The Legend Returns
By conventional wisdom, a professional athlete debuts in their early-to-mid twenties, runs a career of roughly ten years, and then retires.
The reason is simple.
That's the point where a human being's physical abilities reach their peak and begin their inevitable decline.
But life is longer than that.
Compared to the span of an entire life, the years an athlete can compete are painfully brief. No matter how brilliant a performer may be, the world of sports demands that they accept the erosion age brings.
Professional wrestling, however, was different.
To be clear, we weren't a sport in the ordinary sense—we were sports entertainment. We borrowed the form of athletic competition to deliver joy, nothing more.
And that's exactly why our careers ran far longer than any other sport's.
In the independents, there were wrestlers still taking bookings well past sixty. Most of them, admittedly, were in miserable circumstances—old men who couldn't afford to retire, wrestling because they had no other choice.
But that's beside the point.
Harley hadn't exactly abused his body in his prime, so even now, one match was within his capabilities.
Granted, there was no way he could take the kind of dangerous bumps I'd absorbed at the pay-per-view.
If Harley steps into the ring, that alone will make people happy.
A legend, long since retired, rises from the past to defend his honor one last time. It was the kind of story anyone could love.
And this very moment was the perfect time to tell it.
Today—several days after I'd defended my title against three challengers—I climbed into the ring. Scripted as a man whose body hadn't fully recovered, I hoisted the belt high overhead and shouted.
"Who's next?!"
A tangle of boos and cheers rained down.
On paper, I was the villain dominating this entire show.
But there were always people who loved the bad guy—and the stronger the heel, the truer it became.
Besides, I was an underdog too. People who shared my skin color, people who saw themselves as the ones life had knocked down, sent their cheers my way as well.
Those contradictory currents collided, feeding off each other, and my reaction kept climbing. I was every bit as loud as the main eventers now. I felt the confidence surging through me as I opened my mouth again.
"So who wants to step up to me next?!"
My voice boomed across the arena like an orator of ancient Rome.
"Everyone in this business has wanted this belt. They've all come for it—and not one of them has taken it! Every week, some pack of nobodies charges down that ramp, and every week, I put their shoulders on the mat for three!"
The crowd's response was electric. I swept my gaze across the entranceway.
"So—who's next?! Come on out! Anybody! Take your shot!"
No one came. I let out a smirk and pressed on.
"Well, of course nobody's coming. And honestly? I'm not in fighting shape tonight anyway. Sorry you all paid good money for tickets—guess you'll just have to settle for staring at my face."
The boos swelled. Most of them had come expecting to see the champion defend his title, and I made a show of snickering at their expense.
And then, in the next instant, a gloriously cheesy(?) theme song exploded through the arena.
And the crowd rose to their feet as one.
Because this music belonged to the man who had come to greet a legend's moment.
Harley Racy.
He emerged to the beat of his own entrance theme, waving to the crowd.
His body hadn't improved much since a month ago. But that didn't matter—what mattered was that his instincts had come back.
Harley had thrown himself into training, chasing the ghost of his younger self, and now he was sharp enough to work a full match.
He and I locked eyes and exchanged a silent greeting.
He grabbed the microphone.
"Well, well. First time in GCW history we've had a champion this full of himself."
"Got something to say?"
"Just wanted to let everyone know who's answering your open challenge tonight."
"...Didn't I just say I'm not in condition to wrestle?"
"Funny how that contradicts all that tough talk you love so much. No wonder nobody in this building accepts you as champion."
"Excuse me?"
"A champion fights through the hardest moments of his life. He doesn't slither to victory with the kind of filth you pull."
"Filth? Me?"
"You heard me. Am I wrong?"
"Then what does that make the men who've lost to me?"
"What's the point of winning with tricks that dirty, anyway?"
Instead of answering, I pointed at the championship belt, loading the gesture with every ounce of provocation I had. Harley let out a long, heavy sigh.
"Kid. That thing is a mirage."
"And what's real, old man?"
"Them."
Harley pointed at the crowd, who had been hanging on our every word.
"Without them, there is no us. Only their respect gives any of this meaning."
It was a babyface promo straight out of the textbook—but coming from Harley, it carried a power all its own.
[Harley! Harley! Harley! Harley!]
The chant rolled through the arena like thunder.
And I sneered at it.
"Easy for you to say. You've spent your whole career playing the underdog while sitting on top of the mountain. Of course this country looks like a dreamland to you."
That was how he'd always described America: a dream land.
A country where anyone who wanted it badly enough could fight fair and seize their dream.
It was the exact opposite of everything I believed.
I felt my expression harden.
Harley opened his mouth, fumbling for words, and I glared at him.
"...Someday soon, that belt's getting ripped from your hands. And after that? Nobody will respect you ever again."
"For a guy trying to book himself a match, you sure do run your mouth... Well, fine. I'll play along, champ."
I stalked toward him like a threat.
"Who is it, then?"
Harley backed into the ropes. Fair enough—no man his age could stand against an active champion.
As everyone watched with pity in their eyes, Harley spoke.
"...The former champion."
"What?"
"Thirty years ago—but still!"
With a roar, Harley's fist smashed across my face. I went down in exaggerated, theatrical fashion, rolling across the canvas.
Feigning shock, I slid out of the ring and looked up at him standing tall above me, arms spread wide.
"It's me, you little punk!"
The crowd erupted.
The man still had astonishing charisma.
Tonight belonged to Harley.
A return after thirty long years. The man who had walked away in the dim, distant past was going to have one final match, one night only.
All to teach an arrogant young champion what the word honor actually meant.
Of course the crowd went wild for the old lion leading with everything he had left.
And in the backstage promo that followed, Harley made his reasons crystal clear.
With a towel slung over his shoulder like in his prime, he was already fully prepared for the match.
Harley gritted his teeth.
All the exaggerated flourishes were a touch old-school, but the crowd ate up every second of it.
Which meant there was only one possible reaction waiting for me: total, unfiltered heat.
[Booooooooooooo!]
Back in the day I'd have shrugged it off, but tonight I deliberately milked the boos for all they were worth as I made my entrance, flinching and snarling at every jeer.
It was my way of telegraphing how much this match weighed on me.
The crowd, delighted by the opening, answered with even louder boos, razzing me at every turn.
And then—
The moment Harley's music thundered through the arena, I felt as though I'd been transported back to the seventies.
Wow. This is...
One slip of concentration and I'd have started clapping myself. I wasn't a man of that era, but God, it was moving.
Harley came out in the black trunks of that bygone age and let out a roar.
The gut was there, the flesh had gone soft—but still. He looked magnificent.
The crowd's cheers came in waves, and Harley climbed into the ring, feeling the pulse of his own era one more time.
The match started quickly.
I went for raw power right out of the gate, trying to end this thing before it could begin. He was a powerless old man—why stretch it out?
Except—what the—
Harley's strength was nothing to sneeze at.
Yes, it was a work. But when Harley sold the reversal in his own over-the-top old-school style, the crowd rose straight out of their seats.
[You Still Got It!]
You still got it.
The highest praise a crowd can give.
Hearing it, I attacked Harley like a coward, and the boos came flooding down.
I kept up the assault until I staggered back and slumped against the ropes—selling the lingering wounds from the pay-per-view—and Harley seized the opening to swing the momentum his way.
[Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!]
Every time he charged in swinging, the crowd roared along with each punch.
I got driven back by his flurry and clawed at a counter, and Boo! and Yeah! traded blows of their own as the atmosphere caught fire.
We traded hammering blows back and forth.
And through it all, to prove that Harley still had life in him, I staggered just a little harder than I needed to.
His eyes blazing, Harley swung a fist. I took it full in the face and thought:
Damn, that actually stings.
Harley threw that one for real.
Granted, a hammering exchange only grazes at the tail end by design—but I considered saying something, then thought better of it.
Harley was on the verge of tears.
Simply being in the ring, working one more match, looked like pure happiness to him.
And really, that made perfect sense.
Even an athlete who finds a second life after his career ends—his greatest dream is always this moment, this role.
I knew the feeling. Working on the backstage crew, I'd fought to build some kind of second life in this industry too. And no matter how hard I tried, a hollow feeling had always lingered somewhere underneath.
Harley had to feel it too. No—he'd been a superstar, which meant the thirst ran even deeper.
I hoped tonight, this one single day, could fill it for him.
Besides, the crowd's reaction to this storyline had been off the charts. My instincts had been right on the money—the timing was perfect, and it set up everything that came after beautifully.
I steered the match at Harley's pace, never pushing him past what he could handle.
At one point I took his old finishing move clean, just to let him feel it one last time, and drove the crowd's reaction to its absolute peak.
But in the end, my knee found his jaw.
Crack—
Harley crumpled to the mat with a sickeningly crisp sound, and I went straight for the cover.
One. Two. Three.
"Great work out there, Harley."
With that brief whisper in his ear, the bell rang three times. I rolled off him immediately, my face tightening into a scowl.
I made a show of gasping for breath, selling the idea that this old man had pushed me to my limit. It was the least respect I could pay him.
And now, the real show began.
"Sin—three minutes left!"
The referee checked his watch and hissed at me, voice tight with urgency. I took the belt, turned on my heel, and started to leave.
I'd run longer than planned. But there was still time.
I climbed down, oozing theatrical irritation every step of the way. I spat at the floor. I even got in a shouting match with fans at ringside.
"You lost, Sin!"
"You're garbage!"
"Shut up!"
So there I stood, the bitter victor of a hollow pyrrhic win, turning to leave under a storm of boos—only to stop short.
Then I climbed back into the ring and brutally stomped the fallen Harley into the canvas.
"Urgh! Kh—!"
...Definitely a bit of an old-fashioned sell.
But the crowd answered with pure venom.
[Booooooooooooo!]
My music cut dead, and the ring bell shrieked over and over—the sound of officials demanding I stop.
Of course, I couldn't have cared less. I kept laying into Harley, venting my frustration with wild, reckless punches.
The crowd's fury grew louder and louder.
In the middle of the chaos, I counted in my head, dragging Harley toward my mark as precisely as the plan demanded.
Thirty seconds gone.
Time to move.
With that, I hauled Harley to the ring post and spread his legs apart in front of the cold steel column.
Then I dropped to the floor, seized both his legs, and pulled—about to drive his crotch straight into the steel post.
But in that instant—
"Ugh—?!"
Someone seized my head in a vice grip. I whipped around and was dragged into a punch before I could see who it was.
An unknown attacker.
A powerfully built man in a hooded sweatshirt vaulted the barricade and stormed the ringside area. I backed away, staring at his face in sheer disbelief.
The crowd's roar tore through the arena.
I decided I had to fight back—but I failed. A searing punch from the advancing man caught me clean, and I scrambled up onto the ring apron to escape.
He climbed up after me. Terrified, I dodged away and dropped back down to the floor.
I fled up the entrance ramp, looking back at him with eyes that couldn't believe what they were seeing.
Scrambling to scoop up my belt as I went.
And then the moment came. The hooded man pulled back his hood—and a torrential downpour of cheers came crashing down on him.
Russell Hart.
He had returned from injury.