Wrestling

Ray Jr’s vision blurred for a moment after the delivery, the bright rafters of the Grand Auditorium swimming in and out of focus. His right arm, the one that had just delivered the Ray Gun to the base of his opponent’s skull, hung numb at his side. An ache radiated up from his elbow straight into his shoulder socket.

Beneath him on the canvas, Nakamuro was laid out. The Strong Stylist was face down, his body barely moving, a thin trail of blood from his brow pooling against the white mat.

Ray forced his left hand against the canvas. He needed to finish this. The crowd was a singularly roaring out, but in Ray’s ears, it sounded like soundless. He dragged his knees forward, the friction burning against his gold kneepads. He grabbed Nakamuro by the shoulder and the waistband of his crimson leather trousers.

The veteran was deader than dead weight. Two hundred and thirty-five pounds of uncooperative muscle.

Ray gritted his teeth under his mask, ignoring the sharp protest of his own battered body. He shifted his hips, wedging his knee under Nakamuro’s side, and heaved. The Japanese wrestler rolled over heavily, his unpadded knees dragging across the mat. Nakamuro’s eyes were shut tight.

Ray just let his exhausted body collapse horizontally across Nakamuro’s chest. He hooked the far leg, pulling it up tight to restrict any leverage, burrying Nakamuro into the damp canvas.

The referee was raced there, sliding across the mat on his stomach to get the best angle on the shoulders. The official’s hand raised high.

The first slap against the canvas cracked through the noise of the arena.

1

The crowd shouted in unison.

Ray squeezed his eyes shut, tightening his grip on Nakamuro’s leg. He expected the veteran to twitch. He expected a sudden burst of fighting spirit that had kept the match going far past its logical end point.

The referee’s hand came down again.

2

Ray pressed his own weight down harder, holding his breath. There was no movement from the man beneath him at the moment.

The hand fell a third time.

3

Ding! Ding! Ding!

The sharp rattle of the timekeeper’s bell broke through the tension Ray felt, instantly swallowed up by the explosion of noise from the Osaka fans.

Ray Jr didn’t jump up, he had no energy left for that. He tiredly let go of Nakamuro’s leg and rolled off, ending up flat on his back. He stared up into the blinding lights. His chest rising and falling vigorously, dragging desperate lungfuls of air into him.

The sweat from his forehead dripped down into his eyes, stinging his eyes, but he couldn’t find the energy to lift a hand or adjust his mask to wipe it away.

He had done it.

He had taken everything one of the most decorated veterans on the roster had to offer, survived the ground-and-pound, survived the dragon sleeper, and walked away with a clean pinfall in the middle of the ring.

A new sound hit. A single, clean guitar note rang out. The heavy drumbeat followed a second later, and Kid Montana’s theme for Ray began to pump through the speakers. The catchy, up-tempo rhythm brought a fresh wave of energy to the thousands of fans in attendance.

The referee leaned over Ray, placing a hand gently on his chest. "You good?"

Ray managed a weak nod. He planted his boots sole down on the mat and pushed himself up to a seated position. The world tilted for a second before settling back into place. He accepted the official’s outstretched hand, letting the man pull him up to a vertical base.

His legs felt so...so heavy. Every muscle fiber in his lower body vibrated with fatigue.

The referee grabbed Ray’s left wrist and hoisted his arm high into the air, presenting the winner to the four sides of the Grand Auditorium.

Ray lowered his arm. He looked down at Nakamuro. The veteran was just starting to roll onto his side, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. A ringside attendant had a fresh towel, extending his hand under the bottom rope.

Ray took a step forward, ignoring the soreness in his thighs. He didn’t gloat and didn’t want to pose on the turnbuckles yet. He reached down, offering a hand to the man who had just spent the better part of half an hour trying to overpower him.

Nakamuro paused as he looked at Ray’s outstretched hand, then up at the modernized mask. The veteran wiped the blood from his split eyebrow, and grabbed Ray’s hand.

Ray pulled him up. The two men stood face-to-face. Nakamuro didn’t smile, but he gave a firm nod of approval before turning away and demanding the towel from the attendant. To anyone else, that nod was worth more than a championship belt if you’re just trying to earn your keep in Japan Wrestling. Not to Ray Jr.

Ray turned toward the ropes. He grabbed the top one, leaning his weight against it for a moment, just breathing in the atmosphere. The scent of the industry his father had given his life to.

He ducked through the ropes, stepping onto the ring apron. He didn’t use the steel steps. He dropped down to the padded floor on the outside, his boots landing with a heavy thud.

The fans pressed tight against the barricades. Security guards in black JW shirts stood at intervals, holding steady against the surge of bodies.

Ray began to walk the perimeter.

He moved slowly, dragging his hand along the outstretched palms of the front row. He slapped hands, traded firm fist bumps with teenagers in replica merchandise, and nodded to the older fans who simply clapped respectfully as he passed.

"Ray Jr! Ray Jr!" a group of college-aged kids chanted, leaning over a homemade sign painted with his name in bold silver letters.

He stopped, pointing at the sign, offering a thumbs-up. The group completely lost their minds, scrambling to pull out their phones to capture the moment.

He continued moving. His shoulder throbbed with every high-five, but he refused to drop his arm. This was the part of the job that made the pain bearable. The connection. The undeniable proof that he wasn’t just riding the coattails of the Lee Ray legacy, but actively building his own.

He spotted a young boy sitting on his father’s shoulders near the timekeeper’s area. The kid was wearing a cheap version of his father’s classic mask, waving a small plastic flag. This was seemingly the most common merchandise among the youngest children.

Ray altered his path, stepping away from the main crowd to walk up to the boy.

Ray reached up, tapping his own covered forehead, then gently tapped the kid’s foam mask lightly.

"Keep wearing it proud, it’s the only way to remember him," Ray said, his voice muffled but clear enough for the father to hear. The man smiled widely, patting his son’s leg.

Ray turned away from the barricade, making his way toward the broadcast table.

Commentators Braxton and Tanaka were now standing behind their monitors. They had pulled their headsets down around their necks, watching the aftermath of the first event of the night unfold. An absolute banger to kick off the JW show.

The desk was covered in scattered notes, empty water bottles, and thick black audio cables.

As Ray approached, Braxton broke into a wide grin, shaking his head in disbelief.

Ray stepped up to the edge of the desk. He extended his right fist.

Braxton leaned over the monitors, bumping his knuckles against Ray’s. "Hell of a fight," the broadcaster said, his voice raspy from shouting into the microphone all night. "You took him to the limit and he did same to you. I haven’t seen Nakamuro take a bump like that poisonrana in years."

"I don’t plan on doing it again anytime soon," Ray joked, his chest still oxygen searching.

He shifted slightly, extending his fist toward the other commentator. Tanaka met the fist bump firmly, his expression serious.

"You proved you belong here tonight, Ray," Tanaka said, his tone lacking the usual broadcast hyperbole. "You showed the fans you have the grit to survive Strong Style. Don’t let up. They’re going to love you."

"I’ll be ready for them," Ray replied.

He tapped the edge of the broadcast table with his knuckles, offering his respects, and backed away. He made his way to the face of the squared circle connecting with the ramp, and turned toward the long steel ramp that led back backstage.

The walk up the incline was always the hardest part of the night. Gravity felt twice as heavy, pulling at the sweat-soaked fabric of his blue and silver tights. He kept his pace steady, not wanting to show any weakness, though every muscle in his back screamed for a bag of ice and a hot shower.

Kid Montana’s special theme was still blasting through the arena. The heavy bassline rattled the steel beneath Ray’s boots.

As he reached the midway point of the ramp, he noticed a shift in the crowd’s noise. The random cheering and shouting began to consolidate into a rhythm. The fans weren’t just clapping anymore, they were actually singing along to the chorus of the track.

Thousands of Japanese fans were belting out the lyrics Sebastian had written specifically for him.

Ray’s breath hitched. He kept walking, his eyes fixed on the curtain at the top of the stage, but the volume of the singing washed over him beautifully. It was an overwhelming display of acceptance. They were singing for Ray Jr. No one else.

He reached the flat surface of the stage top. The heat still lingered in the air around the entranceway.

He stopped just a few feet from the curtain, turned around slowly, facing the Grand Auditorium one last time. The sea of lights from thousands of cell phones illuminated the stadium, swaying back and forth to the beat of the music. The chorus echoed off the high ceiling in a massive, unified voice.

He stood still, letting the moment soak into his bones. His ribs hurt. His neck was incredibly stiff. His shoulder felt like it had been hit with a hammer.

But as he looked out at the thousands of people singing his song, validating every ounce of blood and sweat he had left on that canvas, he knew the pain was more than worth it.

Ray Jr raised his right fist high into the air, holding it steady.

The crowd responded with a deafening pop, the singing breaking into a final, chaotic roar of approval.

He held the pose for three long seconds, cementing the image for the cameras. Then, he lowered his arm, turned his back on the bright lights, and stepped through the curtain.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!