Chapter 12

Matthew

The sounds of the crowd beyond the curtain was a distant storm, a restless energy that Matthew could feel in his bones. He stood alone near the curtain, on the other side, his fate. His hands moved methodically, finishing the final wraps of tape on his knuckles. The tape was frayed and uneven, the product of someone who had done this a thousand times, relying on instinct more than precision.

He muttered to himself, a mix of Irish slang and self-encouragement under his breath. “Just another fight, yeah? Another lad who thinks he’s better. Let’s show him what real grit looks like.” His words were quiet but firm, like a mantra. There was no crowd here, no coaches, no entourage—just Matthew. 

The faint scent of sweat and blood lingered in the air, remnants of the night’s earlier battles. Somewhere nearby, a muffled cheer erupted from the arena as the announcer’s voice boomed through the walls, signaling it was time. Matthew stretched his neck from side to side, the vertebrae cracking loudly in the silence. He rolled his shoulders once, twice, then clenched his fists, feeling the tightness of the tape dig into his skin.

When the moment came, the sound of his entrance music began to seep through the curtain, a gritty, sound of electric guitar riffs  perfectly suited to him. Matthew’s lips curled into the faintest smirk.

“Right,” he muttered. “Time to earn that pint.”

As he stepped through the curtain, the roar of the crowd hit him like a wave, a deafening wall of sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The lights of the arena bathed him in an unforgiving glare, but Matthew didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise his hands or soak in the cheers like so many others might. He just walked—steady, unshaken, and focused.

The crowd seemed to feel it, that unspoken intensity he carried with him. Their cheers grew louder, a rolling chant starting to rise: “Mat-thew! Mat-thew! Mat-thew!”

The commentary team’s voices carried over the sound system, their words filled with anticipation.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the moment we’ve been waiting for. Matthew, the embodiment of raw grit and determination, is walking to the cage alone—no coaches, no corner team, just himself.”

“And doesn’t that say it all?” the second voice chimed in. “Cade Mercer has all the polish, the team, and the resources, but Matthew? Matthew’s weapon is his heart. It’s grit versus precision, and you can feel this crowd pulling for him.”

The announcer stood in the middle of the cage getting ready to announce the final fight of the night.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for the finnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnal fight of the evening. Introducing for the final time this evening. Fighting out of Cork, Ireland. The Irish brawler who defeated “The Sovereign” Julian St. James, followed by The Iron Wolf, Colton Hayes. Weighing in at 235 pounds….this is Maaaaaaaaaattthewwwwwwwwwwwwww”

Matthew strode down the ramp, his boots thudding against the metal grate as his eyes locked on the cage ahead. He barely glanced at the fans leaning over the barricades, hands outstretched, screaming his name. He gave a slight nod in acknowledgment to a few, but his focus remained unbroken. The towering steel cage loomed larger with every step, its glistening walls reflecting the arena lights.

As he reached the cage, he climbed the steel steps with deliberate calm. The door creaked open, and he stepped inside, his boots pressing into the mat where dried blood from earlier fights had hardened into crimson smears. He paused in the center, his eyes scanning the structure. There was no fear, only determination etched into his rugged features.

The chants grew louder still, shaking the rafters as Matthew finally turned to his corner. He leaned back against the steel mesh, gripping it with both hands, and closed his eyes for a brief moment. The crowd’s energy was electric, almost tangible, but he didn’t let it faze him. This was his moment, and he would face it alone, just as he always had.

The cage door slammed shut with a resonant clang, and the stage was set. The crowd roared its approval, their voices thundering through the arena as the lights dimmed again. Cade Mercer would be next, but in this moment, all eyes were on Matthew, the fighter who carried the weight of their hope on his shoulders, whether he wanted it or not.

Cade Mercer

The locker room Cade Mercer remained an island of calm amidst it all. Brent Norris crouched beside him, giving firm, deliberate instructions as Cade adjusted his tape. "Breathe in. Slow. Controlled. Let the lungs fill—there you go. That’s it. Keep the heart steady."

Across the room, Ethan Carter remained glued to a tablet, replaying footage of Matthew’s earlier fights with laser focus. "His left hook is sharp, but he overcommits on the follow-through," Ethan muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Exploit that gap—pivot and counter. We’ve drilled it a hundred times, Cade."

Cade nodded once, silently absorbing their words like a machine processing input. Every motion was deliberate, every breath measured. He laced his gloves with precision, tightening them without rushing, his expression betraying nothing. His focus was absolute.

Leaning against the far wall, Clayton Reed, exuded confidence. He had one foot propped up, his arms crossed, and an easy smile on his face as he spoke with the assuredness of someone who had already won. "You’ve got this, Cade. Tonight isn’t just another fight; it’s your coronation. You’ve proven you’re the best, and now the world gets to see it."

Cade lifted his head, his gaze steady as steel. “The finals will be mine,” he said, his tone calm and unshaken. “This is just another day.”

The words hung in the air like a declaration of fact, not a boast. Cade was a man who didn’t need to speak much because everything he said carried the weight of certainty.

“Time to move,” Brent announced, standing and slinging a towel over his shoulder. Ethan closed the tablet with a snap, and Clayton pushed off the wall with a grin. The team moved as one, Cade leading the way as they left the locker room.

The hallway stretched before them bustling with activity. Arena staff, stagehands, and production crew moved with purpose, though the energy shifted palpably as Cade passed. Conversations paused, heads turned, and people subtly stepped aside, almost instinctively clearing his path. It wasn’t a deliberate act of reverence—it was something quieter, unspoken, yet unmistakable. The aura of importance around Cade Mercer demanded space, commanded attention.

As he strode through the backstage area, Clayton walked beside him, occasionally whispering last-minute words of encouragement, while Brent and Ethan followed closely behind, each laser-focused on their roles. The entourage moved with the precision of a military unit, their confidence a sharp contrast to the chaotic energy of the arena beyond.

The commentators’ voices filtered faintly through the speakers overhead, narrating the gravity of the moment.

“Cade Mercer has all the tools—world-class training, top-tier coaches, and an unshakable mindset. He’s not just a fighter; he’s a machine built for moments like this.”

“And let’s not ignore what’s happening here,” the second commentator added. “Whether it’s intentional or not, the spotlight that once shone on Titan has shifted entirely to Cade Mercer. This feels like his moment, his tournament.”

As Cade neared the entrance curtain, the low rumble of the crowd grew louder, swelling into a tangible force. The arena’s lights dimmed, and the opening notes of Cade’s entrance music thundered through the speakers—a stripped-down, steel-edged guitar riff.

Clayton patted Cade on the shoulder, his grin unwavering. “Go claim what’s yours.”

Cade stepped through the curtain, his expression as cold and unreadable as ever, and the crowd erupted. Bright lights flooded the ramp, illuminating his figure like a spotlight on destiny. The production spared no expense: the lights danced, the bass shook the floor, and the arena seemed to pulse with his arrival.

“And his opponent. The man who shocked the world by making Titan submit in under 2 minutes, followed by dismantling Jax Braddock. Fighting out of Ashville, North Carolina….weighing in at 26 pounds. The Juggernaut…..Cade……Mercerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”

Cade strode with purpose, his steps measured, his expression unreadable. The production team amplified his aura, bright strobes lighting his path as the crowd’s cheers and boos clashed in equal measure. Arena staff and crew stepped aside as Cade passed, their movements almost subconscious, as if he was a king walking through his court. It was clear, intentional or not, that the focus had shifted to Cade Mercer. He was the chosen one now, the tournament’s inevitable champion in the eyes of many.

The commentators fed into the spectacle, one noting, “Look at the resources this man has at his disposal. Coaches, managers, state-of-the-art analysis—Cade Mercer is not here by chance. He’s here because he’s been groomed for this moment.”

The other countered, “But will all that polish be enough to stop the raw force of Matthew? This is the clash we’ve all been waiting for—finesse versus ferocity.”

Brent and Ethan flanked him like sentinels, while Clayton followed with the swagger of a man who already had a victory speech prepared.

Inside the cage, Matthew leaned against the opposite corner, watching Cade’s entrance with quiet intensity. Cade stepped through the cage door as it creaked open, moving to his corner with precision, every movement calculated. His eyes locked on Matthew for a brief moment before turning to Brent for final adjustments on his gloves. He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders, and settled into a stance that exuded readiness.

The commentators delivered their final thoughts as the cage door slammed shut behind him.

“Cade Mercer is the polished machine, the inevitable champion. But tonight, he faces a different kind of opponent—one who doesn’t rely on polish or precision. This is going to be a battle of styles, a clash of wills.”

The lights dimmed slightly, the crowd’s anticipation reaching its peak as the two fighters stood in their respective corners. The cage, now fully enclosed, felt more like a coliseum than ever, ready to host the final chapter of the tournament. Cade stood motionless, a statue of confidence and control, his expression as cold as the steel walls surrounding him. The moment had arrived.

Cade Mercer vs. Matthew

Cade stood in his corner, his demeanor cold and calculated. He rotated his shoulders and flexed his fingers, every movement deliberate, every breath controlled. Across from him, Matthew paced like a predator. His fists clenched and unclenched, his chest rising and falling with steady intensity. His eyes never left Cade, and the crowd felt his determination radiating from every step.

The referee called them to the center of the cage, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Gentlemen, this is the final match of the tournament. You know the rules. No rounds, no breaks. Thirty-minute time limit. Victory by pinfall, submission, or knockout. Protect yourselves at all times. When the bell rings, let’s get to it.”

Cade extended his hands, cool and emotionless. Matthew hesitated, staring Cade down before slapping his hands with a forceful crack. The crowd erupted, their anticipation boiling over as the fighters stepped back to their corners. The referee raised his hand, signaling the start of the fight.

The bell rang. The main event was underway.

Cade wasted no time closing the distance, his precise footwork cutting off Matthew’s movement. He opened with a sharp leg kick that cracked against Matthew’s thigh, followed by a quick jab that snapped Matthew’s head back. Cade’s strategy was clear from the outset: break Matthew down methodically.

But Matthew wasn’t here to play Cade’s game. He ducked under Cade’s next jab and barreled forward, driving his shoulder into Cade’s midsection and slamming him into the cage wall. The impact rattled the steel, drawing a roar from the crowd. Matthew unleashed a barrage of hooks to Cade’s ribs, each strike landing with raw, unrelenting power.

Cade remained composed, worked to frame Matthew’s face with his forearm, creating just enough space to fire a sharp elbow into Matthew’s temple. The Irishman staggered back, but his expression only hardened. Matthew lunged forward again, this time connecting with a thunderous uppercut that sent Cade stumbling back into the center of the cage.

“Matthew’s raw power is overwhelming!” one commentator shouted over the deafening crowd.

“Cade’s precision is being tested like never before!”

Cade regrouped quickly, using his technical ability to slip Matthew’s wild right hook and counter with a takedown. The crowd groaned as Cade slammed Matthew onto the bloodstained mat and transitioned smoothly into side control. He began working for a kimura, isolating Matthew’s arm and twisting it at a dangerous angle.

Matthew growled through gritted teeth, his face contorted in pain. The referee hovered nearby, ready to step in, but Matthew powered through, using his immense strength to roll Cade onto his back. The crowd exploded as Matthew mounted Cade and began raining down hammer fists. Cade covered up, his team shouting instructions from the outside.

“Matthew’s not giving Cade a moment to breathe!” the commentator exclaimed. “This is pure, unfiltered grit!”

The fight continued, each minute a grueling test of will and skill. Cade managed to reverse the position, trapping Matthew in his guard and locking in a triangle choke. The crowd gasped as Cade’s legs tightened around Matthew’s neck. For a moment, it seemed like the fight was over.

But Matthew wasn’t done. He lifted Cade off the mat, the crowd roaring with disbelief, and slammed him back down to break the hold. Cade grimaced but immediately transitioned to an armbar, his technical mastery on full display.

Matthew’s face turned red as he struggled against the hold. The referee moved closer, watching for a tap. Just when it seemed like Cade might seal the victory, Matthew rolled his body weight forward, slipping out of the armbar and landing a desperate headbutt that opened a gash above Cade’s eye.

Blood streamed down Cade’s face as the crowd erupted. Matthew staggered to his feet, his leg visibly compromised from Cade’s relentless low kicks earlier in the match. Cade followed, his expression unchanging despite the blood dripping down his cheek.

The fight entered its final minutes and the pace intensified. Cade targeted Matthew’s weakened leg, landing a brutal kick that nearly sent Matthew to the mat. But the Irishman roared in defiance, grabbing Cade by the neck and driving him into the cage with a spine-shaking slam. The crowd chanted Matthew’s name as he hoisted Cade onto his shoulders, looking to finish him with a powerbomb.

But Cade wasn’t finished. In mid-air, he slipped out of Matthew’s grasp and landed behind him. Before Matthew could react, Cade locked his arms around Matthew’s waist and launched him overhead with a devastating German suplex. The back of Matthew’s head hit the mat with a sickening thud, but somehow, he kicked out at two.

The crowd was on its feet as the final minute approached. Both men were battered, their bodies soaked in sweat and smeared with blood. Cade, sensing victory, locked in the Juggernaut Clutch—a brutal neck crank that had ended matches before. Matthew clawed at Cade’s hands, his face twisted in agony.

The referee leaned in. “Do you want to quit, Matthew?”

Matthew roared, “Never!” and, with a burst of strength, broke free from the hold. The crowd erupted as Matthew staggered to his feet, his body trembling but his spirit unbroken. Cade came forward, looking to finish him with a clinch, but Matthew unleashed a spinning backfist that caught Cade flush on the jaw. Cade stumbled, and Matthew followed with a suplex attempt.

But Cade reversed it. In one fluid motion, he hoisted Matthew into the air and drove him into the cage wall with his finishing move, Terminal Impact—a running powerbomb that left Matthew crumpled on the mat. The cage shook violently as Cade mounted him, delivering a barrage of ground-and-pound strikes, before covering him.

The referee dove in for the count.

“One… two… three!”

The bell rang, and Cade Mercer rose to his feet, blood dripping down his face but his expression cold and composed. Clayton Reed vaulted over the cage wall, wrapping Cade in a jubilant embrace. Brent Norris and Ethan Carter rushed in through the cage door, their shouts of victory blending with the chaotic roar of the crowd.

Matthew lay motionless on the mat, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He had fought with everything he had, but Cade’s precision and dominance had prevailed.

Cade raised his arms in victory, the faintest of smiles crossing his lips as the crowd gave him a mixed reaction. The tournament was over. Cade Mercer was the champion.

Winner: Cade Mercer via Pinfall 18 minutes 32 seconds

The Era of Cade Mercer Begins

The fans reached a boiling point as the referee’s hand hit the mat for the third and final count. The bell rang, signaling the end of the match, and the sound echoed through the arena like a gunshot. Cade Mercer rolled off Matthew, sweat dripping from his face, blood streaked across his forehead from the gash that had opened earlier. He stood slowly, methodically, breathing heavily, but movements remained calm and calculated as always.

The crowd’s reaction was thunderous but divided—some cheered out of respect for the dominant display they had just witnessed, while others booed loudly, their disappointment in Matthew’s loss. Chants of “Matthew! Matthew!” lingered in the air, a testament to the Irishman’s grit and determination, even in defeat.

Cade’s coach, Clayton Reed, was the first to act. He vaulted over the cage wall with surprising agility for a man his age, his face lit with unrestrained triumph. He rushed to Cade, grabbing his arm and thrusting it into the air as he shouted, “I told you he was unstoppable! This is the era of Cade Mercer!”

The cage door swung open, and Brent Norris and Ethan Carter stepped inside, their faces a mix of pride and satisfaction. Brent patted Cade on the back, muttering praise, while Ethan handed him a towel to wipe the blood and sweat from his face. Cade accepted it with a curt nod, dabbing at his forehead as his chest rose and fell steadily.

Unlike his team, Cade showed no wild displays of emotion. His lips curled into a subtle, confident smile, just enough to acknowledge his victory, but his stoicism dominated the moment. To Cade, this wasn’t a shocking triumph or an underdog story. It was exactly what he had prepared for, exactly what he had expected. Every step, every strike, every tactic had led to this moment, and he carried himself as though it had all been inevitable.

The crowd’s mixed emotions filled the air. Some fans rose to their feet in respectful applause, recognizing the skill and strategy Cade had displayed throughout the tournament. Others booed loudly, their disappointment in Matthew’s defeat outweighing their appreciation for Cade’s dominance. A few pockets of fans chanted, “Let’s go Matthew!” as the Irishman remained slumped on the mat, still catching his breath.

Cade’s eyes briefly flickered toward Matthew, who was now propped up on one elbow, blood dripping from his lip but with a defiant glint still in his eye. Cade didn’t linger on him for long. His focus shifted back to his team, to Clayton, Brent, and Ethan, who stood around him like a coronation court.

Clayton, ever the showman, turned to the crowd, raising Cade’s arm once more. “This man is the future! The best in the world, and you’re looking at him right here!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the noise.

Cade didn’t bask in the adulation—or the jeers. He stood tall, letting the moment wash over him without succumbing to it. His expression said everything: This wasn’t a celebration. It was confirmation.

The cage door creaked open again, and Logan Drake stepped inside, carrying the tournament trophy. The golden cup gleamed under the harsh arena lights, a stark contrast to the bloodstained mat beneath it. Logan adjusted his tie nervously, the weight of the night’s events pressing down on him as he approached the new champion.

In the back of Logan's mind, Sebastian’s words echoed sharply: Don’t pull any more stunts without my permission. But Sebastian was no longer in the building, and Logan still had a crowd to address. There was no avoiding the spotlight now.

Cade Mercer stood in the center of the cage, his stoic demeanor unshaken as his coaches surrounded him like a used car salesman. Clayton Reed smirked as Logan approached, almost daring him to fumble the moment.

Logan cleared his throat and forced a smile, raising the microphone to his lips. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice a little shaky but growing steadier as he continued, “tonight has been a historic evening. First and foremost, I want to thank Peak Media Group for their investment and vision in making this tournament possible.”

The mention of Peak Media drew a mix of cheers and scattered boos from the crowd, though Logan seemed to barely register the reaction. His hands gripped the trophy tightly as he glanced briefly at Cade, who stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the prize.

“And now,” Logan continued, pivoting toward the main point, “it’s my honor to present this trophy to the winner of our inaugural tournament. A man who has proven his dominance, his skill, and his undeniable place at the top of this sport. Ladies and gentlemen… your champion… Cade Mercer!”

The crowd erupted, though the reaction remained divided. Cheers of respect clashed with the lingering disappointment of Matthew’s fans, creating a chaotic symphony of noise. Logan extended the trophy toward Cade, who stepped forward with the same calculated precision that had defined him all night.

Cade accepted the trophy without a word, raising it above his head as the mixed crowd noise surged to a crescendo. His face betrayed no overwhelming emotion—just a subtle, confident smirk, as if the trophy was simply an affirmation of what he already knew to be true.

Clayton Reed wasn’t about to let the moment end there. Grabbing a microphone from the referee, he stepped to Cade’s side, his voice booming over the noise. “Ladies and gentlemen, I told you from day one. I told you this man was unstoppable! Cade Mercer isn’t just a champion—he’s the greatest athlete this sport has ever seen! And mark my words, this is just the beginning. Tonight, you’ve witnessed history!”

Cade didn’t react to Clayton’s grandstanding, letting the manager soak in the spotlight as he continued to hold the trophy aloft. Brent Norris and Ethan Carter flanked him, their expressions reflecting pride in their fighter’s calculated, dominant performance.

As Clayton handed the microphone back to the referee, the camera began to pan out, pulling away from the cage. The crowd remained on its feet, their cheers and boos blending into a deafening roar as the image of Cade standing tall with his trophy came into full view.

The lights in the arena dimmed slightly, highlighting the cage as the centerpiece of the night. The credits began to roll on the broadcast, but the final image lingered for a moment longer: Cade Mercer, stoic and unshaken, standing atop the mountain he had conquered, surrounded by his team and the echoes of a night that would define the sport for years to come.

The bar was a relic of a bygone era, flickering neon signs casting muted hues of red and blue across the cracked walls. Cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the tarnished ceiling, while a jukebox in the corner hummed out a melancholy tune that seemed almost forgotten by the few scattered patrons nursing their drinks. It was the kind of place where time moved slower, where conversations were sparse, and every drink carried a story untold.

At the bar, a lone man sat hunched over, his broad shoulders shadowed in the light. His rugged hands cradled a whiskey glass, its amber contents catching the glow of a nearby neon sign. The man swirled the liquid slowly before setting the glass down on the bar top with a heavy clink. His voice, gravelly and low, broke the silence around him like the rumble of distant thunder.

“By God, the kid did it,” he said, his tone equal parts disbelief and admiration.

The bartender rolled-up his sleeves and had a perpetual scowl softened only by years of familiarity with his regulars, glanced over. He was wiping a glass with an old rag, his movements unhurried, as though he’d seen nights like this a thousand times before. Without stopping his task, he leaned slightly closer.

The jukebox sputtered, the melancholic tune fading briefly before picking up again, its haunting melody weaving through the haze of smoke and muted conversations.

“Another whiskey, Grizz?” the bartender asked, his voice calm and matter-of-fact, as though this exchange had played out between them countless times.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Pour me another. I’m celebrating tonight”

 A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.