The Devil's Chop
CRACK!!
The sound of flesh being struck somewhere between the edge of the hand and the palm rang out through the training hall.
“……?!”
Cena's face went rigid. The skin beneath his tank top, pale and white, flushed red and swelled up.
“That, right there, is a chop.”
Baku, his own face red by now, left Cena to endure the pain and strode over to the next hopeful standing beside him.
Down came the hand once more.
CRACK-KA-KA-KOW!
“Khh!”
“Can't even take this much?”
“N-no, sir!”
“Good! Then here's another one!”
This man is a demon, I thought as I waited for my turn. Baku flashed a wide grin and dealt a chop to each of us in turn.
CRACK!
“……!”
SLAP!
“Ngh!!”
WHACK!
“Ugh……!!”
Everyone was in agony.
Even Russell Hart's expression had stiffened. And last of all, Baku came to me and raised his enormous fist.
“Careful not to bite your tongue off.”
……My life was flashing before my eyes.
CRACK-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!!
The sound was on an entirely different level from the ones before. The pain made my vision swim, and I clenched my teeth hard to keep from crying out.
“It takes this much so the people at the far end of that big arena will hear it and go ‘whoa.’ Kahaha!”
“……Meanwhile, I'm the one dying here.”
“If you've got a problem with that, hit me! Show me the grit of a man! Kid!”
I didn't refuse.
Stepping forward, I swung my arm with everything I had, aiming for Baku's chest.
CRACK-KA-BOOM!!
Did I get him?!
I had not.
“You brat, calling this a chop……. That's hilarious.”
Baku cracked his neck with a loud pop and brushed off his chest as though dusting away a stray fly.
“The chest is mostly fat and muscle, so you can barely hurt it no matter how hard you hit. That's why chops exist as a move in the first place.”
……And with that, the lecture began.
“In pro wrestling, the ‘punch’ is against the rules. Any idea why?”
“Because it can't be performed theatrically?”
I answered with a shrug. Baku gave a hearty kahaha at that and pointed at Cena.
“What do you think?”
“Uh…… because it's wrestling?”
“And you?”
“In the WWF, strictly speaking, isn't only a punch thrown directly at the face against the rules?”
Flustered by Russell's question, Baku nodded.
“Mm, that's right.”
“I'd say it evolved from standard competitive wrestling—where you wrestle for leverage—with ‘hammering’ type moves added in for entertainment value. In practice, if you actually throw a real punch and the opponent no-sells it, it destroys believability. But then again, if punches are permitted at all, the idea of two men contesting for strength loses its persuasive power in the first place…….”
“Wh—okay, enough. That'll do.”
Baku cut off Russell before he got too much further. Then, letting out a long groan, he delivered his verdict.
“There's no right answer.”
“……?”
“I don't know. None of us do. Well, it's not like we're Olympic wrestlers running around in singlets. We're ‘sports entertainment.’”
He curled his fingers loosely into a fist.
“Strike like this, and it's not a foul. We call this a ‘hammering’ blow.”
Then he clenched it tight.
“This is a foul. Because this is a ‘punch’ driven straight into the face. The referee is scripted to call it out.”
“What's the difference?”
Cena asked.
“Well, it's staging that makes the product look sporty. If you actually picked it apart, it makes no sense at all. Now—pop quiz.”
Baku swung his fist.
Loosely gripped.
It flew toward me. I understood what he was doing, so I stood still and waited for his hammering blow to arrive.
The punch merely brushed across my forehead, barely grazing it. There was some impact, sure, but it felt like being tickled.
“Would the crowd buy that?”
“Something about it feels lacking.”
“Exactly. And that's where we need a little help—from the ‘floor.’”
Lifting his leg, Baku went straight into a roll across the mat. Cena tilted his head, watching.
“Watch closely.”
But the hammering blow that followed his words was worlds apart from the last one.
KWAANG!
The moment his foot stamped dramatically off the mat, the hammering blow came flying. Again it merely grazed the forehead of me, standing perfectly still.
But it felt completely different.
The motion was so fast that for an instant I genuinely felt he's going to hit me. Baku's execution was simply that polished.
I smirked and raised my hand.
“You need the sell added on top of that, of course.”
“Right, that's exactly it.”
In pro wrestling, the art of selling carries three broad meanings.
First, helping the opponent execute their power move smoothly.
Second, maximizing the perceived impact of that move.
Third, receiving such moves safely.
This was the second kind.
The hammering blow came flying again. I timed my body to the moment it swept across my forehead, hunching down and deliberately snapping my head back to sell the hit.
A full facial performance of agonizing pain came free of charge.
“Wha—unbelievable.”
And to my surprise, Baku burst out laughing, as if he couldn't believe his eyes.
My sell had simply been too perfect. Even Russell Hart, standing beside us, arched his eyebrows in astonishment.
Then Baku threw an arm around my shoulder and turned away, out of earshot of the others.
“That's it. You're going on the show starting tomorrow. I'll talk to Harley and get your slot set up.”
“Whoa, whoa, easy there. Why would you do that? I really don't want people saying you had to go to bat for me, Baku.”
“Oh, that? Anyone who sees your wrestling shuts right up. Just stamp the contract. Come on.”
“……Baku, there's something I want to try at this tryout.”
“What is it? Teaching everyone except Russell over there what a skill gap looks like?”
“Passing the tryout with the greatest, most spectacular story in GCW history.”
“……The hell is that supposed to be.”
Baku looked utterly deflated. I smirked, ready to wrap up the absurd conversation.
“Thank you anyway, Baku. Offering an offer like that to a backyarder like me—much obliged.”
“……Anybody here actually want to try me, then?”
“Just tune in to the show and find out.”
“Damn kid, no charm to him at all.”
That's what he said, but something in his eyes told me he liked my nerve.
The truth was, I'd only told him half the story. My reason for refusing his offer was far simpler.
I have to take Shawn Cena with me, no matter what.
And as things stood, I wasn't ready to step out before the crowds as a Main Eventer yet.
My body still has a ways to go.
But with Shawn Cena's help, that would be easy enough to overcome.
Besides, I need to sort out the ‘gimmick’ I'm planning to use.
I turned back around to resume training.
And so, more time passed.
Every day blurred into the next.
Training, meals, agonizing over my gimmick, getting my bearings—I cycled through them all while spending my days with Cena and Russell.
Meanwhile, the hopefuls kept dwindling. GCW also had a system in place whereby, under the trainers' judgment, anyone deemed unable to keep up at their current level was cut.
And remarkably, Shawn Cena—the man Baku had called out for the most failures on day one—never heard a single word of failure from him again after that first day.
Because Russell and I had latched onto him like professional trainers, drilling technique into him with almost obsessive thoroughness.
In return, Cena would teach us about proper nutrition and weight training.
A win-win combination all around.
Before long, the three of us had earned the nickname ‘The Troika’ among the tryout crowd.
Today was no different.
After morning training and lunch, the three of us returned to the training hall ahead of everyone else.
And we started working through the techniques Cena had struggled with that morning.
Today's lesson was kick techniques.
Amazingly, in pro wrestling—unlike punches—kicks were not against the rules.
Well, to be precise, that was only true in the WWF.
But in most promotions, kicks stay legal.
Because they look cool, that's why.
The single greatest requirement of a pro wrestling move is that it has to look awesome.
Having thought that far, I looked back and forth between Cena and Russell while mulling over which techniques to kit out my new gimmick with.
Russell was relaying Baku's morning lecture to Cena word for word.
“When you throw a kick, you plant your supporting foot firmly, right?”
“Right.”
“Which means you can't stamp your foot and kick at the same time. So how do you generate the impact sound?”
“The ‘crack’ sound, you mean.”
“Exactly. The thigh.”
Russell slapped his own thigh. A sharp, whip-crack sound rang out.
“Shall we see it once more? Jun!”
“Yeah.”
“One superkick, if you would.”
I nodded, put distance between us, and angled off to the side.
Then, in the same step that carried me forward, I threw a side kick at Russell's neck—and the instant my foot made clean contact with it, I whipped my kicking-leg thigh as hard as I could.
CRACK!
That is the superkick.
The key is to kick as though pushing through the neck, not the jaw.
At the same time, the receiver whips his body in the opposite direction to minimize the shock.
Russell staggered backward as though he'd taken a massive impact, selling the move beautifully.
I took his hand and pulled him up, glancing over at Cena.
“Get the idea?”
“Uhh… hmm. Honestly, kicks with a contact point that high aren't really……”
“Well, nobody's saying you have to use this move. But it can't hurt to know it, right?”
Which was exactly why Baku hadn't said anything special whenever Cena's movements looked clumsy. Through training, Cena had proven himself a powerhouse type of performer.
The guy would routinely pick up both me and Russell at once during drills and slam us down behind him.
That's over 200 kilos combined.
Truly monstrous strength. So that's what talent looks like, huh.
Russell, walking over, nodded as if in agreement with my thoughts.
“Right—Cena, you'll rise with slam-type moves alone. ……More importantly, Jun. That superkick was immaculate. Perfect placement.”
“It was my signature move.”
I smiled wryly.
It was the truth. The gimmick I'd used in my past life, Kung-Fury, was an Eastern martial arts master who used plenty of techniques borrowed from real martial arts.
Of course, most of it was a laughable imitation, and I'd rarely gotten the chance to use any of it properly.
Hearing that, Russell's expression turned intrigued.
“Come to think of it, what kind of gimmick did you run in the indies?”
“……Uh, just a spot monkey, I guess?”
That was also true.
Until I joined the WWF, I was—like backyarders everywhere—a kid who'd worked relentlessly to make a name for himself by throwing himself off ladders and taking crazy bumps.
“But I'm done with that gimmick now. Bad habits like that are better off left behind in the WWF.”
“Agreed. For the sake of your career longevity, it's the right call.”
Russell nodded along with me, then seemed to remember something and glanced around.
Though lunch had ended a while ago, the trainers still hadn't come back. Around the ring, only the hopefuls who'd survived the day's cuts remained.
“Oh, right…… gimmick training starts this afternoon, doesn't it?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“They said they were bringing supplies, so that's probably why it's taking a while.”
I said it to reassure the two of them, who looked mildly puzzled.
Because this was pro wrestling, after all.
That tryout was staged as flamboyantly as anything else.
Before long, THUD!—the door flew open.
The murmur among the hopefuls died in an instant, and as one, they turned to look.
And froze.
Even Russell. Even Cena.
Yes. This is exactly it.
I, meanwhile, felt a spark of delight.
“You brats! Throw out whatever rags you wore back then and start dressing like actual wrestlers!”
Dozens of clothing racks packed solid with wrestling gear of every kind.
Vanity tables stocked for face paint, masks of every description, even dazzling entrance robes.
I already knew what was coming.
Watching it all pour in like a fashion show runway, I thought, with quiet confidence, that I was ready.