The Alternate Era: Season 1, Episode I

[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
Episode I: invaSioN​

 

[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.

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