(Copyright information flashes on the screen. We go into a highlight screen we get a highlight package of Patrick Payne as the world champion, then one as the reign of Azar Vulcan. We go back to other matches these two have fought as they stare down each other. We go into an introduction screen that welcomes us to Cold Day in Hell 2025. Pyrotechnics blasts on the stage, the lights turn on. We get a few shots of the crowd, we zoom out to display the location information. We get one more shot of the crowd as the commentators speak over the shot.)
JR-Welcome to the 2025 edition of Cold Day in Hell. Hello and welcome I’m good ol’ JR, Jim Ross. I’m joined by Jerry “The King” Lawler, and Kris “KG” Gaffney.
King-Tonight we will Azar Vulcan take on Patrick Payne in Hell in a cell…more like Azar is better than you in a cell.
Kris Gaffney-Ha!
JR-Let’s get started with the first match of the night.
(“Radio” blasts on the PA system. Zack Ryder walks out on the stage with his web camera, he steps inside of the ring.)
JR-Zack Ryder has a lot of experience in this environment.
King-You could say elite experience.
Kris Gaffney- That’s for sure.
The arena lights dim, plunging the space into an anticipatory darkness. A hushed silence falls over the crowd, broken only by the distant sound of thunder. Suddenly, the opening notes of "Medieval Viking Music - For Honor (Ft. Peyton Parrish)" resonate through the speakers, their haunting melody echoing in the vastness of the arena.
As the music swells, the titantron flickers to life, displaying a mist-covered Nordic landscape. Towering mountains and dense, shadowy forests under a twilight sky fill the screen, creating an atmosphere of ancient, rugged wilderness.
Amidst this mystical backdrop, scenes of Viking lore begin to unfold on the titantron. Images of longships sailing through stormy seas, warriors brandishing shields and axes, and ethereal figures of Valkyries descending from the heavens captivate the audience, weaving a tale of epic battles and Norse mythology.
A deep, bellowing horn sounds, reminiscent of a Gjallarhorn, heralding the approach of a warrior. The crowd stirs with excitement as a lone figure emerges from the backstage, his silhouette imposing and powerful.
Ragnar Ayerswindale steps into the light, his figure colossal and commanding. He stands for a moment at the top of the ramp, surveying the arena with a calm, unyielding gaze. His attire, a fusion of traditional Viking elements and modern combat gear, complements his muscular build, and Norse runes glint on his gear under the arena lights.
As he begins his descent down the ramp, the music intensifies. The titantron shows images of thunderous battles juxtaposed with serene, majestic landscapes of the Nordic fjords, symbolizing the duality of Ragnar's nature – both a fierce warrior and a stoic guardian of ancient traditions.
Ragnar's movements are deliberate and measured, exuding confidence and a sense of purpose. He occasionally pauses to make eye contact with fans, his expression unchanging, an embodiment of the calm before the storm.
Reaching the ring, Ragnar ascends the steel steps with ease. He stands on the apron for a moment, closing his eyes as if to draw strength from the gods themselves. Then, with a swift and fluid motion, he steps over the top rope and enters the ring.
The music reaches a crescendo, and Ragnar raises his arms, acknowledging the crowd and the arena. The Norse imagery on the titantron gives way to a single, ancient rune, glowing brightly as if imbued with mystical power.
As the music fades and the lights return to normal, Ragnar begins his pre-match ritual, a silent nod to the Viking warriors of old. The arena buzzes with anticipation, the presence of this modern-day Viking leaving an indelible mark on all who witness his entrance.
JR-Ragnar Ayerswindale had most experience with the IC championship.
King-However, his power does led itself to this environment.
(“Archaos theme” blasts on the PA system. Archaos walks out on the stage, and he steps inside of the ring.)
JR-I think Archaos ruthlessness would be very fitting.
King-I’m certain a lot of people can tell you that.
Kris Gaffney-Or at least from the shadow of Archaos anyways
[Zack Ryder, Ragnar Ayerswindale, and Archaos Angels stand on opposite sides of the ring, and the bell rings. Zack Ryder goes for the first move. Archaos Angels ducks under Zack Ryders attack, and he pushes him towards Ragnar. Ragnar hits into Zack Ryder. Ragnar Ayerswindale falls out of the ring. Archaos kicks Zack Ryder in the gut, and he connects with an impaler DDT into the mat. Zack Ryder gets pulled up by his hair, and Archaos Angels double under hooks Zack Ryder, and he connects with a double under hook back breaker. Archaos Angels goes into the cover on Zack Ryder. The ref goes into position to make the count. The ref counts 1………..2…..KICK OUT by Archaos Angels!!]
JR-Archaos Angels almost got the three.
King-Seems Angels has a natural feud with Zack Ryder.
Kris Gaffney-Wonder why…
[Ragnar Ayerswindale steps inside of the ring, and he throws Archaos Angels into the ring post. Ragnar Ayerswindale goes to the outside of the irng, and he grabs Archaos Angels, and he throws him hard into the ring steps. Archaos Angels is in pain. Ragnar Ayerwindale throws Archaos Angels into the ring. Rangar Ayerswindale steps inside of the ring, and he measures up on Archaos Angels, and he runs towards him, and he connects with the Gunginar spear!! Ragnar Ayerswindale goes into the cover on Archaos. The ref goes into position to make the count. The ref counts 1…………..2………….Zack Ryder comes out of no where to break up the count.]
JR-I’m no certain Zack Ryder would have had thought he would have had to save Archaos.
King-If not he didn’t prepare for the match.
Kris Gaffney-Ah, the golden strategy.
[Zack Ryder connects with a few fists to the face of Ragnar Ayerswindale who is getting up to his feet, and he tries to whip Ragnar Ayerswindale, but it’s reversed by Ragnar. Zack Ryder bounces off of the ropes, Zack Ryder connects with a swinging neck breaker on Ragnar Ayerswindale. Ragnar Ayerswindale gets up to his feet, and Zack Ryder connects with a standing drop kick. Ragnar Ayerswindale stumble backwards, and he falls into a seated position grinning. He does the fist pump, woo! Woo! Woo! Zack Ryder connects with the broski boot to the side of the face. Zack Ryder backs up, and he signals for the Rough Ryder as he waits for Ragnar Ayerswindale to get up to his feet.]
JR-Zack Ryder looking to hit the big move.
King-Both Ragnar and Archaos went for quick pins, this might be a good strategy.
Kris Gaffney-Well, guess you don’t want to do something that failed twice before.
[Archaos connects with a chair shot, and he hooks Zack Ryder and he connects with the reverse cruix bomb on Zack Ryder he goes for another one, but at the last moment Ragnar connects with the Gunginar spear out of the air that makes him fall backwards, and hits into Archaos. Archaos falls out of the ring. Ragnar goes into the cover on Zack Ryder. The ref goes into position to make the count, the ref counts 1………….2…………..3!!]
JR-Ragnar Ayerswindale gets the victory.
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[As the unmistakable opening notes of "Money" by Pink Floyd begin to ecFho through the arena, a grandiose display of gold and green laser lights crisscrosses the space, creating an atmosphere of opulence and exclusivity. The entire arena is bathed in a luxurious glow, mimicking the sheen of gold.
The titantron springs to life, showcasing a dazzling montage of Hollywood's most glamorous moments: red carpets, flashing camera lights, and premiere nights, all leading up to the marquee name, "Austin Jameson Mercer," emblazoned across the screen in bold, shimmering letters.
Simultaneously, the entrance ramp transforms into a visual spectacle, resembling a premiere night red carpet. A line of spotlight-equipped drones flies overhead, casting down beams of light that spotlight the path, while confetti cannons strategically positioned at the sides of the ramp blast gold and silver confetti, fluttering down like a cascade of wealth.
Then, with a flair that only he can muster, "Hollywood" Austin Jameson Mercer steps out, clad in a custom-tailored robe that sparkles under the lights, his confident stride in sync with the rhythm of the song. He pauses at the top of the ramp, soaking in the adulation, a smirk playing across his lips as he surveys his domain.]
Beautiful female announcer: "Making his grand entrance from Beverly Hills, California, standing at six feet two inches and weighing in at two hundred thirty-five pounds... He is the blockbuster sensation of the wrestling world, the “Pretty Boy”, 'Hollywood' Austin Jameson Mercer!"
[Austin then makes his way down the ramp, each step calculated to maximize the dramatic effect of his presence. Personal security guards, dressed in sleek suits, flank him, adding to the aura of untouchable celebrity status. He occasionally stops to pose for the "cameras," his every move oozing the charisma and confidence of a true movie star.
Upon reaching ringside, Austin takes a moment to gaze out at the crowd, offering a cocky wave before he discards his robe, revealing his wrestling gear beneath, adorned with gold trim that catches the light perfectly. He ascends the stairs and steps through the ropes with an air of entitlement, as if the ring were his personal stage.
The music fades, the lights gradually return to normal, and the confetti settles, leaving Austin Jameson Mercer standing center-ring. He stretches out his arms, welcoming the audience to his show, a smug smile on his face, ready to prove once again why he is the premier attraction, as the arena buzzes with anticipation for the spectacle to come.]
JR-Austin Jameson Mercer is looking to take a championship from a few Badd Men.
King-He’s looking to change the truth.
Kris Gaffney-We can’t handle it!
Suddenly, the powerful tones of “Twilight of the Thunder God” by Amon Arnath engulfed the arena. Lights went pitch black for a moment, and when they return, they danced in a patriotic sequence of Red, White, and Blue while sparks rained down from the ceiling. The camera panned around quickly, searching for the source of the entrance, finally setting halfway up the stands in the crowd. There stood Jackson Gunner followed by Wade Wilson, surrounded by a sea of ecstatic fans. The crowd’s roars intensified as he tore off his tank top, throwing it to a lucky audience member. In a gesture of sheer energy, he beat his chest and threw his hands into the air, forming an X, signaling his readiness for battle as his Championship drapes over his shoulder.)
Announcer: Ladies and Gentleman! Making his way through the crowd, hailing from Honolulu, Hawaii, standing at 6’4” and weighing in at 250 pounds… he is the reigning EMF TV Champion, “THE SMILING WARRIOR” JACKSON “KOA KOA” GUNNER!
King-Jackson Gunner knows that this is going to be a battle.
JR-Both these wrestlers have fought right up to the world championship, this is going to be a very competitive match.
[Jackson Gunner and Austin Jameson Mercer face off in the middle of the ring. Jackson Gunner and Austin Jameson Mercer talk trash, and Jackson Gunner and Austin Jameson throw fists to the face. Austin Jameson Mercer rakes his eyes. Jackson Gunner stumbles backwards stunned,Austin Jameson Mercer goes for the red carpet, but he ducks under, and Austin Jameson Mercer runs otwards the ropes, and he bounces off of the ropes, Jackson Gunner connects with an over head belly to belly throw. Austin Jameson Mercer hits hard, and he gets up to his feet, and he throws a wild fist to the face, and Jackson Gunner ducks under. Jackson Gunner hooks him, and he connects with a german suplex that sends AJM flying. Jackson Gunner waits for Austin Jameson Mercer to get up to his feet. Austin Jameson Mercer turns, and Jackson Gunner hits a kick to the gut, and he sets him up, and he connects with a double under hook power bomb into a pinning combination. The ref goes into position. The ref counts 1…………2………..KICK OUT by Austin Jameson Mercer!!]
JR-Austin Jameosn Mercer was able to kick out at the last moment.
King-I had a feeling that wouldn’t be enough.
Kris Gaffney-Although, doesn’t hurt to try.
King-Guess not.
[Jackson Gunner waits for Austin Jameson Mercer to get up to his feet, and once he gets up to his feet. Austin Jameson Mercer stumbles towards Jackson Gunner, and he lifts him up, and before he can hit the burning Samoan, but it’s countered with a few back elbows to the side of the face. Austin Jameson Mercer slides out of the back, and Jackson Gunner turns around, and he connects with a red carpet that stumbles back Jackson Gunner, and he falls out of the ring. Austin Jameson Mercer waits by the ropes taking a few moments to rest up, and once he get up to his feet Austin Jameson Mercer goes for a sling shot cross body block over the top rope that connects on Jackson Gunner. Austin Jameson Mercer throws Jackson Gunner into the ring. Austin Jameson Mercer steps inside of the ring, and he waits for Jackson Gunner, and he kicks him in the gut, and he sets him up, and he connects with a world premiere with a bridge. The ref goes into postion to make the count, the ref counts 1…………2……..Jackson Gunner kicks out!! Austin Jameson Mercer picks up Jackson Gunner, and he connects with a body slam. AJM goes to the outside of the ring, he climbs up to the top rope.]
JR-It looks like Austin Jameson Mercer is looking to end this.
King-He’s going to the final act.
Kris Gaffney-That’s what people remember.
[Austin Jameson Mercer goes for the final act, but Jackson Gunner moves out of the way. AJM crashes into the mat. Austin gets up, Jackson picks up Austin Jameson Mercer, and he connects with the burning Samoan!! Jackson Gunner goes into the cover on Austin Jameson Mercer. The ref goes into position to make the count, the ref counts 1………….2………….3!!]
JR-Jackson Gunner however was able to take advantage of the missed Final Act
King-I’d say…he’d like to retake that.
The arena dims—clean and sharp. No theatrics. Just focus. Then—
“Return of the Mac” hits with that unmistakable groove.
The bass kicks in. The crowd pops.
They know what time it is.
Little Mac steps through the curtain.
He’s wearing a sleeveless hoodie—unzipped, hood down—his hands wrapped tight in black tape, knuckles calloused and exposed.
He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, shadowboxing lightly, eyes sharp, focused. He’s not playing to the crowd—he’s staying loose, staying ready.
Behind him, cool and steady, is Doc Louis, gum in his mouth, towel over one shoulder, nodding like he’s seen this win already.
Mac moves with confidence. Controlled swagger.
Taps his fists together as he walks.
No flash. No posturing. Just presence.
The strobe lights hit light gold and white as the beat pulses, but never overwhelm—because Mac’s energy doesn’t need dressing up.
The fans reach out—he slaps a few hands, nods to others, but he never stops moving. His rhythm is the beat of the ring.
He slides into the ring clean and low, pops up in one fluid motion, and immediately circles the ropes once—keeping his hands moving.
A short jab. A sidestep.
Always working. Always tuned in.
He hits the corner turnbuckle, hops up to the second rope, and raises one wrapped fist in the air—no grin, no posing. Just a statement:
“You’re stepping into my fight now.”
Samantha Irvin fires off with intensity:
"Making his way to the ring… accompanied by Doc Louis… from the Bronx, New York… weighing in at 200 pounds… he is THE PRIZE FIGHTER… LITTLLLLLLLEEEEE MAC!"
Mac drops down, rolls his shoulders, paces back to his corner. Doc gives him a nod, mutters something low.
Mac taps his fists together, leans into the ropes, and eyes his opponent like a sniper finding range.
He doesn’t flex.
He doesn’t scream.
He fights.
And you’d better pray your chin holds up.
The lights cut completely—
BOOM.
A harsh, red strobe light slashes through the dark as the opening beat of “Livid” (Scarlxrd x NF x Hopsin) hits like a car crash.
No countdown. No warning.
Just pure, unapologetic violence in audio form.
The screen glitches violently with distorted flashes of Luca’s face—twisted, screaming, laughing. Static-laced clips of limb-snapping submissions, steel chair shots, and blood-covered snarls flicker behind the noise.
And then—he explodes through the curtain.
Mad Dog Luca Bellarosa bursts onto the stage like he was shot out of a fucking cannon.
No rhythm, no choreography. He’s stomping, shouting, pacing back and forth like a beast trying to decide whether to sprint to the ring or tear the ramp apart with his bare hands.
He’s shirtless. Sweat already dripping. Taped fists. Baggy black pants tucked into unlaced boots. Gold chain bouncing off his chest like it’s trying to escape the madness.
His eyes are wild.
His mouth is moving—talking to himself, barking at the crowd, yelling at no one.
He doesn’t pose. He doesn’t smile.
He storms.
Down the ramp, he points at fans, flips off a camera, laughs manically.
Sometimes he drops to all fours and slams the ground.
Other times he throws punches at nothing just to stay warm.
Samantha Irvin’s voice cracks over the chaos:
"Introducing… from the streets of Brooklyn, New York… weighing in at 225 pounds… he is the MAD DOG… LUCAAAA… BELLAROSAAAA!"
He dives under the bottom rope, scrambles across the ring like a spider, then slams himself chest-first into the turnbuckles. Once. Twice. Turns. Roars.
He jumps onto the middle rope, howls like an animal to the crowd, then drops down and paces the ring like it’s too small to hold him.
There’s no composure. No calm. Just a storm in a human shape.
He pounds the mat.
Yells at the referee.
Throws his own body into the ropes to test them.
Because Mad Dog Luca doesn’t come to compete.
He comes to break things.
And when the bell rings?
He’s already moving.
JR-Luca Bellarosa has been seen as a tag team wrestler.
King-Wonder if he considers Little Mac to be his Road Dogg or X-Pac?
Kris Gaffney-Guess you can’t compare to tag team JESUS’!
JR-The IC champion is going be a challenge.
King-He definitely has the power advantage for sure.
[Luca Bellarosa receives last moment, Mansa Carthage goes for a big boot after the bell rings and Joey jumps down. Luca Bellarosa ducks under, and he connects with a few fists to the gut, and Mansa Carthage having the power advantage pushes him backwards. Luca is able to grab a hold of the ropes, Mansa Carthage runs at Luca Bellarosa. Luca Bellarosa is able to counter with a drop toe hold that sends him flying into the middle rope. Mansa Carthage gets up stunned, Luca Bellarosa connects with a few fists to the face, and he whips him to the ropes, and he connects with a spinning back elbow followed up with a half nelson suplex. Luca Bellarosa see’s Mansa getting up, and he quickly double under hooks him, and he drops him with a double arm DDT. Luca Bellarosa goes into the cover on Mansa Carthage. The ref goes into position to make the count. The ref counts 1………….2…..Mansa Carthage powers out of the pin attempt.]
JR-Luca Bellarosa attempted to end the match, but Mansa Carthage power is still there.
King-However, the hope is to keep him down.
Kris Gaffney-I guess that is plan.
[Luca Bellarosa is on the apron, and he measures up on Mansa Carthage. Luca Bellarosa sling shots himself up to the top rope, and he jumps off of the top rope, but before he can hit Mansa Carthage with a move, Mansa Carthage takes him out of the air, and he connects with a super man punch dropping Luca Bellarosa. Mansa Carthage takes a few moments to rest up. Luca Bellarosa tries to recover but Mansa Carthage picks him up, and he connects with a fall away slam. Luca hits into the mat, he is much slower to get up to his feet, and Mansa Carthage grabs him around the throat, and he lifts him up, and he connects with a two handed sitdown choke bomb. Mansa Carthage holds him into a pin. The ref goes into position to make the count. The ref counts 1………..2………KICK OUT by Luca Bellarosa!! Mansa Carthage hits a few stomps on the downed Luca, and he backs up waiting for Luca to get up to his feet, he grabs him around the throat, and he lift shim up for a choke slam, but it’s countered by Luca with a DDT!!]
JR-Luca Bellarosa was in trouble, but he might have changed the entire match with that one counter.
King-Sometimes that’s all you need.
[Luca Bellarosa waits for Mansa Carthage to get up to his feet, he jumps up, and he tries to attempt to hooks on the dog collar, but Mansa Carthage is able to crush him into the corner before he can truly get it hooked. Mansa Carthage stumbles forward. Luca pulls himself up, and he jumps off of the second rope, but Mansa Carthage is able to catch, and reposition him, and drops Luca into a Dragon’s descent. Mansa Carthage holds Luca Bellarosa into a pin, the ref goes into position to make the count, the ref counts 1………….2…………..3!!]
JR-Mansa Carthage was able to hit the Dragon Descent to get the victory.
The camera pans slowly over the massive structure that looms above the ring — the electrified steel cell humming faintly, sparks tracing its edges like veins of lightning. Inside, barbed wire replaces the ropes, gleaming under the dim, pulsing lights. Outside the ring lie dozens of scattered instruments — guitars, drums, trumpets, cymbals, even a cello — each wrapped, dented, or wired for destruction. The cell begins to lower, and the crowd roars with a mix of awe and dread.
Jim Ross: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to what may very well be the most sadistic creation we’ve ever seen in the history of EMF — The Dungeon Master’s Playground!”
King: “Sadistic? JR, this looks like a rock concert from hell! I love it!”
JR: “Barbed-wire ropes, electrified steel, and enough weaponry to start a war — and tonight, two men are gonna step into this nightmare and see who walks out… if anyone walks out at all.”
King: “And we’ve got a very special guest joining us tonight! Our usual ring commentator KG is sittin’ this one out — can’t say I blame him, JR — so in his place, the one and only Arisella!”
JR: “That’s right — the fiery spirit herself, alongside her… uh, energetic companion, Taco the spider monkey.”
King: “He’s already wearing my headset, JR! Hey, that’s mine! Give that back!”
(Taco screeches, hops on the announce desk, and thumps his chest as the crowd laughs.)
Arisella: “Oh, relax, King. He just wants to help — he’s the brains of this operation.”
JR: “Well, God help us all then…”
(The cell finishes lowering, the lights dim, and the crowd quiets.)
Fenrir Kaine’s Entrance
Suddenly, the arena plunges into absolute darkness. A low, haunting wind howls through the speakers. Then, the guttural growl of throat singing fills the air — “Wolf Totem” by The HU (feat. Jacoby Shaddix) — shaking the arena with primal rhythm. Blood-red lights sweep across the stage as smoke pours from beneath the ramp, rolling like mist from another realm.
On the big screen, the silhouette of a massive wolf stalks through a crimson forest. The crowd buzzes with unease. Then — BOOM! — pillars of flame erupt on either side of the stage, and through them steps the towering figure of Fenrir Kaine, The Demonic Werewolf.
He wears a dark, tattered cloak over his gear, his blood-red brass knuckles gleaming under the light — each one engraved with a single word: WOLF. His crimson eyes glint from beneath his hood as he slowly marches forward, his every step syncing with the tribal drumbeats pounding through the arena.
Arisella (low, tense): “There he is… The Demonic Werewolf. One of the most vicious beings to ever step inside a cage. Look at him — calm, patient. That’s not swagger — that’s hunger.”
King: “And those aren’t your average brass knuckles either, JR — those are custom-made! This guy came to chew through more than just his opponent.”
JR: “Fenrir Kaine — representing The Maledictum. He’s not here to wrestle, folks. He’s here to feed.”
Fenrir reaches the ring steps and pauses, gazing up at the electrified cell as sparks rain down near his boots. The crowd’s boos echo around him, but he doesn’t react. He just breathes in the tension. Then, with a low snarl, he climbs the steps and enters the ring through the barbed-wire ropes.
Once inside, he stands dead center, throws his head back, and lets out a thunderous, bone-chilling howl. Flames explode from all four ring posts, and the red lights wash over him like blood.
Arisella: “He’s not even human right now, JR… He’s the hunt made flesh.”
JR: “And tonight, he’s staring into the one man crazy enough to play his own game — The Dungeon Master.”
Fenrir lowers his hood, glaring at the stage, waiting.
The Dungeon Master’s Entrance
The arena plunges back into darkness. A hush falls. Then, a single spotlight shines on the stage — revealing a giant 20-sided die glowing with swirling arcane light. The soft, haunting opening of “Binks’ Sake” echoes through the speakers. The crowd immediately begins to clap along.
The LED screen ignites with the image of a golden-violet dragon soaring through the stars, roaring as it dives toward the stage. When its digital fire hits, real flames erupt upward, forming a blazing ring at the entrance.
From beneath the stage, rising through the fire and smoke, appears The Dungeon Master — the EMF Extreme Champion, his title slung across his shoulder, his custom purple guitar with barbed-wire strings clutched in his hands. He stands tall in the firelight, smirking like a rock god standing before his crowd.
JR: “Listen to this ovation! The reigning Extreme Champion! The Bard of Brutality himself — The Dungeon Master!”
King: “He’s outta his mind, JR! Look at him bringing that barbed-wire guitar like it’s a toy!”
Arisella (grinning): “That’s not a toy, King — that’s his weapon of choice. And trust me, he can play a mean solo.”
(Taco jumps up and starts miming a guitar on the desk, shrieking along with the beat. The fans laugh and cheer.)
The Dungeon Master strums his weapon once, producing a single, harsh twang of metal on wire that echoes through the arena. As the dragon projection rolls down the ramp, he follows it with flamboyant swagger, each step triggering bursts of purple fire and flickering runes beneath his boots.
He points the guitar at Fenrir like a sword, mouthing words only the camera can half-catch — “Your campaign ends here.” Then he sprints the last few steps, leaps onto the apron, and vaults into the ring.
Landing center stage, he strikes a wild rockstar pose, his championship glittering under purple and gold sparks raining from the rafters. He strums a final imaginary chord as Arisella’s voice rings out over the crowd:
Samantha Irving:
“Making his way to the ring… hailing from The Astral Plane… but Louder! Weighing in at two-hundred and twelve pounds! He is your reigning Extreme Champion, the BARD of BRUTALITY, the MASTER of MAYHEM… THE DUNGEON MASTER!”
The crowd erupts. The Dungeon Master drops to one knee, raises his barbed-wire guitar like a sword, and flashes a wide, insane grin straight into the camera.
Dungeon Master (shouting): “LET’S ROLL, BABY! YOHOHOHOHO!”
As his laugh echoes, Fenrir bares his teeth from across the ring, eyes glowing like embers through the haze. The cell’s power hums louder, the air feels charged, and the stage is set.
JR: “Bah Gawd, folks, strap in! It’s time to enter The Dungeon Master’s Playground!”
King: “I don’t even know the rules, JR — but I already know I love it!”
Arisella (leaning forward): “Two warriors, one playground… Let’s see who survives the game.”
(Taco screeches wildly, banging his fists on the table as the crowd roars.)
The lights flicker crimson across the arena as Samantha Irvin steps into the electrified cell, standing at a safe distance between two forces of nature — The Dungeon Master and Fenrir Kaine. The audience rises to their feet, flashes erupting like lightning throughout the crowd. The cell hums audibly, the static crackling against the steel mesh. Fenrir stalks back and forth in his corner, breathing heavy, his eyes locked on The Dungeon Master like a predator circling prey. His brass knuckles glint red under the light, the word “WOLF” shimmering like fresh blood.
Samantha Irvin: “Ladies and gentlemen… the following contest… is a DUNGEON MASTER’S PLAYGROUND MATCH!”
(The crowd explodes with cheers.)
“This match will be contested under Extreme Rules, and it is for the EMF EXTREME CHAMPIONSHIP!”
The fans erupt again, the camera panning to The Dungeon Master standing center ring, his purple barbed-wire guitar resting on his shoulder, the gold and silver Extreme Championship shining across his waist. He nods once toward Arisella, flashing her a grin.
Samantha Irvin: “Introducing first… the challenger… representing The Maledictum… fighting out of the Shadows of the Abyss… weighing in at 295 pounds… THE DEMONIC WEREWOLF — FENRIR KAINE!”
Fenrir doesn’t pose. Doesn’t flinch. He just glares through his hair at the champion, lips twitching, pacing like a caged animal as the crowd boos mercilessly. The lights gleam off his chest, his muscles twitching as though barely able to contain the violence inside him.
Samantha Irvin: “And his opponent… from The Astral Plane… but Louder! Weighing in at 212 pounds… he is the reigning, defending EMF EXTREME CHAMPION… THE DUNGEON MASTER!”
The crowd goes absolutely wild as The Dungeon Master raises his guitar high, spinning it once before setting it aside at the corner post. He’s calm — too calm — grinning ear to ear as Fenrir continues to pace. The ref checks both men, hesitating near the ropes as sparks dance along the steel cell.
JR: “I can feel the tension from here, King! Fenrir Kaine is barely containin’ himself!”
King: “He looks like he’s about to rip The Dungeon Master in half and eat him for dessert, JR!”
Arisella: “That’s what makes him dangerous. He doesn’t just fight — he feeds on it. But Dungeon Master? He’s not afraid of monsters. He invites them to play.”
(Taco screeches, slapping his tiny fists on the announce table, pointing at the ring as if calling for the bell himself.)
The referee signals — and the bell rings.
DING! DING!
The crowd explodes as the bell sounds. Fenrir Kaine doesn’t hesitate for a heartbeat — he bursts out of his corner in a full sprint. The Dungeon Master barely has time to drop into stance before Fenrir crashes into him with a brutal Running Hip Attack, driving him spine-first into the barbed wire ropes! The sound of tearing flesh cuts through the crowd’s roar. The Dungeon Master’s back rakes across the jagged steel strands, blood streaking instantly across the wires.
JR: “Bah Gawd, Fenrir just hit him like a freight train! Dungeon Master’s back’s been shredded open already!”
King: “He didn’t come here to wrestle, JR! He came here to maim somebody!”
Arisella: “That’s Fenrir Kaine for you. He opens fights the same way wild animals hunt — fast, hard, and cruel. He’s not feeling anything right now but bloodlust.”
The Dungeon Master stumbles forward from the impact, his grin twisted through pain. Fenrir stays on him, hammering forearm after forearm into his shoulders and neck — each strike echoing inside the electrified cell. The final blow knocks The Dungeon Master to one knee.
Fenrir seizes a fistful of hair, dragging him upright — and drives a vicious headbutt into his face. The Dungeon Master’s head snaps back, blood flying from his nose as he collapses to the mat.
Fenrir drops to all fours and crawls forward, snarling through his teeth, before mounting The Dungeon Master and raining down wild punches — lefts, rights, elbows — pure animal fury.
JR: “He’s maulin’ him, King! This is straight-up savagery!”
King: “JR, look at those shots! He’s pounding him into the canvas like a slab of meat!”
Arisella: “That’s not technique — that’s instinct. Fenrir’s not trying to win yet; he’s trying to hurt him before the game even begins.”
The referee tries to get a look at the blood pouring from The Dungeon Master’s nose, but Fenrir shoves him aside and hauls his opponent to his feet. He whips him toward the corner — hard — but The Dungeon Master reverses! Fenrir hits the turnbuckles spine-first — right into the first glowing Pyre Rune.
FWOOOM!
A jet of flame erupts from the post, licking across Fenrir’s back! The crowd gasps as the challenger howls in fury, smoke rising from his shoulder blades.
JR: “The Pyre Rune just went off! That’s the first trap of this insane structure!”
King: “It’s like fightin’ inside a volcano, JR! Who builds this stuff?!”
Arisella: “He does. The Dungeon Master designed this playground. And the rules are chaos.”
The Dungeon Master, seizing his opening, spins around and nails a spinning back kick to Fenrir’s ribs, then follows up with a knife-edge chop to the chest that echoes through the arena. The crowd “WOOO’s!” instinctively as Fenrir grimaces, more out of rage than pain. The Dungeon Master grabs his wrist, whips him toward the opposite corner — but Fenrir reverses again, using brute strength to pull him back into a thunderous Short-Arm Lariat!
The impact flips The Dungeon Master inside out. He lands flat on his back, the barbed wire ropes vibrating violently from the force.
JR: “He nearly decapitated him! That short-arm lariat turned the champion inside out!”
King: “I told you, JR — you don’t try to outmuscle a werewolf!”
Arisella: “No, but you can outthink one… if you can survive long enough to start thinking.”
Fenrir grabs The Dungeon Master by the throat and hurls him halfway across the ring with a choke toss. The Dungeon Master rolls to the outside under the bottom wire, clutching his ribs as he hits the floor surrounded by smashed guitars and bent cymbals. The cell sparks nearby — a reminder that every inch of space is deadly.
Fenrir follows. He steps carefully through the barbed wire ropes, landing outside as the fans nearest the cell cage step back in fear. The Dungeon Master crawls to his feet, blood dripping from a cut above his eyebrow. Fenrir doesn’t let him breathe — he charges, but The Dungeon Master ducks under, grabs a microphone stand, and swings it in a perfect arc!
CLANG!
The steel pole cracks across Fenrir’s back. The monster drops to one knee, growling. The Dungeon Master twirls the stand like a staff — another swing — CLANG! — across Fenrir’s shoulder, denting the pole.
JR: “The Dungeon Master’s found himself a weapon! And he’s usin’ it like a man possessed!”
King: “That’s a first, JR — a bard with a mean right hook!”
Arisella: “He’s buying himself time, that’s what he’s doing. Every second Fenrir’s off-balance is a second the champion can breathe.”
The Dungeon Master slams the stand across Fenrir’s chest one more time, bending it completely out of shape, then tosses it aside and goes for a front facelock, hooking his leg for a DDT — but Fenrir powers out, lifts him up, and drops him with a brutal Swinging Uranage onto the concrete floor! The Dungeon Master’s head bounces off the ground as the crowd groans.
JR: “Oh my God, what a slam! He just drove him through the floor of this arena!”
King: “That’s it, JR — that’s what happens when you play games with monsters!”
Fenrir stands over the fallen champion, chest heaving, sweat and blood glistening under the flickering cell lights. He wipes blood from his own mouth, then drags The Dungeon Master up by the arm, throwing him face-first into the cell wall. Sparks fly on impact as the current surges — the Dungeon Master convulses before crumpling to the mat.
Arisella: “That’s straight voltage running through his body! He’s cooking him alive!”
JR: “This structure ain’t just caged — it’s weaponized! Every wall, every rope is deadly!”
Fenrir leans against the ropes, watching The Dungeon Master writhe, a smirk twisting across his face. He slams his red brass knuckles together once — CLACK! — and crouches low, eyes glowing in the strobing red light.
King: “He’s waitin’ on him, JR! Look at that animal — he’s about to pounce again!”
JR: “The Demonic Werewolf is in his element now… and the champion’s in serious trouble!”
Fenrir lunges forward again — BAM! — connecting with a Running Knee Strike to the temple that sends The Dungeon Master sprawling against the steel steps. The sound echoes like thunder. Fenrir grabs him by the hair, slams his head once more into the steps, then rolls him back into the ring under the bottom barbed wire rope. The Dungeon Master’s body leaves streaks of blood across the mat as he slides in.
JR: “This is one-sided punishment, King. I don’t know how much more the champion can take.”
King: “He’s gotta roll a natural twenty just to survive, JR!”
(Taco lets out a loud screech from commentary, slapping his tail against the desk. Arisella winces, her fists clenching as she watches Fenrir stalk the bloodied Dungeon Master.)
Arisella: “Come on, Bard… get your rhythm back. He’s dragging you into his world.”
Fenrir kneels down beside the champion and growls something unintelligible before lifting him up for a Rope-Hung Spike DDT. He drapes The Dungeon Master across the middle barbed wire rope, hooks the head — and spikes him down! The barbed wire tears at both of them as The Dungeon Master collapses motionless to the mat.
JR: “Rope-Hung Spike DDT! Bah Gawd, that could do it right there!”
King: “He’s not goin’ for the pin, JR — he’s not satisfied yet!”
Arisella: “He’s toying with him. That’s the mistake everyone makes against Fenrir Kaine — they think he’s just a beast. He’s not. He’s a sadist.”
Fenrir grabs The Dungeon Master’s limp body and drags him by the hair toward the second corner — the Flash Rune glowing ominously beneath the turnbuckle padding. The crowd screams as Fenrir hoists him up into position — maybe for another slam — but The Dungeon Master twists midair, hooks Fenrir’s head, and in one burst of adrenaline, drops him with a Tornado DDT right into the rune!
BOOM!
A deafening burst of light and smoke explodes, blinding Fenrir instantly. He stumbles back, clutching at his eyes!
JR: “The Flash Rune! The second trap’s been sprung! Fenrir Kaine can’t see a damn thing!”
King: “Ha! I think he rolled a one on that one, JR!”
Arisella: “That’s it! That’s what I was waiting for! The board’s turning — The Dungeon Master just flipped the game!”
The Dungeon Master, bloodied but alive, crawls toward the ropes, pulling himself up by the barbed wire, skin tearing on contact. His face is a crimson mask, his breath ragged — but his grin is back.
Dungeon Master (rasping): “Round one… over.”
He spits blood onto the mat and readies himself as Fenrir shakes off the flash, snarling like a wounded animal.
JR: “He’s hurt bad, but he’s smilin’, King! The champion’s still in this!”
King: “This is insane, JR! He’s laughin’ while he’s bleedin’!”
Arisella: “That’s The Dungeon Master. Every match is a story — and this one just hit a turning point.”
(The crowd roars as both men stagger upright, eyes locked again, and the bloodied war for the Extreme Championship continues…)
The air inside the cell grows thick, smoky, and charged. Fenrir wipes the blood from his mouth, his vision still blurred from the flash rune. His eyes flick wildly, burning with rage. The Dungeon Master steadies himself on the ropes, blood dripping from his forehead to his chest. For a heartbeat, the crowd buzzes, both men staring across the battlefield like gladiators about to clash again.
Fenrir suddenly lets out a guttural roar and charges. The Dungeon Master swings first — a wild spinning chop — but Fenrir ducks under it and spears him in the ribs, driving him back-first into the corner! The impact rattles the post, sending fresh jolts of pain through The Dungeon Master’s already torn back. Fenrir follows with rapid shoulder thrusts into the gut — one, two, three, four — until The Dungeon Master spits blood onto Fenrir’s back from the sheer force of the hits.
JR: “Good Lord! He’s tryin’ to drive the air right outta his lungs!”
King: “That’s what monsters do, JR — they break you piece by piece until there’s nothin’ left to fight with!”
Arisella: “Fenrir’s in his element now — pure control, no hesitation. Every move is meant to cause pain.”
Fenrir steps back, snarling, then hurls The Dungeon Master halfway across the ring with a release belly-to-belly suplex. The champion lands in a heap, bouncing across the mat and rolling under the bottom barbed wire rope to the outside floor. The crowd collectively winces.
Fenrir stalks after him, stepping through the barbed wire ropes again — his forearm slicing open as the barbs bite his flesh, but he doesn’t even flinch. Outside, The Dungeon Master crawls toward the scattered instruments, desperate for anything to grab. Fenrir catches him by the ankle and yanks him backward, dragging him across broken metal and splintered wood, leaving streaks of blood on the concrete.
JR: “Fenrir Kaine’s draggin’ the champion through hell, King!”
King: “No pins, no count outs, no mercy! Look at the trail he’s leavin’!”
Arisella: “That’s not strategy. That’s obsession. He wants to destroy everything that breathes inside that cell.”
Fenrir lifts The Dungeon Master up and launches him headfirst into the cell wall! Sparks explode on impact, the voltage running through both men. The Dungeon Master screams in agony before slumping down, twitching as smoke rises from his hair. Fenrir stares at his own hands for a moment, trembling with power and madness. Then, without hesitation, he hooks The Dungeon Master’s arms from behind, hoists him up, and drives him down with a Tiger Suplex onto a pile of dented cymbals and drum shells!
The noise is deafening — metal crashes against concrete, echoing like a thunderclap.
JR: “Bah Gawd, that’s pure carnage! He just dropped him on steel instruments like they were damn thumbtacks!”
King: “You wanted music, JR — you got it! That was a drum solo straight from hell!”
Arisella: “He’s dissecting him. Every move is surgical, and every weapon is part of the performance.”
Fenrir looks down at his handiwork — The Dungeon Master writhing, clutching at his shoulder. Fenrir snarls again, pulls him up by the wrist, and whips him hard into the steel steps near the corner of the cell. The Dungeon Master crashes shoulder-first into the steps, flipping over them in a brutal roll. The crowd gasps as he lands on his neck and rolls onto his back, staring blankly at the ceiling lights.
Fenrir wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his arm, eyes wide with hunger. He drags the steel steps toward the ring and props them upright like a ramp. The crowd buzzes nervously.
JR: “What the hell is he doin’ now? That man’s lost his mind!”
King: “Lost it? JR, he sold it to the devil a long time ago!”
Fenrir grabs The Dungeon Master by the hair, drags him toward the steel, and lifts him high — Vertical Suplex position — holding him there for an eternity, muscles flexing, blood dripping down his arms. Then he drops him, head-first — Brainbuster on the steel steps! The crack of skull on metal rings out, and the crowd collectively gasps in horror.
JR: “BAH GAWD! BRAINBUSTER ON THE STEPS! HE’S GONNA KILL HIM!”
Arisella (furious, standing): “Get up, Bard! COME ON! Don’t let him end it like this!”
(Taco screeches wildly beside her, jumping and pointing at the ring, tugging on Arisella’s sleeve.)
King: “Even the monkey can’t watch this! Somebody stop the damn match, JR!”
JR: “The referee can’t stop it, King — this is The Dungeon Master’s Playground! The only way out is through!”
Fenrir stands tall over the motionless champion, chest heaving, every vein visible beneath his blood-slick skin. He looks around, breathing heavily — then his eyes land on the nearest pile of instruments. He grabs a snare drum, crushes the metal rim with his hands, and throws it at the cell wall. It bounces back, dented, and he snarls again before picking up a broken guitar neck with a jagged edge. He kneels beside The Dungeon Master, holding it up to his throat.
JR: “Oh no, no, no! Don’t you dare—!”
Fenrir presses the splintered wood into The Dungeon Master’s chest, dragging it upward, slicing open the skin just above the heart. The Dungeon Master convulses, gasping, blood running in a red stream down his torso. Fenrir’s eyes flicker with twisted satisfaction.
King: “He’s not lookin’ to win — he’s lookin’ to end him, JR!”
Arisella: “This isn’t a fight anymore. It’s a ritual. Fenrir Kaine wants a sacrifice.”
Fenrir tosses the splinter aside, smearing his hand across his chest like war paint. He looks up toward the nearest corner — the third rune glowing faintly — and grabs The Dungeon Master by the wrist, dragging his near-lifeless body across the mat. He slams him into the post once, twice, then lifts him up across his shoulders — Samoan Drop position — and charges!
He runs full speed toward the corner, slamming The Dungeon Master’s back directly into the Spike Rune!
KRSHHHT!
Steel spikes burst outward from the turnbuckle pad like mechanical fangs! The Dungeon Master screams as the blades tear into his back and ribs. Fenrir steps back, admiring the carnage as the spikes retract, leaving fresh trails of blood down the champion’s body.
JR: “The Spike Rune’s been triggered! The Dungeon Master’s been ripped open!”
King: “He’s bleedin’ from everywhere, JR! Fenrir Kaine’s turnin’ him into a human piñata!”
Arisella: “That’s enough—stop admiring yourself and finish it, you coward! He’s not a trophy, he’s a fighter!”
Fenrir hears her — his head snaps toward the commentary table. He bares his teeth, blood staining them red, and points at her with one dripping finger. The crowd erupts in jeers.
JR: “Don’t you dare look over here, you monster!”
(Taco leaps onto the table, shrieking at Fenrir, waving his tiny arms in fury.)
King: “Taco’s challengin’ the werewolf, JR!”
JR: “That little fella’s got more guts than most men in that locker room!”
Fenrir chuckles darkly, shaking his head, then turns back to the champion. The Dungeon Master, somehow, is still moving — barely. He crawls forward, smearing blood across the mat as he reaches for the ropes. Fenrir grabs him by the ankle again, drags him back to center, and locks in the Lycan Lock — his modified dragon sleeper — cranking it viciously while hammering elbows into the ribs with his free arm.
The Dungeon Master howls in pain, his body arching under the pressure. Blood runs from his mouth, but his hands still claw at Fenrir’s forearm, refusing to quit.
JR: “The Lycan Lock! He’s got it cinched in tight — wrenchin’ the neck and spine at the same time!”
King: “He’s pullin’ him apart, JR! Look at that torque!”
Arisella: “That’s what he wants — the screams. He feeds on ‘em. But The Dungeon Master’s still conscious. That’s bad news for Fenrir.”
Fenrir snarls, tightening the hold, his muscles shaking with rage. The Dungeon Master’s eyes roll back — and then, with a burst of desperation, he twists his body and drives a back elbow into Fenrir’s temple. Once. Twice. Three times. The fourth shot finally forces Fenrir to release him. The Dungeon Master collapses face-first onto the mat, blood pooling beneath his cheek.
JR: “He broke free! Bah Gawd, the champion’s still alive!”
King: “Alive, sure — but for how long? He’s barely movin’, JR!”
Arisella: “That’s the thing about The Dungeon Master — you don’t beat him by killing him, because he doesn’t live by your rules.”
Fenrir wipes the blood from his face, grinning again, and stands over him. He stomps once on the back of The Dungeon Master’s head, then slowly kneels down beside him, whispering something against his ear — something the microphones can’t catch. Then he drags him upright again, hooking the arms for The Eclipse Driver. The crowd rises to their feet, screaming in anticipation.
JR: “Oh no—he’s lookin’ for The Eclipse Driver! That’ll break a man’s neck, King!”
King: “This could end it, JR! Right here, right now!”
Fenrir lifts him high…
…but The Dungeon Master twists mid-air, slips free, and lands behind him! Before Fenrir can turn, The Dungeon Master fires a superkick to the back of the head — CRACK! — the sound echoing through the arena. Fenrir drops to one knee. The Dungeon Master stumbles forward, barely upright, blood covering his arms and chest, his eyes wild with survival instinct.*
JR: “He’s still fightin’! The Bard of Brutality’s still singin’ his song!”
King: “He’s bleedin’ more than he’s breathin’, JR!”
Arisella: “That’s what makes him beautiful — he’s chaos in motion. And Fenrir hasn’t broken him yet.”
The Dungeon Master staggers back, eyes flicking toward the final glowing Miasma Rune in the far corner…
(The crowd’s noise swells again, the cell lights flicker red, and both men begin to crawl toward one another through the blood-soaked mat...)
The camera pans over the carnage inside the cell — the mat soaked in sweat and blood, barbed wire ropes vibrating with tension, and the cell walls glowing faintly red from the electrical current pulsing through them. The Dungeon Master crawls toward the final corner, his arm trembling as he uses the bottom wire for balance. Blood runs down his shoulder in thin streams. Fenrir Kaine stands tall behind him, breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his mouth smeared red from his own cuts and from The Dungeon Master’s blood. He looks less like a man and more like something feral — a predator caught mid-transformation.
Fenrir takes one slow step forward… then another. The crowd stirs. The Dungeon Master senses him and spins — throws a desperate knife-edge chop — but Fenrir absorbs it, eyes widening in rage. He fires back with a forearm smash to the jaw that drops The Dungeon Master to one knee. Another forearm — then a knee strike. The champion slumps forward, arms limp, blood dripping onto the mat.
JR: “Bah Gawd, King, this man’s possessed! He’s not tryin’ to win — he’s tryin’ to end The Dungeon Master’s career!”
King: “You call that possession, JR? I call that determination! Fenrir Kaine’s proving he’s more monster than man!”
Arisella: “He’s proving he’s afraid of mercy. That’s what this is — fear. He doesn’t just destroy; he overcompensates. He’s trying to erase the idea that anyone could ever beat him.”
Fenrir grabs The Dungeon Master’s wrist and drags him upright, then flings him chest-first into the barbed wire ropes. The wire bites into his skin with a wet rip. The Dungeon Master’s scream cuts through the air as Fenrir rebounds him off and drives him down with a Pop-Up Samoan Drop that rattles the ring. The impact sends the ropes shaking violently, sparks flaring from the cell’s walls.
JR: “Pop-Up Samoan Drop! He drove him right through the canvas!”
King: “He’s dismantlin’ him piece by piece, JR! He’s makin’ art outta agony!”
(Taco screeches from the desk, flailing his arms wildly. Arisella leans forward, her eyes locked on the ring, jaw clenched.)
Arisella: “C’mon, Bard… get up… breathe, damn it!”
Fenrir gets to his feet, dripping sweat and blood, pacing like a wolf circling a dying stag. The Dungeon Master pushes himself onto his hands and knees, coughing crimson onto the mat. Fenrir tilts his head — then charges forward with a Running Knee Strike to the side of the skull! The Dungeon Master collapses flat, motionless for a second.
JR: “Good Lord! He might be out cold! That knee caught him flush on the temple!”
King: “I can’t believe he’s still movin’ at all, JR — the lights are on but I don’t think anybody’s home!”
Fenrir grabs the back of The Dungeon Master’s head and begins dragging him toward the corner of the cell again. The Dungeon Master’s face scrapes across the mat, leaving a red trail. Fenrir tosses him out of the ring like garbage, his body flopping onto the floor next to a smashed snare drum. Fenrir follows through the barbed wire ropes, his forearm catching again on the barbs — but he doesn’t care. He’s laughing now — low, deep, unhinged.
The crowd buzzes in nervous awe.
JR: “Listen to him, King! That’s not the laugh of a sane man!”
King: “No, JR — that’s the laugh of a man who knows he’s in control.”
Arisella (growling): “He’s not in control — he’s addicted.”
Fenrir crouches beside The Dungeon Master and slaps him across the face, once, twice, taunting him. The Dungeon Master spits blood into his face and tries to swing — but Fenrir catches the arm, twists it behind his back, and slams him shoulder-first into the steel post outside the ring. The sound is sickening — a wet crack followed by a scream. The Dungeon Master collapses onto his side, clutching his shoulder.
Fenrir doesn’t let up. He grabs a broken cello from the debris around the ring, hoists it above his head, and brings it down across The Dungeon Master’s back! The wood explodes into splinters.
JR: “Oh come on! He just broke that damn cello over his spine!”
King: “I told you, JR, this is a symphony of suffering! Every note’s played in blood!”
Arisella (furious): “He’s enjoying it. He’s feeding off the screams! Fenrir Kaine isn’t here to win — he’s here to compose murder!”
(Taco jumps up and down on the desk, screeching wildly, throwing Arisella’s headset down before mimicking a little punching motion.)
JR: “Even Taco’s had enough! He wants to jump in there himself!”
Fenrir turns to the commentary table for a moment, hearing the outcry from Arisella. His eyes lock with hers through the mesh — and that eerie grin crawls across his face again. He presses his hand against the cell wall, inches from her face, dragging his blood down the steel. The crowd gasps.
King: “Oh no… JR, he’s lookin’ right at her!”
Arisella (standing up, shouting): “You want attention? You’ll get it when someone ends you, Fenrir!”
JR: “Get back, Arisella! Don’t provoke that monster!”
(Fenrir slowly backs away from the cell, chuckling to himself before turning his attention back to The Dungeon Master.)
The Dungeon Master, somehow still moving, crawls onto one knee. Fenrir charges forward again — Running Big Boot! The impact sends The Dungeon Master flying backward into the cell wall — electricity flaring bright blue as his body jerks from the shock! The cell hums, the lights in the arena flicker. The fans shout in horror as The Dungeon Master collapses again.
JR: “Bah Gawd almighty, he just booted him into the current! He’s convulsin’, King!”
King: “He’s gonna fry him alive if someone doesn’t pull the plug!”
Arisella (quietly): “He’ll get up. He always does.”
Fenrir wipes sweat from his face, eyes wild, chest heaving. He drags The Dungeon Master’s limp form up by the hair and shoves him under the bottom rope. The Dungeon Master barely moves. Fenrir follows inside, crouching in the corner, waiting like a predator ready to pounce.
The Dungeon Master crawls on hands and knees, leaving bloody fingerprints on the mat. Fenrir charges — Running Corner Splash! The impact folds The Dungeon Master in half. Fenrir grabs him before he can drop, spins, and connects with a Swinging Uranage Slam! The ring rattles. Fenrir doesn’t cover him; instead, he kneels beside him, hammering down brutal mounted punches — one after another, every shot landing with sickening thuds.
JR: “He’s rainin’ down fists like a damn animal! He’s not even tryin’ to win, King — he’s tryin’ to kill this man!”
King: “This is Fenrir unleashed! This is what The Maledictum breeds — pure, unfiltered evil!”
Arisella: “He doesn’t realize he’s giving The Dungeon Master what he needs — the longer he draws it out, the louder that storm’s gonna get.”
Fenrir stops punching, breathing heavy, blood running down his forearm. He stands, grabs The Dungeon Master by the neck, and lifts him — one hand throttling the champion. He roars — a sound that rattles the steel — before launching him across the ring. The Dungeon Master hits the final corner — the Miasma Rune.
WHOOOOSH!
A burst of colored smoke erupts — a thick purple-green haze flooding the corner. Fenrir steps in through the fog and starts throwing wild punches into it. Every hit lands with a wet thud, but his eyes start to burn. The Dungeon Master drops, ducking low as the fumes sting Fenrir’s face.
JR: “The Miasma Rune! It’s activated! That gas is choking the air inside that ring!”
King: “They can’t see each other, JR! It’s like fightin’ blind in a damn nightmare!”
Arisella: “That’s the Dungeon Master’s chaos — unpredictable, uncontrolled, dangerous for everyone. He plays dirty only when the game demands it.”
Through the haze, The Dungeon Master explodes up with a desperate strike — Critical Hit! He spins, lifting knee strike connecting flush to Fenrir’s jaw! The impact echoes across the cell. Fenrir stumbles backward, arms flailing, momentarily stunned. The Dungeon Master drops to his knees again, barely able to stand, coughing in the gas cloud.
JR: “He caught him! He caught him with the Critical Hit outta nowhere!”
King: “He’s gotta move fast, JR! That gas’ll drop both of ‘em if it don’t clear soon!”
Fenrir shakes off the blow, blinking through the pain, then roars with fury — wiping blood from his lip and storming back forward. The Dungeon Master swings with a weak jab, but Fenrir catches it, slams a knee into his ribs, then grabs his head and drives him face-first into the mat with a Rope-Hung Spike DDT for the second time — right through the dissipating cloud of miasma. The Dungeon Master hits hard, body twitching, barely conscious.
JR: “Not again! Not again! He’s tryin’ to bury the champion alive inside that ring!”
Arisella (hoarse, standing): “No… no, he’s not finished yet. He’s got one more roll in him.”
*(Taco screeches, hopping up and down on the desk, pointing wildly at the ring as if cheering The Dungeon Master to rise. The crowd, half in awe and half terrified, starts to clap in rhythm — “LET’S GO DUNGEON! CLAP CLAP CLAP!”) *
King: “Listen to this place! They’re tryin’ to will him back to life!”
JR: “I don’t know if he’s got any life left in him, King, but by God, he’s still breathin’!”
Fenrir stands tall again, his entire body shaking, eyes glowing red under the flickering lights. He raises his arms, blood running from his fingertips, and howls so loud the steel rattles around them. The Dungeon Master lays flat on the mat, chest rising weakly, his blood pooling beneath him.
JR (quietly): “This is horror, King. This ain’t a match anymore. This is survival against a monster from another world.”
King: “And I don’t think the monster’s done yet.”
Arisella (softly, clenched fists): “Good. Neither is the hero.”
Fenrir Kaine stalks the blood-soaked ring like a demon released from the depths. The flickering red lights from the cell cast moving shadows across his body, painting him as half man, half beast. Every breath he takes is heavy, growling, primal. The Dungeon Master lies in the corner, chest heaving, blood streaking down his forehead. The crowd claps, desperate, begging for the champion to rise. The arena feels like it’s holding its breath.
Fenrir drops down to one knee beside The Dungeon Master, his face inches away, and whispers something low—something only The Dungeon Master can hear. Then he grabs him by the hair and drags his face across the barbed wire ropes. The crowd screams as the barbs shred skin from flesh, crimson lines carving into his cheek and neck. The Dungeon Master lets out a sharp cry—but then it turns into a laugh.
Dungeon Master (raspy, through the pain): “Yohohohoho… what’s the matter, wolf? You afraid of a few bad rolls?”
Fenrir growls, slamming his fist into the champion’s gut, silencing the laughter for a moment. He whips him into the opposite corner, and The Dungeon Master hits hard, bouncing chest-first off the turnbuckles. Fenrir follows up with a corner splash, crushing him again. The barbed wire ropes sing with tension as sparks fly off the steel frame.
JR: “Fenrir Kaine’s just playin’ with him now! The Dungeon Master’s body’s givin’ out, but the man still won’t quit!”
King: “He’s laughin’, JR! That lunatic’s laughin’ while he’s bleedin’ out!”
Arisella (leaning forward, fire in her eyes): “He’s feedin’ on it. Pain doesn’t scare him—it energizes him. That’s why Fenrir’s losin’ his mind. The more he hurts him, the more he realizes he can’t break him.”
Fenrir leans against the ropes, panting, eyes fixed on the champion. He slowly rolls his head toward the announce table, locking eyes with Arisella. That sinister grin spreads across his face, teeth bloodied. He drags his thumb across his throat and mouths, “Your turn.”
Arisella (standing instantly): “Try it, monster! You won’t make it past the door!”
(Taco leaps up on the desk beside her, shrieking madly, arms raised like a furious little warrior.)
King: “She’s gonna jump that barricade, JR!”
JR: “Somebody get security down here before this whole thing turns into a massacre!”
Fenrir smirks, turns his back to her, and crouches beside The Dungeon Master, whispering again. He grips him by the jaw and forces him to look toward Arisella.
Fenrir (snarling): “Watch her break… when you do.”
He lifts The Dungeon Master high into the air, holding him for a delayed suplex, letting the blood drip from his body before dropping him flat across the mat. The impact shakes the ropes, a spray of blood flicking from his chest. The Dungeon Master’s body arches in pain—but still, he starts laughing again, quietly at first, then louder.
Dungeon Master (wheezing): “Yohohohohoho… hahahaha… this is fun…”
JR: “Good God Almighty… that’s not a man anymore, King—that’s a madman hangin’ on to his soul by a thread!”
King: “He’s delirious, JR! He’s lost too much blood!”
Arisella (softly, almost a whisper): “No… that’s his rhythm. That’s him gettin’ back up.”
Fenrir snarls, clearly unsettled by the laughter. He drags The Dungeon Master up again and slaps him hard across the face—once, twice, three times—before kneeing him in the ribs so hard the crowd groans. The Dungeon Master stumbles forward on instinct, hands raised, swinging a weak backhand chop that barely connects. Fenrir laughs, catches him by the throat, and lifts him again into a Spinning Heel Kick counter slam—driving him back-first into the mat.
The Dungeon Master spasms, his limbs twitching. Fenrir drops to one knee beside him and presses a forearm into his throat, choking him while snarling something unintelligible. The Dungeon Master gags, his face turning red—then he reaches up and smiles, eyes wide.
Dungeon Master (gasping): “You… gotta… hit harder…”
JR: “He’s smilin’ while he’s bein’ strangled! Bah Gawd, this man’s possessed by somethin’ else entirely!”
King: “JR, I don’t know whether to be impressed or terrified!”
Arisella: “That’s it… make him mad, Bard. Make the beast overcommit.”
Fenrir shoves him down, frustrated, and stands. He wipes the blood from his mouth, breathing heavily. Then he stomps on The Dungeon Master’s head—once, twice, three times—before dragging him toward the ropes. He lifts him up, hooks his arm, and throws him through the ropes—the barbed wire tearing his skin again as he spills to the floor outside.
Fenrir follows, grabbing the steel steps again and tilting them upward. He hoists The Dungeon Master to his feet, shoving him between the steps and the cell wall like a coffin. The crowd gasps as Fenrir rears back and dropkicks the steps, crushing The Dungeon Master between metal and steel!
JR: “BAH GAWD! He just sandwiched him between the steps and the cell!”
King: “He’s tryin’ to fold him in half!”
Arisella (screaming): “ENOUGH! You want him? You’re gonna have to kill him!”
(Taco screeches so loud the commentary mics pick it up; the little monkey pounds the table in a fit of rage.)
Fenrir steps back, smiling wickedly as The Dungeon Master slides out from between the steps, leaving a streak of blood behind. He grabs him again by the hair and slams his face repeatedly into the steel—each impact louder than the last. Blood splatters against the cell mesh. The crowd begins to boo heavily, their jeers filling the arena, but Fenrir feeds on it.
JR: “This ain’t wrestlin’ anymore, King—this is a damn execution!”
King: “You can’t stop him, JR! You can’t reason with an animal like Fenrir Kaine!”
Fenrir turns back toward Arisella, glaring right through the cage as if daring her to step closer. He spreads his arms, dripping in blood, screaming incoherently into the air—half a howl, half laughter.
The Dungeon Master coughs hard, blood spilling from his mouth. He crawls toward the corner of the cell where one of the instruments lies—a cracked drum cymbal. He picks it up weakly, blood dripping from his fingers. Fenrir notices and starts to laugh, pacing in slow circles around him.
Fenrir (mocking, low growl): “Go on… play me somethin’.”
The Dungeon Master raises the cymbal weakly… and suddenly hurls it like a disc. The edge catches Fenrir across the jaw, slicing it open! Blood sprays as the beast reels back, clutching his face. The crowd roars alive again!
JR: “He caught him! The Dungeon Master with a counter—he just slashed him open!”
King: “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me, JR! The man’s runnin’ outta blood but he’s still fightin’ like a psycho!”
Arisella (smiling now, voice fierce): “There it is. That spark. He’s still in the game!”
Fenrir licks the blood from his hand, laughing—his eyes wide, his teeth stained crimson. He nods slowly, almost proud, then cracks his neck from side to side. He charges again, grabs The Dungeon Master, and rams him back into the steel wall. The electricity arcs again, zapping both men—but Fenrir doesn’t release. He holds The Dungeon Master there, growling in his ear.
JR: “He’s shockin’ him! He’s usin’ the live current as a weapon!”
King: “He’s insane, JR! He’s gonna fry both of ‘em!”
Arisella: “He doesn’t care if it kills him. He just wants to be the last one breathing.”
Finally, Fenrir drops The Dungeon Master, both men trembling from the electric current. The Dungeon Master collapses to his knees, smoke rising faintly from his shoulder. He coughs, spitting blood, and laughs again through broken breaths.
Dungeon Master (hoarse): “Yohohohohoho… that all you got, Fido?”
King: “Did he just call him Fido? JR, he’s tauntin’ him again!”
JR: “That’s bravery… or madness… or both!”
Fenrir snarls, his patience snapping. He grabs a busted microphone stand from the floor, raises it high, and brings it crashing down across The Dungeon Master’s back — once, twice, three times — until the metal bends into a hook shape.
JR: “Stop this! Somebody stop this match! Bah Gawd, that man’s a human being!”
Arisella (furious): “He’s my friend, you monster! You hear me? He’s not done yet!”
(Taco screeches, throws a bottle cap through the cell mesh, hitting Fenrir in the shoulder. The crowd bursts into laughter amidst the chaos.)
King: “JR! The monkey just attacked Fenrir!”
JR: “I don’t blame him! That little guy’s got more fight than half the locker room!”
Fenrir turns, growling at Taco through the mesh, snarling as Arisella glares daggers at him from the commentary desk. He smirks again, wiping blood from his face, before turning his gaze back down to The Dungeon Master, who’s crawling toward the center of the ring again.
The Dungeon Master’s entire body trembles, blood mixing with sweat and grit. He plants one hand on the mat… then the other. His head droops, but that mad grin spreads across his face again.
Dungeon Master (breathing heavy): “Yohohohoho… still… rollin’, baby…”
Fenrir snarls and slides back into the ring, pacing behind him like a wolf circling its prey. The Dungeon Master pushes up to his knees again, barely staying upright. Fenrir crouches, licking his teeth, his eyes glowing under the flickering light.
JR: “He’s stalkin’ him like a predator waitin’ to strike!”
King: “He’s enjoyin’ this, JR! Look at that smile! He’s makin’ her watch!”
Arisella (quiet, almost trembling): “He can smile all he wants. But he hasn’t realized—every story has a turn. And The Dungeon Master always writes the ending.”
(The crowd chants louder now, clapping rhythmically. Fenrir wipes blood from his chin and takes one slow step forward, then another, his shadow stretching long across the mat as he prepares to strike again. The Dungeon Master, on his knees, lifts his head and stares back with that unholy grin still carved across his face…)
The cell hums and crackles, glowing like a furnace. Every surface inside the structure is painted in red — blood, firelight, and fury. Fenrir Kaine looms over the barely conscious Dungeon Master, his chest heaving, body soaked in blood and sweat. He looks around the ring like a predator surveying the carcass of its prey, then turns his head toward the commentary desk. His gaze locks on Arisella.
She glares right back, refusing to flinch. Taco crouches on her shoulder, screeching like a tiny war cry. Fenrir smirks, his teeth stained crimson, and slowly reaches down. He grabs the twisted, broken microphone cable lying in the corner of the ring — the rubber sheath torn open, the wire frayed like the veins of a serpent.
He crouches beside The Dungeon Master, wrapping the cable around his throat once… twice… then again, pulling tight. The Dungeon Master’s eyes bulge, his hands clawing at the wire. Fenrir doesn’t look at him — he looks at Arisella. He grins. And begins to pull harder.
JR: “He’s choking the life outta him! He’s strangling The Dungeon Master with that damn cable!”
King: “He’s lookin’ right at her, JR! He’s enjoyin’ this!”
Arisella (furious, standing): “You think that scares me?! You think choking him out’s gonna make me back down?! That man’s not done — and neither am I!”
Fenrir’s expression twists, his grin curdling into pure malice. He yanks harder, the wire biting deep into The Dungeon Master’s neck. The champion’s face turns red, his legs kicking, but somehow — somehow — he starts to laugh again. That guttural, broken, defiant laugh.
Dungeon Master (strangled, gasping): “Y…yohohoho… h-hah-haha…”
Fenrir blinks, eyes narrowing. He drops the wire and instead grabs The Dungeon Master by the jaw, forcing him to look up. He spits in his face and growls something under his breath. The Dungeon Master’s only response is a cracked smile and a wheezing chuckle.
JR: “He’s laughin’ while he’s bein’ strangled, King! Bah Gawd, I’ve never seen anything like this in my life!”
King: “That’s not human, JR! That’s insanity!”
Arisella (firm, unwavering): “That’s heart. That’s what Fenrir doesn’t understand — you can’t kill the music in him. You can’t choke out chaos.”
(Taco screeches wildly, slamming his tiny fists against the desk, matching the crowd’s growing rhythm.)
Fenrir shakes his head, snarling in disgust. He yanks The Dungeon Master to his feet and tosses him across the ring — the champion collides with the ropes, barbed wire ripping more flesh from his arms. The Dungeon Master bounces back on instinct, swinging a wild superkick that clips Fenrir’s jaw! The impact stuns him for a moment, and the crowd erupts.
JR: “He caught him! Outta nowhere! He caught him with a superkick!”
King: “He’s still swingin’, JR! How the hell is he still swingin’?!”
The Dungeon Master staggers forward, holding his throat, coughing blood. He throws a spinning chop to Fenrir’s chest, then another, then a palm strike combo — his signature Nat 20 Combo! The last hit connects — a sharp spinning knee to the ribs! Fenrir stumbles back into the corner, breathing heavy.
Arisella (shouting): “That’s it, Bard! Keep rollin’ the dice! You’re not done yet!”
Fenrir smirks through the pain, almost amused. He wipes the blood from his mouth, steps out of the corner — and then lunges forward, catching The Dungeon Master mid-step with a brutal spinning back elbow that drops him instantly. The sound echoes through the cell — like a hammer striking bone.
JR: “What a shot! He just took his head off!”
King: “He nearly knocked his soul out of his body, JR!”
Fenrir looks down at the broken man at his feet — chest rising and falling slowly — and shakes his head. He exits the ring, ducking through the barbed wire ropes, and starts looking around the floor outside. He picks up a steel chair, then tosses it into the ring. He finds a half-broken snare drum, tosses that in too. He grabs a cello’s wooden frame — jagged edges like spikes — and slides it under the bottom rope.
JR: “He’s buildin’ a damn weapon pile, King! What’s he plannin’?”
King: “He’s plannin’ to make music, JR — Fenrir Kaine style!”
Arisella: “He’s not makin’ music. He’s makin’ a grave.”
Fenrir steps back into the ring, grabs The Dungeon Master by the hair, and drags him toward the pile. He lifts him onto his shoulders — the crowd rises in terror. Fenrir snarls, spinning in place — and then drives him down with a Spinning Powerbomb straight onto the pile of instruments! The sound is deafening — steel bends, wood shatters, and blood sprays upward from the impact.
JR: “BAH GAWD ALMIGHTY! HE POWERBOMBED HIM INTO THAT PILE OF WEAPONS! GOOD GOD, HE’S BROKEN IN HALF!”
King: “JR, he went through everything — the chair, the drum, the cello — it’s all splinters and blood!”
Arisella (eyes wide, standing): “No… no, he’s tougher than that. You hear me, Fenrir? He’s tougher than that!”
(Taco screeches, slapping the table repeatedly, as the fans rise to their feet. The arena is a chorus of gasps and cheers.)
Fenrir doesn’t cover him immediately. He crouches beside him, breathing heavily, staring at the blood pooling under The Dungeon Master’s back. He presses one hand on his chest, smirking as he finally leans in for the pin.
Referee: “ONE!... TWO!...”
—KICKOUT!!! The Dungeon Master jerks his shoulder off the mat at the last fraction of a second!
Crowd: “HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!”
JR (shouting): “HE KICKED OUT! BAH GAWD, HE KICKED OUT! HE’S STILL ALIVE!”
King: “What?! How?! JR, that man’s runnin’ on fumes and insanity!”
Arisella (slamming her fist on the desk): “That’s my friend! That’s the Bard of Brutality! You can beat his body, you can burn his skin — but you’ll never silence that song!”
(Taco jumps onto the desk, beating his chest, screeching in triumph as the entire arena roars with renewed life. Fenrir sits on his knees beside The Dungeon Master, disbelief carved across his bloodied face.)
JR (voice cracking): “This crowd’s lost it! The Dungeon Master just kicked outta the unthinkable — and Fenrir Kaine looks like he’s seein’ a ghost!”
King: “You gotta be kiddin’ me, JR! That wasn’t a kickout — that was a resurrection!”
The camera closes in on The Dungeon Master’s face — eyes half-open, lips split, blood trickling down his chin. And yet… he smiles.
Dungeon Master (barely audible, wheezing): “Yo…hohoho… guess… I’m still… rollin’.”
(The fans continue to chant as Fenrir rises to his feet, fury burning in his crimson eyes. He wipes the blood from his face, staring down at the unkillable champion beneath him. The wolf’s patience is gone. The Dungeon Master, broken but still grinning, rolls onto his side, coughing blood and laughing through it. The cell hums around them, alive with violence — the next wave about to begin...)
The crowd is still buzzing, chanting, stomping, screaming, the entire cell trembling with sound. Fenrir Kaine rises to his feet, fury boiling behind his crimson eyes. The Dungeon Master lies on his back in the center of the ring, his blood pooling beneath him, chest barely rising and falling. Fenrir runs a hand down his face, smearing the blood into war paint, and lets out a guttural growl that echoes like thunder through the arena.
JR: “That right there, King… that’s the look of a man who’s lost his soul to the darkness!”
King: “He’s not even tryin’ to win anymore, JR! He’s tryin’ to make sure The Dungeon Master never sings another note!”
Fenrir jerks The Dungeon Master up by the hair and hurls him through the ropes — his body scraping across the barbed wire before spilling to the outside. The Dungeon Master lands with a wet thud on the concrete, barely able to move. Sparks erupt from the cage wall as he rolls to his side.
Fenrir steps through the ropes himself, barbed wire slicing his forearm open again. He doesn’t care. He stalks The Dungeon Master like a predator following a wounded animal, each slow, methodical step echoing against the steel floor.
Arisella (through gritted teeth): “Get up, Bard… get up. Don’t let him take your song.”
(Taco screeches from her shoulder, pounding his little fists like a war drum.)
Fenrir crouches beside The Dungeon Master and slaps him across the face once—then again, harder. The Dungeon Master spits blood in response. Fenrir grabs him by the throat and drags him upright, laughing as the crowd rains boos down like fire. He backs up several steps, his muscles flexing under the flickering light. Then—
With a burst of inhuman strength, Fenrir launches The Dungeon Master straight upward—his entire body leaving the ground as he hurls him into the electrified cell wall!
ZZZZZZAAAAAPPPP!
The Dungeon Master’s body slams into the steel, the current surging through him in a violent, white-hot flash! Sparks explode across the structure, and he collapses downward—limp, smoking, and broken.
JR (standing): “BAH GAWD ALMIGHTY! HE THREW HIM INTO THE LIVE CELL! HE’S FRYIN’ HIM ALIVE!”
King: “That wasn’t a toss, JR—that was a launch! He just powerbombed him into the power grid!”
Arisella (furious): “That’s enough, Fenrir! You got what you wanted—let him go!”
Fenrir doesn’t even turn. He crouches, catching The Dungeon Master’s limp body before it hits the ground fully. His crimson eyes lock on Arisella now. He smiles—slow, sadistic, deliberate—as he hoists The Dungeon Master back up. He hooks both arms under his opponent’s shoulders, muscles tensing, his voice a low, animalistic growl.
JR (terrified): “No… no, not this again! He’s got him hooked for The Eclipse Driver!”
King: “He’s gonna do it on the floor, JR! Oh my God—”
Fenrir leaps into the air, twisting his massive frame with supernatural speed—180 degrees—before slamming The Dungeon Master head-first into the concrete floor! The sound is sickening. The entire crowd recoils as The Dungeon Master’s body goes limp, his head bouncing slightly on impact before rolling to the side.
JR (shouting over the roar): “THE ECLIPSE DRIVER ON THE OUTSIDE! ON THE DAMN CONCRETE FLOOR! HE’S BROKEN IN HALF!”
King: “He might’ve just ended his career, JR! He’s smilin’ while he does it!”
Fenrir stays seated for a moment, staring at the blood on his hands. Then, slowly, his head tilts toward the commentary desk again. His lips curl upward into that demonic grin, and he points directly at Arisella.
He drags a finger across his throat, mocking her, mouthing silently: “It’s over.”
Arisella (yelling back, furious): “You’re wasting time, monster! You’re so damn busy showing off, you’re givin’ him a chance to breathe!”
(Taco screeches and points toward The Dungeon Master, hopping up and down.)
JR: “She’s right, King! The arrogance of Fenrir Kaine might be his undoing here tonight!”
King: “If you call what’s left of The Dungeon Master ‘alive,’ JR, you’re more optimistic than I am!”
Fenrir smirks, brushing off the taunts. He grabs The Dungeon Master’s wrist and drags his motionless body back toward the ring, leaving a crimson trail behind them. He lifts him with frightening ease and tosses him under the bottom barbed wire rope, sending sparks flying as the champion’s skin tears once more.
The Demonic Werewolf climbs in slowly, methodically. He crouches over The Dungeon Master, his breath heavy, his smile wide, his eyes locked on Arisella again.
JR: “He’s doin’ this on purpose, King. He’s lookin’ right at her. He wants her to watch him pin the man she calls her best friend.”
King: “It’s psychological warfare, JR! He’s savorin’ this moment!”
Fenrir presses one bloody hand against The Dungeon Master’s chest, leaning in for the slowest, most confident pin of his life.
Referee: “ONE!... TWO!...”
—And at the very last possible fraction of a second, The Dungeon Master’s shoulder jerks off the mat! The crowd erupts—thousands of fans screaming as if witnessing a miracle.
Crowd: “HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!”
JR (screaming): “HE KICKED OUT! HE KICKED OUT! BAH GAWD ALMIGHTY, HE KICKED OUT AGAIN!”
King: “No way! No damn way! That wasn’t instinct—that was willpower!”
Arisella (slamming the desk, voice trembling): “You see that, Fenrir?! You can drop him on his head, electrocute him, choke him—he’s STILL here! That’s the Dungeon Master! That’s the spirit you’ll never break!”
(Taco is losing his mind—jumping, spinning, screaming, his tiny arms raised in wild celebration as the fans chant louder and louder. Fenrir’s head snaps up, eyes wide, disbelief flashing across his blood-covered face.)
JR: “Look at the shock on Fenrir Kaine’s face! He can’t believe it, King! The monster’s lookin’ at a man who refuses to die!”
King: “That was his best shot, JR! The Eclipse Driver on the outside! If that didn’t kill him, what can?!”
Fenrir rises to his feet, his chest heaving, fury burning through every vein. He wipes blood from his mouth and glares down at The Dungeon Master—whose hand is twitching, fingers clawing at the mat, his grin faint but still there.
Dungeon Master (barely whispering, a ghost of a laugh): “Yohohohoho… told ya… I don’t… roll low…”
JR: “He’s smilin’ again, King! He’s smilin’ through the blood! That’s defiance—pure, unholy defiance!”
Arisella (softly, standing tall): “And that’s why he’s never alone in there.”
(The crowd roars even louder, stomping, clapping, the sound swelling into one unstoppable chant: “DUNGEON MASTER! DUNGEON MASTER! DUNGEON MASTER!” The cage hums again, glowing with pulsing energy, as both men slowly begin to rise—the champion bloodied but grinning, the monster seething and snarling, disbelief turning into rage.)
JR: “He’s still in this fight, King! Somehow, some way, The Dungeon Master refuses to stay down! This story ain’t done yet!”
Fenrir Kaine’s face twists into something primal, a fusion of rage and disbelief. His blood-streaked chest heaves as he lets out an animalistic roar that rattles the barbed wire ropes. The crowd’s chants shake the air—“DUNGEON MASTER! DUNGEON MASTER!”—but the Demonic Werewolf doesn’t hear them. He wants blood.
With a snarl, Fenrir stomps forward, grabs The Dungeon Master by the throat, and drags him upright in one jerking motion. The champion’s legs nearly buckle, his eyes glazed—but he’s still breathing. Fenrir hooks both arms beneath his shoulders, setting up again for the Eclipse Driver.
JR: “He’s goin’ for it again! Bah Gawd, he’s tryin’ to end this once and for all!”
King: “He’s not wastin’ time now, JR—he’s furious!”
Fenrir lifts, but The Dungeon Master’s instincts kick in—his body wriggles free mid-lift! He slips out behind Fenrir, stumbling backward, legs wobbling. The crowd gasps as he collapses into the ropes for balance, his hand landing on something familiar lying just inside the corner.
The purple-bodied barbed-wire guitar.
Blood dripping down his chin, The Dungeon Master’s eyes flicker with a spark of madness and inspiration. Fenrir turns, growling, charging full speed toward him. The Dungeon Master pushes off the ropes, spinning in a full circle—SMASH!—the barbed-wire guitar explodes across Fenrir’s skull, wood and wire flying through the air! The impact sends blood and splinters raining onto the mat. Fenrir staggers backward, stunned, his knees wobbling, his body swaying like a tower about to collapse.
JR (screaming): “HE BROKE THE DAMN GUITAR OVER HIS HEAD! THE STRINGS WERE BARBED WIRE! THE GUITAR’S IN PIECES!”
King: “I can’t hear anything, JR—the crack of that thing was louder than a gunshot!”
Arisella (yelling over the crowd): “That’s my Bard! That’s how you change the tempo!”
(Taco leaps onto the desk, spinning in circles, screeching wildly in rhythm with the fans.)
The Dungeon Master, drenched in his own blood, stands over the staggering beast. He wipes his mouth, spits another stream of red onto the mat, then throws his head back and laughs.
Dungeon Master: “YOHOHOHOHOHO!!!”
The crowd erupts in a tidal wave of cheers. Fenrir drops to one knee, dazed. The Dungeon Master steps forward, grabbing him by the wrist, twisting it around, and with a sudden burst of ferocity—THE CRITICAL HIT! The spinning, lifting knee crashes into Fenrir’s skull with bone-snapping force! Fenrir’s head snaps backward, his massive body flipping onto the mat.
JR: “THE CRITICAL HIT! HE NAILED IT! HE NAILED IT FLUSH!”
King: “He turned the werewolf’s lights clean out, JR!”
The Dungeon Master doesn’t even hesitate. He staggers, his body trembling, his hair matted with blood, but he grabs Fenrir by the hair again, dragging the beast upright. The crowd is losing its mind, the roar deafening.
Arisella (screaming): “Do it again! Finish the song!”
He pulls Fenrir in close, blood-stained eyes blazing, and whispers through a grin:
Dungeon Master (breathing ragged): “Encore time… baby.”
He spins again—SECOND CRITICAL HIT! The knee smashes into Fenrir’s face a second time, harder than the first! The sound echoes like a gunshot in a church. Fenrir collapses flat, his body limp, the lights gone from his eyes. The Dungeon Master falls with him, collapsing chest-first across the monster’s body, too broken to even hook the leg.
JR (screaming over the roar): “ANOTHER ONE! ANOTHER CRITICAL HIT! TWO IN A ROW! HE’S GOIN’ FOR THE COVER!”
Referee: “ONE!... TWO!... THREE!!!”
The bell clangs as the roof of the arena nearly blows off from the explosion of cheers. The Dungeon Master doesn’t move. Fenrir lies motionless beneath him, blood pooling beneath both men as the referee signals to the timekeeper. The crowd is shaking the barricades, chanting his name over and over again.
JR (voice cracking): “BAH GAWD ALMIGHTY—THE DUNGEON MASTER JUST DID THE IMPOSSIBLE!”
(The lights flicker, the smoke thickens, the barbed-wire ropes hum with electricity as the referee kneels beside the blood-soaked champion to check for life. Both men are down. Both men are broken. But the match… is over.)
The bell echoes through the air like the toll of a cathedral bell. The crowd is on its feet—roaring, screaming, losing their collective minds as the arena shakes from their chants.
Crowd: “DUNGEON MASTER! DUNGEON MASTER! DUNGEON MASTER!”
The Dungeon Master lies flat on the mat, blood pouring from the cuts on his forehead, his chest rising shallowly, his arm draped across his hard-won EMF Extreme Championship. Fenrir Kaine is motionless beside him, his monstrous frame twitching as smoke curls off his back from earlier electrical burns. The referee calls for the cell to rise, and the towering steel structure begins to lift slowly—sparks dripping like fireflies as it ascends, the sound of machinery groaning beneath the arena lights.
JR (hoarse, barely audible): “What a war… what a war! The Dungeon Master’s done it, King! He’s survived the Demonic Werewolf inside his own Playground!”
King (still breathless): “I can’t believe it… nobody can! He didn’t just win—he survived the apocalypse!”
Before the cell is even fully raised, Arisella slides into the ring like a flash of lightning. Her face is streaked with tears and determination, her clothes stained from crawling through blood and debris. Taco leaps from the barricade and scrambles through the ropes, landing beside her with an excited screech. She rushes straight to The Dungeon Master’s side, kneeling beside him, shaking his shoulder.
Arisella (desperate): “Hey! Bard! Hey, talk to me! Come on, don’t you dare check out now!”
(The Dungeon Master stirs—slowly—then groans. His hand moves, fingers curling around the handle of his championship belt. Arisella smiles through the tears and lifts it up for him.)
Arisella (grinning, emotional): “You earned this, you crazy bastard… you actually did it.”
The crowd erupts again as The Dungeon Master forces himself upright, every muscle trembling, every breath ragged. Arisella helps him to his feet, her arm around his shoulder as he leans heavily against her. Blood drips from his chin as he looks down at the belt—then up at the thousands of fans screaming his name. He raises the title weakly above his head, and the entire arena explodes.
JR: “Bah Gawd almighty, what a moment! The Bard of Brutality stands tall inside his own creation!”
King: “I think he just leveled up, JR!”
But the celebration doesn’t last. The noise dims as the camera pans over The Dungeon Master’s shoulder—where Fenrir Kaine is stirring. Slowly. Methodically. His movements are unnatural, like a corpse reanimating. His head snaps up, his crimson eyes glowing faintly beneath the dim lights. He’s bleeding from everywhere—his mouth, his nose, his scalp—but his teeth flash in a sinister grin.
In his trembling hand, he holds a jagged shard of the broken barbed-wire guitar. His knuckles are white as he grips it tight, his chest heaving with sharp, shallow breaths. His body shakes, but his focus is unbroken—his gaze locked on The Dungeon Master and Arisella.
JR: “Oh no… oh no, no, no! That monster’s still movin’, King!”
King: “He’s bleedin’ like a faucet but he’s smilin’, JR! That ain’t good!”
Arisella turns just in time to see the glint of metal in Fenrir’s hand. She freezes, her body tensing. Taco lets out a frantic shriek, climbing onto her shoulder, waving his tiny arms as if to warn them.
Arisella (yelling): “Bard, behind you!”
Fenrir takes a step forward. Then another. He’s limping, wobbling, but he’s still dangerous. His bloodied lips curl into a sadistic grin as he raises the jagged shard high, his intent unmistakable. The crowd erupts in horror as he takes aim—ready to drive it through both of them.
JR: “He’s gonna do it! He’s gonna stab ‘em both!”
And then—
A blur.
From the ramp, Mansa Carthage sprints at full speed, his muscles coiled, his coat whipping behind him. The crowd’s roar flips from panic to shock as he hits the apron in one fluid motion, leaps clean over the barbed-wire ropes, and lands inside the ring with the grace of a predator. Sparks jump from the ropes as he clears them.
JR (shouting): “IT’S MANSA CARTHAGE! HE CLEARED THE BARBED WIRE! HE’S IN THE RING!”
King: “I didn’t even see him comin’, JR! That was a damn blur!”
Mansa steps forward, planting himself squarely between Fenrir and the trio behind him—The Dungeon Master, Arisella, and Taco. His stance is solid, his eyes locked with the Demonic Werewolf’s. The crowd is going wild again—half from fear, half from awe.
Fenrir stands there, swaying, his breath ragged. His grin returns, a hideous smile cracked through blood and pain. He tilts his head, almost amused. The two monsters—one of chaos, one of darkness—stare each other down.
JR: “We’ve got a standoff here! The Werewolf and the Warrior—both drenched in blood, neither backin’ down!”
King: “Look at that grin, JR! He’s enjoyin’ this! He’s enjoyin’ the pain!”
Arisella (behind Mansa, shouting): “You better stay down, dog! This fight’s over!”
Fenrir lowers the shard slightly, still smiling. Then—
The lights cut out.
Pitch black. Total silence. The crowd gasps, camera flashes flicker through the dark like fireflies. A single growl echoes from somewhere inside the arena—a deep, feral rumble that rolls like thunder.
JR: “What the hell?! I can’t see a damn thing, King!”
King: “He’s playin’ tricks again! Somebody get those lights back!”
A loud metallic clang—then another. A low, guttural laugh fades through the speakers. And then—
“BOOM!”
The lights snap back on. The cell is half-raised, sparks still drifting from its edges. Fenrir Kaine is gone. Only the blood remains where he once stood. Mansa stands firm in the center of the ring, breathing heavily, eyes scanning the corners. The Dungeon Master leans against the ropes, exhausted, clutching his championship to his chest. Arisella kneels beside him, one hand on his back. Taco sits on his shoulder, puffing his chest proudly, still chittering like a tiny battle cry.
JR: “He’s gone, King! Just like that—the Demonic Werewolf’s vanished into the shadows!”
King: “I swear I blinked, JR, and he was gone! How the hell does that thing even move like that after all that punishment?!”
Mansa turns toward his allies—Arisella, The Dungeon Master, and Taco. He nods once, silently, the respect in his eyes clear. Arisella smiles faintly, relief finally breaking through the adrenaline. The Dungeon Master looks up at him, his face barely recognizable under all the blood and bruising—but that grin is there again.
Dungeon Master (hoarse, laughing weakly): “Yohohoho… guess… we cleared the dungeon, boys…”
Arisella (grinning through tears): “Damn right we did.”
Taco screeches and throws his little arms up like a victory salute. The crowd roars in response, clapping, chanting, stomping until the arena shakes again.
JR (emotion thick in his voice): “This… this right here’s what the EMF is all about, King. Heart. Grit. Brotherhood. The Dungeon Master fought through hell itself—and he’s walkin’ out with the gold still in his hands.”
King: “And you can bet your last die roll, JR—this ain’t the last we’ve seen of Fenrir Kaine.”
Inside the ring, Mansa raises The Dungeon Master’s hand high while Arisella holds the belt against his chest. Taco jumps up and down on his shoulder, mimicking the crowd’s cheers. The fans chant in unison one last time, shaking the rafters with their voices.
Crowd: “DUNGEON MASTER! DUNGEON MASTER! DUNGEON MASTER!”
The camera pulls back—capturing the blood-soaked battlefield, the victors standing tall amid the wreckage, the echo of defiance and laughter lingering in the air.
JR (softly): “What a night… what a story… and what a champion.”
(The scene holds—the Bard of Brutality, the fiery Arisella, the wild Taco, and the Smiling Warrior, standing united in victory—while somewhere beyond the lights, the low growl of the Demonic Werewolf fades into the darkness once more…)
[div align="center"][video][/bbvideo][/align]
The arena lights dim, and the opening beats of NSYNC's "Bye Bye Bye" blast through the speakers. As soon as the first note hits, bright spotlights flash in sync with the music, and a thick cloud of smoke rises from the stage. The crowd immediately erupts in a mix of cheers and laughter, knowing they’re in for something special. As the beat drops, multicolored fireworks explode around the stage, and through the smoke, Patrick Payne bursts out, dancing his way onto the stage like he’s straight out of a 90s boy band video. Patrick starts hitting the iconic "Bye Bye Bye" choreography, exaggerated and dripping with his own flavor. He smirks at the camera, pointing at random fans in the crowd, and moving with the beat like he’s starring in his own music video. He stops midway down the ramp, faking a pause, and then launches back into the dance, arms waving and hips moving as the crowd sings along to the chorus.
EMF Ring Announcer: From wherever he damn well pleases, standing 6 feet 1 inch tall, weighing in at 210 pounds he is the unpredictable, the unstoppable, Patrick ˜The PP Express Payne!!!
As the music continues, the lights flash in rhythm, and Patrick slides into the spotlight, twirling and dipping to the beat. Nearing the ring, he stops for a second, tilts his head toward the camera, and breaks into a final burst of the dance, fully embracing the ridiculousness of it all. Without breaking his flow, he leaps over the top rope with a fluid, acrobatic jump, landing in a perfect roll before bouncing right back into the Bye Bye Bye dance inside the ring. Patrick moves effortlessly, finishing his routine by running up the turnbuckle, arms wide, and executing a picture-perfect backflip off the top rope. As his feet hit the mat, he drops into a flawless superhero landing, kneeling down, one fist on the ground, with a cocky grin stretched across his face. He rises slowly, arms outstretched, soaking in the crowd’s reaction, while the music fades and the lights settle back to normal. The camera zooms in as Patrick winks at the audience, mouthing, "You’re welcome!" before leaning casually against the ropes, waiting for his match to begin.
JR-Patrick Payne is looking to regain the championship by renewing his feud with Azar Vulcan.
King-Must be difficult considering…you know…how much better than everyone Azar is.
Kris Gaffney-One would assume…
[I’m better than you and you know it” Is said over the loud speakers right before Lamb Of God- “Overlord” hits. The crowd erupts in boos as the lighting begins to flash green and gold. The ramp fills with images of money as Azar Vulcan steps out from the back with a smug grin on his face. He stops atop of the ramp laughing at the fans.]
Announcer: Ladies and gentleman, making his way to the ring, weighing in at 215 pounds and standing 5’11”. He is The EMF World Heavyweight Champion, The Best In The World, Azar “Mastermind” Vulcan!
JR-Azar Vulcan is going to be difficult to defeat.
King-Especially since…you could consider this Azar’s house.
Kris Gaffney-Ouch.
[Azar Vulcan and Patrick Payne stand in the middle of the ring, they stare down, and they look at the hell in a cell. Azar Vulcan and Patrick Payne throw fists to the face, Azar Vulcan is able to put on a side head on Patrick Payne. Patrick Payne looks for a way out of the hold, and he pushes him backwards. Azar Vulcan gets whipped to the ropes, and Azar Vulcan. Azar Vulcan connects with a shoulder block that knocks him down on the mat. Patrick Payne gets up to his feet. Azar Vulcan connects with a knee lift, and he runs otwards the corner, and he smashes his head on the top turnbuckle. Azar Vulcan connects with a few knife edge chops to the chest, he whips him to the ropes. Patrick Payne grabs a hold of the ropes which makes sure that he doesn’t go towards Azar. Azar Vulcan runs towards Patrick Payne, Patrick counters with back body drop. Azar Vulcan lands on the apron. Patrick Payne turns around, and Azar Vulcan grabs Patrick’s head, and he connects with a hang man. Azar Vulcan slides back into the ring, and he connects with a kick to the gut, and he sets him up, and he connects with a brain buster after putting him into a vertical suplex position. Azar Vulcan goes into the cover on Patrick Payne, the ref goes into position to make the count, the ref counts 1………….2………KICK OUT by Patrick Payne. Azar Vulcan connects with a few fists to the face of Patrick Payne.]
JR-Azar Vulcan making Patrick feel the pain.
Kris Gaffney-HA!
King-He’s just trying to make sure he knows what he should already know…how much better than he is compared to him.
[Azar Vulcan waits for Patrick Payne, and he goes for the Money Maker, but it’s ducked under by Patrick Payne. Patrick Payne pushes him forward, and Azar Vulcan falls out of the ring, and he crashes down on the mat around ring side. Azar Vulcan tries to get up quickly, but Patrick Payne connects with a suicide dive which sends Azar VUlacn back first into the cage. Patrick Payne takes a few moments to rest up. Azar Vulcan tries to move forward, but Patrick Payne drives him back into the cage side. He smashes him into the cells side, and then he throws him back into the ring. Patrick Payne waits for Azar Vulcan to get up to his feet. Once he gets up to his feet he kicks him in the gut, and he connects with a double under hook back breaker. Azar Vulcan is in pain. Patrick Payne is on his knee’s for a few moments to rest up. Azar Vulcan gets up to his feet, and Patrick Payne connects with a body slam. Azar Vulcan seems to be set up for the next move. Patrick Payne goes to the outside of the ring, and he climbs up to the top rope, and he jumps off. Patrick Payne connects with the Flights Rick!! Patrick Payne goes itno the cover on Azar Vulcan, the ref goes into position to make the count. The ref counts 1…………..2………..KICK OUT by Azar Vulcan!!]
JR-Azar Vulcan was able to kick out.
King-The ref should just stop counting anyways it’s always assumed he was going to kick out.
Kris Gaffney-Due to how much better than he is than him?
King-That’s right!
[Azar Vulcan gets up to his feet. Patrick Payne hits a kick to the gut, and he sets him up into a Payne Per View, but Azar Vulcan spins out, and he low blows Patrick Payne. Azar Vulcan connects with the Money Maker!! Azar Vulcan goes into the cover on Patrick Payne. The ref goes into position to make the count. The ref counts 1……………2…………3!!]
JR-Azar Vulcan win with questionable tactics.
King-No rules, no problem.
(Azar Vulcan holds up the world championship feeling the effects as Cold Day in Hell goes off the air.)
