An audio recording plays of Rupert Mudcocks conversation with the entity known as The Sphinx. Rupert Mudcock: Nygma… you’re going in first.Rupert Mudcock: I want AAPW’s very first entrant to see you standing there. I want them to look into your eyes and know they’re already dead!
Nygma tilts his head slightly, a slow, sinister smile spreading across his face. His voice is low and chilling.
Drake Nygma: Consider it done…
The door slams shut behind him. The wrestlers sit in stunned silence for a beat before Drake Nygma steps forward, pulling on his gloves. He looks around the room, his voice calm and measured.
Drake Nygma: Let the battle begin.
24 hours post ronin rumble
The Sphinx’s Cabin
Dollia Trypp sat watching the powerful yet unmoving form of The Sphinx. In the past 24 hours she had seen footage of what had happened in the ronin rumble, her heart and mind racing as she looked upon The Sphinx, seeing something akin to a timeless entity at rest.
She could hear the haughty, arrogant words of Rupert Mudcock as if they had only been spoken a moment ago. The audio recording came to an end, leaving silence in its wake. The Sphinx had yet to waken, his eyes remained closed, his features sharper, his bones more prominent, as if he had burned through significant energy on both the physical and mental realms.
Dollia Trypp: Wake up. Please. Come back home.
Her words were like a whispered prayer, filled with hope.
A slow ethereal drum beat pulsated, the sound echoing the thump thump thump of his heartbeat, a heartbeat that was growing in strength. It did not happen in a burst of dramatic energy, no it was slow, gradual, instinctive, patient, timeless much like the entity who was waking up.
Rising to a seated position, The Sphinx spoke, a dark whisper, laced with an intense edge. An edge that spoke of patience honed throughout the sands of time.
The Sphinx: I have awoken. What happened? How long was I out for?
Naturally The Sphinx had questions, his mind spinning, seeking out the knowledge of the past 24 hours. His hands twitched at his sides, a sign that he was growing restless, the need to rise, to move, to hunt evident in his bearing. Dollia moved to his side, her stride graceful and warm, her lips parted as she began to speak Dollia Trypp: It's been 24 hours, My Sphinx. You entered the ronin rumble at #1 and won the whole thing.
She paused, as if waiting for his reaction.
When he did begin to speak it was with a timeless rumbling quality, like a sandstorm clothed in flesh, unnerving, dangerous, unhinged.
The Sphinx: I won. I started at number one?
His words were cut off a second later an array of memories rose up inside his mind, memories of dominance, of the haughty barked out words of that parasitic oaf Rupert Mudcock. The memories grew more intense as he saw Dollia entering the ring cradling his head, calling him her sphinx, shortly before he’d vanished.
...whispers stirred from the crowd. But as the enormity of the moment settled like ash across the Tokyo Dome, one name reverberated in murmurs, rising with momentum:
The Sphinx.
The Tokyo Dome was still trembling in the wake of Akhenaten’s arrival. Dust hung suspended in shafts of golden light like holy embers, casting long shadows across the ring. As the echoes of the Pharaoh’s declaration faded into silence, the cameras cut away, the broadcast ending abruptly. But the story did not.
In the dimmed locker room, far from the eyes of the roaring public, The Sphinx—once known as Drake Nygma—sat hunched on a metal bench, his soaked gear still clinging to him. The last of the golden sand still shimmered faintly in his hair, like residue from a dream. His knuckles were bruised, his chest rising and falling like a war drum calming after a siege. Dollia Trypp stood opposite him, a half-empty water bottle in one hand, the other clutching the ancient parchment she hadn’t realized she had been holding the whole time. The silence between them was heavy, humming with aftershocks neither of them could name. Dollia cleared her throat, her voice rough with reverence—and buried frustration. “Do you even know what just happened out there?”
Drake didn’t respond immediately. He was no longer just Drake. Not fully. When he finally looked up, his eyes still shimmered with flecks of gold. Not just his irises—his soul looked different. The Sphinx had awakened. And yet, his smirk still tugged at the edge of his lips. A cracked smile, not of arrogance—but of acceptance. “We were seen. By something old enough to make gods kneel.”
Dollia inhaled sharply through her nose, pacing in front of him. Her heels clacked against the cement like anxious metronomes. “This was not part of the plan, Sphinx. We were working the long game—underdog to champion. Storyline manipulation, crowd psychology, merchandising.” Her voice broke for a second. “Not... summoning the embodiment of celestial judgment in front of eighty thousand people.” He laughed. It was soft. Raspy. Dangerous.
“It was the plan. You just didn’t know the page I was writing from.” She whirled on him, eyes blazing. “You let something ancient in. Do you even know what Akhenaten wants from you? From us?” Drake—no, The Sphinx—rose slowly, every inch of movement deliberate. There was power in the way his shadow moved now, as if light itself bent to emphasize his silhouette. “He’s not a tyrant. He’s... inevitability. Purpose shaped into flesh.” Dollia shook her head, her voice falling to a whisper. “And what are you now? His avatar? His weapon?”
“No,” The Sphinx murmured. He stepped toward her, gently lifting her chin so their eyes met. “I’m his judgment.” Her breath caught. Her heart hammered. In that moment, she could feel the duality crackling within him—Drake’s chaos and charm colliding with a force that had waited millennia to speak. And yet… her fingers found his wrist, grounding him. Reminding him. She hadn’t managed this man for years without learning how to tame monsters and walk beside gods.
“You don't belong to him,” she whispered. “You're still mine.” The Sphinx tilted his head, then nodded—just once. “You’ve always been the only one who saw me before the sand.” Elsewhere. Behind a panel of smoked glass, deep in a secured executive suite, masked figures reviewed the footage on a dozen flickering screens. The final image—Akhenaten’s face bathed in golden fire—burned on repeat.
“Containment is impossible,” one muttered. “He's returned. The cycle begins again.” Another leaned forward, voice gritted with fear. “And The Sphinx has chosen.” Final Scene: Later That Night
In a quiet corridor beneath the Tokyo Dome, Dollia stood alone, staring at a mural none of the staff could explain. It had emerged during the blackout—painted in gold and shadow. A stylized rendering of the Weighing of the Heart. Her reflection stared back at her in the polished tile floor—warped, flickering with hidden truths. Behind her, a soft voice spoke—not Drake’s, but something deeper.
“I feel it, Dollia. The trial begins.” She didn’t turn. Her voice was calm, even. “Then we win. Or we burn the gods for trying.”
Backstage – The Forbidden Corridor
The golden sand had vanished. The Tokyo Dome was still reeling, emergency lights flickering as medics swarmed the fallen fan. In the quiet corridors beneath the arena, the mood was far more volatile.
Drake Nygma—no, The Sphinx now—stood with his back pressed to the cold wall, every breath jagged. His muscles trembled, not from exhaustion, but from something awakening. Something deep. Something divine. Something ancient. Dollia Trypp paced the narrow hallway, her jaw clenched, her eyes sharp with thought. She was silent, but her movements were furious—like a manager trying to stay calm as her entire strategic plan just got divinely hijacked. Dollia Trypp (sharply): “He wasn't supposed to arrive yet. You weren’t ready.” Nygma said nothing. His eyes were still glowing faintly gold in the dark, reflecting the fractured light above like molten glass.
Drake Nygma (quietly): “He called me his child.” Dollia: “He used you.” She stepped in close now, grabbing his wrist with surprising strength, her voice low and trembling—not with fear, but with emotion. With rage born from care. Dollia: “You bled, clawed, survived the gauntlet. You made your own destiny in that ring. And then he—what? Descends like a god and just... claims you?”
She backed off slightly, brushing her wild hair behind her ears, breathing hard. Dollia (softer): “You’re not some vessel. You’re not a pawn on a sun-lit chessboard. You’re Drake Nygma. You earned this.” The Sphinx turned his gaze to her now—finally meeting her eyes. His expression was unreadable. Drake: “But maybe I am the vessel. Maybe this… was always fate.” That one sentence cracked something in her.
She took a step back like he’d struck her. Her face hardened—not with anger, but with the realization that she might be losing him. Not to death. Not to a heel turn. But to a god. Meanwhile… The broadcast had cut to black. Social media was in chaos. Fans speculated if the event had been sabotaged. Others thought it was the greatest work of divine kayfabe ever staged.
But those who were really watching—those who had felt the golden sand—knew this wasn’t a gimmick. The Temple Locker Room – Hidden Away from Mortal Eyes Nygma sat shirtless on a bench, the light above him dim and sepia-toned, like a dying sun. His body was still healing, but his soul felt stretched. Like something had been layered over it. Something watching. Something waiting. Etched into the floor were fresh hieroglyphs. They hadn't been carved—they had appeared. From the shadows, Akhenaten watched. Akhenaten: “The world will resist you. They will call you cursed. Broken. A man used by gods.”
Drake Nygma (coldly): “And what am I?” Akhenaten: “You are judgment made flesh. You are my echo across time.” Drake didn’t respond immediately. He stared at the hieroglyphs. Drake (low): “And if I don’t want to be your echo?” Akhenaten tilted his head ever so slightly, and for a moment, his celestial glow dimmed. Akhenaten: “Then let Dollia write your story. Let the mortals cheer. But when the scales are weighed, and the Eye opens once more… even you will kneel to purpose.”
Dollia’s Lament – Hotel Balcony, Late Night Back at the hotel, Dollia stared out over the Tokyo skyline. Her phone buzzed endlessly with media requests, conspiracy threads, hashtags trending with "SUN KING RETURNS," and "NYGMA ASCENDS." She ignored them all. Her eyes burned from unshed tears and suppressed fury. Dollia (softly, to herself): “I saved you from the pit, Drake. Not so you could become someone else’s myth.” Her hands shook. Not with fear. With resolve.
Dollia (harder now): “You are not their messiah.” She turned back inside. Her eyes met the empty room. She needed to act. Not as his manager. But as the only one who remembered the man beneath the mask of sand and gold. 🔥 Post-Manifestation – The Hotel Room Aftermath Drake is lying on the floor.
The hotel bed behind him is untouched. He can’t sleep anymore—his dreams are flooded with symbols and forgotten languages. Visions of gold and fire. The pull of destiny clawing at his mind like a hand dragging him upward. But he’s not crying. He hasn’t cried in years. He just feels distant. Like the man he was is trapped behind a door he can’t reopen.
The room is dark except for the sliver of hallway light when the door clicks open—and Dollia enters. She pauses, seeing him on the floor, shirtless and glowing faintly like the coals of a dying fire. Dollia (quietly): “You always do this when you're scared.” He doesn't answer. But his jaw clenches. She sits beside him. Close but not touching. They both stare at the ceiling.
Dollia: “Remember after that street fight in Philly? The one with the lead pipe?” Drake (soft): “…you cried harder than I did.”
Dollia: “I thought you were gonna die. You looked at me like you weren’t even there. Like you were somewhere else.”
Drake (whispers): “That’s how I feel now.”
A long pause. Her voice cracks.
Dollia: “I looked up to you, you know. Still do. You were the only one who didn’t give up on me when I was a mess. When I was angry at the world. You made me believe I could build something real.” Drake: “And now?”
Dollia: “…Now I think I’m watching you fade. Into something I can’t follow.”
She turns, finally meeting his eyes.
Dollia: “And I’m scared I’ll lose you. Not in a match. Not to some god. Just… piece by piece.”
That’s when he finally speaks with feeling.
Drake: “I’m still here. You know how I know? Because when I heard him say ‘my child,’ my first thought wasn’t about power. It was about you. About what you’d say.”
He turns his head toward her, face shadowed, voice hoarse.
Drake: “You’re my anchor, D.”
She reaches out—hesitates—then curls her pinky around his, like she used to when she was sixteen and needed a promise she could hold onto.
🌀 Training Warehouse – A Week Later
Drake moves differently now. Cleaner. Crisper. Like every motion is being guided by invisible strings. Dollia watches him spar with someone twice his size and annihilate them without blinking. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just execution.
And for the first time in years, she’s scared of what she sees.
Afterwards, as he’s wiping blood from his knuckles, she walks up and tosses him a towel.
Dollia: “You used to grunt and shout when you fought.”
Drake (dry): “That wasn’t efficient.”
Dollia: “That wasn’t you.”
He freezes—just for a second. And she catches it.
Dollia: “Do you even feel anything anymore?”
Drake (quiet): “I feel… purpose.”
She slaps the towel against his chest—hard.
Dollia: “You feel programmed. Not purposed. I don’t want a champion who’s perfect. I want my brother back.”
He looks away. But his hands are shaking.
And in that moment, she sees it. He’s still in there.
🖤 Memory – Flashback to the Beginning
They were kids—she was sixteen, he was twenty-one.
He found her stealing food from the back of the indie venue. She was rail-thin and all teeth and fire. He didn’t snitch. He bought her dinner.
Young Drake: “You fight like you don’t think tomorrow matters.”
Young Dollia: “It doesn’t.”
Drake: “It does now. ‘Cause I’m gonna make you see what it looks like to matter.”
She’d never believed in anything until that night.
✨ The Chamber of the Veiled Sun – Akhenaten’s Domain
The air hums with golden heat. The floor is obsidian glass, reflecting stars that aren’t part of any known sky. Dollia steps forward—alone, unarmed, out of breath but burning with purpose. She’s wearing a ring Drake gave her years ago. It pulses like a heartbeat.
Akhenaten waits on a throne of molten gold and living fire.
His face is a mask of impossible serenity. Beautiful. Terrifying.
Akhenaten (calm): “You walk willingly into my presence, knowing what I am. You are either foolish… or faithful.”
Dollia (cold): “I’m neither. I’m family.”
He inclines his head, almost amused.
Akhenaten: “And what does blood mean to gods?”
Dollia: “It means everything. Because he’s still fighting you. And you know it.”
There’s a long silence.
Then: Akhenaten: “He is mine. His soul burns with divine purpose. You are clinging to ash.”
Dollia: “No. I’m clinging to truth. Drake Nygma is more than your vessel. He’s a person. He’s my brother.”
Akhenaten (softly): “And what would you give… to keep him human?”
The question echoes. It shakes the bones of the world. A test. A trap. A chance.
Dollia’s hands curl into fists.
Dollia: “My place. My future. My name. I’ll walk your labyrinth. I’ll carry your burdens. Bind me to the edge of your shadow if you have to. Just don’t erase who he was.”
Akhenaten (murmuring): “Would you stand between the light and the flame, knowing you will be consumed?”
Dollia: “I’d burn for him.”
The chamber darkens. The stars blink out, one by one, until only Akhenaten’s eyes remain—golden, ancient, eternal.
And then... he laughs. Quiet, chilling.
Akhenaten: “Your loyalty is… inconvenient. But potent. Very well.”
He rises.
Akhenaten: “We shall strike a pact.”
🔥 THE TERMS Drake’s soul remains his own—as long as Dollia walks the line between realms, bridging the mortal and divine.
She becomes a tether, a living anchor to the mortal plane, gifted with just enough divine essence to keep the balance. If she falters, if her belief wavers or she stops protecting Drake’s true self, his soul becomes fully divine—no way back.
She can never lie to Drake again. Not even to protect him.
Akhenaten (final): “You will be his truth. And he, your burden.”
He presses a finger to her forehead. A mark blooms—ancient script, glowing dimly.
She falls to her knees, gasping, flooded with visions—Drake laughing as a kid, crying under moonlight, fighting with fury, kissing someone she’s never met in a memory she can’t place.
And then it’s done.
🖤 Back in the Mortal Realm Drake finds her collapsed on the rooftop, eyes flickering with starlight. Drake (intense): “Dollia—Dollia, what the hell did you do?” Dollia (hoarse): “I made sure you don’t forget who you are.” Drake: “Did he hurt you?” Dollia: “No. But I think I scared him.”
🕊️ Social Media Reactions (Fan Chatter, Forums, Live Tweets) 🔮 Akhenaten’s Arrival (Post-Ronin Rumble Glimpse)
@WrestleSoulz:The moment Akhenaten's eyes opened behind The Sphinx and the lights shattered in the arena… chills. That's not a gimmick. That’s a god.🦂🦂🦂 #AAPW #RoninRumble #DivineHeel
@SpiritOfStrongStyle:I used to think The Sphinx was just some dark magician gimmick. But that entrance… man. That was biblical. I’m not even religious and I feel like I need to pray #AkhenatenIsComing #SphinxCurse
@SasoriFaithful:You mean to tell me Saikō Sasori’s next opponent is a soul-eating, necro-god-champion from the underworld?? LET’S. FREAKING. GO.#FaceVsEvil #ScorpionKingVsSphinxGod #WrestlingIsArt
🏆 The Sphinx’s Ronin Rumble Win (Fan Reactions)
@HeelHeatCentral:The way The Sphinx didn’t even celebrate after winning Ronin Rumble—just stared into the void like the whole thing was a prophecy playing out. That’s storytelling. #NeutralEvilDoneRight
@StrongStyleSymphony: Saikō wins with honor. The Sphinx wins with inevitability. This ain’t just wrestling anymore. This is fate vs free will. #AAPWMythos #WrestlingIsReligion
🎞️ CINEMATIC HYPE PACKAGE 🦂 "Scorpion King vs The Sphinx" 🎥 Presented like a trailer for an epic samurai vs sorcerer war film (Cue thunder rolling over mist-shrouded mountain peaks)
NARRATOR (Japanese-accented male, solemn) “One born from sacred flame. The other forged in divine shadow. Two legacies… bound to collide.”
VISUAL: 🔥 Saikō Sasori, in full scorpion warrior mask, standing barefoot in a Kyoto dojo. Candlelight flickers as he performs kata beneath a painted mural of a great battle between gods.
🦂 The Sphinx, in black ceremonial robes, in a temple flooded with moonlight. Akhenaten’s ghostly form looms behind him as whispers swirl around his head like smoke.
NARRATOR: “One fights for honor… The other? For something far older.”
🎶 Music shifts: taiko drums, shakuhachi flute, with deep choral notes underneath
DIALOGUE SNIPPETS:
Saikō (VO): “Every warrior must face his shadow. Mine just happens to wear a crown.”
The Sphinx (VO): “He believes in justice. I believe in destiny. And destiny… always collects.”
VISUAL CUTS:
Saikō delivering a mid-air spinning elbow onto a dark-robed opponent.
The Sphinx standing unharmed amid a ring of fallen wrestlers, eyes glowing.
A child bowing to Saikō in the crowd.
The Sphinx gently placing an Anubis coin on an unconscious opponent’s chest.
NARRATOR: “In the end, only one will command fate…”
🌌 Final shot: both men walking toward each other across a bridge under a red moon. The arena fades into a ghostly battlefield behind them.
Cinematic Press Conference — The Sphinx’s Dominance
Location: A