The Alternate Era: Season 1, Episode II

[Brett]

The Alternate Era is a brand new project that will be effectively changing the landscape of all eras of wrestling you have either loved or hated. The Alternate Era will be an anthology series that will be released in seasons, where specific subject matter / storylines / events will be documented in episodic form. While each season will dedicate itself to one specific story, it is safe to assume that the seasons take place in the same universe and that the ripple effects of each season may be felt throughout other seasons.

Each episode will release on Tuesday.

Season 1: Black Moon Rising
Prologue: The Seeds of Defiance
Episode I: invaSioN
Episode II: "秩序回復"​

 

[Brett]

Prologue: The Seeds of Defiance
April 7, 2013​

For three years, New Japan Pro Wrestling has lived within a strange twilight. Projected to be the beacon of modern Japanese wrestling, it now feels like a company unsure of what it is trying to be. The crowds still attended, the lights still flashed, but the feeling that permeated throughout every building was that of the promotion changing. It is a machine that still ran, but the heart that powered it was faltering.

In 2010, Hiroshi Tanahashi stood untouchable. He was the golden idol, the man who rebuilt New Japan after years of chaos. His championship reigns had turned him into the closest thing to a living monument the company possessed. Fans called him “The Ace” with pride, and management believed he could carry the brand into the next decade. Yet with every successful defense, every polished promo, and every familiar closing pose, a quiet fatigue began to spread. The adoration remained, but it carried less electricity. The audience had seen perfection too many times. They knew what a Tanahashi main event felt like before it even began.

The company’s salvation, it seemed, would come from the next generation. For years, the New Japan system had promised an emerging crop of young lions who would inherit the mantle of leadership. Kazuchika Okada, Katsuyori Shibata, and Tetsuya Naito had all been spoken of as heirs to Tanahashi’s throne. Yet one by one, those promises withered.

Okada’s departure became the first fracture in the company’s armor. Sent abroad on the traditional learning excursion, he found himself disillusioned with New Japan’s handling of his future. A series of contract disputes and perceived mistreatment convinced him that the company did not truly see him as the superstar he believed he could be. When his excursion concluded, he did not return to Tokyo. Instead, Okada appeared in Pro Wrestling NOAH, standing across the ring from Takeshi Morishima with a defiance that seemed aimed as much at his former employers as at his opponent. His victory over Morishima for the GHC Heavyweight Championship was both a coronation and a condemnation. NOAH had made Okada the top star New Japan never trusted. When Naomichi Marufuji later defeated him, Okada left the belt in the center of the ring and raised his hands not as a humbled man, but as one who had proved his point. From that moment forward, he became NOAH’s defining figure, and his absence left New Japan’s future with a void that seemingly no one could fill.

Tetsuya Naito followed a similar road, though his exile was more passive than rebellious. Originally seen as a prospect with quiet charisma, Naito’s struggles to connect with the domestic audience convinced New Japan’s office that he required seasoning abroad. They sent him to CMLL in Mexico, expecting a short stay and a cultural education that would refine his ring style. Instead, Naito found belonging there. Joining the loose collective known as Los Ingobernables alongside La Sombra, Rush, and La Bestia del Ring, Naito thrived as a foreign ally in a land that celebrated his arrogance rather than punishing it. The longer he stayed, the more distant his connection to New Japan became. By 2013, he was effectively gone, his name spoken in Tokyo with the same tone reserved for an old classmate who never came home.

Katsuyori Shibata, the third of that supposed golden generation, chose a different path. Torn between wrestling and mixed martial arts, he drifted in and out of All Japan Pro Wrestling, appearing in sporadic matches that displayed brilliance without commitment. To many in the New Japan office, Shibata’s decision to prioritize his fighting career was a betrayal of the company’s values. In the eyes of the fans, he became a ghost of potential, a man who could have been the next great warrior but chose another battlefield.

Then there was Shinsuke Nakamura. Charismatic, flamboyant, and already an icon within Japan, Nakamura had been expected to anchor the future alongside Tanahashi. But in late 2012, as NXT rebranded itself under WWE’s developmental vision, an opportunity arose that he could not refuse. Nakamura signed a full-time contract overseas, becoming the face of a new era of international wrestling for a Western audience. His departure sent shockwaves through Japanese media. The last of the true New Japan innovators was gone, taking with him a generation’s sense of creative spirit.

With the supposed next generation scattered across the wrestling world, New Japan turned inward. The company doubled down on what it knew: the image of Tanahashi as the unbreakable Ace, and the nostalgia of the stars who once filled the Tokyo Dome. Ticket sales began to slip despite strong cards. Fans still respected Tanahashi, but the drama of his victories no longer stirred the same emotion. The office began searching for a new direction, and in doing so made a choice that would come to define this strange chapter of its history.

In 2012, New Japan offered a massive contract to Keiji Mutoh, luring the aging legend back from his post-All Japan ventures. Mutoh’s return was presented as a celebration of heritage, a rekindling of old glory. What the public did not expect was the full extent of the company’s surrender to nostalgia. Mutoh was not only brought back to wrestle but was appointed president of New Japan itself. His arrival promised a renewal of spirit. Instead, it created an era of conservatism and self-reference.

Hirooki Goto became the first casualty of that shift. After years of coming close but never seizing the crown, he finally won the 2011 G1 Climax and defeated Tanahashi at Wrestle Kingdom on January 4, 2012. The victory felt like a rebirth to many New Japan fans, the emergence of a new flag-bearer. For a brief moment, fans believed that the future had arrived. But Goto’s reign lasted only a few months before Mutoh’s return overshadowed it completely. At Dominion 2012, in front of a rejuvenated Osaka crowd, Mutoh pinned Goto cleanly to capture the IWGP Heavyweight Championship. The reaction was thunderous. For the first time in years, ticket sales surged. Yet beneath the applause, a more troubling reality formed. New Japan had saved its numbers by reviving its past. The cost was its soul.

Mutoh’s championship reign lasted until King of Pro Wrestling that October, when Tanahashi reclaimed the title in a match framed as the old Ace restoring balance to the company he built. The symbolism was clean, almost too clean. Goto faded back into the background, framed as the perennial contender who could not carry the weight of the promotion. Fans began to pity him rather than believe in him.

By 2013, the company had become an uneasy hybrid. Mutoh ruled as president, projecting confidence through carefully planned press conferences and polite interviews. His booking favored the familiar faces of the early 2000s such as Yuji Nagata, Hiroyoshi Tenzan, Takashi Iizuka, and Satoshi Kojima and an increasing reliance on outside talent. Wrestlers from NOAH and All Japan drifted into New Japan with contracts given by Mutoh. SUWAMA, Go Shiozaki, Minoru Suzuki, Shuji Ishikawa, and Katsuhiko Nakajima were now all frequent names on posters. Their matches were technically excellent, but the emotional connection between audience and roster grew thinner with each appearance. New Japan began to resemble an exhibition of Japan’s greatest wrestlers rather than a distinct identity of its own.

Inside the locker room, morale was uneven. Veterans benefited from Mutoh’s nostalgic favoritism. Younger wrestlers, especially the homegrown talent who had survived the last decade of financial struggle, felt invisible. Karl Anderson and Prince Devitt stood out among them. Devitt had carried the Junior Heavyweight Division for years, winning the junior belt 5 times in 3 years, delivering consistently praised matches, and still finding himself fenced out of the heavyweight scene. This due to Mutoh's emphasis on size in the heavyweight division. His frustration simmered quietly. Anderson, once a promising tag team fixture, now floated in the midcard, overshadowed by imported stars. Each of them represented the unspoken truth of Mutoh’s regime: the company had stars, but it did not know how to make new ones.

As winter turned to spring in 2013, the atmosphere around New Japan felt stable yet brittle. The Tokyo Dome still filled for Tanahashi’s defenses, but the energy was superficial. Fans cheered because they were supposed to. The office celebrated record merchandise sales while quietly ignoring the empty seats in smaller venues. Commentators continued to call Tanahashi “The Ace,” but the phrase felt more like a prayer than a declaration.

Behind the curtain, wrestlers began to question the direction of the company. Some whispered that Mutoh’s era had restored financial health but sacrificed artistic purpose. Others believed the company was simply waiting for a new spark to emerge. Few realized that the pieces of that spark were already standing in the shadows, tired of watching from below.

And so, as Invasion Attack 2013 approached, New Japan appeared whole from the outside. The posters showed Tanahashi and Goto locked in heroic poses, two warriors supposedly destined to decide the future of the company. The press releases spoke of renewal, of the return to greatness, of the continuation of tradition, but of course, those were controlled by the company and their reach.

No one in the building that night would have admitted it aloud, but beneath the surface of every cheer lay a single unspoken truth. The kingdom of New Japan was alive, but it was not breathing. The world was about to change, though no one yet knew how or why. What they did know was that the storm had not arrived. Not yet. But they could feel the air beginning to move.

*Bang, Bang*​

 

[Tommy MBE]

Looking forward to reading this next. Really impressed with this opening Brett .

 

[Brett]

Season 1: Black Moon Rising
Debuting November 11, 2025

​

 

[BattleTank]

This is a really cool idea. I’ve always wanted to read something like this with the season and episodic vibe.

Excited for you to hit the ground running with this. I will definitely be following along. Best of luck writing!!

 

[Brett]

Episode I: invaSioN

April 7, 2013
Ryogoku Sumo Hall, Tokyo, Japan
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Invasion Attack 2013: Undercard​

The lights of Ryōgoku Sumo Hall shimmered against a restless audience. The night had the weight of change in the air, though no one yet understood what kind. Tokyo was cold that April evening, and even within the walls of the packed arena there lingered an unease that went beyond the ring. New Japan Pro Wrestling was holding its first ever Invasion Attack event, a name that carried an almost intentional irony. For the past year, the "nostalgic" invasion had been from within. The future had eroded, the past had reclaimed its throne, and the present was struggling to hold meaning. Yet despite this, the matches would move forward as if nothing had changed. The wrestlers would fight, the crowd would roar, and the machine would turn once more.

The show opened in the only way it could, with a flash of nostalgia. Jushin Thunder Liger and Tiger Mask, two men who had long ago defined what the junior heavyweight division meant, were chasing gold again. Across from them stood Prince Devitt and Ryusuke Taguchi, the team known as Apollo 55, whose reign as champions had become a symbol of the modern junior style New Japan had once embraced. Liger’s cape shimmered beneath the spotlights, Tiger Mask’s eyes were hidden behind steel focus, and Devitt looked every bit the prodigy who had once been promised the world. The match was fast, crisp, and painfully symbolic. Every move from Devitt carried the arrogance of youth, but every counter from Liger felt like a reminder that youth alone no longer ruled here. When Liger caught Taguchi with a brainbuster that seemed to freeze the arena mid-motion, it felt like time looping on itself. The pinfall came soon after, Liger and Tiger Mask holding the junior tag titles once again. The crowd applauded, but it was not the applause of triumph. It was the applause of memory, clinging to what once was.

The next bout carried the scent of old battles and old bodies. Manabu Nakanishi, Takashi Iizuka, and Yuji Nagata stood across from Tama Tonga, King Fale, and the young Takaaki Watanabe. The contrast was striking. The veterans moved like men who had seen the best years pass them by, their strength dulled but their instincts sharp as ever. The younger trio fought with a sense of nervousness that you could read on all three of the younger men's faces. Tonga and Fale, wild and uncertain, moved as if still searching for who they were supposed to be. Watanabe was raw as well, his movements stiff, but he carried a kind of quiet desperation in every strike. The match was relatively tame, contained within the ropes. Iizuka’s madness turned into violent comedy, Nagata’s kicks drew brief gasps of life from the audience, and Nakanishi’s lariats looked like they came from another time entirely. When Nagata finally locked in the Nagata Lock (crossface) on Watanabe, the crowd gave a mild reaction, respectful but detached. The veterans had won again, but no one seemed sure if that was cause for comfort or concern.

Then came Keiji Mutoh, the self-appointed president of New Japan, walking slowly down the ramp with Toru Yano beside him. Mutoh’s presence was magnetic. Across from them stood Togi Makabe and Tomoaki Honma, two men whose grit and punishment had once represented the heart of the promotion’s working class. Great Bash Heel was a relic of the upswing in New Japan's success from yesteryear. The match was a strange theater of eras clashing. Yano’s antics drew laughter, Mutoh’s semi-fluid motions drew reverence, and Makabe’s stiff forearms drew silence. Honma took punishment that would have folded lesser men, his resilience earning sympathy with every missed Kokeshi. The finish came when Mutoh, slower but still graceful, connected with a Shining Wizard that sent Honma flat to the mat. The pinfall came, and with it, polite applause. Mutoh’s hand was raised, his smile fixed.

By the time the Intercontinental Championship match began, the crowd had settled into an uneasy rhythm. Go Shiozaki, representing the wave of outsiders who had entered New Japan in recent years, carried himself with measured pride, knowing he had the backing of the current regime heading NJPW. He had become a rare constant in a company of shifting faces. Across from him was Karl Anderson, once the most promising foreign star ('Gaijin') in the promotion, now left adrift as new allegiances and fading spotlight pulled at him. Their match was a sharp contrast to the earlier nostalgia. It was methodical, bruising, a struggle of technique and endurance rather than spectacle. Shiozaki’s chops echoed through the arena, each one punctuated by a roar that reminded everyone that for all of New Japan’s troubles, the ring still spoke louder than its politics. Anderson fought hard, but the distance in his eyes betrayed something deeper. When Shiozaki connected with an enromous lariat, followed by a Go Flasher and pinned him clean in the center, the victory felt definitive. The Intercontinental title stayed with Shiozaki, and the fans, for a brief moment, came alive. The outsider had triumphed again. This was certainly the best match up until this point, yet it felt like that of a dragon fruit. So much pizzazz and attractive looks, yet lacking in taste and indescribable qualities.

Kensuke Sasaki and Katsuhiko Nakajima followed, facing Minoru Suzuki and Taichi in a tag match that carried an undercurrent of professional pride. Suzuki, forever the predator, eyed Sasaki with the cold amusement of a man who saw no equals. Nakajima, the prodigy, mirrored that same disdain but with youthful impatience. The match was tight and brutal, four men beating the air out of the building with each exchange. The chemistry between Nakajima and Suzuki was violent poetry, each testing the other’s resolve in a battle that could not decide whether it was about hatred or respect. Taichi, in contrast, provided the sneer that glued the chaos together. When Nakajima’s roundhouse kick finally connected with Taichi’s temple, the impact felt like punctuation. The pinfall came seconds later. The crowd applauded loudly this time. For once, it felt like a glimpse of what could still be built if the right pieces ever aligned. Despite it coming from somewhere outside of the Lion's Den.

TenCozy, the veteran duo of Hiroyoshi Tenzan and Satoshi Kojima, entered next to face Shelton Benjamin and Charlie Haas, the IWGP Tag Team Champions. The American duo had brought legitimacy and consistency to the division, but even their tenure had begun to feel like a borrowed era. The match was physical and surprisingly emotional. Tenzan’s body moved with the wear of decades, yet his heart pushed beyond it. Kojima’s machine-gun chops echoed like gong strikes throughout the sumo hall. Haas and Benjamin were crisp, polished, and relentless, but the crowd slowly began to tilt toward their countrymen. When Kojima connected with the Cozy Lariat and secured the three-count, the building erupted louder than it had all night. It was not just a win. It was catharsis. The Japanese veterans had reclaimed gold from foreign hands, a tale as old as time.

As the champions celebrated, streamers fell, and the ring crew/young lions quickly prepared for the main event. The crowd buzzed softly, anticipation and fatigue blending together. The night had been long and heavy, filled with echoes of glory and reminders of decay. Above them, the lights dimmed slightly, drawing all focus to the stage. Hirooki Goto was waiting for his chance to reclaim what he had lost. Across from him, Hiroshi Tanahashi prepared once again to defend the throne that had become both his crown and his curse. The air shifted, and for the first time all night, it felt like something might finally give.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Behind the Curtain​

The hum of the promptly placed space heater was the only sound in Hirooki Goto’s locker room. He sat on the bench, tape half-wrapped around his wrists, his head bowed in quiet concentration. The noise of the arena, the faint rumble of the crowd outside the walls from TenCozy's triumphant win, felt distant. For Goto, this match was more than another title challenge. His career had been defined by almosts and nearlies, the kind of stories that inspire sympathy but not legacy. He had walked alone by choice refusing to play politics in a company that had begun to live off them. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him, calm. Tonight was supposed to be about proving something to himself, that discipline and purpose still had a place in a world that seemed to only reward spectacle and legacy.

The quiet broke as the door opened. Prince Devitt stepped in first, still in his gear from earlier, the sweat barely dried on his skin. Behind him followed Karl Anderson, his face unreadable. Devitt’s usual whimsical grin was replaced with something sharper.

“Goto-san,” he said, his tone light but his eyes serious.

“We’ve been watching. You shouldn’t go out there alone tonight. You’ve carried that weight for too long.” He turned to Anderson, then back to Goto.

“Let us stand in your corner. Just… to make sure things stay fair.”

The pause hung heavy before he added, in fluent Japanese

“勝利の瞬間、あんたを一人にしたくない” We don’t want you to stand alone in your moment of victory.

Goto looked up slowly, his expression unreadable, his mind caught between suspicion and curiosity. Devitt’s smile returned, faint but confident, as Anderson crossed his arms. The silence between them said more than any agreement could.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Home Stretch​

Both men looked carved from exhaustion, their bodies trembling beneath the weight of the match. The air inside Ryogoku Kokugikan felt electric and suffocating all at once. Tanahashi’s gear shimmered white, gold and red, his tape frayed from the constant punishment, the Ace of New Japan looking every bit the wounded king fighting to hold his crown. Across from him, Goto stood steady in all black, his expression unreadable beneath the streaks of sweat cutting down his face. His gear was simple, practical, but the energy around him had begun to shift. For the past twenty minutes, they had traded control like warriors clinging to the last breath of belief, and the crowd was alive in the tension. Neither man had managed to break the other.

Goto was the first to strike following the stand off, whipping Tanahashi into the corner with a sharp crack that sent the champion staggering on impact into the turnbuckle. The sound echoed through the arena, and before Tanahashi could catch his balance, Goto exploded forward, his boot cutting through the air. The spinning heel kick connected flush against Tanahashi’s jaw, snapping his head over the top turnbuckle and drawing a gasp from the crowd. Goto caught him by the wrist, yanked him backward from the turnbuckles, and with perfect timing, arched his body backward into a German suplex hold. The bridge was deep. The referee’s hand hit the mat twice before Tanahashi’s shoulder twitched free. The audience erupted in applause, a collective gasp of disbelief rippling through the stands.

Goto rose to his knees, breathing heavy, his eyes locked on the prone champion. He hooked his arms under Tanahashi’s and lifted him across his shoulders, the setup unmistakable. The crowd swelled as Goto steadied his footing, looking for the Ushi-Garoshi, the move that had broken so many necks before. But Tanahashi’s instincts flared alive. In one desperate motion, he slipped free, twisting his body midair and snapping behind Goto with a falling Sling Blade that crushed Goto’s neck against the canvas. The entire ring seemed to shudder from the impact. Both men lay motionless in the center, the referee hovering over them, the crowd screaming into the night.

At ringside, Karl Anderson and Prince Devitt slammed their palms against the apron, their voices cutting through the chaos. “Come on, Goto!” Anderson barked, his voice hoarse. Devitt’s eyes were locked on the ring, his expression unreadable, but his hands pounded harder, urging life back into the challenger. Inside, Tanahashi stirred first. His movements were deliberate, slow, as though dragging his body through mud. He reached for Goto’s arm, looking to pull him upright, but Goto came alive. In a flash, he snatched Tanahashi’s arm and rolled through, locking his legs around the Ace’s shoulder. In seconds, the Omoplata was sunk in deep, and Goto wrenched back into a crossface.

Tanahashi’s face contorted, his hand hovering above the mat, his cries echoing through the arena. The hold was perfect, cruel in its precision. The crowd was on its feet, half calling for the tap, half screaming for Tanahashi to survive. Inch by inch, the champion clawed his way toward the ropes, his fingers trembling as they stretched forward. When he finally caught the bottom rope, the referee forced the break, and Goto released the hold only after the fourth count, not out of defiance of the referee, but rather an in-the-moment, tunnel-visioned motion.

Tanahashi rose slowly, gripping the rope for balance. Goto stood across from him, breathing hard, sweat dripping from his jawline. Without hesitation, Goto began firing off kicks, each one cracking against Tanahashi’s chest. The sound was brutal, like a drumbeat of war. Tanahashi tried to meet each blow, his body shuddering but refusing to fall. The defiance in his eyes burned even as his body faltered. Then, finally, Tanahashi dropped to one knee, then to a seated position, his body trembling. Goto stepped back, hit the ropes, and came charging forward. The soccer kick he delivered was merciless, his boot slamming into Tanahashi’s neck and chest with a thud that made the crowd gasp.

Goto fell into the cover, hooking the leg tight. The referee slid into position.

One.
Two.​

Tanahashi’s shoulder shot up at the last heartbeat. The crowd exploded, a thunderous roar of disbelief and devotion. Goto sat back on his knees, his eyes wide, his body trembling between rage and awe. The match was not over, but something in the air had changed. The champion had survived again, and yet the challenger’s storm was far from spent.

Tanahashi and Goto rose together, their bodies battered, their breathing shallow, their eyes locked in silent fury. The arena seemed to shrink around them until nothing existed beyond the two of them standing nose to nose. Words were exchanged, quiet but heavy, the kind that never reached the microphones and never needed to. They were not insults, nor promises. They were the raw words of men who had nothing left to prove to anyone but each other. The noise from the crowd faded into a steady hum as they began to swing. Open-hand strikes cracked through the air, each one landing sharper than the last. The rhythm built, an exchange that felt more like a test of spirit than skill.

Then came the turning point. Tanahashi struck Goto square across the face with an open-hand slap so sharp it echoed through Ryogoku Kokugikan like a gunshot. The sound alone drew gasps from the crowd. Goto’s body turned with the impact, his hair whipping across his face, but the motion became his weapon. He spun on the pivot of that blow, and from the turn came an eruption. His arm cut through the air, the discus lariat landing flush against Tanahashi’s chest and neck. The champion’s body crumpled beneath the impact, flattened against the mat as Goto staggered above him, his chest heaving. He let out a guttural roar, something primal and unfiltered, his voice shaking the arena’s air.

Ripping Tanahashi up by the hair, Goto pulled him in close, one hand raised high. He signaled for the Shouten Kai, and the building came alive, half in disbelief, half in dread. Goto hooked the champion’s arm, lifted him high into the air, Tanahashi’s body twisting above him in a perfect vertical line. For a brief second, it looked inevitable. But Tanahashi’s instinct ignited again. He shifted his weight, kicked his legs, and twisted midair. The reversal came fast, Tana's feet returned to the mat and a snapping Twist and Shout neckbreaker that sent both men collapsing to the mat. The crowd’s roar surged again, a wave of disbelief and admiration for their endurance.

Both wrestlers lay still, their chests rising and falling in uneven rhythm. Slowly, Tanahashi crawled toward the ropes, pulling himself upright by sheer will. Goto pushed to his knees, his eyes glazed but burning. Tana turned, gathering what strength he had left, and launched himself forward. The Sling Blade connected perfectly this time, slicing through Goto’s momentum and sending him flipping backward, folding into himself before rolling face-first on the canvas. The champion’s body trembled, but his eyes were alive again. He pointed to the corner.

The crowd erupted as Tana climbed the turnbuckles, each step deliberate and slow. He steadied himself on the top rope, the lights catching the sweat on his back. He leapt into the air and crashed down with a High Fly Flow across Goto’s back. The ring shuddered under the impact. Without hesitation, Tanahashi rolled Goto onto his back and climbed again, setting up for the final blow. The audience stood, cameras flashing like lightning across the arena.

Tanahashi soared once more, body extended, but this time Goto’s knees shot upward in perfect timing. The champion landed hard, the breath tearing from his lungs as his ribs collided with Goto’s defense. Goto clutched Tanahashi’s arm and neck and rolled him into a tight small package, his body shaking from the effort. The referee dropped down.

One.
Two.​

Tanahashi kicked out with a surge that sent both men sprawling apart, the crowd screaming as though they had just witnessed survival itself. The count had come within a heartbeat of history, and for the first time, Tanahashi looked shaken. Goto sat up, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with disbelief. The match had turned into something beyond wrestling, it was now a contest of pure will.

Tanahashi was the first to stir, rising from the mat with a grimace and a determination born from instinct. Goto was still on his knees, dazed from the near fall, when Tanahashi darted forward and struck low. His boots connected with precision, a dropkick straight to Goto’s left knee. The challenger buckled instantly, his leg folding beneath him as he crashed to the mat. Tanahashi wasted no motion, grabbing hold of the damaged limb and twisting sharply. The dragon screw whipped to the canvas with violent grace, Goto’s body snapping over itself before collapsing flat on his back. The champion lingered for a moment, chest heaving, eyes locked on the fallen Goto before turning his attention to the corner.

The audience roared as Tanahashi climbed, every step a defiant statement that the Ace still had more left to give. He reached the top turnbuckle, posing for just a second, that signature moment of confidence that made the crowd swell with devotion. But in that heartbeat of pride came the opening Goto needed. From the mat, Goto exploded upward, his body launching with desperate velocity. The leaping spinning heel kick connected flush against the side of Tanahashi’s head. Tanahashi slumped forward, his legs hooking awkwardly over the top turnbuckle, leaving him lifeless and crotched against the ropes.

Goto steadied himself, dragging air into his lungs as he climbed up to the second rope in front of the stunned champion. Sweat poured down his face, but his eyes burned with the fever of a man who saw his destiny within reach. Hooking Tanahashi across his shoulders, Goto positioned himself with deliberate precision. The crowd rose to their feet as he lifted, muscles shaking under the weight. Then, with every ounce of strength left in him, Goto launched Tanahashi off the top rope, crashing down with an avalanche Ushi-Garoshi over his knee. The impact thundered through the ring, Tanahashi's neck bouncing from Goto's knee like a bobblehead. The challenger sat up, chest heaving, disbelief turning to conviction.

The tide had turned again, and Goto could feel the match pulsing in his hands. He stood, roaring into the crowd, his voice hoarse but commanding. Pulling Tanahashi’s limp body from the mat, he hoisted the champion once more onto his shoulders, this time for his newly forged weapon the Ura Shouten. Goto steadied his stance, spinning Tanahashi in controlled revolutions, building momentum for the decisive facebuster that would finally crown him.

But in the spin, Tanahashi’s instinct flickered to life. His arms shot up, hooking around Goto’s head, twisting his weight just enough. As Goto completed the final rotation, Tanahashi rolled through, dragging Goto down into a sudden side headlock cradle. The movement was fluid, desperate, and perfect. The referee dove in.

One.
Two.
Three.​

The bell rang before anyone could process it. The crowd erupted into stunned chaos. Goto kicked out a fraction too late, his eyes wide with disbelief as Tanahashi lay across from him, equally shocked but victorious. The champion had stolen it, not through dominance, but through survival, through instinct sharper than exhaustion. Goto sat motionless, staring at the mat, the realization settling like a weight in his chest. He had come so close to regaining the top prizee, yet the moment had slipped from his grasp in a blink.

Tanahashi rolled to the corner, clutching his ribs, staring back at Goto with a look that mixed respect with regret. The Ace of New Japan had survived once more, but the air around them felt different heavy, uncertain, like the last calm before something unseen would break.
Goto rolled beneath the bottom rope the sting of heartbreak fresh behind his eyes. Prince Devitt and Karl Anderson were already there, reaching down to pull him to his feet. There was no shame in their gestures, no pity, only silent understanding. They slung Goto’s arms over their shoulders and began the slow walk up the ramp, the sound of Tanahashi’s music echoing behind them. The crowd rose to its feet to applaud the valiant challenger, their cheers mixing with the melancholy of what could have been. Under the harsh arena lights, Goto’s expression told the story. He had fought with everything he had, but fate had once again tilted toward the Ace.

In the ring, Hiroshi Tanahashi lay still for a moment before finally reaching for his title. His fingers trembled as they brushed against the gold plates, sweat streaking his face as he pulled himself upright. The familiar blue of the New Japan canvas reflected under the house lights, a hue that seemed almost sacred, the color of glory, of history, of countless victories he had willed into existence. Tanahashi stood tall, his title raised high above his head, the image of the conquering Ace that the fans had come to love and rely on. As his music softened, he motioned for a microphone. The champion had done this ritual countless times before, offering closing words of triumph, gratitude, and hope. Yet, before a single word could escape his lips, the entire atmosphere of Sumo Hall changed.

The lights flickered once, then went completely dark. Murmurs swept through the crowd, the confusion growing into unease. The silence was heavy, pierced only by the faint hum of the arena’s speakers. Then, as suddenly as they had gone out, the lights snapped back on.

In the center of the ring, standing just behind Tanahashi, were two figures dressed in identical black leather jackets, dark jeans, gloves, and masks. Their presence was immediate and suffocating, the crowd’s roar replaced by an audible gasp. Tanahashi turned, confusion etched across his face, eyes darting between the two intruders. Before he could even raise his guard, one of the masked men stepped forward and locked his arm tightly around Tanahashi’s neck in a crushing rear naked choke.

The hold was merciless, the Ace’s body jerking as the oxygen drained from him. The second man leaned lazily in the corner, unmoving, almost amused by the unfolding scene. Tanahashi’s attempts to fight back weakened with every passing second until his body began to sag, his eyes glassy. The attacker lowered him down to a seated position, his grip still iron-tight. Then, with calculated precision, the man sprinted toward the opposite ropes and came hurtling back with brutal velocity. The penalty kick cracked through the arena like a gunshot. The impact was not to Tanahashi’s chest or neck but straight to his face, his head whipping back violently.

Tanahashi collapsed to the mat, motionless. Blood began to trail down from his forehead almost instantly, the crowd’s horrified gasps washing over the scene. The two figures stood side by side, centering themselves toward the hard camera. For a long moment, the silence returned, and then, slowly, both reached for their masks. The first to unmask was the attacker, his face revealed to the world: Katsuyori Shibata. The crowd erupted in disbelief, the prodigal son who had abandoned the company now standing over its champion’s broken body.

The second figure remained still for a beat before removing his own mask. The calm eyes and faint smirk of Tetsuya Naito stared back at the hard camera.

Without a word, Naito reached into his jacket and retrieved a black can of spray paint. The hiss of the nozzle broke the silence as he crouched over the canvas, painting bold kanji strokes beside Tanahashi’s fallen body: 秩序回復. The letters stark and dark against the cerulean blue mat.

By the time the final character was written, the locker room had erupted. Kojima, Liger, Tenzan, Mutoh, and Nagata all rushed down the ramp, the crowd roaring in chaos. Liger was the first into the ring, kneeling beside Tanahashi as Kojima shouted for medical staff. Mutoh, however, stood frozen just outside the ropes. His eyes were locked on Shibata and Naito, who calmly were leaving through the crowd. These ghosts of New Japan’s past, now reborn as something darker, left even Mutoh speechless.

The two men slowly turned toward an exit, as security began to flood the arena. They walked together into the sea of flashing cameras, their backs to the chaos they had caused. Behind them, Tanahashi’s blood stained the mat, the kanji letters that translate best to the English phrase “Restore Order” glaring beneath the lights like a prophecy. The Ace of the Universe lay broken, and the New Japan world had just changed forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

 

[Brett]

Episode II: "秩序回復"
Releases Tuesday, November 18th

​

 

[O-Blaze]

Bookmarked to read when I want to sit back and read something.

 

[Santa Hoss]

Alrighty, finished reading the first entry and I'm definitely intrigued. Been a while since I read a detailed match such as that, so I enjoyed that element. Very nice and dramatically written. I had no idea where things were going and found the reveal to be compelling. Taking an alternate route with this group of NJPW "castoffs" instead of the Bullet Club is a fun idea and raises a lot of questions for NJPW. The success of BC obviously ushered in a lot of financial success for NJPW, but the negative effects of their reliance on BC continue to be felt strongly to this day. With this stable (presumably) focusing more on native talent, it also (presumably) would mean a better long-term investment from NJPW, as they (presumably) wouldn't have to deal with the talent leaving whenever WWE or eventually AEW come calling. Definitely a fun concept. I actually was on a bit of a sabbatical from wrestling from like 2013 to the end of 2017, basically 2018, so I experienced basically none of the peak of BC and NJPW in real time I always kind of romanticize that era of indie and international wrestling because I feel like I missed something truly special. On the upside of that, I'm not super emotionally tied to really any of these wrestlers or concepts, so I'm kinda game to see whatever you may cook up.

 

[Brett]

Episode II: "秩序回復"

April 7, 2013
Ryogoku Sumo Hall, Tokyo, Japan
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Aftermath​

The closing image of Invasion Attack 2013 lingered in the minds of everyone who witnessed it. The final moments replayed endlessly across fan recordings and instant social media recounts, each angle capturing the same impossible sight. Hiroshi Tanahashi had stood in the center of Sumo Hall moments after surviving a war with Hirooki Goto. His chest pulsing with exhausted pride as he reclaimed his place as the Ace, his championship glistening under the lights. He raised the microphone to speak, ready to deliver the familiar closing promises he had given New Japan for years. The ritual was comforting.

Predictable.

Safe.

Then the arena fell into darkness.

And the world that New Japan understood fell with it.

The lights returned to reveal two masked men in all black. Their presence was so sharp and sudden that even the loudest fans fell to stunned silence. What followed arrived with brutal clarity. One man snared the Ace in a rear naked choke, and the other watched with deliberate calm in the corner. The kick that ended the attack was unforgiving. It landed square on Tanahashi’s face and sent blood spilling onto the cerulean canvas almost immediately. When the masks finally came off, the shock was complete. Katsuyori Shibata, stiff and cold as a trident, stood beside a composed Tetsuya Naito, whose smirk carried the arrogance of a man who knew the meaning of his return. Their message, painted in black kanji across the mat, left no room for interpretation.

Restore Order.

The ring symbolically filled with veterans rushing to Tanahashi’s aid, but the damage had already been done. The last shot of the night was not the Ace standing tall, nor the fanfare of another victory. It was the champion lying on his side, a pool of red gathering beneath his brow and across the canvas while Keiji Mutoh stood frozen near the ropes. His eyes were wide, his posture rigid, as if the ghosts of the company’s past had returned to claim something he could not yet name.

Backstage, chaos replaced the usual rhythm of post show media. Reporters gathered with notebooks and cameras in hand, prepared for the standard remarks from the performers. The backstage press area, usually busy but orderly, now buzzed with unease. Word began spreading before anyone official said a thing. Tanahashi would not appear. Tanahashi had not stood under his own power. Tana was not even in the building anymore.

Minutes after being rushed behind the curtain, the medical team determined that the kick from Shibata had caused a hematoma to form across his forehead. The swelling was immediate and concerning, and the decision was made without debate. Hiroshi Tanahashi was transported directly to a nearby hospital for evaluation. The usual parade of ice packs, quick stitches, and determined grins was not an option tonight. There would be no smiling declaration that he was fine. There would be no Ace rallying the locker room or reminding the world that New Japan would move forward.

Instead, a gurney rolled through the dim service hallway with staff guiding Tanahashi’s limp arm back onto the stretcher. Cameras were pushed aside. Questions went unanswered. The Ace of New Japan had been silenced, not by defeat, but by violence far beyond the boundaries of sport. And as the news filtered through the press area, one truth settled uncomfortably among the reporters.

This was no angle.

This was a hematoma that had been growing on the company’s foundation for sometime.

And it was getting ready to pop.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mutoh Appears to the Press​

Keiji Mutoh steps into the media room with the weight of the moment written across his face, the bright lights catching the faint lines of concern above his calm exterior. Understandably trying to appear calm and reserved as he is the leader of New Japan. With Tanahashi en route to the hospital, Mutoh assumed the responsibility of addressing the press, planting himself firmly behind the microphone as flashbulbs pop. His presence carries a gravitas that steadies the room, a legend stepping forward when one of the company’s cornerstones has fallen. Though he maintains his stoic composure, there’s a sharp edge in his eyes, a hint of the protective fire that ignites when one of his own is hurt. The cameras roll, the murmurs quiet, and Mutoh prepares to speak.

Keiji Mutoh:
“Honjitsu wa shitsugi-ōtō ni wa ōjimasen. Tadashi, sakihodo okita IWGP hebīkyū ōja e no akiraka na bōkō ni tsuite wa, koko de shikkari to hanashite okimasu.”
I won’t be taking any questions tonight. What I will do is address the disgraceful, cowardly assault that was carried out against the IWGP Heavyweight Champion. What happened out there wasn’t competition, it was an ambush, and it will not be ignored.​

Keiji Mutoh:
"Hiroshi Tanahashi-san o kōgeki shita futari no otoko wa, watashi mo New Japan no dare yori mo shōtai shite.
Kare-ra ga donoyō ni kaijō ni ninshiki naku hairi no ka, mada fumei de ari, genzai shin nihon to Ryōgoku Sumo Hall no keibi, sarani chihō keisatsu ni yotte chōsa sareteいmasu."
The two men who attacked Hiroshi Tanahashi were not invited by me or by anyone within New Japan management. How they managed to infiltrate the building remains unknown, and both New Japan and Ryogoku Sumo Hall security, along with local authorities, are actively investigating the incident.​

Keiji Mutoh:
“Kono futari no Inbēdā no dōki wa imada fumei desu. Soshite hai, watashi wa karera o namae de yobu koto wa arimasen. Karera ga nanimono ka, Inbēdā de aru koto, sore igai ni imi wa arimasen. Shin Nihon no fan no minasama ni wa, karera ga Shin Nihon Puroresu to keiyaku shita senshu de wa naku, kongo no ‘Road to Wrestling Dontaku’ tsuā ni mo tōjō suru yotei wa issai nai koto o rikai shite itadakitai.”
As for the motives of these two invaders, yes, I will refer to them only as what they are, invaders, they remain completely unknown. What New Japan fans can be certain of is that these two men are not contracted New Japan talent, nor will they appear in any capacity on the upcoming ‘Road to Wrestling Dontaku’ tour or any New Japan show in the coming months for that matter.​

Keiji Mutoh:
“Kono yō na jiken ga okoreba, fan no aida de ōkina hanshin ya hanran ga umareru koto mo rikai shiteimasu.
Soshite Shin Nihon no Kaichō to shite watashi ga hakkiri ittoko: kako ni watashi wa kono futari no resurā ni modotte kite hoshikute, fuku su no kōshō o kokoromita keireki ga arimasu. Dakara, karera ga seishiki na katachi de modoru michi o fuseida, to iu yōna uwasa, sore wa mattaku no kuso desu. Kore wa hijō ni hanzai-teki na bōkō de ari, hotondo jūnen ni watatte Shin Nihon no hata o seotte kita otoko e no kōgeki desu. Kono futari no Inbēdā ni sono keiyaku mo, sono chūsei mo, nanihitotsu arimasen.”
I understand that an incident like this can stir up a lot of speculation and fanfare. Let me be perfectly clear as President of New Japan: I have personally pursued negotiations with these two wrestlers in the past. I wanted them back in New Japan. So any suggestion that they were suppressed, ignored, or denied a proper avenue to return is absolute nonsense. What happened tonight was a criminal assault against a man who has carried the New Japan banner for nearly a decade, something these two invader thugs cannot claim.​

Keiji Mutoh:
“Saigo ni, fan no minasama ni tsutaetai. Kondo no Wrestling Dontaku wa, go-gatsu mikka, Fukuoka de kaisai saremasu. Gensai no jōkyō kara mireba, Tanahashi Hiroshi wa sono hi made ni fukkatsu dekiru to no mikomi desu. Kare wa IWGP Heavyweight Championship o kakete, seishiki ni shiai ni nozoむ yotei da. Soshite kono fushin na jiken ni kansuru shinjitsu, Shin Nihon, Sumo Hall no sekyuriti, oyobi keisatsu ga kyōryoku shite chōsa o susumeteimasu. Kekkaron ga detashidai, watashitachi wa tadachini kēsu o happyōshi, kōkai no puroresu fanz ni subete o tsutaeru koto o yakusoku shimasu. Minna ga anshin shite Wrestling Dontaku o tanoshimeru yō, Shin Nihon wa zenryoku de taiō shiteimasu.
Arigato gozaimasu”
Finally, I want to speak directly to our fans. Wrestling Dontaku will take place on May 3rd in Fukuoka, and based on the information we have right now, Hiroshi Tanahashi is expected to return in time for the event. He intends to step into the ring and defend his IWGP Heavyweight Championship as scheduled. As for the truth behind this disturbing incident, New Japan, Sumo Hall security, and local authorities are investigating together as previously mentioned. Once we have a definitive resolution, we will immediately present our findings in a press conference and make everything clear to the public.
We want every fan to feel confident and safe as we head toward Wrestling Dontaku, and New Japan will respond with our full focus and commitment.
Thank you all.​

Mutoh stepped away from the podium with the same rigid composure he’d maintained throughout the statement, but the moment he cleared the curtain and the cameras were out of sight, the mask of authority loosened. He was determined to figure out how this happened on his watch and had a growing suspicion that it was not simply a rogue and isolated incident.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Pawn is Revealed​

Mutoh’s pace slowed when the head of security intercepted him, the man’s face tight with urgency as he motioned him toward a small monitor station tucked away in a side room of the Sumo Hall. A handful of staff members were already gathered around the screen, their expressions tense as grainy footage played from one of the lesser-used loading dock entrances. The time stamp matched the window in which Shibata and Naito would have slipped into the building. Mutoh crossed his arms, leaning in as the guard scrubbed backward and forward through the clip until the crucial moment appeared. The camera showed the two masked men stepping out of the shadows toward a side door that should have been locked from the inside. Instead, the door cracked open just enough to reveal a figure waiting for them. Security zoomed in frame by frame, the pixels sharpening enough to expose a man in a clean black suit, a white surgical mask covering the lower half of his face, and a Bushiroad insignia stitched neatly onto the breast pocket of his jacket. The suited figure glanced over his shoulder once, then held the door wide, ushering the two invaders into the arena as if they were expected.

Mutoh’s footsteps echoed lightly down the backstage corridor, but inside, his chest felt like it was trapped under a weight he couldn’t shift. The adrenaline from the ring hadn’t even begun to fade, and already a cold knot of apprehension had settled in his gut even worse than the initial attack. Normally, he could compartmentalize, the schedule, the matches, the politics, but tonight was different. Something in the air prickled at him, an instinct he had learned to trust over decades in the business.

The walls of the corridor, painted a neutral gray, seemed suddenly suffocating, amplifying the distant hum of equipment and muffled voices from other parts of the arena. Mutoh’s mind raced, not in chaos, but in a meticulous, calculating way. He understood immediately that this wasn’t a typical backstage dispute. There was a precision to the intrusion, a quiet intent that suggested someone knew the soft points of the company better than he did.

If there was a single entity capable of exerting absolute influence here, it was Bushiroad. Mutoh could feel the invisible presence of their authority pressing against every decision, every move he could make. The executives didn’t yell or storm offices; they didn’t need to. Their power manifested as an expectation that everything ran perfectly, or else consequences quietly accumulated. Bushiroad had rarely if ever gotten involved in the day-to-day workings of New Japan's booking or on-air goes abouts.

And that’s when it hit him: this might not be a situation he could contain. He could almost sense the ramifications extending beyond the immediate chaos, threading outward in a web only Bushiroad could control. Mutoh’s face remained calm, measured; he had trained himself to project serenity in moments of crisis. But beneath that composed exterior, a pulse of raw tension surged. He was no longer just reacting to Shibata and Naito’s rogue behavior. He was calculating, anticipating, and realizing the true scale of what he might be up against.

Every instinct screamed that tonight was a pivot point, that the ramifications could ripple farther than anyone in the arena might notice. Mutoh inhaled slowly, grounding himself, forcing the tension back into manageable channels. He would need all of his experience, all of his awareness, and all of his connections to navigate what was coming because whatever this was, it wasn’t just a backstage incident. It was something far more deliberate, far more dangerous, and it bore the unmistakable signature of the company’s hidden power.

First things first, get Takaaki Kidani on the phone- NOW.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Phone Call Between Kidani and Mutoh​

Mutoh: Takaaki, I apologize for calling so late. I know it is unusual, but I felt it necessary to address something immediately. I need to understand what had taken place before the situation escalates any further.

Kidani: Keiji, no need to apologize. I was actually watching the show and, I have to admit, I was stunned by what unfolded. That was… unexpected.

Mutoh: I appreciate your understanding. I should ask directly, did you have any foreknowledge of this incident?

Kidani: No, absolutely not. I had no idea anything like this was going to happen. I have been following the schedule and reviewing plans with the team, and nothing remotely suggested this. As you know we at Bushiroad rarely if ever meddle in your business and we have always supported your direction in running New Japan.

Mutoh: That is what I hoped to confirm. The issue, however, is more complicated. We have confirmed that presumably one of your employees, someone affiliated directly with Bushiroad was observed granting these men access to the building. They were allowed in without any clearance, and it appears to have been intentional.

Kidani: I see… that is troubling to hear. I should clarify something, Keiji. I do not holster all of Bushiroad’s authority in my own hands. In fact, I recently appointed a new chief of operations for the company, with a primary focus on the New Japan portfolio.

Mutoh: I understand that you hold certain authorities elsewhere, Takaaki, but I need clarity. Can you give me any specifics about this new chief of operations? Even generalities, experience, role, anything that would help me understand who we are working with?

Kidani: I’m afraid I cannot provide details at this time, Keiji. Both parties have signed non-disclosure agreements regarding this appointment, and the information will be formally released when appropriate.

Mutoh: Takaaki, you must understand my position here. I was directly involved in negotiating the deal with Bushiroad, in securing the structure we operate under. To leave me completely in the dark about a hire of this magnitude, someone now wielding even the slightest authority over the very portfolio I manage is, frankly, quite ridiculous.

Kidani: I understand, and I do apologize, Keiji. Please know it was not intended as a slight. The staff restructuring at Bushiroad has only transpired in the past couple of days. I did not anticipate that such a change could create complications or leave you without necessary context.

Mutoh: A couple of days or not, Takaaki, the effects are immediate. We are already dealing with the fallout, and I need to know the players. Leaving me blind in a situation of this scale puts not just the company, but the product itself, at risk.

Kidani: I see your point, Keiji, and I take it seriously. I can assure you that the intention was never to undermine your role. The timing simply did not allow for a full briefing before the changes took effect.

Mutoh: I understand your position, but let me leave you with this, Takaaki. New Japan’s success has carried Bushiroad more than once. The valuation of YOUR company didn’t rise on card games and luck. It rose because people like me kept this company alive and thriving when it mattered. So if someone new thinks they can step in and start making moves behind a curtain, you may want to remind them exactly what this foundation is built on. ME.

*Click*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kidani Meets with the New COO
April 8, 2013
Bushiroad HQ, Tokyo, Japan
​

Kidani closed the office door behind him, the soft click reverberating through the unusually quiet executive suite. The new COO was already seated at the small conference table, postured straight, expression unreadable. Kidani took his seat across from the COO, exhaling slowly as he gathered his thoughts.

Kidani: I need to make something very clear. What happened at Invasion Attack was not communicated to me. Not one whisper of it. I do not appreciate being blindsided by an operation taking place under the New Japan banner without any forewarning.

The COO did not flinch. Their eyes remained steady, calm, almost clinical.

COO: I understand your concern. But the outcome speaks for itself. The reaction has been overwhelming. The buzz, the virality, the engagement. You saw the numbers. You saw the discourse. This is what you wanted, is it not?

Kidani paused. He had been stern, but he could not deny the truth. The incident had exploded across social media, trended in multiple regions, and generated the kind of unpaid marketing companies fantasized about.

Kidani: Yes, I have seen the impact. I will admit, it is impressive. But that does not excuse bypassing me. I need to know the moving parts if I am expected to answer for them.

The COO leaned forward slightly, voice cutting clean through the room.

COO: I did not come here to be for profit. I came for the restoration of the lion. The heart of this brand has been diluted. Mutoh, for all his accomplishments, has jeopardized the integrity of Inoki’s vision. He has traded the fighting spirit for corporate sponsored nostalgia. It sells tickets today, certainly. It pleases investors in the short term. But it rots the foundation.

Kidani’s expression shifted, the COO’s tone catching him off guard.

Kidani: Mutoh is a pillar of this company. You know that.

COO: I know far more than that. I know what he was and what he has allowed himself to become. There is a glass ceiling above New Japan, one built by years of leaning on the past rather than pushing forward. That ceiling grows closer every quarter. If we do not break it now, it will suffocate everything beneath it.

The COO’s gaze sharpened.

COO: This new approach is not a stunt. It is a recalibration. By the time we are done, the lion will enter the next generation stronger than it has ever been.

Kidani felt the weight of the words settle in the room. Whoever this COO was, they carried conviction that bordered on unnerving. But they also carried something else: history. A past with Mutoh sharp enough to slice through every sentence.

And Kidani could tell they believed every word they said.

COO: Since you want to be made aware of such incidents. I have given Shibata and Naito contracts that share language of both Bushiroad and New Japan exclusivity. They are roster members of New Japan whether Mutoh likes it or not. That was power given to me by yourself, so this should come as no surprise. I have also struck new deals with two more wrestlers. One a gaijin junior with deep roots in New Japan who carries himself with the fighting spirit that belongs within the company. And secondly another junior heavyweight casted away by Mutoh's lack of focus on the young lion system, a junior with an immense amount of promise that had seemingly been thrown out by New Japan while on the Mexico independent circuit. Those two men WILL debut during this next tour of shows and will enter the coming Best of the Super Juniors tournament. I also am very near finalizing the Ace up my sleeve. But I will not reveal that until I put pen to paper. You can let Mutoh know about the two coming juniors.

Kidani: When can we go public with your role? I know we are a private company and in theory could have you operate from the shadows, but I do not feel like answering to conspiracy theories and tall tales for much longer and it's only been 24 hours of this nonsense.

COO: We will reveal my identity when the time is right. And that is not right now. If you feel a type of way about this Takaaki, feel free to pass it to voting from the board of directors. Unfortunately, I think you would be surprised at their agreement with me on keeping anonymity for the time being.

The COO would walk out with both the swagger and confidence of a man who knows he is sitting on a gold mine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
​

 

[Santa Hoss]

So the plot thickens. There isn't too much to comment on this from a technical standpoint. I liked the structure and staging of this, as it continues to play out similar to a docuseries. I think through these first entries, I'm finding myself really enjoying the imagery and how you add little flourishes of detail to fill out the scene.

I'm admittedly a bit on the fence about the blend of shoot and work (or potential lack thereof) in how this is written, and don't too much know how to take it. At this point, I'm essentially taking the story at face value and buying in that Mutoh was legitimately, real life left in the dark about these moves and there's a guy above him making these moves without any correspondence, even though I know, realistically, that would be unlikely... bordering on impossible. That said, it's still absolutely an enticing story and I like the pace that things are unfolding at. Planting plenty of seeds and foreshadowing, and encouraging the reader to speculate about what comes next.

My grasp on NJPW lore isn't the strongest but my best guesses as to who these mystery people are:

Spoiler

COO: Mashiro Chono
Juniors: Kenny Omega and Taichi