The Wounded Lion
I opened the door without hesitation and stepped into the locker room.
"Hunter."
"You……"
If the bastard pulled a sledgehammer out from behind his back and tried to kill me with it, I was ready to bolt.
……No, even joking about this, I couldn't shake the annoying feeling of standing in front of Hunter again.
But what could I do?
The moment I saw him wrapping a bandage around his thigh, a single fact flashed through my mind.
It was a glimpse of the future.
Not long after this point in time, Hunter would suffer an injury and be out for roughly eight months.
'He said his thigh muscle tore clean off the bone.'
Hunter's relationship with his thighs had never been a good one throughout his entire career.
Kind of like an ex-girlfriend.
Even after that, the area would break down at the drop of a hat, sidelining him for two months, three months, shaving years off his career.
And it looked like this was where it all began.
'Since he's still walking, he's apparently holding on for now.'
Even so, sweating buckets like that suggested things were pretty serious.
Hunter, who had been winding the bandage tightly around his thigh, soon glared at me again.
"……What are you staring at?"
"Does it hurt a lot?"
"No. Get out."
He was growling.
I stood in front of him for a moment, then gave the foot resting on the floor a light kick.
"~~~~?!"
Hunter writhed in agony like a cartoon character.
'It's pretty bad.'
Having worked as a trainer in my past life, I had a decent working knowledge of sports medicine.
While he was busy suffering, I checked the condition of his thigh.
The bruising had gone past black and blue into something charred-looking. And the fact that a light tap on his toes had him howling in pain?
"Leave it like this and you'll be losing the leg."
I delivered my opinion in the most serious voice I could manage. But the bastard just kept baring his teeth.
"What's it to you?"
"Look. The blood's pooling in there and rotting. The blood from the thigh wound is causing inflammation."
"……"
"I should tell Bart."
"W-wait a second!"
"Are you insane? How are you going to keep wrestling injured like that?"
"Shut up! My body, my call!"
"Well, if you go down with an injury, I get my opportunity, so it works out fine for me either way."
"You little……"
"Think whatever you want. Or you could choose to take it the other way."
I smirked.
Of course, it could be read that way.
Hunter was probably wary of exactly that, which was why he kept snarling at me.
But this was a separate matter.
I couldn't just stand by and watch Hunter suffer through chronic pain — never mind the eight months on the shelf.
Knowing what I knew, staying silent as a fellow wrestler would be the real slap in the face to him.
"If you go to a doctor, they'll probably chew you out for being a lunatic with a death wish."
I said it coldly.
As long as Hunter viewed me with suspicion, my original plan of politely persuading him was dead in the water anyway.
"You're pounding painkillers like candy, aren't you? No matter how tight you cinch that bandage, it's useless, right? Your performance's been slipping lately."
"That's—not……"
I couldn't entirely blame him for it.
Because if he dropped off the show at this very moment, Revolution would collapse.
Nick Flair was half manager rather than an active wrestler, Lance Orton was still young, and Batista wasn't quite there yet.
Revolution only worked because of their gravitational center, the king of kings — Triple H.
So I said it plainly.
"Let's start with seeing a doctor."
"……What about this week's matches? If I start treatment, I won't even be able to maintain this already-degraded performance."
"We drain the blood and pus inside first. Left alone, it'll genuinely rot and eat down to the bone."
"The match……"
"I'll cover it."
"……What?"
"Treatment comes first."
Hearing this, Hunter's eyes went round with disbelief.
Well, I understood.
We were absolutely not the kind of people who worried about each other.
But that was a matter between him and me as individuals — and knowing the future, it was an entirely different story.
Because I knew just how horrific that injury would become, I couldn't simply shrug and assume he'd handle it.
"I'll go get the car. When you're ready, slip out to the parking lot where nobody can see you."
"You……"
"What are you so shocked about? I'm driving you to the hospital. Let's go."
With that, I left the locker room, borrowed one of the company's vans, and drove it around to the front entrance.
I waited with the engine running, and before long Hunter came limping out.
"Ugh……!"
Even getting into the car looked agonizing for him. But I stayed seated in the driver's seat and simply watched.
Rushing to help a wounded lion would only be an insult to the beast.
Besides, it was a hassle.
"Go. Get in."
"Fine."
I hit the accelerator.
We reached a nearby general hospital, and I left Hunter in the car while I handled the registration.
Outside the orthopedic examination room.
Hunter, who had walked this far on pure grit alone, was drenched in sweat as if he'd just wrestled a match lasting over an hour.
'So that's why he hasn't worn trunks lately — the thigh injury.'
In fairness to Hunter's dignity here, I'm talking about his ring gear, not his underwear.
Hunter took immense pride in his thick thighs and typically competed in trunks-style singlets.
But recently they'd changed to spats that covered the legs — and now the secret was out.
"……So."
Hunter looked at me.
His wary gaze was striking.
"You said you'd cover my matches. What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"I wrestle them for you."
"What?"
"There's a good justification for it, too. You're saying the European rookies still aren't ready, so you've been stepping back."
"What a convenient script for me."
"You are the World Champion, after all."
"You care more about the *World Champion* — that seat — than about me, is that it?"
"Pretty much."
"Do you think you're worthy of becoming World Champion?"
"……"
I glanced back at Hunter.
He'd picked a fight out of nowhere — how was I supposed to answer?
No, wait. Was that even a provocation, or not?
To figure that out first, I deliberately answered with a 'slightly' harder edge.
"More than you."
Hunter's eyes went wide again.
A quiet orthopedic waiting area.
He soon let out a dry laugh.
"Me. Not worthy."
"That's not what I mean. I mean I'm more worthy of it than you are."
"Insufferably arrogant."
"I think so too."
"A man ranked in the all-time top twenty, and I'm less worthy than you?"
"No, not that. By my standards, you're a top-ten all-time wrestler. As a heel, you're number one in WWF, period."
"And yet better than me?"
"In pure in-ring ability, I think I'm above you. ……But hey, that's just my opinion. What can you do about it?"
"……Ha. You really are a lunatic."
Hunter shook his head.
"I thought so the first time I saw you. Turning down my offer and choosing to stay in GCW. Completely out of your mind."
"It worked out in my favor, in the end."
"I can't argue with that. ……Can I ask you one thing?"
"Bluntly?"
"Yes. Back then — why did you turn down the call-up I offered you?"
"I have to feed our GCW family — the people who look to me alone. Besides, an Easterner like me rising without any groundwork would've been dangerous."
"So you grew GCW to make Tiffany your patron."
"I had it in mind, to some extent."
Well, it wasn't as if I'd acted *expecting* things to turn out exactly this way, but I'd kept the possibility in the back of my mind.
Hearing my answer, Hunter nodded as if satisfied.
A little while later, a nurse helped him into the examination room.
'The man's pride really is top-notch.'
No wonder he'd forced himself to endure such a serious thigh injury for so long.
Still, when it came to a professional's sense of responsibility, he was a greater man than anyone.
* * *
Helping Hunter.
The reasons I'd made that decision were extremely complicated.
First, the bare minimum of camaraderie I felt as a fellow wrestler.
And the certainty that this would, one way or another, benefit me as well.
So what I'd done for Hunter was only a 'temporary measure.'
CT scans, a thorough scolding from the doctor, and — after much persuading — a simple procedure to drain the blood and pus pooling in his knee by syringe. That was all.
Because in the end, he still had to wrestle at the final moment of this European tour.
But I intended to postpone that for as long as possible.
That was my thinking.
When everyone had gathered and heard my proposal, Bart Maxen smiled with evident interest.
"All by yourself?"
"Yes. Having the World Champion keep competing in every match seemed a bit unseemly, honestly."
"And JBL's Universe Championship?"
"He still has to compete."
"Why?"
"To speak frankly, Cena still lacks in technique."
"And you don't?"
"No. And I have an idea for how to prove it."
"What kind of idea?"
"I'll tell the European rookies this: you can beat me just fine even if I 'limit my moveset.'"
"Hoh……"
"B-but, Sin."
It was the head of the creative team who answered.
He looked utterly flustered by my sudden announcement.
The Cena who'd just been insulted was laughing it off going 'See! I DO lack technique!' and even JBL couldn't have cared less.
"That makes you the villain, you know."
"……It's Europe anyway. Better we play the heels regardless."
"The idea isn't bad. I'm not wild about the direction of elevating the European rookies, though."
"What charm does a babyface who only ever loses have?"
"Well, if it's a wrestler *you* picked, that might be the charm in itself."
Bart's jab made my forehead sting a little.
"Hunter takes a break from matches. That's not a bad idea either. There's a proper reason for it, after all."
"You sly old snake."
"What was that?"
"Ah — I was just thinking out loud."
I snickered.
Bart, who had raised an eyebrow at me for a moment, soon started snickering right back.
Everyone else, completely lost, broke into cold sweats over my outrageous outburst.
"The snake here is you, Sin. Planning to take everything you want out of this European tour, aren't you?"
"I'll do my very best."
"Two main shows a week. Two matches at each. Two 'house shows' as well. Can you handle it?"
House shows referred to non-televised events outside the main shows.
In other words, over the course of the European tour, I was originally supposed to wrestle six times a week.
Including Hunter's share, that number would soar past ten.
Beyond the sheer volume of matches, the accumulated fatigue would be worse still.
But I smiled.
I couldn't see a single reason it wouldn't work.
"If you put your faith in me, I'll show you the best possible results."
"HAHAHAHAHA! You absolute madman!"
Bart roared with laughter, booming and full-throated.
"Excellent! For the time being, Hunter appears in segments only!"
"Thank you."
"Everyone hear that? We'll need to adjust the shows accordingly!"
At those words, the various team leads groaned and shuffled out of the office.
Only the wrestlers remained. Bart went around encouraging each of us in turn.
JBL first.
"John, no problems?"
"None at all, Boss. It's a fact that Cena can't handle multiple matches at once yet, after all."
"Don't take it too personally, Cena. Sin here is just wired wrong."
"O-of course, Boss. I'm learning a great deal from Sin, actually."
"And Hunter."
Finally, Bart turned to Hunter, who had been silent this whole time.
Half-conscious from the antibiotic-and-painkiller combo set, Hunter jolted and opened his eyes.
"Yes, Boss."
"You've got yourself a good friend there."
"……Yes."
Hunter answered with an unreadable expression.
Sure enough — predictable as it was — Bart had apparently known about Hunter's thigh injury all along.
And he'd simply left it alone.
Why?
Because if the current World Champion went down injured and vanished from the shows, the damage would be catastrophic.
'The very definition of a corrupt chairman.'
Which meant he could also see straight through exactly what I was thinking in making this proposal.
The chance to wrestle more matches.
That meant I'd be treated as a player who mattered that much on the shows.
And just as I'd carved out 'history' in GCW, this would become a proud pillar of my career going forward.