The Mentor System
Perched atop the turnbuckle, Will O Speedy launched himself into the air with explosive force.
His body twisted mid-flight with flexibility that bordered on the unbelievable.
Two and a half full rotations.
The 720-degree splash came crashing down onto the mat laid out before the turnbuckle.
The Aerial Hitman.
An aerial maneuver worthy of that reputation.
Standing in the ring, Tiffany's body swayed for a moment, knocked off balance by the impact. I quickly caught her from behind, steadied her, and flashed a grin.
"What do you think?"
"It's... something, alright."
Tiffany smoothed out her rumpled clothes, her gaze drifting toward Will as he picked himself up off the mat.
"But honestly, isn't he still a bit lacking for the main show?"
"In what way?"
"For starters, the man's skin and bones."
185 centimeters, 70 kilograms.
Body fat around twenty percent.
By any standard, an utterly ordinary build.
Wrestlers on WWF's main shows typically kept their body fat in the low double digits. Or else they packed on sheer mass to create an intimidating frame. Judged against that benchmark, Will really was too skinny.
Just as that thought crossed my mind, Tiffany quietly reached up and lifted the hem of my shirt. She gave a few pokes to the solid abs hidden beneath it.
"It should be at least this level."
"...What are you doing?"
"Just making sure our 'merchandise' is still in working condition."
"That's sexual harassment."
"Then sue me."
She shot back with an air of utter nonchalance. I was still dumbfounded into silence when Will, now standing, decided to chime in.
"Um, I'm right here, you know."
"...? I know."
"No, I mean, if you'd wanted to drop me, you could've at least sent me off nicely — why evaluate my body right in front of me..."
"You signed with him, though."
"Pardon?"
"Does that mean it's fine to evaluate him directly now?"
"Uh, well. I suppose."
"You should be thanking us, really. This here is an expert who's spent over a decade at the very top of the industry, meeting countless wrestlers."
I pointed at Tiffany.
By the way, how long exactly was this woman planning to keep fondling my abs?
"Opportunities to get an honest assessment from someone like her don't come around often."
"..."
"The usual routine is to hand out a few pleasant nothings and send you on your way. They only bother with real critiques for guys they might actually work with. So if you're getting an honest evaluation, you'd best chew on it properly."
"Y-yes, ma'am."
Twenty years old exactly this year.
Will O Speedy might have been a bit short on life experience, but he seemed to possess at least enough sense to understand what I was telling him.
I pried Tiffany's hand off my abs — she was still kneading away — and got down to a proper conversation with Will.
With the script taking shape, the plan had crystallized: rather than holding auditions to select multiple wrestlers, the show would run on a mentor system, picking one at a time.
Everyone had selected their picks one by one, and I had chosen the British standout, Will O Speedy.
And to a man, they all wore the look of people silently laughing at my decision.
Not that Bart could have blocked it outright or called me out on it directly.
"Speaking of which, my evaluation of you is — as you can plainly see — the worst."
"I-is that so."
"But wrapping that up into something watchable is my job. Even for the sake of a good result, I need to understand exactly what I'm working with."
I began talking with Will, following the approach I'd prepared in advance.
"First up, your bumping."
"My... bumping?"
"That's right. Do it the 'proper' way."
The reason I phrased it that way was that Will's philosophy of bumping was something even industry insiders couldn't wrap their heads around.
But I knew.
Which meant I needed to lay some groundwork with him beforehand.
"That's a beautiful bump."
"...Everyone else just cusses me out for it."
"You do it that way because you have your own reasoning behind it, right?"
I was trying to play the understanding mentor — but the answer that came back was nothing like what I'd expected.
"...Not really."
"Hm?"
"I-I don't really know why, but whenever I try to bump normally, it just... comes out like that."
"..."
"So it is wrong, then?"
"W-well, uh."
It seemed I'd have to be the one to explain this kid's strengths to him.
Because if my hunch was right, then in four weeks, Will O Speedy would without question become the superstar who represented all of Britain.
Two days had passed since then.
Only a single day remained until Monday night's Burning Kong went live.
We had knocked out each problem as it came, and at last, every last preparation was complete.
We rushed a website into existence to inform the audience of the show's new format, and processed refunds. Astonishingly, out of twenty thousand seats, only 157 were refunded — the British fans had decided to come see our show after all.
The writing team, building on the ideas I'd pitched, had drafted a script that was as grounded in reality as possible.
In my past life it had unquestionably been an audition format, but perhaps because of my explanations, something entirely different had emerged.
The mentor system.
A WWF wrestler would bring along one prospect apiece, and of those, only one would earn a WWF contract.
This is actually better.
It seemed the word "mentor," which I'd used offhandedly as an example, had left its mark and shaped the whole script. In any case, with the format settled, the company had each wrestler hand-pick a prospect from their respective nation.
I, as mentioned, took the British wrestler, Will O Speedy.
Hunter, whose early-career gimmick had been a French aristocrat, picked a French prospect.
JBL brought in a Spaniard, and last of all, Cena was assigned the German.
Once that decision was finalized, an uncomfortable silence settled over the office.
We had just finished going over the basic direction of the script. Everyone was anxious about whether four WWF wrestlers and four European rookies could carry a full three-hour show.
Amid that tension, Hunter made a show of sticking to his own philosophy — his self-preserving streak on naked, unapologetic display.
"So do I win or not?"
"The script is being written as we speak, so you'll have your answer shortly."
"Which means the revision window will be tight as hell. So I'll ask again — do I win?"
"Team Leader, mind if I cut in for a second?"
I slipped into the conversation.
"Ah, yes. Sin. What is it?"
A faint note of relief ran through the Team Leader's voice. With the other three wrestlers' eyes on me, I spoke up.
"Us beating the European rookies is a given, right?"
"One would assume so."
"So what Hunter's really asking is which of us gets the final tryout spot with the WWF."
"Is that it?"
When the Team Leader asked for confirmation, Hunter, who had been sitting in silence, gave a nod. We were set to face each other's European rookies in separate matches on the first week of Burning Kong.
"How about this? All four of us win our opening matches. Naturally, there'll be time differentials based on championship status."
"...So the World Champion has to win in the faster time."
"Exactly. Hunter is the current face of the WWF — him going hold-for-hold with an unknown European rookie would be absurd."
"That's a well-grounded argument."
"And on top of that, if the rookies simply lose clean, the viewers won't care. So each of them needs to pick up a win at some point."
"How?"
"They cheat, they scheme, they coach each other through it. Fortunately, all four of us have characters built for exactly that."
I was the only babyface among us — and even I leaned heel-adjacent, if only because my opposition was Revolution.
"With a WWF wrestler's help, the European rookie snatches a victory. That's a pretty delightful surprise, no?"
"Hold on."
Triple H's eyes narrowed to slits.
"I lose?"
"Losing by count-out or a flash roll-up shouldn't be a problem, should it?"
"The WWF World Champion? To some nameless rookie from Europe?"
"Anything beyond that is a booking matter — no need to argue it further now."
"You arrogant little..."
"Then by all means, pitch a better idea. Not that you have one."
"Now, now. Enough. Both of you, calm down."
The Team Leader stepped in to separate us.
And the first person he turned to was not Hunter — it was me.
"Run the numbers for me."
Main champion: a five-minute match. Secondary champion: ten minutes.
"And the second round of matches?"
"Counting the run-ins where the WWF wrestlers each interfere for their own rookie, about ten minutes should cover it."
"Right. That sounds about right."
The Team Leader, who had followed my reasoning perfectly, broke into an easy smile.
"Eight matches in total. With segment time factored in, that's more than enough to fill the show."
"I'd say so."
"Good. Let's break for now. The moment the details are locked down, I'll contact you all directly."
So stay within arm's reach.
The Team Leader left those words unsaid.
Truth be told, for the past several days we hadn't even managed to go home — we ate, slept, and washed at the arena, living out of it while preparing the show.
Hunter and JBL filed out first, and the Team Leader came over to stand in front of me.
"Sin."
He rested a hand on my shoulder.
"Thank you. ...Honestly, I don't have anything more eloquent than that. Without you, every one of us would be dead."
"Isn't that exactly why we're all working around the clock? The really impressive one is you, Team Leader — commanding everything firsthand."
"At your direction, mind you."
"That wasn't my intention."
"Heh heh, no, no. Word going around lately is that folks wish they had a superior like you."
"Aw, come on."
"If any more ideas like today's come to you, don't hold back — share them freely. You seem to write better scripts than the rest of us combined."
With that, the Team Leader chuckled heartily and strolled out of the office.
That left Cena.
We'd crossed paths again a few days prior, but with both of us swamped, this was the first time we could properly catch up.
"Sin."
"Cena."
We shared a brief hug first. It had been a while since I'd seen him, and I was genuinely glad for it.
He was the future Icon, but he was also the friend who'd weathered the highs and lows with me since the GCW days.
Cena, too, looked delighted to see me, breaking into a wide grin as he came over.
"How've you been?"
"Same as you see. Didn't exactly picture things turning out this way, though."
"No kidding. Nobody saw a plague coming and half the roster getting quarantined..."
"In a way, this is an incredible opportunity for us."
"You think so?"
"You don't?"
"I... honestly don't know."
Cena's expression stiffened slightly.
That struck me as strange.
Back then, as a GCW trainee, I'd watched Cena carving out his career on Rakedown with a rapper gimmick and thought the man was remarkable.
But the Cena I came to know in this era was still a wrestler in the middle of his growth.
He wrestled with doubts. He worked himself to the bone. And he swallowed down a constant, gnawing anxiety before every match.
Yet the man forged through all of that was, genuinely, a magnificent wrestler.
In the end, it was his relentless effort and his earnest, diligent nature that made Cena a star.
My past self should be ashamed.
Granted, in that life I'd never been given a single opportunity — I'd only been scorned and overlooked.
Even so, Cena's earnest character was something truly worthy of respect.
"I'm planning to just work hard, whatever orders come down from upstairs. Same for you."
"Do you have to put it like that?"
"Well, my own thinking matters too, of course. ...Why do you see this as such a big opportunity?"
"Isn't it obvious? More chances to perform. Four weeks at the center of the script — how often does that come around?"
"But if this script flops, it all amounts to nothing, doesn't it?"
"I trust the company. I trust my own eyes. And I don't think about risk — I just give it everything I've got."
"You really are something else."
Cena let out a genuine note of admiration.
"You've been inspiring me since the GCW days, Sin. Honestly, you're the wrestler I respect most."
"What an honor. Who knew I'd live to hear that from Shawn Cena."
"Me? Come on. The highlight of my career so far is getting lucky and winning the U.S. Championship."
Ah.
Right — the Cena of this era wasn't yet the legend he would become.
But I knew what the future held for him, and that made hearing it, frankly, moving.
Besides, in the autobiography Cena would one day publish, I would be written down as the wrestler he respected most.
"Sin, sorry to ask, but can I pick your brain about one more thing?"
"Anything."
"I saw the British guy you picked. I've been wondering what you saw in him."
"Hmm."
"Don't get me wrong, I trust your eye... but you know how people are reacting, right? Not exactly positively."
"The usual chorus that follows an underdog like me everywhere."
"That's why I'm curious. You're always thinking several steps past everyone else, so I keep wondering — what is it this time?"
"Honestly, it's nothing special."
"Yeah?"
"It's the kind of concept you'd land on yourself if you thought it through, Cena."
"Hmm..."
Cena sank into thought.
He hadn't spent his career coasting either. So it didn't take him long to arrive at the answer.
"The underdog?"
That was exactly it.