A Strange Wind Blows Through the Business
That night.
Under the small lights left glowing in the training facility, the wrestlers had gathered, easing their aches with cigarettes, whiskey, and ice packs.
I was among them, pressing a bag of ice against my neck, doing my best to dull the pain.
The reason we'd all gathered here was simple.
GCW had exactly one radio in the building.
[That was a truly amazing match.]
[Agreed. I thought things might fall apart when the front office poached their star talent, but flipping the mood with a tournament was a great move — and the matches themselves were killer.]
[Who is this "Sin" guy anyway? Do you know anything about him?]
The two men on the radio talking about our GCW were a pair of critics from the All Wrestling Newsletter.
They'd been publishing columns and news on pro wrestling since the eighties, and the wrestlers themselves trusted them deeply. For indie wrestlers, their match ratings could make or break a booking fee.
And now those two were sharing their thoughts on tonight's show.
[He was an indie guy. Never struck me as anything special back then.]
[Indie? What was his ring name?]
[Hunter Killer.]
"……"
I felt my face go red. Why on earth had I picked that name for myself back then?
[Oh, I remember him now. Pretty ordinary, as I recall. Never expected him to show up in GCW.]
[And then he goes and beats Russell Hart.]
[Here's the funny thing — I checked his last indie match records, and they're not that old. Which means he signed a trainee contract and then almost immediately a wrestler's contract.]
[Russell did too, from what I hear.]
[No, Russell's an elite who's been trained in everything wrestling-related since he was a kid. It wouldn't be strange for him to debut whenever he wanted.]
"Talk about boring — it's all about you, huh."
One of the senior wrestlers listening in needled me playfully.
But of course, the critics, knowing none of this, kept right on discussing me.
[Here's the thing — Russell handed total control of that match to this Sin guy, and that's what made it so good……]
[No, the beauty of that match is that it got this reaction with almost no dangerous bumps at all.]
[Right. Doing wrestling like that at his age is pure talent.]
[Damn it all. It's been a long time since I've looked forward to next week's show like this.]
[Ah, well, there's of course "that" reason to look forward to next week too.]
[Broken Wyatt?]
[Wasn't he Husky Harritt before?]
[Same story with this guy. As Husky, he was just one of the pack. I can't speak for his ring work yet, but his promo ability is absolutely fantastic.]
"Wyatt! They're talking about you!"
The wrestlers whooped and laughed as if it were their own celebration, and Wyatt scratched his cheek sheepishly at the words.
While everyone enjoyed the radio, the critics kept heaping praise on the show.
In my past life, I wasn't even mentioned, let alone praised like this.
Now I stood at the center of the roster.
Everyone seemed quietly eager for a rivalry with me, and they wanted to talk gimmicks, too. For a rookie barely started on his GCW career, that was unheard of.
It was a moment that made every year I'd stayed in the business until the end, producing shows and soaking up every trick and bit of knowledge, feel worthwhile.
[Anyway, it feels like a strange wind has started blowing through the industry. Things are going to be pretty interesting from here.]
[Amid all those lunatics crawling around, Russell Hart's wholesome character really stands out, doesn't it?]
But right now, at this very moment, they were dead wrong about Russell's character.
Wholesome. Right.
As if that alone could ever drive a crowd wild.
The attendance numbers rebounded in a single leap.
From the round of sixteen onward — through the quarterfinals and into the first semifinal — the crowd blew past a thousand with room to spare.
The live broadcast ratings cleared one percent with ease, and the replay numbers jumped nearly double.
That radio show had spread the word across the country: the pairing of GCW's debut rookies with established veterans was hot.
After the round of sixteen, wrestling nerds from all over the country began gathering to watch us.
Sensing the shape of something big, the network rebroadcast the show again and again — they even cut a special tournament edition as its own broadcast.
Our workload doubled because of it, but everyone involved screamed happily.
"An interview? As soon as the paperwork clears, come on down. Every one of our wrestlers will be happy to oblige."
Harley Racy, captain of GCW, kept landing new contracts, hauling in work by the armful.
"Not that! A reverse swing neckbreaker? You're hitting an inverted atomic drop, so why the reversed neck?!"
Baku drove the wrestlers hard, praying they'd put on matches that were just a little flashier, a little safer.
Beyond that, there were promo videos to shoot, interviews to produce, and — with the wrestlers' bodies in mind — everyone worked to keep the shows entertaining without running them into the ground.
Everyone who'd boarded the ship called GCW rowed with one heart, one purpose.
Let's put on great shows and repay the fans for their support! ……That way I make more money, right?
And the effort of every last GCW employee came back as spectacular results.
Ratings past two percent.
Attendance past twelve hundred.
The numbers climbed, step by steady step.
When I heard the results, a shiver ran through my whole body as I stretched behind the curtain.
"Sin, tear the house down again tonight."
"Leave it to me."
One of the female staff gave my muscle-packed arm a little pat as she passed.
I could feel it, viscerally — the way people looked at me had changed enormously from my past life.
In my previous life, the women I met in this country almost never saw me as attractive. Racial prejudice surely played its part — all those rumors about how Asian men were "small" down there.
……For the record, that prejudice is complete nonsense. My shotgun is monstrously large and fires beautifully.
Anyway, setting all that aside, the real reason women never found me attractive was that I'd been a pathetic loser.
But as I've said many times now — not anymore.
Feeling the muscle packed tight beneath my skin, I walked slowly out through the curtain.
[Boooooooooooooo!]
I caught the crowd's jeers with a wide grin and headed for the ring.
There was no match scheduled for me tonight. Judging it better to take our time, my match against Broken Wyatt had been pushed to next week.
The writing team felt the audience needed a little more time to get to know his character first.
Microphone in hand, I worked my mouth hard for exactly that purpose.
"Remember last week? Some lunatic suddenly loses his mind — creak, creak…… creak — in his rocking chair."
The crowd's response had cooled a little.
The reason was simple: Broken Wyatt's gimmick change had felt too abrupt to them.
But of course, I'd anticipated that, and I'd prepared my countermeasure.
Time for a joke here.
I nodded as if conceding the point and looked out at the audience.
"Well, sure. Getting your ass beat half to death by a guy like me would rattle anyone. It happens all the time, right? People go crazy. Honestly, in a world like this one, it'd be weirder to stay sane. Like that young master I beat to a pulp, for instance."
The crowd sent boos my way. Russell's wholesome character was still landing — for now.
Just like the experts said last week, maybe GCW simply had so many lunatics running around that Russell looked good by comparison.
"Next week, in the semifinals, me and that lunatic are set to fight. I figure if I beat him down again, he'll snap right back to normal."
I swung a fist through empty air, and the people burst out laughing.
"Anyway — what was the name again? Broken Wyatt? That's a good name. Good thing I'm gonna break you again. So all of you, go ahead and look forward to next wee—"
At that exact moment, everything around me plunged into darkness, and a sound rolled through the arena.
A guitar and a violin shrieked out a single sharp note, followed by a man's grotesque voice — Woooaah!
Dead silence. Total darkness.
Soon, the audience began to murmur.
I stood in my spot, waiting for Broken Wyatt to appear.
A blackout, then a sudden entrance — a technique pro wrestling, as a "stage," uses for dramatic effect.
In the eerie hush, dry ice rolled across the floor. The lights flickered on one by one, revealing me scanning my surroundings with a hint of nervousness.
I tried to take in every staged beat of the scene as if watching it descend from above.
Once the dry ice had spread thick enough, the crowd let out a sudden cheer.
There he is. Wyatt's out.
Right behind me.
I waited with my body loose — then CRACK! a fist slammed into my shoulder, and I crashed to the mat in a dramatic flourish.
The assault continued.
Broken Wyatt was returning to me, blow for blow, everything I'd once dealt him.
A sneak attack from behind, the beating that followed.
Under the rain of fists, I curled up and absorbed it all.
Wyatt, with his strangely groomed beard, looked exactly like a cult leader stepped straight out of a horror film.
The crowd fell head over heels for his unsettling presence.
"Hrah! Gkk!!"
He answered the crowd in kind, making grotesque noises and playing his character to the hilt.
It was an animal's offense.
Baku trained him well.
I thought so as I took the headbutt that came thundering in right behind it.
Wyatt's greasy hair and beard whipped wildly. Dazed by the barrage, I scrambled out of the ring.
When I looked up in shock, Broken Wyatt stood there wearing a fur felt top hat.
The lights had come up at some point, and everyone who laid eyes on that charismatic figure reacted big.
[Holy Sh-t! Holy Sh-t! Holy Sh-t! Holy Sh-t! Holy Sh-t!]
Profanity in perfect rhythm — a chant that meant, in no uncertain terms, this is insane! I looked up at him with stunned eyes.
Wyatt snatched the fallen microphone off the floor and let out a low hiss.
"Hush now, hush. My brothers, my sisters…… I have a short word to share, if you'll allow it?"
At those words, the people went quiet. They were simply playing along — but their cooperation only threw Wyatt's charisma into sharper relief.
"Thank you. And so, I promise you this."
Wyatt's voice was clear and cool. He treated the audience as though they were already faithful of his congregation.
"Next week, that man will fall — by his own arrogance."
Wyatt circled the ring in sweeping arcs, carrying his mic-work onward.
"I won't even need to lift a hand. I never have. My brothers and sisters have always stood beside me, and I fight as I lead them."
Wyatt raised his head.
That one simple motion alone drew a roar from the crowd.
[Wiaitt! Wiatt! Wiatt! Wiatt!]
I looked up at him, bewildered. Wyatt stood in the ring like a king.
As the people lost their minds in adoration…… the broadcast cut to commercial.
The FD wearing her headset waved her hand, signaling.
Not forgetting to stay in character until the very end, I walked down the entrance ramp and made my exit.
"You're dead now, you hear me?! Dead!"
"I'm coming next week to watch you die — wash your neck and be ready!!"
I fired right back at the screaming crowd.
"Shut up!"
For all that, I was grateful — truly — that they'd come to see me.
Everything inside the arena was, after all, part of the show. The fans knew it too; that was exactly why they booed me and cheered for me.
And so I made my exit amid their jeers.
Pushing through the curtain into the back, I felt how thoroughly my body had soaked through with sweat.
And there, waiting for me, stood the staff with welcoming smiles.
"Great work out there, Sin."
"That was straight-up awesome."
As I answered each of them in turn, I noticed someone standing at the back of the group.
"Mr. Schuster?"
Broken Wyatt's real-life father was standing right there.