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(A/N: Also everyone I have a new novel a Dragon Age Inquisition novel named "From Couch To The Inquisitor", be sure to check it out and give some power stone)
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The fight spilled out into the chaotic environment ringside. Ziggler grabbed Cena, delivering a stiff knife edge chop to the chest. Cena absorbed the blow, firing back with a heavy right hand that nearly spun the challenger around. Cena grabbed Ziggler, looking to ram him into the steel ring post, but Ziggler reversed the momentum, sending Cena crashing shoulder first into the unforgiving metal.
As the referee began his ten count, the tension on the outside suddenly boiled over. Zack Ryder, trying to hype up the crowd for Ziggler, accidentally bumped into R-Truth near the announce desk. Truth, already on high alert due to the constant threat of Drew McIntyre, shoved Ryder back defensively. Ryder, taking offense, shoved back harder.
Within seconds, the misunderstanding erupted. Truth and Ryder began trading heavy blows right in front of the commentary desk, completely ignoring the match happening feet away.
"We have a fight breaking out on the outside!" Lawler yelled, ducking as Truth threw a wild right hook.
The referee saw the chaos and immediately abandoned his count. He leaned through the ropes, pointing a firm finger at both Ryder and Truth, aggressively shouting for them to leave the ringside area.
"Get out of here! Both of you! To the back!" the official demanded, waving his arms.
The crowd booed slightly as security personnel rushed down the ramp, physically separating the two corner men and escorting them up the aisle.
"Good riddance!" JBL barked. "We don't need a circus out here! Let the men fight!"
With the ringside area finally cleared of distractions, Cena capitalized on the confusion. He grabbed Ziggler, hauling him up and rolling him back under the bottom rope. Cena slid in right behind him, dropping a heavy elbow across Ziggler's chest and hooking the leg.
"ONE!"
"TWO!"
"NO!"
Ziggler kicked out.
Cena slowed the pace down, utilizing his significant size advantage to wear down the resilient challenger. He locked Ziggler in a tight bear hug, squeezing the air out of his lungs. Ziggler gasped, throwing weak punches to the top of Cena's head, desperately trying to break the grip.
"Cena is a master of endurance," Cole noted. "He is grounding the high flyer. He knows that if Ziggler can't breathe, Ziggler can't hit the Zig Zag."
Feeding off the chanting MSG crowd, Ziggler found a burst of adrenaline. He delivered a sharp headbutt to Cena's nose, breaking the hold. Ziggler hit the ropes, looking for a leaping clothesline, but Cena caught him in mid air. Cena shifted his weight, rotating Ziggler into a massive, spinning back suplex that shook the ring.
Cena stood over the fallen challenger, raising a hand in front of his face. The crowd erupted into a mix of cheers and boos as Cena bounced off the ropes, brushing dirt off his shoulder, and delivered his signature Five Knuckle Shuffle cleanly across Ziggler's forehead.
Cena backed into the corner, waiting for Ziggler to push himself up. He ducked under Ziggler's arm, lifting him onto his broad shoulders for the Attitude Adjustment.
But Ziggler was a veteran, and his ring awareness was elite. As Cena tried to drop his weight forward, Ziggler threw frantic elbows, shifting his balance and sliding down Cena's back. Ziggler landed on his feet, immediately grabbing Cena from behind and executing a flawless, high angle jumping DDT!
Both men lay flat on the mat as the referee began his count.
"What a counter by the Showoff!" Lawler cheered. "He spiked Cena right on the crown of his head!"
Ziggler crawled over, draping an arm across Cena's chest.
"ONE!"
"TWO!"
"NO!"
Cena pushed his shoulder off the canvas, keeping his title hopes alive.
The match crossed the fifteen minute mark, escalating into a grueling, physical chess match. Every time one man gained an advantage, the other found a miraculous counter.
Ziggler pulled Cena to his feet, looking for a neckbreaker, but Cena shoved him away. Ziggler rebounded off the ropes, and Cena launched a massive flying shoulder tackle. Ziggler ducked it smoothly, bounced off the ropes again, and leaped into the air, connecting flush with a devastating Fameasser!
The crowd counted along with the referee.
"ONE!"
"TWO!"
"NO!"
Cena kicked out at two and a half, the sheer resilience of the champion frustrating the challenger.
Ziggler pushed himself up, running his hands through his sweat soaked blonde hair. He backed into the corner, dialing it up, stomping his boot on the canvas to signal for the Superkick. He waited for Cena to stagger to his feet.
As Cena turned around, Ziggler launched the kick with lightning speed.
But Cena ducked. He caught Ziggler's leg, spun him around, and violently kicked the back of Ziggler's knee, dropping the challenger to the mat. In one fluid motion, Cena stepped over Ziggler's legs and locked in the agonizing STF submission hold right in the center of the ring!
"He's got it locked in!" Cole yelled at the top of his lungs. "The STF is locked in tight! This is the same hold that put Drew McIntyre to sleep last week!"
Ziggler screamed in pure pain, his face turning a deep shade of crimson as Cena applied maximum torque to his lower back and neck. Ziggler clawed frantically at the canvas, his eyes wide with panic.
"Tap out, Ziggler!" JBL demanded. "Save your career! You are out of your league!"
Ziggler refused to quit. Operating purely on heart and desperation, he used his free hand to claw his way forward. Inch by agonizing inch, he dragged Cena's heavy frame toward the edge of the ring. With a final, explosive lunge, Ziggler grabbed the bottom rope.
The referee stepped in, forcing the break.
Cena rolled backward, clutching his head in frustration. He knew he was running out of options. He pulled Ziggler back to the center of the ring, hauling him up onto his shoulders for a second Attitude Adjustment attempt.
This time, Cena didn't hesitate. He swung Ziggler forward, executing the devastating maneuver.
But Ziggler flipped cleanly through the air, landing perfectly on his feet!
Before Cena could even turn around, Ziggler launched a picture-perfect Superkick that connected squarely with the point of Cena's chin! The sickening crack echoed through the building. Cena collapsed like a falling tree, crashing heavily to the mat.
The Madison Square Garden crowd lost their absolute minds!
"SUPERKICK!" Lawler screamed, leaping out of his chair. "He got him!"
Ziggler, completely exhausted, fell into the cover, hooking the champion's leg tightly.
"ONE!"
"TWO!"
"THRE—NOOOO!"
Cena kicked out just a fraction of a millimeter before the final count.
"I don't believe it!" Cole shrieked, clutching his headset. "How did John Cena survive that kick?! This is an absolute instant classic! Neither man refuses to stay down!"
Both men lay motionless on the canvas, completely spent. The physical toll of the main event was evident in their heavy breathing and sweat-drenched bodies. The referee began a slow ten count as the crowd showered them with a deafening "THIS IS AWESOME!" chant.
At the count of eight, they slowly fought their way up to their knees. They locked eyes, the mutual respect masked by fierce competitive drive.
Smack. Ziggler threw a weak right hand.
Smack. Cena fired back.
They fought their way to their feet, trading heavy blows in the center of the ring. Ziggler threw a wild hook, but Cena blocked it. Cena scooped Ziggler up onto his shoulders for a third time, determined to hit the AA and end the match.
But Ziggler fought out with frantic elbows, slipping down behind Cena. Ziggler grabbed Cena around the neck, leaped backward into the air, and drove the champion brutally into the mat with a catastrophic Zig Zag!
The arena erupted!
"ZIG ZAG! ZIG ZAG!" Cole screamed, his voice cracking. "We are going to have a new champion!"
Ziggler, running purely on fumes, dragged his battered body over Cena. He draped his heavy arm across the champion's chest, staring up at the lights as the referee dropped into position.
"ONE!"
The crowd chanted along.
"TWO!"
"THRE—"
Before the referee's hand could hit the mat for the final time, a massive, dark figure slid rapidly under the bottom rope.
A heavy, taped fist grabbed Dolph Ziggler by the back of the neck and violently hurled him off the champion.
The referee immediately waved for the bell, signaling a disqualification, but the ringing of the bell was drowned out by the sudden, overwhelming roar of boos from the New York crowd.
Drew McIntyre stood in the center of the ring, wearing his dark leather jacket, his eyes burning with absolute, unhinged malice. The Scottish Psychopath had arrived to ruin the classic.
"No! Damn it, no!" Lawler yelled in utter frustration. "Drew McIntyre just ruined an unbelievable main event! Ziggler had it won!"
"Drew doesn't care about a classic match, King!" JBL argued, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "He cares about his championship! He wasn't going to let anyone else take what belongs to him!"
Drew didn't waste a second. He grabbed the exhausted Ziggler by the hair, dragging him into the corner, and began ruthlessly stomping him into the canvas. Ziggler tried to cover up, but the bare knuckle strikes and heavy boots were too much.
Cena, groggy and battered, pushed himself up to a kneeling position, trying to fight off the ambush. He threw a weak punch at Drew's midsection.
Drew simply turned, looking down at the champion with a sadistic sneer. He grabbed Cena by the back of the head and delivered a brutal, sickening Glasgow Kiss headbutt. Cena's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the mat.
Drew backed into the opposite corner. He waited for Ziggler to stagger out of the turnbuckles. The moment the Showoff turned around, Drew exploded forward, launching his massive frame into the air and taking Ziggler's head off with a huge Claymore Kick!
Ziggler folded in half, completely unconscious.
Drew quickly turned his attention back to Cena. The champion was slowly pushing himself up to his hands and knees. Drew retreated to the corner again, stalking his prey. As Cena pushed himself up to a vertical base, Drew launched a second, devastating Claymore Kick that caught Cena flush on the jaw, knocking the champion out cold.
The ring was an absolute graveyard, with both Cena and Ziggler lying broken in the center of the canvas.
Drew McIntyre stood tall amidst the destruction. He walked over to the ropes, demanding the referee hand him the United States Championship. The terrified official obliged, sliding the heavy gold belt across the mat.
Drew picked up the title. He didn't smile. He didn't celebrate. He walked to the center of the ring, stepping over the bodies of the two men, and raised the United States Championship high into the air.
The Madison Square Garden crowd showered him with a deafening, visceral wave of pure hatred.
"Drew McIntyre has completely snapped!" Cole yelled over the heavy boos as the broadcast camera zoomed in on the Psychopath's intense, unblinking stare. "He doesn't care about respect, he doesn't care about the rules, he only cares about destruction! He just laid waste to two of the best in the business!"
The image of the Scottish Psychopath holding the stolen championship over the unconscious bodies of Cena and Ziggler burned into the screen before the broadcast slowly faded to black, leaving the WWE Universe with a bitter, violent conclusion to an unforgettable night.
Meanwhile, a red recording light of a big production camera glowed faintly in the dimly lit, concrete hallway deep within the bowels of Madison Square Garden. The chaotic roar of the New York crowd had faded to a muffled rumble, sealed away behind heavy steel fire doors.
Sandro stood in the center of the frame, pacing with a predatory, restless energy. The WWE and World Heavyweight Championships were slung carelessly over his shoulders, glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights. He held his iPhone to his ear, his jaw set in a tight, furious line, executing the exclusive backstage segment for WWE's official YouTube channel with flawless and in character precision.
"What do you mean you can't file the injunction?" Sandro barked into the phone, his voice echoing sharply off the concrete walls. "I pay you a huge sume that rivals the GDP of a small country. You are supposed to be the most ruthless corporate litigator in Manhattan, and you're telling me you can't file a simple assault charge against a General Manager of an Wrestling Company?!"
Sandro paused, narrowing his eyes as he listened to the fictional response on the other end of the line.
"I don't care what the corporate charter says," Sandro hissed, his grip tightening on the phone. "I don't care if the legal department recognizes them as two separate performing entities. A leather mask does not grant Mick Foley diplomatic immunity! You tell the board of directors that if they don't handle this, I will tie up their legal team in so much litigation they won't be able to afford to pay the stadiume rent for WrestleMania."
Sandro pulled the phone away from his ear and violently ended the call, letting out a sharp breath of engineered frustration.
As he turned to walk down the hallway, a massive, imposing figure stepped out from the shadows of a stack of production crates, blocking his path.
The camera slowly panned back to reveal Triple H.
The Game had not been seen on WWE television since his grueling No Holds Barred war against The Undertaker at WrestleMania. He wore a sharp leather jacket over a black t-shirt, holding a bottle of water in his hand. He looked fully healed, rested, and as dangerous as ever.
Triple H took a slow sip of water, his eyes drifting down to the two massive gold championships resting on Sandro's shoulders.
"You seem a little stressed, kid," Triple H noted, his voice carrying that familiar, gravelly edge. "Word of advice. You can't sue your way out of a fight in this business. If you have a problem with someone wearing a mask, you don't call a lawyer. You put them in the dirt."
Sandro didn't back down. He stepped right into Triple H's personal space, tilting his chin up slightly.
"I appreciate the unsolicited advice, Hunter," Sandro replied coldly. "But I don't need a history lesson from a guy who has been sitting on the couch since WrestleMania."
Triple H chuckled, a dark, competitive sound. He looked at the WWE Championship, then over to the World Heavyweight Championship.
"Those look heavy," Triple H remarked, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Enjoy carrying them while you can. Because sooner or later, I'm going to get bored of resting and enjoying my vacation. And when I do, I'm coming for those titles."
Sandro snorted, a condescending smirk spreading across his face.
"Bring it on, old timer," Sandro challenged smoothly. "I beat you in the past. I will gladly beat you again. Take all the time you need to get ready. I'll be right here."
The two men held a tense, silent stare down for several long seconds, the unspoken tension radiating through the camera lens.
"And... cut," the backstage producer called out softly from the shadows. "That was perfect, guys. Great tension. We'll have this uploaded to the channel in ten minutes."
The cold, arrogant aura of the God King instantly dissolved, as did the intimidating, veteran edge of the Cerebral Assassin.
Sandro broke into an easy, relaxed smile, shifting the heavy titles on his shoulders. He reached out, offering his hand. Triple H took it, pulling Sandro in for a firm, respectful handshake and a pat on the back.
"Good work," Triple H praised, his tone shifting completely into that of an executive and a mentor. "Your intensity is right where it needs to be. You're making the fans believe you are legitimately trying to drag the company into a courtroom."
"Foley gave me a lot to work with," Sandro admitted, stretching his neck. "The whole plausible deniability angle with Mankind is brilliant way to do it. It gives us weeks of material without having to constantly rely on physical altercations."
Triple H nodded, leaning against a production crate. Off camera, Paul Levesque was one of the sharpest minds in the industry, and he had taken a strong liking to Sandro's business acumen and understanding of ring psychology.
"I wanted to talk to you about that pitch you sent me," Triple H said, keeping his voice relatively low as stagehands moved equipment past them in the hallway. "The concept for the new faction. The corporate, untouchable stable operating above the standard rules of the locker room."
"You read the brief?" Sandro asked, his interest piqued.
"I read it twice," Triple H confirmed with an approving smile. "I like the idea. It has shades of Evolution, but modernized. Leveraging actual wealth and status to elevate a hand picked group of talent is a license to print money. But I think we need to hold off for a bit. Maybe next year we can pull the trigger."
Sandro nodded thoughtfully, understanding the reasoning without needing it spelled out.
"You think adding more moving parts right now would crowd the main event scene," Sandro concluded.
"Exactly," Triple H agreed. "You are controlling the narrative of the shows right now. You have the dual championships, the target on your back from the Wyatt Family, the tension with Foley, and the women's division revolving around your circle. You are basically anchoring the reality of WWE right now. If we give you a four man hit squad tomorrow, it dilutes the focus."
"I can wait," Sandro smiled, completely unbothered by the delay. "Besides, there are other plans already brewing on my end anyway. But whenever you're ready to lace the boots back up, let me know. I'd be happy to share a ring with you again in the near future."
Triple H laughed, shaking his head. "Careful what you wish for, kid. I might just take you up on that. Safe travels to Florida."
Sandro offered a final wave, turning the corner to head toward the private dressing rooms. Waiting for him near the exit were AJ, Nikki, and Alexa. They had already changed out of their television gear into comfortable travel clothes, ready for the late night flight down the East Coast. Sandro handed his titles over to his personal security detail, wrapping his arms around his girls as they exited the legendary arena and headed toward the waiting convoy of black SUVs.
The next day, the bright, mid morning Florida sun poured through the floor to ceiling windows of Sandro's luxurious penthouse apartment in Tampa. The sprawling residence overlooked the sparkling waters of the bay, decorated in minimalist, modern elegance. Sandro sat at the head of a massive, live edge walnut dining table that had been temporarily converted into a boardroom.
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 21 (2011)
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 (1st - 376 days), 1x WWE Champion, & 1x World Heavyweight 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) - 2010, 1x KOTR (2010), & Youngest World Heavyweight Champion
Wrestlemania Record: 2 - 0 Main Event: 1 - 0