Back to the Beginning
About thirty minutes later.
I had dyed my hair black again, and I stood in the dreary bathroom of the caravan, trying to get my head straight.
Roughly thirty years in the past.
I was twenty-three.
June 4, 2002, to be exact.
A summer when a freak heat wave had the entire United States in a state of emergency.
...So I've gone back to then?
It was absurd. But if this wasn't a dream, then there was only one conclusion: regression.
My five senses were vivid, alive. I had come back.
No idea why, though.
The moment that fact settled in, a word slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it.
"Oh, piss off."
And so what now? What am I supposed to do, take the tryout today and go back to being a pro wrestler? Live this life differently from the last one by working my ass off to turn it all around?
Utter nonsense. That's what my brain said.
But my heart was pounding loud enough to ring in my ears.
The fact was, I knew every event that would unfold in my life from here on out. And I wasn't some green rookie scraping by on the indie circuit — I came fully equipped with the skills and experience of twenty-five years in the business. A dreamlike situation where only the body was young again.
The only thing that hadn't changed was my race.
Bang-bang-bang!
[Hey! Hey! Jun! Jun, you bastard!]
Someone was frantically pounding on the door from outside. Squinting, I plopped down on the toilet.
"Occupied."
[No! Hey! If it's not urgent— dammit, come out here!]
"Something wrong with the Cuban sandwich?"
[No— ugh... uurrghh!]
Adam, in agony. Then came the ominous sound of phweet, phweeeeet. And with that, it was proven beyond a doubt that Adam had spiked my Cuban sandwich with laxatives back then.
Thank goodness I'd swapped the sandwiches the moment he looked away.
That son of a bitch.
I trembled with betrayal. No — come to think of it, Adam had always been that kind of guy.
Smiling to your face, then stabbing you in the back without a second's hesitation if it served his own skin. Trash, through and through.
Back in my rising-star days, how much grief had I taken from the veterans because I'd trusted him?
And yet the bastard had soared. He became a big-name heel wrestler and, unlike me, carved his name into the history books.
Remembering that made me feel strangely pitiful. Because while he was growing into a star, I had spent my entire career as a jobber — a specialist in losing.
But strictly speaking, none of that had happened yet.
In fact, history had already changed. Adam would fail the tryout taking place today.
And that might change things. Something.
"..."
Having calmed my thoughts, I carefully tested that possibility. I spread open the pages of the past in my mind and compared them against the present.
Should I give it a shot?
As I'd realized a moment ago, I was now armed with a whole arsenal of weapons. If I lived my life again with all of that at my disposal, couldn't I escape the jobber's existence I'd been stuck in before?
Yeah. What the hell — let's try it.
This life is a bonus anyway.
"Whew."
With my mind made up, I pushed the door open and stepped outside. There was Adam, crouched on the floor with his head hanging low. The stench was overpowering.
"...Done in there?"
"Yeah, it's free. Go ahead."
"No need. I found a toilet — it's called my pants."
I staggered backward, recoiling.
Once I left Adam behind and stepped outside, the heat-soaked air hit me. Beyond the open expanse, one enormous building stood in the distance.
That was GCW. Georgia Championship Wrestling.
A small developmental territory under the WWF. Most wrestlers passed through this place before making it to the main show.
Pro wrestling was different from ordinary sports — which was exactly why it demanded its own special education. To cultivate those abilities, GCW actually ran a TV show broadcast on local television while training its talent.
And here, too, I was the mysterious martial arts master from the East.
Same as in the WWF main show. Still, coming back and seeing it again, I couldn't say I felt nothing.
Strangely, I felt at ease. Maybe it was because I had over twenty years of wrestling under my belt — the crushing pressure I'd felt the first time just wasn't there.
Wearing a faint smile, I felt my twenty-something heart start to race.
Right at that moment—
"J-Jun...! Wait up!"
Adam, freshly changed, came limping out and stood wobbling in front of me. His handsome blond, white face was drenched in cold sweat.
"...You gonna be okay?"
"O-of course!"
Adam answered with confidence. Then, right on cue, came the pffrrrt of a pigeon taking flight — from the direction of Adam's backside.
"..."
Sadly, I'd been the same once. In the ring, but still.
* * *
And so, the time came.
People who'd been waiting to take the trainee tryouts emerged from the countless caravans parked in the lot. I shoved a pair of briefs at Adam, who was thrashing about insisting he had to come along, and headed to the tryout grounds alone.
Clustered around the massive five-story central building stood dormitories, a cafeteria, arenas, and more. With a duffel bag slung over my shoulder, I strolled along, taking in a scenery I hadn't seen in decades.
Their facilities really were big-league.
Facilities this good were hard to find anywhere in the world. And that was only natural — no matter the industry, longevity demands planning for the future.
Plenty of wrestlers who passed through here went on to become stars, too.
The legendary pro wrestler Shawn Cena had come out of GCW as well.
In my past life he was my draft class peer... if I passed this year's tryout, he'd be one year behind me.
At that thought, my feet stopped. Standing amid the sea of hopefuls, I sank deep into thought.
What do I do about this.
Cena had been the man of an entire era — in other words, an Icon-class wrestler. He'd reigned at the top for about fifteen years. So building a connection with him early would pay off in every way imaginable.
Maybe I should aim to become his senior — the guy who takes him under his wing.
Just then, someone tapped me on the shoulder, snapping me out of my brooding.
I turned around — and my eyes refused to believe what they saw.
"Nervous?"
The man asking was a white guy with a sporty crew cut and a chiseled, square jaw.
Shawn Cena!
He was taking the tryout this year? Unable to believe it, I blinked at him, and Cena tilted his head.
"You all right there, friend? Something wrong? Want me to walk you to the infirmary?"
"N-no... I'm fine."
I composed myself and nodded. Cena smirked, then fell in naturally at my side as we walked, and kept the chatter coming.
"You come here alone?"
"No, I came with a friend, but he's got a bad case of the runs."
"Hahaha! Nerves getting to him?"
"Could be."
"Totally understandable. This is the WWF we're talking about! The greatest pro wrestling organization on the planet!"
Hearing such a guileless remark dredged up my memories of Cena.
Shawn Cena had come out of bodybuilding. Which meant he'd had almost no knowledge of pro wrestling or the industry itself — just a good-natured, naive kid who liked muscles. That was Cena.
For now, anyway.
Four years later? No — the moment he debuted on the main stage, he caught fire. A handsome face that looked wholesome and clean-cut, yet never fragile. A body kept thick and solid year-round through tireless conditioning. His mic-work in the ring and his connection with the crowd were flawless, too.
Setting aside his in-ring ability, Shawn Cena was, in every sense, the complete professional wrestler. On top of that, he worked a full-time schedule for over fifteen years on a body like forged steel. The only man who could stand beside him in that respect was probably the Immortal Captain Logan, who'd ruled the eighties.
Knowing all this, I smiled and struck up a conversation.
"Shouldn't I be asking if you're nervous?"
"...Honestly? A little."
He laughed awkwardly.
"I picked up some wrestling skills, but I'm still green. I just can't seem to get the hang of the rope bounce."
"Ah, right. I was terrible at first too — wiped out every single day."
"...You're an indie guy?"
"That's right."
I nodded. By the industry's own classification, I was the 'indie-born' type of hopeful — a stray who started in the backyard behind his house and clawed his way here. There were others: amateur wrestling backgrounds, football prospects, and so on. Pro wrestling was mostly where people who used their bodies for a living gathered.
Backyard wrestlers like me were usually looked down on by management — no formal training, shaky fundamentals, bad habits baked in.
But the me of now was different. The me of now was a veteran with twenty-five years at the WWF, someone who had drilled the fundamentals of pro wrestling down to the bone. Even as a producer, I'd spent my days looking after the talent.
"Don't worry, Cena. With that body of yours, the judges are gonna lose their minds."
I gestured at the slab of muscle rippling under his t-shirt. Compared to Cena, who'd trained that frame his whole life, the current me was a bit on the scrawny side.
At that, Cena — who'd been wide-eyed this whole time — asked, puzzled.
"Did I tell you my name?"
"Who hasn't heard of Shawn Cena, the bodybuilder from West Newbury?"
"W-well, I'm honored."
Cena's cheeks flushed red. He looked genuinely a little touched — having his bodybuilding career recognized out of nowhere, of all places.
"Anyway, don't stress too much. And never give up."
I tossed him encouragement by quoting the famous line he was destined to say one day. Never Give Up. The words he would one day adopt as his catchphrase after rising to become an icon of the WWF.
Cena gazed at me quietly for a moment, then spoke up, careful and hesitant.
"Did you... take this tryout before?"
"Hm?"
"You just seem really comfortable with all this."
"I did. Failed it, too."
I lied smoothly. Cena's interest piqued, and he edged in closer.
"C-can I come with you? Two guys flying solo — we can look out for each other."
"Sure, works for me."
I smiled. And just like that, what I needed to do right now was decided.
Pass the tryout alongside the future Icon, Shawn Cena, and become his classmate.
I clenched my fist.
* * *
Before us stood about ten bump rings laid out for pro wrestling. In front of them stood a hundred or so hopefuls who had come to try out. Cena and I were among them.
The hopefuls who arrived here would go through a month-long trial. They'd learn pro wrestling techniques properly from the industry's experts before taking the final test — that was why the tryout period lasted a month.
Every single hopeful was a man. There were women hopefuls, but they tested separately, so none of them shared this space with us.
Roughly ninety were white. The remaining ten were Black.
And I was the only Asian.
...Was it like this in my past life too?
Everyone was sneaking curious glances at me. A natural reaction, honestly.
If anything, it was Cena — carrying on so casually around me — who was remarkable.
In about ten years, even his easygoing manner would be read as racism, once that era arrived... but that wouldn't change the way I was treated one bit.
I was still lost in that thought when Cena spoke.
"W-why's nobody showing up?"
"...They're making us wait on purpose. It's a patience test."
"Why?"
"Because patience is one of the greatest virtues a pro wrestler can have."
"Patience?"
I nodded.
"Yeah. Wait it out, calm and steady."
The pro wrestling industry of this era was a gathering place for drifters who'd tasted failure at the very bottom of a dozen different worlds. Most of them were wild, feral men. And here lay the industry's great irony: it wanted men who could perform wildness, and absolutely despised men whose actual personalities were wild through and through.
At the end of the day, this is a business built on two people agreeing to hit each other.
In other words, a man who couldn't keep his temper in check had no business being a pro wrestler.
I waited in silence. Cena kept quiet too.
Before long, a murmur rippled through the line of hopefuls — boredom had curdled into horseplay.
...Yeah, it was really like this back then.
White guys climbing onto the bump rings to clown around, for God knew what reason. Most of them looked like they'd traded their brains for muscle at a one-to-one exchange rate.
"Hahaha! This is awesome!"
"Try the rope bounce!"
"Don't I look like Rockcold?"
The rowdiest bunch of the lot. Twenty or so, maybe? Looked like a pack of bodybuilders who'd come in together.
They seemed to think being like this made them badasses. In reality, they were heading straight for a dead end.
Just as that thought crossed my mind, a voice carried over from the far side of the bump rings.
"These punks. Can't even hold out this long before running wild together, huh?"
A thick, low baritone. A voice that changed the entire atmosphere in an instant — everyone whipped around.
The man gripping the iron door handle applied the lightest pressure with his hand. With a crunch, the handle crumpled like it had been caught in a press machine.
"..."
"..."
"..."
The hopefuls stood frozen in shock. But the man ignored their reaction entirely and strode toward us.
"All right then. Let's find out if you've got the chops to match all that swagger."
Everyone backed away, shuffling. Then Baku climbed up onto the ring and began dispatching the troublemakers, one by one.
THWACK!!
"GAAHHK!!"
CRACK!
"Wha—?!"
It was a calculated move to seize the upper hand from the start. And it worked beautifully — the hopefuls were struck dumb with terror.
But I'd been feeling warm inside ever since he first appeared.
Baku.
A former pro wrestler from the Kingdom of Tonga, now overseeing talent management at GCW — my boss in my past life.
Watching him straighten out a pack of insolent brats, I broke into a wide grin.
"KYAAAAAAHH!!"
Yeah. This is pro wrestling.