A Clean Finish
And so our European tour rolled on, carrying us through France and on to Germany and Spain alike.
The shows drew a strong reaction every single night.
The storyline we'd built—European rookies clawing their way upward while their mentors traded barbs behind the scenes—had carried the whole tour beautifully as a long-form arc. Who would win the crowd's hearts and earn a WWF contract? Would Shin keep his uneasy alliance with JBL intact through the European tour? Could Shin really go undefeated against the rookies all the way to the end? And was Hunter truly planning to sit out every match on the tour?
"Of course not."
That was my answer.
Madrid, Spain. The kind of weather that made your breath come short.
Gathered in a meeting room at the arena, we were discussing how to close out the European tour.
"I think Hunter needs to wrestle before the end."
"That's my read too." Bart nodded.
"But shouldn't we wrap up the European rookies' storyline first?" Tiffany's point was sharp, and she wasn't wrong. If we let this thread dangle, people would write off the entire four-week European tour as filler.
"Fair point. We need to close that out first."
"Will's leading the vote right now, isn't he? Eighty-two percent."
"Yes, though we've published it externally at around thirty-four percent."
"Good work. If we package it as a nail-biter, the turnout climbs even higher."
"So Will will most likely take it clean."
"Then we book him against Shin at Burning Kong, and Hunter's match follows right after."
"Mr. Chairman...?"
"Hold on a moment. Shin isn't going to lose at the end and set up a Will–Hunter world title program, is he?"
At Tiffany's flustered question, Bart threw his head back and let out a rolling laugh.
"Of course not. You think I'd have my own wrestler lose to a bunch of Europeans?"
Having briefly thrown the room into confusion, Bart turned to look at me.
"So, how does it end?"
"I wrestle Hunter."
It was the only logical answer. If I wasn't losing, and Hunter had to wrestle, there was nothing else it could be.
"Right. And in that match—you're going to lose."
"Mr. Chairman—"
At that very moment, Hunter, who had kept his silence through the entire European tour, raised his hand.
"I actually think the opposite."
"Hm?"
Everyone was stunned. I was no exception.
If I was reading Hunter's radical new interpretation correctly, what he'd just said could only mean one thing.
I'm putting Shin over.
'Did he get into drugs or something?'
No—granted, it was true I'd done Hunter an enormous favor. He'd gotten to rest for the entirety of the European tour because of me. But even so.
'That man is doing a job?'
This was repayment I never expected. In industry terms, a job—using a match or some other performance to make the other guy look good. Hunter hated that more than anyone else in the business, because he guarded his image as the king of kings with almost desperate intensity.
And that guy was going to lose? To me? Then surely not—
For one instant I was so blindsided that I could only stare at him, slack-jawed. But before I could get my question out, Bart Maxen beat me to the punch.
"So you're saying you want to hand Shin the world title?"
"...Not that."
"Right?"
"Correct. It's a storyline nobody's been prepared for, so the audience would be completely blindsided. I'd suggest booking it as a non-title match instead."
"And the belt?"
"..."
"What's the plan there?"
Skewered by Bart's razor-sharp question, Hunter fell silent, visibly cornered. After a moment's hesitation, he rested his hand on his left thigh.
"...I thought some rest would fix it, but I don't think it's going to."
"So surgery is unavoidable."
"Yes. I'm sorry, Boss."
"Don't apologize. You've done plenty as champion this far."
Bart smiled bitterly, then turned back to me with an expression of pure incredulity.
"But I never imagined the one doing the final job for you would be this guy."
"I want to be on the operating table the moment we're back home. Can't be helped."
Everyone in the room wore the same shell-shocked expression. That was how rare it was—Hunter doing a job for another man.
If this storyline came together, it would be a massive boost in carrying me up and out of the mid-card.
But one thing mattered above all.
"How do we do the finish?"
I echoed Tiffany's question and let the moment hang. My heart was pounding. It was just one win—but the fact that my opponent would be Hunter had me like this.
"A roll-up? A disqualification?"
"Normally, one of those two, sure. Compare your standing to mine—if I took a 'clean' loss, it'd be absurd."
Right, because you'd never take a clean loss to anyone. All that image-protection and self-coddling of your own career.
"But this situation is a little different."
"...Is that so?"
"I'm going out with an injury. So the final job goes clean. That's the rule of this business."
"He's not wrong."
If you were sidelined from the show by injury, the memory of that last defeat would fade by the time you returned. In other words, Hunter's standing would survive intact—which meant a clean win for me was the correct booking.
As I allowed myself a small smile, Hunter nodded, then turned to Bart.
"Mr. Chairman, I want my last act to be putting this kid over."
"Elaborate."
"After Will's match, I come out and we go straight into it. And there, I lose."
"Back-to-back matches with a clean job in both? That might be too much even for this."
"I think it's fine."
Hunter answered flatly, without a shred of doubt. Apparently he'd only been testing the waters; Bart chuckled and made the call on the spot.
"Then that's what we'll do."
...Apparently, I needed to revisit a thought I'd had the day I first came back in time.
This can't be real.
And so the meeting ended.
I had been handed an unprecedented storyline: beat Will, then—in an exhausted state—beat Hunter too.
'There's no reason to refuse.'
If anything, this was a megaton-class super push, a reward for everything I'd endured. So naturally, I was a little dumbfounded.
A win over Hunter, a definitive payoff to the European tour... it was a reward, all right, but it came out of nowhere.
I was drifting out after the others in a daze when someone called me back.
It was Hunter.
"Got a minute to talk?"
"Sure. Want me to pay you for it?"
"What?"
"You know. Payment for the job."
"You obnoxious little punk."
He clicked his tongue lightly and turned away. I followed his limping gait up to the arena stands, where he dropped heavily into a seat while the ring was still being assembled.
"I could use a Coke."
"...Pepsi?"
"That's gutter water."
So we were complete opposites. But there was one thing we shared.
"It's been a while since you've had one, then."
"Fifteen years or so."
Professionalism. That single detail cleared up my question.
"It must have eaten at you."
"What?"
"Me stealing your Burning Kong and carrying the show on my own."
"..."
"So that's why you finally decided on the surgery."
"...You're mistaken about one thing."
"Which is?"
"It was never my Burning Kong. It's Bart Maxen's and his family's."
"Can't argue there."
"And that answer doesn't explain why I agreed to do the job."
"Then what does?"
"Sending you up."
Hunter fixed me with a dead-serious stare.
"Burning Kong's main eventer always has to go to war with Bart Maxen."
"...I suppose so."
"Kane couldn't do it and went down. Booker-Lee is the same. Greg Hart's too old, and too stubborn. The only one left is Silverback, really."
"So you want to see if I can actually do it."
"Yeah. I clawed my way to the main event by wading through filth and pretending to get along with corpses."
"That's kind of disgusting."
"But that's what it takes to reach the main event. Bart will test your talent every way he knows how."
"...It's true—Bart will do anything for ratings."
"Right, because this show is Bart's kingdom. Keep pulling in the viewers, keep buying up talent, keep making money—that's how he dominates the industry."
"Impressive."
"Impressive? You and me both—we're nothing but tools here. Could you stay that arrogant even after you understood that?"
"You're awfully pessimistic."
"I'm realistic."
"There is one way out of being a tool, though, isn't there?"
"Which is?"
"Becoming an Icon."
I pointed at the ceiling. Hunter's eyes went wide.
"Rockcold and Captain Logan became symbols of American culture itself—bigger than this company."
"...Bart knows that too. Which is why I hear he's planning to make sure no wrestler like that ever comes along again."
"By deliberately killing their pushes?"
"Probably."
"But do you know what? Above the king sits the audience."
"...So an Icon will rise anyway?"
"Of course."
"And that's you?"
"We'll see."
"If you're going to be arrogant, see it through to the end."
I only answered that way because I already know the future, man.
While I was busy being flustered, Hunter let out a long sigh and flexed his fingertips wistfully, as if mourning something.
"This is normally a conversation you'd have over a beer."
"Can't drink, though."
"I understand."
"Still got a dream left."
"That's right."
Hunter's bodybuilder's back swelled enormously beneath his shirt.
"A man lives on his dreams."
"Funny—in that one respect, we speak the same language."
"Yeah."
He nodded, then rose from his seat with one last long exhale. And then, resting his chin and a hand on my shoulder, he said this:
"Take good care of Tiffany."
"..."
That, I figured, was Hunter's own clumsy way of conceding as much to me as he possibly could.
But I was wrong.
Probably.
Ever since his proposal at GCW had been shot down, Hunter had treated me as an enemy without pause. And I, chalking it up to an unavoidable side effect of that rejection, had given up on ever working with him entirely.
No amount of coaxing was ever going to win Hunter over. Of that I was certain.
'Because we carry the same ambition.'
The crystal-clear goal of standing at the very summit no matter what it took. To become the greatest this industry had ever known, and to forge a history that would never lose.
In that, Hunter and I were the same. We'd walked every step of the road with nothing else in our sights.
Swallowing every craving, sculpting our bodies, grinding through exhaustion, working without end. Playing politics inside the company to cut down enemies, building allies, growing our roles on the show piece by piece. Hunter had suffered his way up to the main event like that—so of course I'd gradually come to look like a thorn in his eye.
Which meant, honestly speaking, none of this was something I'd seen coming.
'To think I'd be taking a job from Hunter this early.'
It was the strongest push I'd received in the main event scene to date. I would score a clean pinfall on the World Heavyweight Champion himself—though afterward, the man would be written off TV with an injury.
When this match was over, I would be seared into people's memories as an undeniable powerhouse.
And that moment was now creeping closer, step by step.
The closing stretch of the match. Spanish fans were in a frenzy, and the dueling chants for me and Hunter filled the arena wall to wall.
🔥 SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! 🔥
⚡ TRIPLE H! TRIPLE H! TRIPLE H! ⚡
But for all the blazing heat of the atmosphere, the situation inside the ring was grim. This was a contest between me—my stamina flickering on and off its limit for three straight weeks—and Hunter, fighting through a severe injury.
I checked on Hunter, sprawled on the canvas and gasping for air.
"Ngh..."
"You okay?"
"Don't... worry. Keep going."
Even as he heaved for breath, Hunter brushed my arm away and pulled himself up, right on script. My concern had been for nothing, it seemed.
Even with his leg blown to pieces, he finishes what he came to do. On that count, Hunter was, without question, a magnificent professional wrestler.
Defeating this man in the final Burning Kong of the European tour would be a colossal gain—that much was certain. Just the sound of our names alternating through the arena was more than enough.
"Come on, then! Bring it!"
Gripping his injured thigh with one hand, Hunter forced the leg upward. His eyes were half-gone, lost in the haze of pain.
I was at my limit too. Which made the final moment of the match, when it finally arrived, taste unbelievably sweet.
CRACK—!!
With a razor-sharp crack of impact, my knee slammed into Hunter's face.