The weeks of nightly training in the bowels of the Nationalist Arena not only forged Ángel and Tony's muscles, but also sealed a unique connection, a symbiosis between two lifestyles that seemed destined never to meet. Ángel's style, now operating under the mystical and austere identity of Lobo, began to mutate into a technical amalgam that the few veterans and equipment managers who stayed to watch them train couldn't categorize. It wasn't traditional wrestling, but neither was it the dry purism of the Olympic style. It was something new, a desperately technical form of combat, capable of applying submission holds taken from Russian Greco-Roman manuals, but executed with a malice and force that thwarted any attempt at intimidation.
Lobo's versatility quickly became his trademark in the gym. In a training session, he could launch a 220-pound opponent with a perfect German suplex—where the physics of the bridge and the center of gravity worked in harmony—and, the next second, without losing momentum, launch himself between the second and third ropes with a suicide dive whose agility belied his imposing 6-foot frame. Ángel was applying his academic intelligence to the chaos of the ring, calculating trajectories as he flew through the air.
Tony, under the skin of León, was the necessary polar opposite. His natural approach was that of a powerhouse—a wrestler of pure strength—but blessed with an agility that defied the logic of his 6-foot frame and broad shoulders. Ángel, however, with his obsession for excellence, ensured that Tony wasn't simply a "brute" who pushed people around the ring using momentum. In the sessions where the Mexicali heat seemed relentless, even at midnight, when sweat created slippery puddles on the mat, Ángel forced Tony to repeat grappling sequences and transitions over and over, until the movements became instinctive.
"Don't try to beat me using only brute arm strength, Tony," Ángel would scold him one early morning, trapping his wrist in a mat-based training session that resembled a human chess match. "If you put your dead weight on my elbow, lock my joint, and twist my hand to this specific angle, I have no way to escape even if my biceps were made of steel. Don't just use muscle; use leverage, use your whole body to apply pressure to that breaking point."
Ángel was passing on those little secrets of amateur wrestling, the control tricks and pressure points that make the difference between a rough wrestler and a world-class one. He was transforming the impulsive León into a technical predator capable of defending himself and dominating on any terrain, whether in the air or on the stage. In exchange for this academic instruction, Tony helped Ángel shake off the paralyzing rigor of Olympic competition, that mental rigidity that sometimes prevented him from flowing.
"Lobo, for God's sake, stop calculating the trajectory before you jump," Tony told him one night, swinging with enviable confidence on the top rope, his long hair dripping with sweat. "Don't think about how you're going to land or at what angle your back will hit the ground. Just jump. You have to feel the emptiness, you have to feel the movement in your gut. People don't care about physics; they like to see you look like an animal hunting, not like an engineer performing a boring choreography."
One night, after a particularly grueling session that left them both aching, their skin chafed from the friction of the canvas, and their backs bruised from the impact against the wooden boards, they decided to climb to the arena's roof to catch their breath. From that height, they could see the sea of lights of Mexicali stretching all the way to the border, and a light breeze, though warm, managed to cool their lungs, heavy with magnesium dust.
"Why do you take so long teaching me all those tricks, dude?" Tony asked suddenly, handing Ángel a bottle of water as they caught their breath. "With what you know about real wrestling and your physique, you could wipe the floor with every wrestler in this arena by yourself. You don't need a partner holding you back."
Ángel removed his gray neoprene face mask, revealing a face marked by fatigue but illuminated by a serene determination. He breathed in the night air before answering.
"Because if we're going to step into that ring as a team, I need you to be as dangerous as I am, Tony. I don't want a bodyguard, I want an equal," Ángel replied with an undeniable certainty. "Besides, Maestro Cárdenas is right about one thing: in this business, one day we're going to end up facing each other in opposite corners. And if that day comes, I want you to be at your absolute best. I don't want to beat you just because I know three more holds than you; if we're going to fight, I want it to be a real war, a real battle the kind of moments people would remember for years.
Tony let out a vibrant laugh and gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder, one of those blows that stings but, in the code of men, signifies the utmost respect. Leon's relaxed and visceral attitude was beginning to seep into Angel's armor, helping him reduce his obsession with total control and allowing him to finally enjoy the artistic chaos that surrounds professional wrestling.
At that height, Angel understood that Tony was the existential counterweight his life needed. While Angel was always planning three steps ahead, anticipating risks and analyzing consequences as if he were facing a calculus exam, Tony lived in the exact second he was in, without the burden of the past or the anxiety of the future. Angel taught Tony to master the technique to ensure he had a long and successful career; and Tony, without knowing it, taught Angel to be free, to enjoy the present without the paralyzing fear of making mistakes or being imperfect.
Sitting on the asbestos roof, with the distant drone of cars on Calzada Independencia and the smell of old canvas and liniment clinging to their pores, they both knew they were creating something the border had never seen before. They were no longer just two childhood friends training in the darkness of an empty gym; they were Lobo and León, and they were forging a hybrid style that would shake the foundations of the Arena Nacionalista.
Together they represented the perfect union of science and power, of the mathematician's cold analysis and the warrior's fiery fury. They were ready to move beyond being gym promises and become the new, brutal reality of Mexican wrestling. The desert had raised them, discipline had molded them, and now destiny was opening the ropes of the ring for them to write their own legend with the ink of sweat and blood.