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(A/N: I hope everyone give my new novel Skyrim a chance and added it to their library, also give the power stones on Skyrim!)
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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."
"We're happy to have you, John," Lawler chuckled, though his eyes narrowed slightly. "Even if your opinions are... unique."
The banter was brief. The elephant in the room was too big to ignore.
"Let's get right to it," Cole said, shifting gears. "Last night at Bragging Rights, the landscape of the WWE changed. For the first time in months, the Undisputed System does not hold all the gold."
"It was a glorious moment!" Lawler added, unable to hide his glee. "CM Punk did the impossible. He defeated Chris Jericho. He liberated the World Heavyweight Championship!"
"Liberated?" JBL slammed his hand on the desk, his face flushing red instantly. "He stole it! That match was a travesty of justice! I demand a rematch! I demand an investigation! You call that liberation? I call it grand larceny!"
"What we you called it John, it's a beautiful thing," Lawler grinned. "The dominance is over."
"Over?!" JBL shouted loud. "Are you watching the same product I am? Wade and Drew retained! Big E and Ryback retained! Alexa retained! Kofi retained! And Sandro decimated Carlito! One slip up doesn't mean the empire falls! And let's be clear, Punk cheated! He used a foreign object! He used a low blow!"
"Heyman introduced the chair, John!" Cole argued. "Jericho tried to use it first!"
"Intent is not a crime, Cole!" JBL shouted back. "Action is a crime! Punk is a criminal!"
As the debate heated up, threatening to derail the broadcast within the first five minutes, the arena plunged into darkness.
Snap.
The lights cut out. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Then, the familiar, ominous drone began.
SHOCK THE SYSTEM!
The guitar riff screamed. The lights flooded back on, bathed in deep, opulent gold. The boos were deafening, mixed with a rebellious cheer from the section of fans who worshipped the dominance.
They emerged. The Undisputed System.
But the formation was different. The energy was different.
Sandro Zhang walked point. He wore an immaculately tailored black suit, the jacket unbuttoned. On his right shoulder sat the WWE Championship. In his left hand, gripped tightly, was the United States Championship. His face was a mask of cold indifference.
Behind him, Paul Heyman walked with his head held high, clutching a microphone like a weapon.
Then came the procession of gold.
Alexa Bliss, looking smug with her Divas Championship.
AJ Lee and Nikki Bella, flanking her like vipers.
Big E and Ryback, the World Tag Team Champions, looking like stone golems.
Wade Barrett and Drew McIntyre, the WWE Tag Team Champions, walking with a renewed, violent swagger.
Kofi Kingston, the Intercontinental Champion, and Dolph Ziggler, the NXT Champion, completing the wall of champions.
And then... trailing a few steps behind... was Chris Jericho.
He wore a suit, but no tie. No gold on his shoulder. His head wasn't bowed, but his eyes darted around, reading the room. He looked like a man walking to the gallows, trying to figure out if the rope was for him or someone else.
"Look at that," Cole whispered. "Jericho is at the back. That speaks volumes."
"He's part of the team, Cole," JBL defended, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. "He let the family down, so there are consequences for that."
"It's a walk of shame," Lawler corrected.
They marched down the ramp, a golden army with one soldier missing his uniform. They entered the ring with practiced precision. The champions lined up, raising their titles high. The visual was still overwhelming, a glittering display of dominance that nearly blinded the camera lens.
Those with titles raised them. Those without, Jericho, AJ, Nikki, raised their right hands, index fingers pointing to the sky in the System's salute. Jericho's hand went up a split second later than everyone else's.
The music faded. The crowd noise swelled, a chaotic mix of heat and anticipation.
Sandro didn't smile. He didn't acknowledge the crowd. He handed the United States title to Nikki and the WWE title to AJ. He adjusted his cuffs. He looked at the hard camera.
He then simply extended his right hand. Heyman, anticipating the command, placed the microphone into his palm.
Sandro stepped forward. The rest of the System took a subtle step back, creating a semi circle around their leader. Jericho stood on the far left, almost isolated.
Sandro looked left. He looked right. He looked up at the rafters where the banners hung. Then, he looked into the camera, his eyes boring into the souls of millions watching at home.
"Minneapolis, Minnesota..."
He paused, letting the silence hang heavy in the air.
"ACKNOWLEDGE ME!"
The reaction was instantaneous. A roar of boos shook the foundations of the Target Center, punctuated by a loud cheers from the loyalists. Sandro stood in the center of the storm, unmoving, letting the noise wash over him. He wasn't asking for approval. He was demanding submission.
He slowly lowered the microphone, turning his head slowly to look at the line of champions behind him. His gaze passed over Ryback. Over Big E. Over Wade and Drew. Over Kofi and Ziggler. Over Alexa.
And then, his eyes stopped.
They locked onto Chris Jericho.
The crowd quieted down, sensing the shift. The air in the arena seemed to drop ten degrees. Jericho met Sandro's gaze. He didn't flinch, but his jaw set tight.
Sandro raised the microphone again, never breaking eye contact with Y2J.
"Perfection," Sandro said, his voice smooth but laced with venom. "It is the standard I set. It is the standard this family upholds. When we walk into an arena, we do not hope to win. We do not try to win. We take what is ours because we are better than everyone else in this industry."
He took a step toward Jericho.
"Last night, Wade and Drew walked into a war against two veterans. They were battered. They were bruised. But they did what soldiers do. They survived. They conquered. They retained."
Wade and Drew puffed their chests out, nodding.
"Kofi," Sandro continued, taking another step. " He was blindsided. Attacked. Disrespected. Did he complain? No. He walked into that ring and he kicked MVP's head off his shoulders not just once, but twice."
Kofi smirked, tapping his title belt.
"Alexa. Big E. Ryback. Even myself..." Sandro gestured to his own bruised face. "We bled for this gold last night as well. We put our bodies on the line to ensure that when the sun rose this morning, the Undisputed System remained the gravitational center of this company."
Sandro was now standing directly in front of Jericho. The distance between them was less than a foot.
"But you, Chris..." Sandro's voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and terrifying. "You call yourself the Best in the World. You call yourself a veteran. You were brought into this family to lead by example. To show these younger stars what it means to be a champion."
Jericho opened his mouth to speak, but Sandro held up a finger.
"Don't," Sandro said softly. "Just listen."
He circled Jericho like a shark circling a shipwreck.
"You let a straight edge punk... a man who preaches from a soapbox... take something from us. You let a gap form in our armor. And now, the wolves are gathering. They smell blood, Chris. And they don't smell mine. They smell yours."
"He's going to fire him," Cole whispered. "He's going to do it right here."
Sandro stopped in front of Jericho again.
"The fans... they think I'm going to kick you out," Sandro said, acknowledging the crowd for the first time. "They think I'm going to have Ryback and Big E throw you through a table. They think I'm going to strip you of your membership and leave you for the vultures."
A "YES! YES! YES!" chant broke out.
Sandro smirked. A cold, humorless smirk.
"But that would be too easy. That would be mercy. And I am not a merciful God."
He leaned in close to Jericho's ear, the microphone capturing every breath.
"You lost the World Heavyweight Championship. You lost my World Heavyweight Championship. So, I am not going to fire you, Chris. I am going to give you a chance to fix your mistake."
Jericho's eyes widened slightly.
"But know this," Sandro hissed, backing away and addressing the group. "There are no second chances in the System. There is only success... or erasure. You want to remain in the Undisputed System? You want to stay in the garden of the Gods? Then you will go out there, and you will bring me the head of CM Punk. You will bring me back my gold."
The crowd erupted, already chanting "CM PUNK! CM PUNK!"
Sandro nodded slowly. "Yes. Chris Jericho versus CM Punk… for the World Heavyweight Championship… at Survivor Series."
Sandro then turned back to Jericho, his face stone cold. "If not... you will become just another name on the list of people I used to know."
He dropped the microphone. It hit the canvas with a thud that echoed like a gavel strike.
Sandro turned and walked away, exiting the ring without looking back. Heyman scrambled to follow, signaling the rest of the champions to fall in line. They filed out, one by one, glancing at Jericho as they passed. Some with pity. Some with disgust.
Jericho was left alone in the center of the ring. No music. Just the murmuring of the crowd and the heavy weight of an ultimatum hanging over his head.
"He's been given a lifeline," JBL said quietly. "But that rope is frayed, King. One slip... and Chris Jericho is history."
"It's not a lifeline, John," Lawler replied gravely. "It's a death sentence. Because if he fails again... I don't think Sandro just kicks him out. I think Sandro ends him."
The show rolled on, featuring a mid card that would usually capture the imagination, Evan Bourne flying around the ring, a gritty slugfest between Sheamus and Mark Henry, but the air in the Target Center remained thick with the residue of the opening segment.
The fans were physically present for the wrestling, but mentally, they were still in that ring with Jericho, standing under the guillotine blade held by Sandro.
The chatter on social media and in the arena concourses was singular. Tribunal. That was the word being thrown around. Sandro hadn't just been a disappointed leader, no, he had been Judge, Jury, and, as Lawler so grimly put it, potentially the Executioner.
His phrasing, "my World Heavyweight Title", had sent a chill through the fanbase. It wasn't a slip of the tongue. It was a window into the psyche of the "God" character.
In Sandro's mind, every belt, every accolade, perhaps even the Divas Championship that he could never physically wear, belonged to him. The champions were merely stewards, leasing the gold from the landlord. And Jericho had just defaulted on his rent.
As the final dark match concluded, a feel good tag team bout to send the crowd home happy, the cameras stopped rolling. The house lights came up, and the crew began dismantling the ring. The spectacle of Monday Night RAW was over for the millions watching at home.
But backstage, the real drama was just beginning.
Sandro walked through the backstage corridors, the adrenaline of the promo slowly fading, replaced by a different kind of focus. He had shed the his persona the moment he passed through the curtain.
The sneer was gone, replaced by a neutral, business like expression. He handed his titles to a production assistant with a polite nod, a stark contrast to the tyrant who had just demanded acknowledgment, and adjusted his suit jacket.
He didn't head to the locker room to celebrate or debrief with the boys. He had a more pressing appointment. He arrived at a heavy oak door with a simple placard: VINCE MCMAHON.
He knocked once, firmly, and entered without waiting for a reply.
The office was exactly as one would expect, chaotic yet controlled, filled with the scent of stale coffee and high pressure decision making. Vince McMahon sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, a half eaten steak wrap pushed to the side. The Chairman looked tired, the lines on his face etched a little deeper than usual, but his eyes were sharp, predatory blue orbs that tracked Sandro's every movement.
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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