The Man Whose Fists Sound Like Hammers
That trademark afro perm.
A man from the Kingdom of Tonga.
A thick, barrel-chested build, wide-set eyes, and light brown skin.
His ring name was Baku. His real name was... what was it again? I couldn't quite remember.
In any case, Baku had never been given a particularly good role in the WWF.
But in another arena entirely, he was regarded as a legend among industry insiders.
His claim to fame was his *real fighting ability*.
Baku had a gentle temperament, but he was no fool. So whenever someone picked a fight with him, he'd turn them into pulp on the spot.
On top of that, he was famously durable — the story went that when a squad of cops surrounded him and beat him with nightsticks, he just laughed and said, 'That's all you've got?'
Or the time he broke two of a man's front teeth with two fingers.
He was the source of countless legends like that.
Well, I always figured there was a bit of exaggeration in—
*Crack!*
"AAGGHH!!"
I retract my statement.
Not exaggerated at all.
"What, that's it? Amateurs."
"Y-you bastard!"
"Every time. You clowns who think you're gonna be pro wrestlers — all you know how to do is *act* tough."
The fools who'd taken Baku's bait went down one after another.
Me, Shawn Cena, and every other hopeful trainee watched the scene in stunned silence.
*Every time the old man throws a punch, it sounds like he's swinging a sledgehammer.*
Come to think of it, one wrestler had once summed Baku up like this: if Baku and I were standing a hundred meters apart and I had a rocket launcher in my hands, I'd aim it at the ground.
'*Because pissing off that son of a bitch Baku is genuinely dangerous.*'
He'd been right.
Every time Baku swung his fist, the sound of splintering bone echoed through the vast training hall.
And so, having flattened a good ten or so muscular trainees in one go, Baku let out a long sigh.
"Getting old. Even this wears me out now."
...He was fifty-four.
"Anyway. Now that we've got the mood established, let's all have a little talk about 'business.'"
At those words, everyone perked up.
This was how Baku had always tamed the wild animals that gathered here — by making an example of them first.
"You're all failures. And runaways. You primped your muscles, put on ridiculous outfits, and did 'amateur nonsense' like rolling around with other men."
As Baku spoke, supervising judges appeared — somehow already there, score sheets in hand.
Most of them were retired wrestlers or trainers who'd spent decades in the business.
"And let's not forget the NFL hopefuls. The idiots who couldn't memorize a few hundred playbooks and ran away."
Baku lumped together every single trainee standing before him.
He wasn't wrong about any of it.
"If you came here thinking you'd skim some easy money off the top, get the hell out right now."
But not a single person left. Everyone here had their own reasons for showing up.
A brief silence followed, and then Baku flashed a grin.
"Good. Then let's run the test."
The basic assessment had begun.
◇◇◇
The basic test.
...There wasn't much more to explain — it tested the fundamentals of pro wrestling. The basic movements performed in the ring.
It started with falls.
Someone once said that pro wrestling begins with falls and ends with falls. That was the truth. Without falls, pro wrestling simply couldn't exist.
That's why the basic test was conducted in a simple way.
"Alright, one at a time, get up here."
The sound of muscular men dropping onto the bump ring rang out again and again.
*I've missed that sound.*
I stood right at the edge of the ring, thinking to myself. I'd missed the specially-made bump ring too — built to absorb impact and, just as importantly, to make a satisfyingly loud noise.
But the men up on it were an absolute mess.
*THUD!*
*WHUMP!*
They were attempting falls, technically, but they couldn't even distribute the impact properly. Their backs turned beet red, and still they tried their best to look tough.
Even the future hero, Shawn Cena, was no exception.
"Ghk—!"
He cracked his head and went writhing around in pain.
"..."
No wonder he got cut. Not yet, anyway.
Falling was, without question, the single most important technique in pro wrestling.
Being unable to take a fall was the same as being unable to breathe.
The judges' faces had gone rigid.
And — absurd as it was — the man overseeing our group was Baku himself.
When Cena's turn ended, Baku checked off a few items on his sheet, then turned the page as if moving on to the next act.
And he called my name.
"Ju... n...? Joon?"
"Jun, sir."
Wrestling boots, a shirt, and pants.
"Ho ho."
The mere fact that I'd worn wrestling boots seemed to raise Baku's expectations a little. Slip-resistant wrestling boots were extremely important too.
*Nothing about this job isn't important.*
Pro wrestling was a show performed with people's lives at stake — it was dangerously unforgiving.
Baku studied me with apparent interest, then picked up the résumé I'd submitted, read it, and snorted.
"Backyard guy, huh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Which promotion did you work for?"
"None, really. I left home as soon as I turned twenty and drifted all over the country."
"Your parents let you do that?"
"..."
"Anyway, go ahead. A backyard indie wrestler shouldn't need me to tell him which moves to do, right?"
"Yep."
I nodded. My body was thoroughly warmed up.
And it was at that moment I truly felt it — my body at this age was absolutely *perfect*.
'...Granted, that's compared to when I was fifty.'
Still — to be able to execute the skills I'd mastered back then with a young man's body. It stirred up a strangely fresh wave of emotion.
'How will it look, I wonder.'
Standing at the center of the ring, I started with the back fall.
*THUD!*
Clean.
Perfect.
My body moved exactly as I willed it.
I popped back up and went straight into the front fall.
Then the side fall.
I rattled off falls in rapid succession, proving beyond doubt that I'd done this until I was sick of it.
In an actual match, you almost never got to take falls in such textbook, controlled conditions.
That was why reacting fast and matching your fall to whatever direction you were sent was more important than anything else.
"Ho ho..."
Interest flickered in Baku's eyes once more. The pen in his hand began scoring my performance.
Meanwhile, I studied his reactions closely.
'One eyebrow went up.'
I'd learned my craft under him back in the affiliate promotion days, and I knew very well that expression was the one he wore when he was in an exceptionally good mood.
Even so, I asked carefully.
"May I try something higher up?"
"Hm?"
"I'd like to show you more of what I can do."
"...Show me, then."
Baku smiled softly.
This was the first moment that the man who'd been scowling at all the other 'rookies' had taken a genuine interest in a test subject.
I sprinted across the ring and scaled one of the four pillars bracing the corners — the ring post.
Then I dropped.
Executing a full *moonsault*, of all things.
*BOOM!*
"Well, I'll be... you little—"
The moment he saw it, Baku's mouth broke into a grin. I got up from the mat, doing my best to look sheepish.
The moonsault press.
Called the crown jewel of the 'aerial' category of pro wrestling techniques — a beautiful, dazzling move.
A high-difficulty maneuver: from a position facing away from your opponent, you rotated backward a full 270 degrees before crashing down onto them.
John Michaels — the idol of my youth — used it often, which is why I'd practiced it relentlessly back in the day.
And so my moonsault was as gorgeous and crisp as they came. My hang time was long, too, which gave it a signature flair all its own.
"Now that's a treat for the eyes. Haven't seen that in a while. You cocky little bastard."
Baku set down his score sheet and came toward me.
"Let's check a few more things. Kid — if you're this good, then you've earned the right to take *my* moves."
"..."
Honestly, I was a little scared.
Baku stood about ten centimeters shorter than me at 188, but he was built far wider — the frame of a true wrestler.
Down below, the expressions of the trainees watching curdled.
They looked like they wanted to say, *Why does it have to be with a monster like that...*
Well — no. There was exactly one exception. Shawn Cena alone was watching with pure, unfiltered awe.
"Alright, kid. Off the ropes."
The test had moved on.
Baku grabbed my arm and hurled me toward the far side. I followed the momentum naturally and sprinted forward.
The bump ring was surrounded by three horizontal ropes, set at staggered heights, running all the way around.
Selling it as though Baku's strength had launched me, I ran — then twisted my body at the ropes and caught the top one.
Swinging backward, I perched safely on the middle rope, letting my weight sink into it the way you're taught to *sit* there.
The stretched steel cable flung my body back out, and I charged straight at Baku, who was waiting for me.
He shouted.
"Clothesline!"
Baku had his right arm raised level, as if it were a clothesline strung across the ring.
I widened my eyes in feigned alarm. All of this was one continuous piece of theater.
Baku's forearm cracked across my upper chest. To absorb the shock, I flipped backward.
*THUD!*
Back fall.
"Body slam!"
As I lay there writhing, Baku slid one hand behind my neck and the other between my legs.
"...?"
Then my body flew up into the air.
And I hadn't given him a single ounce of 'lift' — I'd just lain there dead weight.
What kind of monstrous strength was this?
A heartbeat later, Baku used the rotation to hurl me down.
Feeling the angle of my descent, I chose my fall in an instant.
Side fall.
I slapped the mat with my arm and lifted my head, softening the impact on my body.
At the same time, I locked eyes with Baku and signaled that I was fine.
Seeing that, Baku chuckled and reached out his hand.
"There's our first passer."
With that outstretched hand, he pulled me to my feet.
"Nice work, Asian kid."
"...That's a little racist, sir."
"Oh, is it? Sorry. Sorry. I'll watch my mouth."
Baku apologized candidly to my complaint and let out a hearty laugh.
By then, everyone in the hall — judges and trainees alike — was watching the two of us with astonishment.
◇◇◇
*Well, at least I got on his radar.*
I was one of the first to finish in the showers, and I could feel the pleasant dampness on my skin evaporating fast in the summer heat.
Having earned the recognition of a veteran like Baku, I felt like I was walking on air.
'This is where the real work begins.'
After the basics weeded people out, the serious training would follow.
Hammer blows, chops, dropkicks, and on and on — the countless foundational techniques of pro wrestling.
'I should go grab my stuff in a bit.'
Trainees who passed the basic test were allowed to use the dormitory inside GCW.
I walked down the neatly kept hallway, praying with all my might that Adam's diarrhea was nowhere in my luggage.
Before long, I spotted people carrying their bags out of the testing area.
Heads hanging low, most of them were ex-bodybuilders.
They had a huge advantage in looks with their sculpted, bulging muscle, but their flexibility and conditioning fell short, and it showed in their technique.
'A shame, really.'
But there was nothing to be done. If you couldn't take a fall — or took them dangerously — you couldn't survive in this business.
As I watched those muscular men trudge away in defeat, I suddenly felt my body go rigid.
Shawn Cena was in that line.
Seeing him slouch off dejectedly, I could only stare.
No. *He* got cut *here*?
At the *basics*?
Shawn Cena — the future Icon?