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(A/N: I hope everyone give my new novel Skyrim a chance and added it to their library, also give power stones on Skyrim!)
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"What goes around comes around, John!" Lawler laughed, pointing at the ring. "Heyman brought the chair in! Jericho tried to use it! Punk just beat them at their own game!"
"I don't care who started it!" JBL sputtered. "I care about the rules! Punk is a criminal!"
Inside the ring, Punk clutched the World Heavyweight Championship to his chest, falling to his knees, exhausted but victorious. The visual was shocking. For months, the Undisputed System had held every piece of gold. Now, there was a gap in the armor. A significant one.
On the outside, the brawl had ceased. The Undisputed System members, Kofi, Ziggler, Wade, Drew, stared at the ring in disbelief. They had beaten up the Straight Edge Society, but they had lost the war inside the ropes.
Heyman stood near the timekeeper's area, his face a mask of pure shock that slowly morphed into deep, seething disappointment.
He wasn't yelling. He was just staring at Jericho, who was still unconscious on the canvas. Heyman rubbed his temples, already calculating the fallout. He snapped his fingers at the group.
"Get him," Heyman mouthed. "Get him out of here."
Wade and Drew slid into the ring, not to attack Punk, who had already rolled out to celebrate with the fans, but to scrape Jericho off the mat.
They draped the former champion over their shoulders, carrying him up the ramp like a fallen soldier. The aura of invincibility had been punctured, as they leaving Punk to bask in the adulation of the crowd.
"The dynamic has changed!" Striker said breathlessly. "Sandro is watching this. He has to be furious."
The buzz in the arena was still electric as the crew cleared the debris from the ringside area. The fans were animated, discussing the title change, wondering if the empire was truly crumbling tonight.
Then, a familiar sound filled the arena. A loud crunch of an apple.
"I spit in the face of people who don't want to be cool."
Caribbean music hit, bringing a wave of relaxed, tropical energy to the tense arena. Carlito walked out, an apple in hand, his afro bouncing as he strutted. He looked loose, confident.
He took a bite of his apple, chewing theatrically before sprinting down the ramp, sliding into the ring, and vaulting to the turnbuckle. He posed, spitting a mist of apple chunks into the air, signaling he was ready for a fight.
"Carlito is a veteran," Striker noted. "He knows the pressure is on Sandro now. The Undisputed System is wounded. There is blood in the water."
Carlito went to his corner, bouncing on his toes, stretching his arms.
Then, the lights cut out completely.
A deep, rhythmic bass thrummed through the floorboards.
SHOCK THE SYSTEM!
The screeching guitar riff kicked in, followed by the heavy, ominous beat of Cult Of Personality, Sandro's theme. But unlike previous entrances where the music felt like a celebration of power, tonight it felt like a funeral march for his enemies.
The curtain parted.
The boos were deafening. A wall of hatred hit the stage, but Sandro Zhang didn't flinch.
He walked out alone. No Heyman. No Bellas. No entourage.
"And here he comes," Cole said, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "The General. The God. And gentlemen, look at his face."
"He looks like he wants to kill someone," Lawler added.
Sandro looked furious. The God mask was gone, revealing a face contorted with a cold, simmering rage. His eyes were dark, scanning the crowd with contempt. The loss of the World Heavyweight Title had clearly reached him.
He wore wore his black and gold wrestling gear. On his right shoulder, the WWE Championship. In his left hand, the United States Championship.
He then spread his arms wide, triggering a massive pyro display that bathed him in gold light, but there was no joy in it. It was a display of power, a reminder of who still stood at the top of the mountain.
After that he walked down with a heavy, deliberate pace. He didn't pose on the ramp. He didn't acknowledge the fans reaching out to flip him off. He just marched toward the ring, a man on a mission to restore order through violence.
"JBL, your boy looks upset," Lawler noted.
"He's focused, King," JBL replied, his voice unusually somber. "Jericho let the family down. Sandro is here to remind everyone why he is the head of the table. He is taking this personally."
Sandro climbed the steel steps, wiping his feet on the apron before stepping between the ropes. He walked to the center of the ring, staring directly into the hard camera. He slowly raised both titles high above his head.
Another pyro exploded from the ring posts, gold showers of sparks, but Sandro didn't even blink. He just stared through the lens, as if looking directly at the locker room in the back.
He lowered the belts and walked to his corner, completely ignoring Carlito. He didn't even look at the challenger. To Sandro, Carlito was just a prop.
Justin Roberts stood in the center of the ring, the spotlight hitting him.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," Roberts boomed. "This match is the MAIN EVENT of the evening! It is scheduled for one fall, and it is for the WWE UNITED STATES CHAMPIONSHIP!"
The crowd cheered, ready for the final battle.
"Introducing first," Roberts bellowed. "The challenger! From the Caribbean... weighing in at 220 pounds... The Caribbean Cool... CARLITOOOOO!"
A solid pop for the challenger. Carlito raised his hands, flashing a winning smile, hopping up and down.
Roberts turned to the champion. Sandro stood motionless, handing the WWE title to a ringside attendant but keeping the US title on his shoulder until the last second.
"And next!" Roberts continued, his voice raising an octave. "Introducing the champion! Representing The Undisputed System... From Orlando, Florida... Weighing in at 220 pounds..."
Roberts paused for effect.
"He is the WWE Champion... and the WWE United States Champion... THE GOD OF WWE... SANDROOOO ZHANNNNG!"
The boos were deafening, a wall of noise crashing down on the champion. Sandro didn't react. He looked at the United States Championship before then handed it to the referee. He stared at the ref, his eyes saying, 'Don't you dare drop it.'
The referee raised the United States title high for the crowd to see, the symbol of the prize that Carlito sought and Sandro hoarded. He handed it to the timekeeper.
The referee turned to check Carlito. Carlito nodded, spitting into his hand.
The referee turned to check Sandro. Sandro cracked his neck, his eyes dead, locked onto his opponent for the first time.
The referee called for the bell.
DING! DING! DING!
Sandro immediately exploded out of his corner. He didn't lock up. He didn't circle. He hit Carlito with a Bicycle Knee Strike right to the jaw before Carlito could even get his hands up.
"OH MY GOD!" Cole screamed. "HE NEARLY TOOK HIS HEAD OFF!"
Carlito crumbled into the corner. Sandro was on him instantly, stomping a mudhole into the challenger, screaming with every impact. It wasn't a wrestling match, it was an execution.
Sandro grabbed Carlito by the hair, pulled him up, and whipped him into the ropes. Carlito tried to rebound with a clothesline, but Sandro ducked, hitting the ropes and coming back with a flying forearm that was so fast the camera barely caught it.
The impact of the flying forearm was sickening, a wet thud that echoed through the Target Center. It wasn't just a move, it was a statement. Carlito's head snapped back, sweat flying into the front row, and he crashed to the canvas, looking less like a challenger and more like a victim of a high speed collision.
"He's not wrestling!" Cole screamed, his voice cracking with genuine concern. "He's mauling him! This is a main event, not a back alley assault!"
"He's wrestling like a champion who just watched his legacy get insulted, Michael!" JBL roared, leaning over the announce desk. "Jericho dropped the ball! Sandro is here to show everyone that the head of the snake still has venom! Look at the focus! This isn't anger, Michael, this is clarity!"
Sandro walked over to Carlito, grabbed him by his signature afro, and hauled him up to his feet. Carlito, dazed, tried to throw a desperate right hand, but Sandro caught the fist in mid air.
The champion sneered, twisting the wrist violently before delivering a sharp kick to the midsection that doubled Carlito over. Sandro hit the ropes, rebounding with terrifying speed, and unleashed a snap swinging neckbreaker that planted Carlito face first into the mat.
"The speed of Sandro Zhang is unmatched," Striker noted, despite his disdain. "He moves like a cruiserweight but hits like a heavyweight. Carlito can't find his footing."
Sandro grabbed Carlito again by his oversized afro, and dragged him up. The Caribbean Cool was gone, replaced by a dazed, frantic look of survival. Sandro whipped him hard into the corner turnbuckle. Carlito hit with such force that the ring posts shook, and he collapsed forward onto his hands and knees.
Sandro backed up, measuring him. He charged again.
CRACK.
A hesitation dropkick into the corner, driving his boot squarely into Carlito's face.
"Good God almighty!" Lawler winced. "He's trying to break his nose! There is no technique here, it's just pure, unadulterated rage."
"It's passion, King!" JBL argued. "Look at the focus! He's dissecting him!"
Sandro grabbed Carlito again, hooking his arms. He lifted him effortlessly, stalling in the air for a second to show his dominance, before crashing down with a Tiger Driver '98. The impact was thunderous.
ONE!
TWO!
Carlito got a shoulder up. It was weak, barely creating space between his scapula and the canvas, but it was there.
Sandro sat up, his eyes wide, looking at the referee as if he had just insulted his mother. He didn't argue. He just grabbed Carlito's arm and transitioned instantly into a grounded keylock, wrenching the joint.
"He's going to tear the arm out of the socket!" Striker noted, analyzing the leverage. "Look at the torque. This is the difference, gentlemen. Sandro isn't just a brawler, he's a technician. He's cutting off the blood flow."
For the next five minutes, the match was a one sided beatdown. Sandro worked over Carlito with a surgical cruelty. Snap suplexes, stiff chops that left red handprints on Carlito's chest, and a grinding headlock that seemed designed to suffocate the hope out of the challenger.
But Carlito was a veteran. He had faced Triple H, John Cena, and Randy Orton. He knew how to weather a storm.
As Sandro went for a short arm clothesline, Carlito ducked. Sandro spun around, looking to correct his mistake, but Carlito was waiting. He leaped, hitting a dropkick to Sandro's knee.
Sandro stumbled. It was the first time in the match he wasn't standing tall.
The crowd sensed it. A low rumble of support began to build.
"There it is!" Cole shouted. "A mistake by the God! Carlito has an opening!"
Carlito didn't waste it. He scrambled up, favoring his neck, and as Sandro charged, Carlito used the momentum to hip toss the champion across the ring. Sandro popped up quickly, angry, charging again, blinded by his own fury.
Carlito sidestepped, sending Sandro crashing shoulder first into the steel ring post.
CLANG.
The sound of flesh meeting steel rang out. Sandro staggered back, clutching his shoulder, the same shoulder holding the weight of the WWE Championship earlier.
"That's it!" Lawler cheered. "The arm is hurt! Capitalize, Carlito! Do it for the fans! Do it for Jericho losing! Do it for everyone sick of this tyranny!"
"Oh, shut up, King!" JBL snapped. "It's a minor bruise! A God doesn't feel pain like you mortals!"
Carlito was moving now. Adrenaline masked the pain in his neck. He hit a springboard back elbow that knocked Sandro flat. He followed it up with a series of left hands, the Southpaw from San Juan unloading on the champion. He whipped Sandro into the ropes and caught him with a high knee lift, followed immediately by a swinging neckbreaker.
The flow was smooth, liquid, undeniably cool.
ONE!
TWO!
Sandro kicked out with authority, powering out so hard he nearly threw Carlito off him.
But the dynamic had shifted. Sandro scrambled to a corner to regroup, his chest heaving. The rage was still there, but now it was mixed with the realization that this wasn't going to be a walkover. He looked across the ring, wiping sweat from his brow, and for the first time, he really saw Carlito.
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 20 (2010)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida, USA
Brand: WWE - RAW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Styles
Faction: The Undisputed System
Championships History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion, 1x TNA X Division Champion, 1x WWE United States Champion, & 1x WWE Champion
Other Achievements: 1x Andre the Giant Memorial Battle Royale Winner, 1x Mr. Money In The Bank, Youngest WWE Champion, & PWI Top 500 (No.1)
Wrestlemania Record: 1 - 0