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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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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.
"Now we have a match," Striker whispered. "The bully got punched in the mouth."
What followed was a sequence that turned a brutal squash into an instant classic. They met in the center of the ring, trading blows.
Right hand from Sandro. Boo!
Left jab from Carlito. Yay!
Forearm smash from Sandro. Boo!
Chop from Carlito. Whoooo!
Sandro gained the upper hand, kneeing Carlito in the gut. He went for a vertical suplex, holding Carlito up in the air. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Blood rushed to Carlito's head. But Carlito shifted his weight, kneeing Sandro in the head while upside down, landing on his feet behind the champion.
Backstabber attempt!
No! Sandro blocked it, grabbing the ropes. Carlito crashed to the mat. Sandro spun around, hitting a standing moonsault!
"Athleticism like a cruiserweight, power like a heavyweight!" JBL crowed. "He is the perfect hybrid!"
ONE!
TWO!
NO!
Carlito kicked out.
The pace quickened. Sandro went for a rolling cutter, but Carlito pushed him off. Sandro rebounded off the ropes, and Carlito caught him with a drop toe hold, sending him face first into the middle turnbuckle.
Carlito scrambled to the apron. He waited for Sandro to stand. Springboard...
Senton Bomb!
But Sandro got the knees up!
"Nobody home!" Cole cried out. "Carlito crashed and burned into the knees of the champion!"
Both men lay flat on their backs, the referee beginning his count. The crowd was buzzing, the energy in Minneapolis finally reaching a fever pitch for the main event. They realized they were watching something special, a desperate veteran trying to dethrone an angry deity.
At the count of seven, they stirred. They got to their knees, forehead to forehead.
"You are nothing," Sandro snarled, his voice audible on the ringside mics.
"That's... cool," Carlito gasped.
Slap!
Carlito slapped the taste out of Sandro's mouth. The disrespect was palpable.
Sandro's eyes went black. He didn't recoil. He just stared. Then, he exploded.
He tackled Carlito, raining down elbows. He pulled him up, hitting a Snap Dragon Suplex. He held the waistlock. rolled through. A second Snap Dragon Suplex, dropping Carlito right on the back of his neck.
"Three Amigos from Hell!" Striker called it.
Sandro went for the third, but Carlito fought out, back elbowing Sandro in the nose. Carlito ran to the ropes, ducked a clothesline, and hit a hurricanrana that sent Sandro flying across the ring.
Sandro rolled to the outside to catch his breath.
"He's running!" Lawler shouted. "The God is running!"
"He's regrouping, you idiot!" JBL defended. "It's strategy!"
Carlito wasn't waiting. He saw the opportunity. He ran the ropes, building steam. He launched himself over the top rope, TOPE CON HILO!
Carlito crashed into Sandro, sending both men tumbling over the announce table, right into JBL's lap.
"Hey! Watch the suit!" JBL yelled, scrambling backward, his hat falling off. "Get off me!"
The crowd chanted "HOLY SHIT!" as bodies lay scattered among the monitors and cables.
The referee began his count. 1... 2... 3...
Carlito was up first. He grabbed Sandro, tossing him back into the ring at the count of eight. He climbed the top rope. He was looking for the moonsault again.
He launched. majestic arc.
Sandro rolled... but Carlito landed on his feet! He anticipated the roll!
Sandro stood up, turning around—
BACKSTABBER!
The double knees connected flush with the champion's spine. The crowd exploded. This was it. The second upset of the night.
"NEW CHAMPION! NEW CHAMPION!" Cole screamed.
Carlito hooked the leg. The referee dove into position.
ONE!
The arena held its breath.
TWO!
JBL looked like he was about to have a heart attack.
THRE... NO!
Sandro's hand shot up at the very last millisecond. 2.999.
"HOW?!" Lawler stood up, hands on his head. "How did he kick out of that?! That Backstabber was perfectly executed by Carlito!"
"Because he is the God of WWE!" JBL was sweating profusely, clutching his hat. "You cannot kill a God with a mere knee to the back!"
Carlito sat up, eyes wide. He didn't know what else to do. He had hit his best shot. He looked at the referee, who held up two fingers.
Carlito dragged himself to the corner, setting up for something else. He waited for Sandro to rise.
Sandro got to his knees, looking groggy. He was hurt. The back was spasming. The arrogance was gone, replaced by pure survival instinct.
Carlito charged for a running knee lift.
Sandro ducked, catching Carlito's leg. He stood up, hoisting Carlito onto his shoulders in a Fireman's Carry.
"GTS?" Striker asked. "Is he mocking Punk?"
No. Sandro spun him out— F5!
He hit the F5!
But Sandro didn't cover. He fell into the ropes, too exhausted to capitalize. Both men were down again. The match had entered deep waters.
"These two are putting on a clinic," Striker said quietly. "This is what the United States Championship is about. Grit."
Sandro was the first to move. The rage had returned, colder now. Sharper. He crawled to the corner, pulling himself up by the ropes. He looked down at Carlito, who was trying to push himself up on all fours.
Sandro didn't smile. He didn't taunt. He just wiped the spit from his lip.
He waited.
Carlito slowly got to a kneeling position, his head hanging low, exhaustion taking over. He was a sitting duck.
"Don't do it..." Lawler whispered. "He's helpless."
"Finish him!" JBL screamed.
Sandro took off. He sprinted toward the ropes across the ring. He hit them with incredible velocity, the ropes bending under the force. He rebounded back into the center of the ring, his speed blurring.
As he approached the kneeling Carlito, Sandro dropped low, sliding across the mat like a baseball player stealing home.
His right elbow cocked.
The motion was vicious, from inward to outward, a scythe cutting through wheat.
THE LAST NOTE.
The elbow connected with the back of Carlito's head and neck with a sickening thwack. It was precise. It was lethal.
"LAST NOTE!" Striker screamed. "He just severed the brain stem! That is overkill! That is criminal!"
Carlito simply collapsed face first into the mat, motionless. The lights were out.
Sandro didn't hook the leg. He didn't need to. He simply placed a hand on Carlito's back, staring dead eyed at the hard camera.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
DING! DING! DING!
"Here is your winner... and STILL WWE United States Champion... SANDRO ZHANG!"
"That... that was a massacre," Striker whispered, echoing his sentiment from earlier but with more finality. "Carlito fought with everything he had, but Sandro... Sandro is on a different level of existence right now."
"He's a God, Matt," JBL said, his voice raising higher becoming more smug and satisfied, adjusting his tie. "Jericho fell. The System bled. But a God don't lose just because a mortal get lucky earlier in the night. The Undisputed System stands. The Message has been sent."
"I hate him," Cole muttered. "I absolutely hate him. But my God, what a match."
Sandro stood up. He snatched the United States title from the referee. He didn't raise it. He just looked at it, then looked down at the unconscious Carlito.
He then walked over to the timekeeper's area and grabbed his WWE Championship.
He then entered into the ring and climbed the turnbuckle, hoisting both belts high. No smile. No joy. Just a cold, hard reminder to the locker room, to Punk, to the fans. He looked at the camera with those dead, shark like eyes, "I am the only gold that matters," he mouthed.
He was Sandro Zhang. He was the Undisputed System. And while they might have lost a battle tonight... the war was won in the end by them thanks to him.
He then get out of the ring and walked up the ramp, leaving a broken Carlito being tended to by EMTs in the ring.
The pay per view faded to black with the image of Sandro standing at the top of the ramp, a solitary figure of vengeance, on Sandro's face, a portrait of a tyrant who had just reminded the world why he wore the crown.
Almost immediately, the internet caught fire. Twitter, Reddit, and wrestling forums transformed into digital battlegrounds. The hashtag #BraggingRights trended worldwide within minutes, but curiously, the discourse wasn't centered on Sandro's brutal dismantling of Carlito, nor was it focused on the successful title defenses of Wade Barrett, Drew McIntyre, or Kofi Kingston.
The timeline was ablaze with shock.
#JerichoFumbled was trending worldwide.
#UndisputedCrack was right behind it.
#SandroWasPissed became a hot topic of analysis.
The entire wrestling community was fixated on one man, Chris Jericho.
For these past three weeks, the narrative had been about the weak links in the Undisputed System. Fans had placed their bets on Wade and Drew being the ones to drop the ball.
After their non title loss on SmackDown to Edge and Christian, the writing seemed to be on the wall. The story made sense, the young, aggressive tag team gets humbled by the legendary veterans. It was classic booking.
But reality had taken a sharp left turn. Wade and Drew had survived, brutally so. They had used every dirty trick in the book to steal a victory, reinforcing their status as unstoppable heels.
It was Jericho, the veteran, the self proclaimed "Best in the World," the man brought in to add seasoned legitimacy to the faction, who had crumbled.
Jericho had lost to CM Punk.
The World Heavyweight Championship was gone.
The stranglehold on WWE gold was broken.
@WrestlingMark99: "Jericho is done. You don't lose a world title in the Undisputed System and expect to keep your locker spot. Sandro looked ready to murder someone tonight. RIP Y2J."
@SandroStan4Life: "Sandro's face during that main event... he was fighting angry. That wasn't just about Carlito. That was a message to Jericho. You can see the cracks. The God of WWE doesn't tolerate failure."
@SquaredCircleGuy: "Hot take: Jericho stays but he gets demoted. Maybe he becomes the manager? Or maybe Sandro makes him earn it back? But man, the irony of the 'veteran' being the one to choke is delicious."
The speculation ran wild. One camp was convinced Jericho was getting the boot, an Exile on Main Street executed live on television.
The imagery was vivid in the fans' minds, a beatdown, a stripped shirt, a tossed body. Another camp believed in redemption, a grueling path back to the gold mandated by the "God" himself. And a smaller, more radical subset of fans whispered about replacement.
Out with the old, in with the new. Names of NXT superstars were tossed around like lottery tickets.
The match with Carlito was dissected frame by frame. Fans pointed out Sandro's uncharacteristic sloppiness, the missed grabs, the blind rage that led to him hitting the ring post.
It was evidence, they claimed, of his internal fury. The "God" character was precise, cold, calculating. Tonight, he had been a hurricane. And hurricanes leave wreckage.
Twenty four hours later, the Target Center in Minneapolis remained the epicenter of the wrestling world. The energy hadn't dissipated, it had curdled into a thick, anxious anticipation.
The arena was packed to the rafters, mirroring the attendance of the pay per view. The fans had flocked back not just for the wrestling, but for the drama. Nobody wanted to miss the funeral or the execution.
The opening pyro exploded, a familiar jolt to the senses, as the camera swept across the sea of signs. Some read "THANK YOU PUNK," others "SYSTEM CRUMBLING," and a few bold ones declared "SACK JERICHO."
At the commentary table Cole and Lawler sat with their usual professional demeanor, but there was a third chair. A Stetson hat rested on the table.
"Welcome everyone to Monday Night RAW!" Michael Cole's voice boomed, though his usual enthusiasm was tempered by the tension in the air. "We are live from Minneapolis, Minnesota, just twenty four hours removed from a life altering Bragging Rights pay per view!"
"That's right, Cole," Lawler added, adjusting his crown. "And look who decided to stick around! We are joined once again by the former WWE Champion, the self proclaimed Wrestling God, JBL!"
JBL leaned back, flashing a grin that was all teeth, looking more pleased with himself than ever. "Stick around? King, I might just move in! Anyway, It is good to be here, you two! And hey, maybe I'll just become the permanent commentator. Someone needs to bring some actual wrestling IQ to this booth. You two sound like you're reading from a Hallmark card half the time."
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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