Respect. 2

I was hiding in a strange place again today.

And this time I hadn't come with Jane or Adolf—I was alone.

It wasn't even an ambush day, so I had no idea why I needed to stay hidden, but the brand director had told me to, so I just went along with it.

My entrance was scheduled dead last, so for now I was only watching the show unfolding in the ring on the TV monitors.

"Law's looking pretty chaotic tonight, isn't it?"

"You have to figure that's the fallout from Friday's Smash Down—that nightmare Domino Splash sequence."

"You don't think Law's about to get ambushed too, do you?"

I'd heard that the five consecutive splashes had been Jane's scenario.

Jane had created a legendary moment unprecedented in the entire history of professional wrestling worldwide.

Unfortunately, the Spotlight would go to the wrestlers who actually executed it… but even Paul Levesque, whom I'd briefly run into before coming in, had been practically spitting with praise over it.

"Charina's ambush. Getting hit once is understandable. They didn't see it coming. But if they take it again tonight, Law's roster is going to have to face the wall and do some serious soul-searching."

"Hahaha! CM Metal, Jess Rolex, Vicky Lynch and the rest lined up facing the wall for punishment—that would be another legendary moment in its own right."

"Hey, I'm just saying. I absolutely do not want to see Law take that kind of ambush. That level of embarrassment is more than enough for Smash Down."

Hmm. Had Law and Smash Down always trash-talked each other like this?

Ah—right. The Live was coming in November.

The PLE where Law and Smash Down went to war. The commentators were already laying the groundwork for that build.

But what was I supposed to do with that?

There was no way Law and Smash Down would actually be fighting each other this November… Heh.

No—wait. This could be material too.

I dialed Jane immediately.

A few rings, and she picked up.

"It's not that."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Senior. Watching Law's broadcast from here, I noticed something. The commentators are already thinking about The Live, and they're really tearing into Smash Down."

"What if both sides' commentators trash-talked each other even harder? So hard that Law and Smash Down wouldn't help each other—would actively sabotage each other instead."

Through the receiver I caught John's voice faintly in the background—"A call from Charina? Why?"

Then Jane's tone sharpened just a little.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Yes, Senior."

Hearing that last line, I figured I didn't need to worry about the brief edge in her voice. The Jane I knew only went short and clipped when she was truly angry.

A little while later, a male staffer sent by Director Aaron came looking for me, saying it was time.

I gathered the military duffel bag I'd prepared, the championship belt, and my skateboard.

"That looks heavy. Want me to carry it for you?"

"I may not look it, but I'm pretty strong. I'm fine."

"W-well, yeah, you are."

"Let's go."

The place he led me to was the Gorilla Position. This time, I actually stopped there.

Aaron was there, of course—and so were Paul and Stacey McMahon.

I hadn't expected the two of them to come in person.

They were probably here more for Mick Foley than for me.

"Hello. It's been a while."

"It has. You've always exceeded expectations, but tonight I'm counting on you especially."

"Yes, sir. I'll give it everything. And thank you for allowing me this honor."

Paul smiled and clapped my shoulder. Stacey approached with a smile of her own.

"Every time I see you, I'm still amazed. Expectations are high."

"Thank you. I'll work hard."

While I was exchanging brief greetings with the couple, the wrestlers from the previous match came in—Brook Break, his manager Paulo Hackman, and the masked Hexa.

Brook Break and Hexa stared at my face with wide, startled eyes.

And the enormously overweight Paulo Hackman snapped his suspenders and waddled right up to me.

This guy. His gut was way bigger in person than it looked on screen.

"Whoa! Finally seeing the real thing up close. Damn! ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠What a face. Absolutely stunning."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Hackman."

"Hmm. You wouldn't happen to need a manager, would you? I could push you hard."

If Paulo Hackman took me on as a client, a championship belt would come faster, sure.

I'd heard he wasn't a bad person the way he looked on camera—but among the wrestlers he'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠managed, none had ever reached Icon status. Not even Icon-adjacent.

He could raise an S-rank talent, but he couldn't create anything SS-rank or higher. That was Paulo Hackman.

And the reason for that was tied to the very purpose of his existence.

From the start, he was a man who existed to compensate for a wrestler's weak promo skills.

So if I got tangled up with him, people would start questioning my promo ability itself.

"I appreciate the offer, but I'm not particularly hungry for a championship belt."

"For someone who says that, your first belt is pretty unique, isn't it? Or am I wrong?"

"What power do I have? I just follow the scenario."

"Ooooh. Good mindset. That's how a wrestler should be. Makes me want you even more. Confident you can work any scenario they throw at you?"

Apparently he didn't have anyone special he was building right now, because Paulo kept needling at me, picking at every thread.

"Paulo. Charina doesn't have time for small talk. The cage is already almost all the way down."

I glanced at the monitor showing the ring. The cage was nearly fully lowered.

"Hah. Fair enough. Charina! Let's talk properly next time."

Paulo led the way out of the Gorilla Position, and Brook and Hexa each offered me a word as they passed.

"I don't know what you're doing tonight, but give it everything."

"I'm not a sexist, but hardcore is something you really have to be careful with. Especially for women!"

"The advice and the concern—I truly appreciate both."

I dipped my head slightly in greeting to Brook Break and Hexa.

"Charina. Go on in."

"Yes."

When I stepped out of the Gorilla Position, a whole crowd of wrestlers was already gathered at the stage entrance.

Bright and Yazan, of course—plus CM Metal, Miyu Sky, Vicky Lynch. And Lisa Rayple was there too.

"Hello. I'm Charina."

I didn't strictly need to greet them like that, but these had once been the idols I'd watched on TV.

"What? She's actually polite."

"Right? I figured she was a total brat."

"Miyu used to be polite once too."

"Excuse me? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Joke. Just a joke."

So it wasn't an act—Miyu and Lisa Rayple really did get along that well.

—Ziiing. Zzziiing. Zziiing.—

My theme music hit.

"I'll head in first."

"See you in a bit."

"Kid! I don't know who you're wrestling, but take care of yourself."

"Thank you for the concern."

I stepped onto the board and pushed off slowly with my foot.

—Whoa! Charina!—

That much was the crowd reaction I'd expected. But then…

—Charina, ura!! (Чарина, ура!!)—

Huh? I wasn't Russian.

That seemed to be the signal, though—because "Charina, ura!" started spreading like wildfire through the arena.

Not bad.

At least I wouldn't have to lose sleep over my signature chant anymore.

Listening to that roar, I pushed the board slowly down toward the cage ahead of me.

Fans along the ramp who'd been reaching for high-fives flinched when they saw the heavy military duffel bag.

Fair enough. I'd already hit people with a board twice.

And Emergency—the match that had gone beyond Match of the Week and been crowned Match of the Month—pretty much every wrestling fan had seen that one.

They must have figured tonight wouldn't be ordinary either.

Before long I reached the cage. I slid the board off toward the commentary table, then climbed the steel steps into the ring.

If I'd been a real champion, I would have worked every corner, showing off the belt. But I was a fake champion.

I set both the belt and the duffel down on the canvas, then climbed up onto the top rope.

Not even a ring corner—just balancing on a single strand of top rope like a circus act—and the crowd's roar swelled even louder.

I worked all four sides that way, then took a microphone from the referee.

"Good to see you again, Law!"

—Charina! Charina!—

"You got the message through that idiot Brian, right?"

As I spoke, I slung the belt I'd set down over my shoulder.

"Any wrestler who wants this belt—man or woman—come on out."

Some thirty wrestlers came pouring off the stage in a rush.

Among them were the men's tag team champions, World Champion Jess Rolex, women's champion Lisa Rayple, and Vicky Lynch.

It looked like most of Law's roster had come out.

They all crowded in front of the cage, jostling over who would go in first.

"Whoa, whoa! I'm alone here! And I've got no interest in a triple threat or a fatal four-way."

"Then how are you planning to decide?"

Law's Director Aaron had taken a mic and was walking out from the stage.

"First—"

I stopped talking and picked up the duffel bag I'd left on the canvas.

I opened it and started pulling things out.

Two barbed-wire bats came out first.

That alone made the women wrestlers take a step back.

Then came the sledgehammer—Triple J's trademark.

"Charina! What are you trying to do?"

"Director Aaron. Don't I get to set the rules?"

"I can't authorize a hardcore match like this."

Boos rained down from the crowd.

—Boo! Boo!—

—Coward! Coward!—

At that sound, a few of the male wrestlers started trying to enter the cage.

"Settle down. The setup isn't finished yet."

I turned the duffel upside down and shook it. Hundreds of thumbtacks poured out.

The men who'd been about to come in immediately backed off.

"I hear Law hasn't run a match like this in a long time? So none of you have done one, right? And the one who has—Sandy Orton—is over on Smash Down."

I'd been told even the wrestlers were being kept in the dark.

That must have been why their expressions looked so real.

Even if someone told them to come in, their faces said they didn't want to.

A match like this took a long time to steel your heart for.

And as wrestlers, they'd rewatched my matches more than once—so the idea of it was probably terrifying.

"Think it's fake?"

I pressed my left palm down onto the thumbtacks.

Damn it! Without the Painkiller item, this actually hurt.

I was never doing this again after tonight.

I clenched my jaw, swallowed the groan, and lifted my palm.

I'd pressed down on about ten of them, so there were that many holes punched through, with three thumbtacks still embedded.

Blood began to seep out slowly.

I squeezed my left hand, and more blood welled up, running down my palm and dripping onto the canvas in fat drops.

At that sight, even the crowd sank into silence.

I swept my gaze across every wrestler, then pulled the thumbtacks out of my palm and threw them toward them.

"Unfortunately… this is real."

The wrestlers picked up the thumbtacks I'd thrown, passing them carefully among themselves, turning them over in their hands.

"World Heavyweight Champion. Jess Rolex."

Jess walked over beside the director and took the microphone.

"Why are you calling me out?"

"You're welcome to come in. But take off that leather vest first. As you can see, I'm only wearing a tank top. Same goes for every other male wrestler. Coming in is fine—but you come in wearing nothing but a T-shirt."

"Hmph! I'm already a champion. Unless this is a double title with the tag belts, I don't need an IC title. Besides, I've got the Ring of Crown too."

Did Jess know the scenario?

He'd picked up my line and answered it perfectly.

"Fine. Then who's going to be my opponent?"

Five or six seconds passed, but the wrestlers only hesitated and flinched—none of them could bring themselves to step into the cage.

"Nobody?"

Then came the sound of a car crash.

—Screeeech, KRA-KOOM—

Followed by a bright guitar riff and the crack of clapping hands.

—Zzziiing. Clap! Ziiing. Clap! Zzziiing. Clap!—

The moment that impossibly famous theme song hit, the entire crowd rose to their feet and threw their arms up in celebration.

The wrestlers, too, stared toward the stage as if they couldn't believe what they were seeing.

A man in black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a red plaid short-sleeve shirt over it appeared at center stage.

Mick Foley, walking out with that warm, good-natured smile.

His presence alone detonated the arena.

—Mick Foley! Mick Foley! Mick Foley!—

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Emperor of Hardcore. No—the God of Hardcore.

The Kind Man, Mick Foley, had descended upon Charlotte.