me and initiated chain wrestling.
The classical style. Somewhat less flashy.
And yet the people roared for even this. As I said — the script was one thing, but—
This guy is ridiculous......?
Greg's craft was on another level entirely. His speed existed in a different dimension. Above all, he was safe. When he wrenched my arm it felt like it might snap — but that was only because he twisted it with such surgical precision that it looked that way. It was craft worthy of the name Greg Hart.
Shall I try keeping up, then?
I wanted to test something on him. A skill I'd learned in GCW — the technique of applying a subtle delay as you executed a move, making the impact look devastating while quietly tipping your opponent off to the timing of the bump ahead of time.
Using it, I kept the chain wrestling flowing with Greg Hart. The pace climbed higher and higher, and in no time Greg was drenched in sweat.
Time to let him catch his breath.
Having sent the signal, I began to seize control of the match. One of my signature moves — I caught Greg's body as it came rocketing off the rope rebound, hoisted him up, and used that very momentum to whip him around with all my strength.
SLAM—!
A scoop power slam. Greg took the bump perfectly, then curled up as if in agony.
I pressed the attack immediately, climbing on top of him where he lay and raining down merciless strikes.
All the while, Greg was quietly catching his breath. There was an irony to it, of course — but this was exactly how wrestlers managed their stamina through a match. Selling from your back bought you the time to recover. The degree mattered, though.
At just the right moment I pulled Greg back to his feet and kept attacking, using the entire arena. I hurled him into the far corner, sprinted after him, and slammed my whole body into his.
"Kugh?!"
I caught him as he staggered backward out of the corner and took him straight down with a suplex.
SLAM!
As the brutal offense came in wave after wave, the crowd's reactions began to flow exactly the way we wanted.
[Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart!]
They chanted the name of their hero. But the rookie standing across from him was simply too strong. Greg couldn't escape easily — he kept getting buffeted from pillar to post by the assault. His age could no longer be disguised. But his spirit hadn't died.
A cover.
1......!
Every single time I went for the pin, Greg slipped out instantly. All I wanted was three seconds — nothing more. But Greg wouldn't grant me so much as a sliver of it. In the end, it was me who grew frustrated, who lost my composure.
Leaving Greg sprawled on the mat, I got up, my expression darkening, and climbed onto the turnbuckle. The moment I set up for the high-flying move, the crowd rose from their seats.
Seeing them, I was suddenly, acutely aware of where I was standing. Just as they were moved watching Greg and me fight — I, looking out at all of them who had come to see me, felt moved in return.
I launched myself skyward. My second signature move — the top rope elbow drop.
But perhaps I'd savored the moment too long. At the last instant, Greg rolled once to the side and dodged my attack clean. I had become a self-detonating bomb that hit nothing but bare canvas.
SLAM—!
And Greg Hart, rising without a second's delay, proved to the world that his soul was still alive.
[Yeeeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhh!!]
The Sharpshooter.
The mere sight of him seizing both my legs and lifting them sent the crowd into an absolute frenzy. And in that hold, I found myself trapped once again by the very Sharpshooter I'd endured so many times before.
In a flash, Greg had woven my leg around his own, and with that he turned his whole body backward.
"UOOOOOOOOOH—!!"
He roared — uncharacteristically of him — announcing to the world that he still stood. And of course, out of respect for my senior, I sold the pain with everything I had. It did hurt like hell, in truth — but I screamed even louder than it deserved, wracked with apparent agony.
Then, just like last time, I tried yanking the referee toward me to wriggle free of the Sharpshooter. But the referee had read that intention immediately and stepped well back.
"Kkhhugh......!!"
I slammed my fist against the mat and thrashed in my suffering. And then I understood. To beat Greg Hart, I had to escape this very Sharpshooter — fair and square.
[SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN!]
[Greg Hart! Greg Hart!]
The chants tangled and crossed. But the moment I began crawling slowly forward, the people shouted my name with even greater force.
I pushed ahead. Greg tried to hold his ground, but soon faltered, dragged forward with me. Crawling on nothing but the raw strength of my upper body, I grabbed hold of the rope and broke the Sharpshooter.
Rope break. The referee declared it, ordering Greg — still gripping my legs — to release the hold.
Greg let go with visible reluctance, and immediately began attacking me. With the momentum now his, I took his offense in stride, one move after another. The man they called the greatest technician of all time set about tormenting me with every trick in his vast repertoire.
"Kkhhugh......!"
Watching me take the punishment, the people roared their encouragement.
When we spilled out of the ring, Greg followed me down and kept the assault going. And there, just past the barricade, I could hear the spectators' voices plainly.
"Sin, don't lose!"
"Greg! You've got to win!"
That was the ending everyone wished for. Sin winning the match — and Greg winning the match. Which was to say: Greg Hart was no longer a 'pathetic old man.' He was a professional wrestler fighting to see his own convictions through. Fair and square. A value that everyone in the world knows, yet lives on ignoring. But a man, no matter what the world says, ought to fight to protect what he believes is right.
For Greg, that belief was fairness. For me, it was simply I decide for myself.
Era against era, spirit against spirit — the battle ground on and on. Of course, the only tools we had to express it were our bodies and our craft. But I could feel it: if the fans understood what this was truly about, they would know. And if they didn't, there was no way a roar this enormous would have erupted.
I seized the momentum again. Before long, it was stolen away. The exchanges came faster and faster, and we drove the match's pitch toward its absolute limit. All to become the winner of this match.
Once more I climbed the turnbuckle and leapt into the air.
SLAM—!
This time it landed dead on. My elbow crushed into Greg's face and flowed straight into a cover.
1......!!
The crowd held its breath.
2......!!
And Greg Hart kicked out at the very last instant. The close call they call the Two and a Half — if you were to translate it loosely, something like 'barely past the halfway mark.'
But I didn't despair. I kept the offense flowing without pause. And what I chose was the Sharpshooter — the technique of the Hart family itself.
"Grrrrrrghhh......!!"
Greg bit down on his scream. I drove my strength into my arms, determined to wrench the submission out of him — and then felt my leg yanked out from under me as I pitched forward.
[Yeeeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhh!!]
A move that, in this world, only Greg Hart could perform. The Sharpshooter counter. Snatching your opponent's leg, pulling them in to unwind the hold, then rising straight into a Sharpshooter of your own — a desperate gambit that not a single other member of the Hart family could ever execute, the trump card that made Greg the strongest of them all.
"KKHHAAAGHHH!!"
Taking it for the first time in my life, caught in my own snare, I thrashed in fresh agony.
The end of the match was drawing near. Greg, gasping in ragged breaths, refused to release his grip. In that moment where neither of us knew when the tap might come, the crowd chanted our names in alternation, and the reaction pierced its own ceiling and reached for the sky.
I felt like I might black out. My vision was going soft, and my body went limp — I couldn't even manage the anguished thrashing of my head. The spectators watched me with growing alarm in their eyes. Though the cheers for me grew louder, I couldn't hear any of it.
The referee came close and asked me for my answer.
"Sin?! Do you submit?!"
And right there, I lifted my head square and started crawling forward.
How many times had I escaped this Sharpshooter already? Having endured it more times than I cared to count, I knew exactly how to survive it.
"Kkuuuuurghh......!!"
Crawl forward, seize the rope — and a deafening cheer filled the arena to its rafters. At the referee's command to release, Greg's strength gave out and he pitched forward too.
A double K.O. Pro wrestling had a rule for this: if the referee counted to ten and neither man rose, the match ended in a draw.
1, 2, 3......!
And Greg and I rose slowly, at the same time. Glaring into each other's faces, clinging to the ropes, we dragged our bodies upright by sheer will.
It could not end like this. I would defeat Greg Hart and take the era — no matter what.
With that thought, I recalled the words John Michaels had spoken to me in person just days ago. He had said this:
[When you defeat Greg Hart — if you need my move, use it.]
From that seed, a new finisher had been born in my mind.
I rose first and, as Greg closed in on me, drove my foot up with everything I had.
CRACK—!!
A super kick, aimed for the jaw.
[Uuuuoooooooooohhhhhh!!]
Amid the crowd's explosive cry, Greg collapsed to his knees on the mat like a puppet with its strings cut. The instant I saw it, I threw my whole body against the ropes and tore toward him.
WHAM—!!
A running knee, chasing the jaw a second time. Greg's body flipped fully backward and crashed face-down to the canvas.
"Haagh, hck......!"
This was the limit. If he got up after this, I would truly have nothing left in my arsenal.
And so, crawling over in desperation, I turned Greg's body over and dropped straight into the cover.
The referee began the count.
1......!!
2......!!