The house lights rippled from cobalt to electric-gold as Miyu Kojima stepped beneath the spotlight. A nervous hum rolled through each essential-worker pod; even masked faces betrayed excitement for the night’s lone singles title bout.
She raised the microphone, her voice ringing clear. “Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is a triple-threat match, scheduled for one fall, and it is for the YOUNGBLOOD CHAMPIONSHIP!”
A jagged bolt of pyro split the stage while Skillet’s “Hero” blasted through the PA. as Lightning Man burst from the curtain in a full sprint, leaping into a forward handspring before landing in superhero stance at center stage. Blue sparks chased him down the ramp as he slapped gloved hands and shouted encouragement to the masked nurses in the front pods. Reaching ringside, he sprang to the apron and vaulted the ropes in a single bound, rolling to his feet and pounding his chest twice.
Scott Slade: Lightning Man is pure kinetic energy—speed and courage wrapped in spandex, and he’s unbeaten in singles action.
Chris Rodgers: He’d better channel a lightning strike; Drake Nygma’s no storm cloud—he’s the thunder god tonight.
The lights cooled to glacial white as Ruelle’s “Deep End” seeped from the speakers. Oswald “Mr. Penguin” Knight slid onto the stage knee-first, gliding halfway down the ramp like an Olympic skater. Popping up, he executed a picture-perfect pirouette, tipped an invisible top hat, and bounded to the apron. With fluid grace he front-flipped over the ropes, landing light as frost, then sprawled on one elbow, posing cheekily at Lightning Man.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Unorthodox, unpredictable, and absolutely fearless—Knight survives on momentum and misdirection.
Takeshi Suzuki: And weighs a buck-forty soaking wet. Nygma will fold him like origami if he’s caught mid-flight.
Total darkness swallowed the Dome. A slow heartbeat bassline throbbed as Digital Daggers’ “The Devil Within” flooded the arena. A single crimson beam revealed Drake “The Sphinx” Nygma standing motionless atop the ramp, the Youngblood Championship over his shoulder and Dollia Trypp by his side. The Egyptian Dreamer pressed her palms together, eyes closed, whispering something ancient. Nygma tilted his hooded head as though the Sphinx within answered her in silence. Together they descended the ramp—Nygma’s measured strides oozing cold authority, Dollia just behind, fingertips skimming the golden belt like a protective talisman.
Scott Slade: Six nights ago this man outlasted fifty-nine others, winning the Ronin Rumble from the number one entry—cementing his shot at Saikō Sasori’s newly unified world titles.
Chris Rodgers: Two million dollars, a golden ticket to the summit, and he hasn’t even had to defend the Youngblood strap yet. Talk about high stakes: lose here and that momentum gets gutted.
Yushiro Fujimoto: Let’s not forget the blackout, the sandstorm, and whatever… entity… appeared after that victory. The Sphinx’s puzzle grows darker by the hour.
Takeshi Suzuki: Dollia Trypp calls herself a Dreamer; I call her an insurance policy. She knows how to calm the monster if that mask of sanity slips.
Nygma climbed the steps; Dollia parted the ropes. He entered last, towering over both challengers, and handed the championship to referee Yumiko Tanabe without breaking eye contact. Dollia settled in his corner, whispering a final invocation as she pressed two fingers to his temple.
Tanabe hoisted the gold toward the rafters; the plate reflected prismatic light over the three contenders. She passed the belt outside, checked each man once more, then backed away.
Lightning Man crouched, heels bouncing. Knight rolled his shoulders, eyes flicking between foes. Nygma exhaled slowly, lowering his hood to reveal an unblinking gaze.
Scott Slade: Title on the line—champion doesn’t need to be pinned to lose.
Chris Rodgers: And remember, if Nygma retains he goes to Sasori with both momentum and mystique. If he falls, that whole Rumble coronation spins sideways.
Tanabe signaled the timekeeper.
[DING! DING!]
Fans in every pod shot to their feet as the Youngblood Championship triple-threat officially began.
Lightning Man burst from his corner the instant the bell rang, rocketing forward with a blur-fast drop-step and a stinging palm strike aimed for Drake Nygma’s jaw. Nygma anticipated the speed, leaning just enough to let Zelmore’s hand whistle past his ear, then pivoted and blasted a thudding shoulder block into the hero’s chest. Zelmore left his feet, hit the mat, and skidded backward into the turnbuckles as if struck by a freight train.
Scott Slade (amazed): Drake Nygma shrugs off Lightning’s opening volley like it’s nothing—raw horsepower beats velocity on that exchange.
Chris Rodgers (smirking): That’s ten points of strength on the stat sheet, Slade. You can’t teach power like that.
Oswald Knight tried capitalizing, springboarding in with the Antarctic Assault spinning forearm. Nygma turned, caught Knight mid-rotation around the waist, and hurled him overhead with a snap fall-away slam. The impact jolted the lightweight Australian across the canvas. Knight scrambled for the ropes, nursing his back while searching for another angle.
Nygma dragged Zelmore upright by the wrist and yanked him into a short-arm big boot that leveled him again. He dropped for a quick cover—just to test the waters—and Lightning kicked out at one and three-quarters, more stunned than damaged.
Takeshi Suzuki: Lightning Man already tasting the canvas—Mr. Penguin tasting the air. The Champion is dissecting them.
Yushiro Fujimoto: The Rumble winner looks fresh—six days removed from an hour in hell, and somehow stronger.
Zelmore rolled beneath the bottom rope to regroup; Knight seized that opening, scuttling behind Nygma to hook a schoolboy. Instead of falling, Nygma planted his feet wide, reached back, and pried Knight’s fingers apart one by one. He hoisted the lighter man high into a torture-rack position, paused, then tossed him forward into a rib-crunching backbreaker across his broad knee. Knight cried out, clutching his side, and Nygma let him spill to the mat.
At ringside, Dollia Trypp clapped her hands once, offering calm encouragement. Nygma gave the faintest nod, eyes never leaving his prey. Lighting Man vaulted to the top turnbuckle, looking for a high-impact equalizer. He launched into the Whisper in the Wind—Nygma sidestepped, letting Zelmore crash and burn on the empty canvas. Before Lightning could rise, Nygma pounced, cinched a waist lock, and dead-lifted the 245-pounder into a release German suplex that bounced him off his shoulders. Knight slid in, trying a low front drop-kick to Nygma’s knee. Drake absorbed the shot, answered with an uppercut that snapped Knight’s head back, then planted him with a one-arm spinebuster.
Scott Slade: The Sphinx is dominating, and you can see the confidence—almost clinical.
Chris Rodgers: If the Scorpion King wants to rattle the future challenger, he’d better bring fangs longer than these kids’ combined résumés.
Takeshi Suzuki: Bah! That’s what you said about Bold as well and Sasori handled him easily. The cleaning crew were picking up Bold’s teeth off the floor at the end of the match!
Knight crawled toward the corner and covertly tugged at the bottom turnbuckle pad, loosening it just enough before rolling away. Lightning Man staggered up near the opposite post, shaking cobwebs. Nygma stalked after him, but Knight darted in again—this time raking Drake’s eyes while Tanabe’s view was blocked by Zelmore’s body. The champion recoiled, blinking off the blur; Knight followed with a quick toe-kick and snapped on the Glacial Grip arm-twist, wrenching Nygma’s elbow like an ice pick.
Lightning Man seized the moment, sprinting the ropes twice to build steam, and leveled both opponents with a tandem springboard clothesline. The crowd popped as the hero finally stood tall. He peeled Knight off the mat, whipped him to the corner—unknowingly the one with the loosened buckle. Knight reversed, sending Lightning crashing sternum-first into the exposed steel. Zelmore stumbled back, gasping; Knight rolled him up with a handful of tights—
ONE!… Nygma thunder-stomped Knight’s spine to break it.
Yushiro Fujimoto (dry): Mr. Penguin proves the old adage: cheat early, cheat often.
Scott Slade: But you need more than a fistful of spandex to hold Lightning Man, especially with Drake looming overhead.
Nygma hoisted Knight onto his shoulder and drove him head-first into Lightning’s mid-section, sandwiching both challengers in the corner. He stepped back, measured, and crushed them with a running spear that folded Lightning around Knight’s body. Knight slid to the apron, gasping for breath; Lightning slumped, eyes glassy.
Nygma dragged Zelmore out by the ankle, hooked the leg high, and muscled him into a standing bear hug, the champion’s forearms bulging as he squeezed the life from the hero. Lightning clawed at Drake’s face, but the grip only tightened. Dollia’s voice drifted softly—an almost soothing chant—while Nygma lifted Zelmore off his feet and shook him like a rag doll before dumping him to the mat in a heap.
The champion straightened, rolled his neck, and beckoned Knight back into the ring with a flick of his wrist.
Chris Rodgers: That’s dominance, Slade. Nygma’s ready for the big time! I can feel it!
Scott Slade: Knight might rethink the definition of cold after tasting that invitation.
Knight hesitated, eyeing the exposed buckle he’d loosened earlier. He slipped through the ropes, gestured for Lightning to rise, and then motioned as though proposing a temporary alliance. Lightning, still dazed, nodded warily.
They rushed Nygma together—Lightning unloading a barrage of lightning-quick forearms while Knight peppered calf kicks. The double assault staggered Drake a step, two steps—Knight called for the ropes. Lightning whipped him in for a tandem charge, but Nygma exploded forward with a double shoulder block that flattened both challengers at once.
Before either could recover, the champion hauled Lightning Man up into a high vertical suplex—holding, holding, letting the blood drain—then transitioned mid-air into a twisting powerslam that rattled the canvas. Knight crawled for the exposed buckle pad again. Nygma stalked him, but Knight yanked the pad off completely and hurled it away, baiting the champion in. As Drake lunged, Knight drop-toeholded him—face colliding with raw steel. The Dome gasped.
Knight scrambled for a flash cover—ONE!… TWO!… Nygma powered out, bench-pressing Knight into the air and launching him halfway across the ring.
Takeshi Suzuki: He tried to steal it—almost clipped the Sphinx’s crown.
Scott Slade: Nygma kicked out at two-and-a-whisper, but that exposed buckle drew first blood—look at the cut over Drake’s eyebrow!
A thin crimson line trickled down Nygma’s temple. He wiped it with the back of his wrist, snarled, and advanced. Knight back-pedaled straight into Lightning Man’s grasp—Zelmore popped him into a Lightning Slam high-angle bomb that left Knight sprawled. Lightning popped up, ran to the ropes, and came back with the Lightbuster blockbuster on Nygma—but the champion simply rolled through, came up, and plastered Zelmore with a thunderous big boot that spun him 180 degrees.
Nygma stood center-ring, chest heaving, blood seeping from the small cut, yet every muscle coiled tighter—dominant, unshaken.
Scott Slade (tense): Champion bleeding, challengers reeling—momentum still squarely in Drake Nygma’s grasp.
Chris Rodgers: And the Rumble winner reminded everyone why he’s next in line for Sasori’s throne.
Lightning Man lay near one corner, clutching his ribs. Knight crawled opposite, plotting his next underhanded strike. Nygma, blood in his eye and Dollia chanting softly at ringside, turned slowly—ready to punish whoever stood first as the title clash pressed on.
The masked hero hauled himself upright, ribs screaming, while Drake Nygma stalked Oswald Knight near center ring. Zelmore darted to the far ropes, built momentum on a second pass, then sprang off the middle strand into a corkscrewing Lightbuster blockbuster that hooked Nygma’s neck. The champion lost his footing—Knight’s shove to the small of Drake’s back added just enough force—and Nygma sailed between the ropes, flipping awkwardly before thudding spine-first onto the thin ringside concrete floor.
Scott Slade: Lightning Man finally sends the champion out—and Nygma landed hard on those Rumble-battered ribs!
Chris Rodgers: That’s the price of overconfidence, Slade. The Sphinx just tasted gravity.
Dollia Trypp rushed from her corner, silk slacks swishing as she dropped beside Drake. She cupped his face, whispering in rapid Arabic, then pressed her palm to the cut above his brow. Nygma blinked, disoriented, one hand clutching his ribs. Inside the ring Lightning Man pumped a fist, while Oswald Knight skulked in the opposite corner, plotting another cheap trick.
The lights above the stage suddenly strobed venom-yellow. A burst of frantic cheers erupted from the Japanese half of the announce desk.
Yushiro Fujimoto (ecstatic): そこだ！サソリ様が来たぞ！(Yes! Lord Sasori is here!)
Takeshi Suzuki (laughing): The Scorpion King strikes! Vengeance for AAPW!
Saikō Sasori exploded from behind the curtain, still in his jagged gold-and-black gear, dragging two limp security guards by their collars. He flung them aside and sprinted down the ramp, eyes blazing. A pair of Tokyo Dome officers stumbled after him, faces bloodied, nightsticks useless in their trembling hands.
Scott Slade: That’s the undisputed champion—and he’s bulldozed half of Dome security to get here!
Chris Rodgers: He wants Nygma’s head before the title match can even be signed!
Scott Slade: Looks deranged though… what on Earth is he thinking?
Sasori hurdled the bottom rope, planted one boot on the apron rail, and launched himself off it with a diving forearm that flattened Nygma against the barricade. Dollia shrieked and scrambled clear. The Scorpion King mounted Drake, raining piston-fast elbows. Nygma covered up, blood smearing across his forearms.
Lightning Man and Knight watched wide-eyed from inside the ropes. Knight gave a theatrical shrug and rolled out—only to dive under the ring skirt, deciding discretion beat valor. Zelmore half-stepped through the ropes, then thought better of it as four more security guards raced past him.
Sasori flung Nygma into the steel steps; the top section flew off with a clang. Security swarmed. Sasori whipped the first guard over his hip, sent a second sprawling with a spinning back elbow, and head-butted the third so hard the man’s cap flew off. He hoisted Nygma in a fireman’s carry, roared, and ran him like a battering ram through the timekeeper’s barricade. Metal folded; fans scattered.
Yushiro Fujimoto (cheering): 打て！もっと痛めつけろ！(Hit him! Hurt him more!)
Takeshi Suzuki: Nygma’s learning real pain, courtesy of Japan’s apex predator!
Drake swung wild fists, catching Sasori on the jaw. The Scorpion King laughed—a feral bark—and bit down on Nygma’s forehead, reopening the cut. Blood streaked yellow gear as Sasori dragged the champion up the aisle. Dollia chased, pleading in Arabic and English, but a battered officer grabbed her arm, urging her back for safety.
The melee crashed over the rail into the first row. Plastic chairs scattered. Sasori hurled Nygma onto a concrete stairwell, then sprinted up three steps to deliver a leaping knee to Drake’s temple. Security kept coming—ten, twelve men—and Sasori swatted them away with savage elbows and knee strikes, each blow leaving a body tumbling down steps.
They fought halfway up the lower bowl. Nygma caught Sasori with a desperation uppercut, staggered him, but the Scorpion retaliated with a throat thrust that silenced Drake’s breath. Fans pressed phones to record, security barked futile orders, and the Japanese announcers continued their jubilant narration.
Yushiro Fujimoto: 見ろ！王者が逃げ場を失った！(Look! Nygma has nowhere to run!)
Takeshi Suzuki: The Scorpion drags his prey into the desert sands of Tokyo Dome!
Sasori hooked Nygma by the hair, smashing his face into a concrete pillar, then disappeared with him through the concourse exit, leaving a trail of toppled stanchions and groaning guards. Dollia tried to follow; two medics restrained her gently, guiding her down a service tunnel in search of a safer route.
Back at ringside, Lightning Man stared up the aisle in shock, hand pressed to his heart, while Oswald Knight peeked from under the ring skirt, eyes wide with opportunistic calculation. Referee Bob Sigro conferred with timekeeper Makoto, unsure whether to halt the match or wait for order to be restored—the Youngblood Championship bout now teetering in chaos, its champion dragged into the labyrinth of the Tokyo Dome by a furious, masked berserker.
Lightning Man balanced on the middle rope, anxiously tracking the brawl clawing its way into the upper concourse. Drake Nygma and Saikō Sasori had vanished beneath a sea of scattering fans and toppled chairs, their muffled grunts and the crash of steel still echoing through the Tokyo Dome. Clifford Zelmore’s chest heaved; every instinct in him screamed to help, but the referee kept waving him back, insisting the match must continue.
Oswald Knight slithered out from under the ring apron on the hard-cam side, dust streaking his tuxedo-print top. He peeked through the bottom rope, eyes darting between Lightning’s distracted form and the referee’s blind spot. Seeing his window, Knight slid in on his belly and rose behind Zelmore with predatory silence.
Scott Slade (urgent): Lightning’s focused on that melee—he doesn’t know Knight is back in the hunt!
Chris Rodgers (grim): Penguins may waddle, Slade, but this one poaches prey.
Knight wiped sweat from his brow, then yanked Zelmore backward into a tight O’Connor roll, hooking both tights and a handful of waistband. He kicked his legs onto the middle rope, adding leverage the referee couldn’t see.
Yushiro Fujimoto: やった！完璧な丸め込み！(Yes! Perfect roll-up!)
Takeshi Suzuki: Penguin power for the steal!
Referee Yumiko Tanabe dropped to count.
ONE!
Lightning’s arms flailed, fingers just brushing the bottom cable.
TWO!!
Knight buried his face in Zelmore’s back, pushing harder with boot-tips balanced on the rope.
THREE!!!
Tanabe’s palm slapped the mat and she signaled for the bell just as Knight kicked free, tumbling through the ropes to the floor.
DING-DING-DING!
Gasps shot through the Dome, followed by an eruption of stunned chatter. Knight scrambled up the aisle, wide-eyed and laughing, as the timekeeper shoved the Youngblood Championship into his hands like hot coals.
Miyu Kojima: Ladies and gentlemen… here is your winner—and the new Youngblood Champion—“Mr. Penguin”… OSWALD KNIGHT!
A half-second of disbelief hung in the air—then the Japanese announce table went wild.
Yushiro Fujimoto (pounding desk): 新王者だ！ペンギンが歴史を盗んだ！(A new champion! The Penguin just stole history!)
Takeshi Suzuki (laugh-shouting): Lightning blinded by heroism—Penguin swoops in for the fish!
In the ring Lightning Man slammed both palms on the mat, eyes bulging, veins flaring in his neck. He argued with Tanabe, pointing at the ropes, at his yanked tights—Tanabe could only shake her head and spread her hands: decision final.
Knight back-pedaled up the ra