Kingdom Come - Contenders 1

CHAPTER 6

Like aftershocks from a seismic event, Strike Force Legends continued to reshape the landscape of combat sports, each tremor exposing new fault lines in the foundation of power, each ripple touching lives in ways that defied prediction. In the gleaming towers of Manhattan, Victor Blackwell had transformed the tournament's success into Summit Fighting League, a corporate monolith built on the bones of Logan Drake's vision. While Victor orchestrated his empire from above, the fighters below grappled with their own demons: Titan haunted his Palm Beach sanctuary, a fallen king tortured by Cade Mercer's victory and Victor's manipulative promises of redemption. Happy Jack descended deeper into the underground fighting scene, his savage artistry becoming more unhinged with each blood-soaked performance. Jax Braddock clawed his way back from rock bottom, finding unlikely salvation in faith and the promise of redemption, while Glenn Sterling confronted the twilight of his career with a pride that refused to dim. In Ireland, Matthew wrestled with the pull of home versus the siren call of unfinished business, his victories in the tournament both validating his worth and stoking a deeper hunger. Through it all, Cade Mercer sat atop the mountain as PMG's chosen champion, though the crown's weight began to chafe as Clayton Reed pushed him further from his warrior's heart and deeper into corporate spectacle. The landscape they'd all known had shifted irreversibly—some rising, others falling, but none left unchanged by the tournament that had promised glory and delivered transformation.

Making an Entrance

Dawn stretched its pale fingers across Manhattan, the iconic shape of Madison Square Garden stood silently, bracing for the forthcoming chaos. Production trucks filled the loading dock, showcasing their brand-new Summit Fighting League logos that illuminated under the glow of security lights—like corporate guards protecting the arena of battle. The air was filled with the sounds of early preparations: cables being pulled across the pavement, equipment cases being opened, and radios buzzing with instructions.

Titan's black Escalade prowled toward the loading area with predatory purpose, its engine's low growl a challenge to the morning quiet. He guided the vehicle with deliberate confidence, scanning the near-empty lot with eyes that missed nothing. No gleaming stretch limousines occupied the prime spots. No fighter entourages claimed territory. Not even Glenn Sterling's vehicle had arrived to stake its claim.

Perfect.

A dark satisfaction settled in Titan's chest as his hands flexed around the leather steering wheel. The absence of Sterling's ostentatious display—the man's habit of commandeering the most visible parking spot as if the venue existed to showcase his arrival—presented Titan with opportunity. Not merely to park, but to make a statement.

The Escalade slowed to a crawl before coming to rest directly across the main pathway used by the production trucks, a steel barricade cutting the loading zone in half. Equipment would now need to flow around him—an inconvenience that would ripple through the morning's preparations like a stone disturbing still water. Exactly as intended.

Titan killed the engine and emerged from the vehicle with unhurried grace, his movements carrying the fluid confidence of an apex predator. The morning chill kissed his exposed skin, but he seemed impervious to such mundane sensations. He stood for a moment, sizing up the arena that would soon host his resurgence, mentally claiming the space as part of his territory.

"Hey! Move that thing right now!" The voice cracked like a whip from behind him—weathered but unwavering, carrying the hard-earned authority of a man who'd guarded this concrete kingdom for over three decades. "This ain't my first rodeo with you big shot types. That vehicle's getting towed in five minutes."

Titan didn't bother turning around. His lips curled into a smirk as he continued his path toward the entrance, steps measured and deliberate.

"Sure thing, grandpa," he called back, the words screaming with dismissal. There was no heat in his voice, no anger—just the casual certainty of a man who knew the world would bend around him rather than the other way around.

The veteran attendant's face flushed crimson beneath his weathered complexion, decades of enforcing his domain's rules now challenged by Titan's blatant disregard. He spat a curse and reached for the radio clipped to his belt—his authority might not extend to manhandling celebrity fighters, but he'd spent thirty years cultivating connections with every tow operator in the district. The SUV wouldn't last fifteen minutes before iron hooks claimed it. Small empires had their own forms of justice.

By the time he made his choice, Titan had already disappeared through the arena's service entrance, leaving behind not just a blocked loading dock, but a first move in the psychological match that would unfold throughout the day.

His arrival wasn't just an appearance—it was a declaration. In a world where parking spots were territory and inconvenience was power, Titan had just claimed first blood without throwing a single punch.

The Visionary’s Domain

Madison Square Garden sat in silent expectation, with its eighteen thousand seats unoccupied, poised for the evening's events to start. The expansive venue possessed an eerie quietude that would vanish in mere hours—a cathedral of combat before the faithful arrived for worship. Two hours before showtime, Victor Blackwell moved through the corridors of power like an architect inspecting his creation. The backstage hallway—industrial concrete softened only by sparse lighting—served as his impromptu throne room, each footstep echoing with deliberate authority as he navigated space that seemed to bend around his presence.

Victor's tailored suit remained immaculate despite the barely controlled chaos of live event production swirling around him. Not a thread out of place, not a wrinkle to betray human fallibility. He extended a stack of papers toward the security team with the casual precision of someone accustomed to having his offerings accepted without question.

"Anyone not on this list does not get in." The words fell soft yet leaden, each syllable carrying the weight of consequence rather than threat. "Is that understood?"

A younger security guard—face still unlined by years of following orders—shifted his weight and cleared his throat. "Should we be aware of something specific, sir? A security concern?"

The laugh that escaped Victor's lips was a masterpiece of calculation—just warm enough to disarm, just cold enough to warn. "Nothing so dramatic." His tone suggested both amusement and dismissal. "I simply won't have a repeat of Strike Force Legends. A locker room filled with non-PMG—" 

The mask slipped for just a fraction of a second, a hairline crack in perfect composure before he corrected himself. "SFL employees. This is a place of business. We all have our roles to play, including myself."

His gaze moved from face to face, each lingering connection an assessment of utility. These men, earning barely enough to keep their dreams of advancement alive, recognized the calculation behind his eyes. A good impression tonight might mean a permanent position with PMG. A recommendation from Victor Blackwell could change trajectories. The nods that followed carried the weight of ambition rather than mere compliance. The odds of anything life-changing happening tonight, though, were highly unlikely—but in a place like this, with men like Victor calling the shots, you never knew when the ground beneath you might shift.

Victor's manicured finger descended upon a particular name, the ink around it darker, more deliberate—a quiet emphasis that spoke volumes. "When this individual arrives, I need immediate notification."

Another wave of nods rippled through the group, a silent compact sealed without signatures.

"That will be all." Victor's smile appeared like stage lighting—precisely deployed, illuminating nothing. "Go have a great show."

As the security team dispersed into their assigned positions, the corridor emptied until only two figures remained—Victor and Ollie Crane, the latter standing with the patient stillness of a wolf comfortable with waiting. Where Victor projected calculated warmth, Ollie embraced the cold efficiency of his nature, bow tie and fedora marking him as deliberately anachronistic, a man who preferred the rules of an older time.

"Ollie." Victor acknowledged him with the professional appreciation reserved for fine tools rather than companions. "Thank you for coming. I know this bedlam isn't your natural environment." His fingers adjusted platinum cufflinks with practiced precision. "Sebastian's under the weather, and truthfully, this matter aligns more with your particular talents. Now do you have the phone?"

Ollie responded with economical movement, a slight adjustment of his bow tie followed by the mechanical precision of unlatching his briefcase. Inside, papers lay organized in perfect symmetry, each document aligned with mathematical accuracy. With surgical delicacy, he moved aside the stack to reveal a cell phone nestled in the polished interior. The device passed from his hand to Victor's with the ceremonial weight of a sacred object changing possession.

Victor examined the screen, satisfaction settling into the corners of his mouth. "Perfect," he whispered, the word floating between praise and confirmation. The phone disappeared into his pocket as he leaned against the wall, relaxing into his power in the hollow quiet of the empty arena. His expression carried the patient anticipation of a chess master who had already calculated twenty moves ahead.

"Now," he said, eyes gleaming with the cold light of certainty, "we wait."

Digital Handcuffs

The parking garage existed in that liminal space between abandonment and anticipation—concrete caverns illuminated only by the rhythmic amber pulse of a reversing truck's hazard lights. Each mechanical beep echoed through the emptiness, marking time like a countdown to something inevitable. Logan Drake moved through this purgatory with measured steps, his shoes striking concrete with hollow percussion that seemed to follow him like doubt.

A mental inventory scrolled behind his eyes as he approached the staff entrance: production notes, talent schedules, last-minute adjustments—a thousand moving pieces that would either coalesce into Summit Fighting League's triumphant debut or collapse into spectacular failure. His briefcase felt unnaturally heavy, laden not just with papers but with the crushing weight of compromised dreams.

Security materialized ahead—not the casual presence he expected, but something more attentive, more focused. Their gazes tracked him with sniper precision, hands touching earpieces, bodies subtly shifting to maintain visual contact. Logan registered these details with the subconscious awareness of prey sensing predators, yet his stride never faltered. His body moved forward even as instinct whispered caution.

He reached the checkpoint and presented his credentials—a fresh SFL Staff badge that still felt foreign between his fingers, the plastic too smooth, the colors too vibrant. The guard inspected it with practiced scrutiny before his face softened slightly.

"Strike Force Legends was incredible," the man offered, voice carrying genuine admiration. "One hell of a show."

"Thanks," Logan managed, the word feeling inadequate for the blood and vision that had gone into creating that night. Followed by the weeks following of the unknown.

The security scanner chirped its approval as he passed through, the mundane technology unaware it was admitting him into a domain where he no longer commanded true authority. Logan pushed through the entrance doors as he felt his phone vibrate against his thigh—a missed call— he furrowed his brow, pulling out the device and unlocking the screen just as a voice cleaved through the entrance's hushed atmosphere.

"Logan! Welcome."

Victor Blackwell materialized like an apparition in an expensive suit, his presence redefining the space around him. Every gesture—from the casual adjustment of his platinum cufflinks to the calculated warmth of his smile—projected an effortless dominance that made even stillness feel like movement. He approached with the unhurried confidence of a man who knew the world operated on his schedule.

With the practiced sleight of hand of a street magician, Victor executed a seamless exchange—plucking Logan's worn, battle-scarred phone from his grasp while simultaneously presenting a gleaming new device. The maneuver was so fluid, so natural that Logan's ownership transferred before he could process the intrusion.

"You won't be needing this relic anymore," Victor observed, examining Logan's old phone with theatrical disdain, turning it over as if studying a curious but ultimately worthless artifact. "The screen alone is an embarrassment."

He flipped the new device between his fingers with the casual expertise of a blackjack dealer. 

“This” Victor continued.

"This is your PMG x SFL phone. Military-grade encryption, direct access to my personal line, and the entire PMG ecosystem at your fingertips. Worth more than whatever you drove here in."

Victor let out a laugh—one of those laughs that wasn’t meant to be joined in on, but rather, observed.

“I...I…I took the subway…” Logan muttered, unsure if he was even supposed to answer.

Victor paused, one brow lifting in amusement. “Well,” he mused, “that certainly tracks.”

The smirk that followed existed in the ambiguous territory between collegial ribbing and quiet condescension. Logan felt himself being recategorized in Victor's mental hierarchy—perhaps as a curiosity, perhaps as a project.

Victor's hand descended upon Logan's shoulder with the careful pressure of ownership—not painful, but unmistakably possessive. A gesture that spoke of social order more clearly than any organizational chart.

"Here's the reality, Logan," he continued, his tone modulating into something resembling sincerity. "My physical presence here will be... intermittent. I don't do weekly appearances. Maybe not even monthly. But I don't want you feeling..." He paused, selecting his word with calculated exactness, "...abandoned. This phone is your lifeline. Use it."

Logan searched Victor's expression for the truth beneath the performance. Was this genuine inclusion? A collar disguised as a crown? A test he was already failing? Victor didn't linger for analysis. With the fluid transition of a politician working a room, he straightened his already-perfect jacket and shifted his attention away. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have matters requiring attention."

And just like that, he was gone—walking through the backstage corridors like a king surveying his castle. Logan looked down at the new phone in his hand—sleek, unblemished, virgin territory. He pressed the power button, and the screen illuminated with corporate blue light. A swipe, a password entry, and the contacts list appeared: Victor, Sebastian, Genny, Ollie—followed by an endless scroll of names Logan didn’t recognize. Yet.

Every name that mattered in the PMG empire, now seemingly at his command. A digital key to a kingdom he didn't control. Logan locked the phone and slipped it into his pocket.

Perhaps this was what corporate ascension felt like—a gift that doubled as a tether, a promotion that functioned as surveillance, an opportunity inseparable from obligation.

He adjusted his tie, squared his shoulders, and moved toward the arena. It was time to learn the rules of a game whose board had been arranged long before he arrived.

Claiming Destiny

The midnight-black SUV navigated the concrete descent into Madison Square Garden's underground complex with cutthroat grace. Unlike the utilitarian vehicle that had transported Titan earlier that day, this SUV was not to drive, but to be driven—not by the man inside, but for him. The heavily tinted windows concealed its precious cargo: the most coveted fighter in combat sports.

In the leather-appointed rear seat, Cade Mercer sat with the deceptive stillness of a coiled spring. His posture suggested relaxation, but his eyes—clear and focused—betrayed the calculating mind behind them. Every curve of the road, every subtle vibration through the chassis registered in his consciousness. The journey was smooth, frictionless—much like his trajectory since that night at Strike Force Legends when he'd seized his destiny with both hands.

The grind hadn't ended; it had transformed. No longer was he fighting for his shot. Now? He was the shot. He was the name now. The man every promoter wanted, the fighter every opponent wanted to knock off the throne. 

Beside him, Clayton Reed leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, tinged with restless energy. Clayton was the man who had orchestrated this rise from day one, but this was different. This wasn’t about getting a break—this was about securing the throne.

“Tonight is a rematch, Cade,” Clayton started, his voice smooth but forceful. “I don’t need to tell you how big this is. This isn't just another fight. Strike Force Legends put you on the map, but this? This cements your place in history. The first-ever SFL World Champion. We're not just winning a title—we're establishing your legacy."

Cade nodded, rolling his wrists, exuding quiet confidence. The words were unnecessary but expected. This was their ritual, this affirmation of what already burned in his consciousness. But Clayton was right. This was the night that shut everyone up for good.

From the passenger seat, Ethan Carter, Cade’s striking coach, twisted to face him. "Matthew's going to come at you like a man with something to prove," Ethan stated, his analysis precise and unembellished. "He's emotional. Frustrated. He'll look to overwhelm you in the first three minutes—classic pressure fighter mentality." He sliced one hand through the air in emphasis. "But you? You're water against rock. Angles. Precision. Discipline. Let him exhaust himself against your defense, then dismantle him—just like we drilled."

Brent Norris, Cade’s conditioning coach, leaned in with a smirk. "Your cardio is peak. Your recovery metrics are off the charts," Brent said, the statistics underlying his casual tone. “You’re in the best shape of your career. Five minutes? Ten hours? Doesn’t matter. He has one path to victory—early knockout, ‘cause if this fight goes deep, he’s gonna drown.”

Cade inhaled slowly, a hand moving deliberately across his closely shaved head. His voice was controlled. Cold. Certain.

"Won't need to go deep," he said, eyes fixed on some point beyond the vehicle's confines. "I’m shutting this down early."

Clayton's smile widened, a predator sensing blood in the water. His hand came to rest on Cade's shoulder—a benediction, a seal on a pact made years before.

"That's championship thinking right there."

The SUV came to a smooth halt, tires crunching softly on the concrete. The driver exited and circled to the rear passenger door. As it opened, the distant sounds of the arena hit—security radios crackling with terse updates, equipment being transported, the undercurrent of an empire moving beneath the surface.

Cade emerged from the vehicle with fluid economy, every movement calibrated and purposeful. His shoulders rolled once, not from tension but in acknowledgment of the weight they now carried. It was fuel—it was the culmination of everything he had sacrificed to reach this moment.

The security team formed around him, a moving perimeter that parted staff and production crew alike. But none of them existed for Cade. His focus had already narrowed to a singular point: the cage waiting later, where Matthew sought to rewrite the narrative that Cade had authored with his own blood and will.

Tonight wasn't about defending anything.

Tonight was about claiming what had always been his destiny.

This Is the Moment

Part 1

Madison Square Garden breathed with a life of its own, its storied walls vibrating with the collective energy of thousands of souls united in fevered anticipation. This wasn't merely another event scratched into the arena's long history—this was genesis, the birth cry of Summit Fighting League echoing through halls that had witnessed countless legends but never anything quite like this. The raw electricity in the air felt different from Strike Force Legends—less like lightning caught in a bottle and more like thunder rolling in before a storm that would reshape the landscape of combat sports forever.

The crowd's roar transmitted through concrete and steel, a primal force that rattled the foundation of the venerable venue. Camera operators threaded through the masses like hunters stalking precious moments—a fan's tears of joy, a child's wide-eyed wonder, the pure explosive release of anticipation finally finding voice. Their lenses captured not just images but proof of life, evidence that something extraordinary was taking shape in this sacred space of combat sports history.

Behind the curtain, in the stark fluorescent reality of the locker room, Logan Drake stood like a general before his troops, though the comparison felt hollow in his gut. His hands rested on his hips, a posture of authority that helped mask the turbulent mix of pride and uncertainty churning beneath his composed exterior. Before him, the roster existed in various states of pre-fight ritual—some lost in the moving meditation of stretching, others pacing like caged predators, a few sitting stone-still with thousand-yard stares that spoke of battles yet to come.

The air felt charged with potential energy, like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point. Logan drew in a breath that carried the weight of everything riding on this moment, then let his voice cut through the tension with practiced precision.

"Listen up."

The silence that followed wasn't just the absence of sound—it was attention made physical, every fighter's focus zeroing in on Logan with an intensity that could be felt on the skin. He met their gazes, reading the mix of hunger and apprehension written in their eyes.

"This is Madison Square Garden." Each word fell with deliberate weight. "Not just another stop on some circuit, not just another night of fights. This is ground zero for Summit Fighting League. Some of you have bloodied your knuckles on these walls before. For others, this is your first taste of fighting's holy ground. But tonight? Tonight, the world decides if we're revolution or footnote."

Logan paused, letting that reality settle into the room's atmosphere. The void between his words grew dense with unspoken understanding—they were all part of something larger than themselves, something that could either soar or crash based on what happened in the next few hours.

"It means when you step through that curtain, you're carrying more than your own legacy. You're carrying the weight of every moment that made Strike Force Legends electric. We showed them something real that night, something that grabbed the world by the throat and forced it to pay attention. Tonight? Tonight, we prove that wasn't just a perfect storm. It was the first drop of rain before the flood."

His eyes swept the room like searchlights, picking out individual faces, connecting with each fighter on a level that transcended mere authority. The skeptics' whispers hung in the air between them—unspoken but ever-present. The doubts about Cade Mercer's victory, the questions about Titan's fall, the wondering if lightning could strike twice. But in the eyes staring back at him, Logan saw something stronger than doubt: hunger.

Heads nodded, fists clenched. The energy in the room shifted like a tide turning, potential transforming into kinetic force.

"The main event is locked—Matthew versus Cade Mercer. But the rest of the card?" Logan's lip quirked slightly. "That's what you're all waiting for, isn't it?"

A current of tension rippled through the assembled fighters, anticipation mixing with impatience in a volatile cocktail.

"Yeah, well," Logan exhaled, shoulders squaring as if bracing for impact. His gaze swept across the room, no longer trying to mask the edge in his voice. "Victor wants his moment. He needs to make it official, put his stamp on everything."

The words landed like a stone in still water, ripples of discontent spreading through the assembled fighters. Groans and eye-rolls moved through the room, athletes who'd survived enough corporate politics to recognize the game being played. Logan didn't try to soften it—his smirk carried a hint of defiance rather than defeat. Let them see. Let them understand exactly what this was.

His hand found the back of his neck, rubbing at tension that had been building since Strike Force Legends. The gesture wasn't weakness; it was acknowledgment. Every fighter in that room knew the score: Logan Drake might be their voice, but Victor Blackwell held the puppet strings. For now.

"I get it. But here's the truth—when those fights get announced, the names won't matter half as much as what you do with your moment. You want to be the story everyone tells tomorrow? Make them unable to forget you."

The stillness that followed wasn't empty—it was full with possibility, with the electric potential of athletes on the verge of unleashing their power. They weren't just hearing Logan's words; they were absorbing them like dry earth drinking rain. This wasn't the same Logan who had launched Strike Force Legends with desperate hope. This was a man who had been forged in that crucible, who spoke now with the battle-earned authority of someone who had seen both triumph and betrayal.

"Alright." Logan stepped back, his nod carrying the weight of finality. "Go make history."

As the fighters dispersed, their energy crackling with renewed purpose, Logan remained for a moment, his expression an unreadable mask that barely contained the storm of emotions beneath. Beyond the curtain, the crowd's roar swelled like a rising tide, calling them all toward destiny.

Summit Fighting League was about to take its first breath.

And the world held its own, waiting to see what would rise from this night of beginnings.

This Is the Moment

Part 2

Before anyone could charge ahead, reality hit like a gut punch.  The locker room door swung open with the finality of a judge's gavel, —heads turned, pre-fight preparations halted. The moment of inspiration Logan had ignited moments ago was about to be met with something entirely different.

Ollie Crane entered like a serpent in a garden, his presence a studied contradiction—bow tie and fedora marking him as deliberately anachronistic, while his sharp eyes behind thin-framed glasses missed nothing. He moved through the space with quiet precision, each step calculated, each gesture choreographed. His dark knitted vest and pinstriped trousers spoke of boardroom battles rather than cage fights, yet he carried himself with the confidence of someone who had never lost either.

The thick stack of contracts in his hands might as well have been made of lead for the weight they carried. Silence spread through the room like spilled ink as he began distributing them, casual flicks of his wrist landing papers in fighters' laps with practiced indifference.

"Oi who the feck are you?" Matthew's voice cut through the quiet, sharp with Irish indignation.

Ollie barely looked up as he started passing out the paperwork, casually slapping a packet onto each fighter’s lap or tossing it onto nearby benches.

Colton Hayes thumbed through his pages, brow furrowing. "Wait, what is this?"

“Wait a damn minute,” Glenn Sterling spoke up, standing. “We already signed our contracts. What’s this about?”

Ollie's smile never wavered as he placed the final contract in Julian St. James's hands.

"Those were preliminary agreements," he explained, savoring each syllable like fine wine. "PMG needed authorization to negotiate. These"—he gestured to the papers now clutched in confused hands—"are the real deals."

A fresh wave of confusion and unease spread through the locker room, fighters flipping through the pages more intently now, eyes scanning for traps, loopholes, or numbers that didn’t add up.

The moment was shattered as Victor Blackwell strode into the room, exuding effortless authority, his very presence commanding the attention of every single person in the locker room.

"Gentlemen, there won't be any matches tonight beyond the main event." The words fell like hammer blows, each syllable another nail in the coffin of their expectations.

A ripple of shock and confusion moved through the locker room. Instinctively, heads turned toward Logan searching his face for explanation, resistance, for anything. But Logan stood frozen, he looked just as blindsided as the rest of them. His silence only reinforced what they already knew—this wasn’t his call, and there was nothing he could do to change it, his silence more damning than any protest could have been.

“You’re all expected to review your contracts and show up next week ready to work,” Victor continued, as if the grumbling beneath his words didn’t exist. “This is the foundation of Summit Fighting League. If you’re in, you’re in. If you’re not? Well, that’s up to you.”

Ollie cleared his throat, stepping back into focus. “I’d also like to point out that, while under contract with SFL, you are free to compete elsewhere.” His voice carried the false warmth of a banker foreclosing on a family home.

That caught some fighters off guard. A few exchanged glances, weighing the implications.

“But,” Ollie continued, “if you miss a scheduled match or appearance for any reason—injury, prior commitments, whatever—you forfeit your pay for that week and spot your spot for the following week.”

"Gentlemen." Two syllables were all it took. Victor didn't shout, didn't command - he simply spoke. The effect was immediate: heads turned, voices quieted, the room's energy shifting like a compass finding north. "About these dates," he continued, now owning every molecule of air in the space. "They're not optional."

“$250? That’s my pay? Is that a joke?”

All heads turned to Titan, who looked utterly disgusted as he held up his contract for emphasis.

“Speaking of pay, let’s talk downside guarantees.” Ollie spoke as if it was already well known to the locker room.

There was a shuffle of papers as fighters found the relevant section of their contracts, eyes scanning the numbers. Before anyone could react, another voice rang out— Julian St. James, his tone laced with offense. “He gets $250? But I get $175?”

It became clear—all the numbers were different. Titan chuckled, "Well, no shit, who are you?" Suddenly, $250 was considered a significant amount by Titan.

Cade Mercer sat in the corner throwing empty sunflower seeds into a trash can with a smirk across his face as if he was in on the joke as well. Cade had nothing to worry about, SFL could pay him $0 and he would still be making millions outside of the company through sponsorships and appearances. Cade was the hottest name in the wrestling/MMA world.

Victor watched the chaos unfold with the patience of a man who had orchestrated every second. "No one is forcing you to sign," he said, each word precisely measured. "But your placement on the card, merchandise sales, buy rates—all factor into monthly bonuses."

Off to the side, Happy Jack frowned at his own contract, squinting as if the numbers didn’t make sense. Then, realization dawned. He turned the paper right side up, nodding once as if the numbers made perfect sense either way.

Understanding emerged across faces like a cold sunrise. For the first time, they saw the bigger picture. The initial outrage transformed into calculation as fighters ran the numbers in their heads. —yes, the downside was small, but the potential? That was limitless.

Fighters thought about their own drawing power, their ability to stand out. The opportunity was there, but only for those who could seize it. A slow nod rippled through the room, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between the fighters. Victor smirked. He knew he had them.

“Review your contracts,” he said again, voice smooth as silk. “I hope to see all of you next week.”

Victor departed as smoothly as he'd arrived, Ollie trailing in his wake like a well-dressed shadow.  The room remained silent. Some looked determined. Others looked cautious. But all of them understood—this wasn’t just a paycheck. This was an opportunity. And now, the real fight had begun. It was on the dotted line.

Live from Madison Square Garden

New York, New York, USA

7 pm - March 10

How Yo’ Doin’

The Garden erupted as the Contenders theme crashed through the speakers, bass notes vibrating beneath the feet of thousands. Camera operators weaved through the crowd, capturing the mosaic of painted faces, homemade signs, and merchandise-draped bodies—a collage of anticipation and passion in human form.

At the commentary position, the sleek desk held Jonathan Marks and Dex Williams, industry veterans ready to guide viewers through the inaugural event. Their headsets framed focused expressions as they leaned toward their microphones.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the very first Contenders!" Jonathan's voice carried with practiced authority. "We're live from Madison Square Garden, and the energy in this building is absolutely electric!"

Dex nodded his agreement. "This crowd has been waiting months for this moment, Jonathan. The buzz around Summit Fighting League has been building since that one-night spectacle at Strike Force Legends."

As the Contenders theme faded, the atmosphere in the arena shifted. The lighting transformed, bathing the entrance ramp in cool blue as the opening notes of a new song announced the arrival of a different kind of combatant.

"And speaking of SFL," Jonathan continued, "here comes the architect himself—Victor Blackwell, CEO of Peak Media Group and the driving force behind tonight's event."

From behind the curtain, Victor Blackwell emerged, his signature smirk firmly in place, his custom-tailored charcoal suit hugging his frame like armor. To some fans, he was the visionary behind the next great combat sports empire. To others, he was a corporate parasite, feeding off the raw energy of fighters who made their names the hard way.

"You can feel the mixed reaction," Jonathan observed diplomatically. "Some fans see him as a visionary, others as—"

"A suit who's never taken a punch but profits from those who do," Dex interjected, leaning back with crossed arms. "Look at him, Jon. He's not walking out here for these fans—he's strutting like we're at a quarterly earnings presentation."

Victor strode toward the cage, playing to the cameras with a confidence that had made him feared in boardrooms, but that did little to win over the crowd inside MSG. A few hands reached out along the ramp for a handshake; he ignored them, adjusting his cufflinks instead.

Jonathan frowned slightly at his partner's candor. "Strong words from my colleague, but there's no denying Blackwell's business acumen. The question is whether that translates to running a fight promotion."

As Victor entered the cage, head referee Jason McCarthy held the door open with deference. Taking the microphone from the cage announcer Danny Diaz, Victor paused, allowing the mixture of cheers and jeers to wash over him before speaking.

"Welcome, everyone! Or, as us locals say, ‘How yo’ doin’?’”

The delivery was off—too rehearsed. The attempt at local flavor fell completely flat.

The crowd responded with awkward silence, followed by scattered groans. Jonathan Marks hesitated before responding, choosing his words carefully. "I don’t think the New York crowd is buying what Victor’s selling."

Dex chuckled under his breath. "You think? This crowd can smell inauthenticity from a mile away. They're here for blood and glory, not corporate platitudes."

Victor continued undeterred, his expression never wavering from practiced confidence.

"For those who may not know me, I am Victor Blackwell—CEO of Peak Media Group, and the driving force behind the Summit Fighting League. And tonight, we embark on a new era of combat sports. One where tradition meets innovation. Where fighters from every discipline come together to prove, once and for all, who stands at the pinnacle of combat excellence."

The corporate-speak hung in the air like a fog, thick and ill-suited for the bloodthirsty MMA and wrestling fanbase before him. Somewhere in the mid-section, a chant began to form.

"Get to the fights! Get to the fights!"

Jonathan cleared his throat. "The MSG crowd making their preferences known."

"Smart crowd," Dex added. "They didn't pay those ticket prices for a corporate mission statement."

"Strike Force Legends proved the concept—" he pressed on, completely ignoring the shifting energy in the room.

The chanting grew louder, now joined by scattered boos.

"We showed the world that barriers between disciplines are arbitrary. That true greatness isn’t defined by whether you step into a ring, a cage, or onto a mat. It’s defined by what you bring when you step onto that stage. And so, SFL was born—not just as an event, but as an institution. A long-term commitment to fostering the absolute best in combat sports entertainment."

At the words "combat sports entertainment," groans rolled through the crowd again.

Dex nearly spit out his drink. "Oh, man, wrong crowd, Victor. You start throwing around corporate buzzwords like that, and these people are gonna eat you alive."

Victor continued unfazed, his cadence measured, his posture poised—completely disconnected from the energy of the arena.

"Every week, we will bring you the finest athletes from across the world. Fighters who embody the spirit of competition. Fighters who will elevate this industry beyond what any of us have ever imagined. Fighters who will—"

A new chant drowned him out completely: "We Want Cade! We Want Cade!"

Victor paused, his rehearsed speech momentarily derailed. For a brief second, irritation flashed in his eyes before his media-trained smile reasserted itself.

"The people making their preferences crystal clear," Jonathan said, his tone lighter now, almost relieved at the crowd's passion. "Cade Mercer has quickly become the face people associate with SFL, and they're eager to see him in action."

Dex, however, wasn’t about to let the moment slide. "Man, he’s losing ‘em. You gotta know when to cut and run, Jon. If I was in that cage, I’d be looking for my exit cue real fast."

But Victor, in all his boardroom arrogance, refused to rush.

"I understand the investment you've made tonight—not just financially, but emotionally,"

he continued, his corporate polish feeling increasingly at odds with the gritty expectations of the combat sports audience before him.

The booing intensified, forcing Victor to raise his voice.

"And I assure you—your faith will be rewarded."

The corporate, polished tone felt soulless. It didn’t match the grit of the fighters. It didn’t match the pulse of the sport.

And the crowd felt it.

"He's dying out there," Jonathan admitted, professional restraint finally giving way to honest assessment.

This wasn’t Danny Diaz hyping a PPV. This wasn’t a legendary wrestler rallying a stadium. This was a billionaire giving a quarterly earnings report in front of an audience that wanted blood.

"Now," he said, his tone shifting toward something resembling announcement, "I do have some news regarding tonight's event."

Victor pivoted to what they were waiting for. The crowd quieted slightly, attention momentarily recaptured.

"Tonight's fight card has been reduced to a single match. It appears the competitors weren’t prepared for the level of excellence a show like Contenders demands."

The arena erupted in disapproval—thunderous boos cascaded down from every section.

"Well, that landed like a brick," Jonathan remarked dryly.

Dex actually laughed. "From bad to worse! You don't tell a New York crowd they're getting less than they paid for unless you're wearing protective gear."

Victor raised his hand, as if he could control the crowd like a boardroom full of executives.

"However!" he declared over the noise. "That one match will be for the inaugural Summit Fighting League World Championship."

The jeering stopped—momentarily.

Victor, sensing the opening, delivered his ace of spades: "And that match will be between... Matt Hugh and Cade Mercer!"

The arena erupted. Chants of "Cade! Cade! Cade!" thundered through the rafters, drowning out any lingering irritation. Victor's posture relaxed, his signature smirk returning in full force as he basked in the reaction—standing tall in the center of the cage as if the adulation were directed at him rather than the announced competitor.

"And just like that, he pulls them back," Jonathan marveled, shaking his head. "One name changes everything."

Dex, shaking his head, muttered, "Notice how he couldn't even get Matthew's name right? Called him 'Matt Hugh' instead of Matthew. Shows how disconnected he is from his own roster. But yeah, drop Cade Mercer's name and suddenly all is forgiven."

Victor, recognizing his moment to exit on a high note, offered a final self-assured nod to the audience. With calculated showmanship, he handed the microphone back to the cage announcer Danny Diaz and exited the cage, adjusting his tie as he strode back up the entrance ramp.

"An interesting start to Contenders, to say the least," Jonathan remarked, bringing professionalism back to the broadcast. "Victor Blackwell may have stumbled through most of that segment, but he knew exactly which card to play at the end."

Dex nodded reluctantly. "He might not know how to talk to these fans, but he knows what they want to see. And tonight, they're getting Cade Mercer in a championship match."

Jonathan's voice rose with genuine excitement as they prepared to transition. "And when we return from the break, 'The Sovereign**Julian St. James will address the SFL audience! Don't go anywhere—Contenders is just getting started!"

The show cut to commercial, but the atmosphere in the arena remained charged with anticipation. Contenders had officially launched—perhaps not with the polished corporate unveiling Victor Blackwell had envisioned, but with something far more valuable in the world of combat sports: authentic crowd emotion, raw and unfiltered.

When the Curtain Falls

Behind the curtain, just beyond the reach of the bright arena lights, four men stood clustered around a monitor. Logan Drake, Matthew, Jax Braddock, and Colton Hayes watched in communal silence as Victor Blackwell commanded the cage with the practiced demeanor of a Fortune 500 CEO delivering a boardroom keynote instead of launching a combat sports empire.

The words flowing from Victor’s lips echoed through the backstage area, tiny and distant through the monitor’s small speakers, spoken with the confidence of a man who had never stepped into a cage yet believed he owned every fighter within it.

"For those who may not know me," Victor’s voice echoed through the backstage speakers, distant yet unavoidable, "I am Victor Blackwell—architect of the Summit Fighting League."

Logan felt something shift in his chest, a tightening that spread from his sternum to his shoulders. He inhaled sharply, fingers digging into his forearm. This was the moment the transformation became undeniable. 

Not just PMG.

Not just another corporate venture. Summit Fighting League was Victor’s now.

His show. His power. His game.

The remaining words of the speech faded into background noise as Logan processed the implications crystallizing before him. He had worked his ass off to build this place. Scouted the fighters. Sold the dream. He had fought tooth and nail to make Strike Force Legends feel like something real—not just another corporate sideshow— all of it was being subtly rewritten in real-time, with Victor Blackwell as the sole author.

Logan was so consumed by this realization that he almost missed the growing tension beside him, the way his fellow fighters stiffened when Victor continued his address.

"It appears the competitors weren't prepared for the level of excellence a show like Contenders demands."

Jax's laugh cut through the tension—sharp, caustic, devoid of humor.

"That's real cute, Vic," he muttered, jaw muscles working beneath his skin. "Like it wasn't you who shoved those contracts at us last minute. Like we've just been sitting around unprepared instead of waiting for direction."

Colton dragged a calloused hand down his face, exhaling frustration. "I've dealt with some promoters who could spin straw into gold, but this?" His voice dropped lower, edged with disbelief. "This is next-level bullshit."

On screen, the camera panned across sections of the crowd, capturing their growing disconnection. Victor's corporate delivery was losing them—faces that had been eager moments before now showed confusion, even irritation. Yet Victor continued, either oblivious to the reception or simply unconcerned by it.

"Now, I regret to inform you that tonight's card has been reduced to a single match."

Jax's hands curled into fists, tendons standing out beneath tanned skin, knuckles blanching white. Matthew had remained quiet throughout, arms folded across his chest, expression carefully neutral. But when Victor delivered his next line, something changed in his posture—a subtle straightening, a narrowing of eyes.

"However! That match will be between... Matt Hugh and Cade Mercer!"

Matthew's head tilted slightly, as though he'd misheard. His brow furrowed, lips parting in momentary confusion before settling into a thin line of contempt.

"Matt Hugh," he repeated, each syllable measured and precise, testing how foreign it sounded on his own tongue. After a beat, he turned to Logan, incredulity breaking through his usual composure.

"He doesn't even know me feckin’ name."

Logan blinked, temporarily jarred from his own spiral of frustration. "What?"

Matthew gestured toward the screen, voice flat yet somehow conveying volumes of disdain. "You heard him, mate. Matt Hugh."

Colton released a low chuckle that held no warmth, just recognition of the absurdity.

"Bro." Jax groaned, dragging his palm down his face. "He really don't give a damn about any of us, does he?"

On the monitor, Victor concluded his address with a practiced wave, more reminiscent of a politician exiting a campaign rally than a fight promoter igniting a revolution in combat sports. As he departed the cage, the camera cut to the commentary desk cutting to commercial.

Logan's jaw muscles bunched, teeth clenched behind closed lips.

Yeah. Some speech.

The Mockery of Violence

Julian St. James felt the heat of the spotlights pressing against his skin, each bead of perspiration threatening the immaculate facade he'd spent a lifetime constructing. He would not allow a single drop to fall. Weakness, even in its most human form, was not something Julian St. James displayed. He stood at the center of the cage, chin lifted, expression carved from aristocratic indifference.

The microphone felt cold against his palm, the contrast almost comforting as he surveyed the sea of faces before him. Some stared with admiration, others with envy or contempt—he welcomed all of it. He had earned their attention through discipline, through mastery, through a devotion to excellence that most could never comprehend. Their reactions merely confirmed what he already knew: he stood above them all.

Mr. Price's presence at his side offered the silent reassurance of shared values. The man had shaped Julian's understanding of the craft, honed his natural talents into something transcendent. Together, they represented what this sport was meant to be—refined, controlled, purposeful. The very antithesis of what Julian was about to address.

Julian raised the microphone slowly, his lips curving into a knowing smirk as he let the crowd’s jeers settle before speaking.

"Violence is an art," he began, the words flowing from some place deeper than rehearsal, a conviction that ran through his veins like old money.  A pause. He let his words breathe. He wanted them to hang in the air like cigarette smoke, something unpleasant but inescapable.

"Yet, here we are. Here I am, standing in an industry that has decided to lower itself—to celebrate savagery over skill, chaos over craftsmanship. And the most laughable of all? The most disgusting insult to anyone who dares call themselves a fighter?"

He let the question linger, tilting his head slightly, as if pondering whether to even dignify the answer with words.

"Happy Jack."

The name alone ignited the crowd into a cheering frenzy. Julian felt nothing but disdain for them all. Speaking it aloud seemed to invite disorder into his meticulously structured world. Yet he forced himself to continue, to lay bare the absurdity that such a creature could exist in the same realm as true competitors. Each word served as a shield, a way to maintain the necessary distance between his ordered existence and Jack's anarchic one.

"A man—or rather, a creature—who does not fight, but flails. A glorified street brawler masquerading as a competitor. A fool who thinks that pain is the only currency worth exchanging. No technique. No discipline. No understanding of what it means to be great. And yet, somehow, he is allowed to stand among us?"

Behind his aristocratic veneer, memories flickered unbidden—his father's cold disapproval, the relentless pursuit of perfection, the crushing pressure to be exceptional. Julian had embraced that pressure, transformed it into purpose. He had chosen control when others chose comfort. And now this... aberration threatened everything that choice represented.

Julian scoffed, shaking his head. He imagined how Jack must have been watching right now—grinning through his cracked lips, that gaudy clown makeup smearing against his skin, reveling in the attention like some deranged animal.

"I refuse," Julian continued, his voice harder now, his grip on the microphone tightening. "I refuse to let this sport—my sport—be tarnished by the likes of him. I refuse to let our profession be reduced to nothing more than a traveling freak show. Because that is all Happy Jack is. A sideshow act. A walking joke. And the punchline? Is that he thinks he belongs here."

The darkness descended without warning, plunging the arena into momentary chaos. Julian felt his body tense, instincts sharpening through the disorientation. The spotlight that caught Happy Jack was like a tear in reality, illuminating something that should have remained in shadow.

Happy Jack.

There he was—perched, twitching, grinning. Less a man than a collection of impulses given human form. Julian maintained his composure through sheer force of will, but inside, something cold slithered through his chest. Jack didn't just oppose everything Julian stood for; he mocked it with his very existence. Jack clutched his microphone with both hands, his voice lilting, almost melodic.

"Julian, Julian, Julian... thy tongue doth wag so pretty. So sharp. So... pompous."

A shuddering giggle followed—high-pitched and unnatural, like the laughter of a child who had seen something he shouldn’t have.

Then, his voice dropped, a whisper full of honey and venom.

"Tell me, oh tell me, dear prince... are you scared?"

Julian let out a slow, measured exhale. Scared? The very idea was insulting. He raised the microphone, a retort at the ready—

"Scared? Of you?" He chuckled, feigning amusement. "Hardly. What you do? It isn’t wrestling. It isn’t fighting. It’s a mockery. And you? You’re an insult to every true competitor who’s ever stepped into this ring."

Jack cackled in response, his shoulders shaking, his head rolling unnaturally to the side.

"Ohhh Julian," he sang, voice dripping with delight. "You fear what you don’t understand. You fear what you can’t control. You fear me."

The words struck with uncomfortable precision. Julian had built his entire identity around understanding, around control. His worth was measured in mastery—of himself, of his craft, of his environment. Happy Jack existed outside that paradigm entirely. He couldn't be anticipated or countered through conventional means. He was a system error, a glitch in the program.

Jack suddenly dropped to his knees, his head lolling forward. “But the best part?” he whispered, voice barely audible. Then, just as suddenly, he snapped upright, his eyes wild.

"You think you can survive me."

Julian's challenge came from that place of desperate certainty—the belief that order must, ultimately, triumph over chaos. "I could beat you at your own sick game—with or without Mr. Price. In fact, why wait? Let's fight tonight!" Borderline almost losing his composure Julian circled around the cage, adrenaline increasing.

Jack slowly shook his head.

"How about no?"

But Jack's refusal—that slow, deliberate shake of his head—unnerved Julian more than any acceptance could have. It stripped him of agency, of control. It forced him to operate on Jack's timeline, by Jack's rules. The realization sent a cold current down his spine that no amount of training could have prepared him for.

Julian’s brow furrowed in confusion as Jack tilted his head, smiling wider.

"A bloodbath like that? That shouldn’t be given away for free on TV.” Jack turned and faced the camera speaking directly into the lens, “sorry folks.” Jack had committed a cardinal sin in professional wrestling. “A later date, a later time, thy Julian will bleed, bleed, bleed.”

Julian’s lips pressed into a thin line. His patience was wearing dangerously thin, but he would not be manipulated. Not by this. Jack took slow, exaggerated steps backward, retreating up the ramp. Never breaking eye contact. Never losing that grin. Julian felt the foundations of his carefully constructed world tremble slightly. Mr. Price's hand on his shoulder served as an anchor to reality, a reminder of who he was and what he represented. Control. Excellence. Order.

"Laugh while you can." His voice was ice, sharp and unyielding. "Because when this match does happen, and it will! I will break you."

The words were less a threat than a promise to himself. Julian would not merely defeat Happy Jack; he would erase what he represented. He would prove that discipline trumped disorder, that skill overcame savagery, that the world made sense.

Because if he couldn't—if chaos could truly triumph over order—then what was the point of everything he had sacrificed? What was the value of the life he had chosen?

As the crowd's reaction washed over him, Julian remained locked in his own thoughts, already dissecting, analyzing, preparing. But beneath the strategic calculations ran a current of something unfamiliar: doubt. Not in his abilities, but in the fundamental rules that governed his understanding of the world.

He had always fought opponents. Men with patterns, with weaknesses, with logic underlying their actions. But Happy Jack wasn't just another opponent.

He was a question Julian wasn't sure he wanted answered.

Scripted vs. Unscripted

The catering area was supposed to be neutral ground, an unspoken ceasefire between competitors—a place to refuel, decompress, and prepare for whatever the night held. Fighters and staff filtered in and out, grabbing plates of food, the scent of institutional food mingling with cologne, sweat, and ambition. Here, the hierarchy of combat sports revealed itself in subtle tableaus: Colton Hayes and Jax Braddock each hunched over paper plates reviewing contracts with furrowed brows, production assistants darting through with walkies crackling, and the quiet assessment of predators sizing up future opponents across the room.

This was supposed to be hallowed ground. Neutral territory. Glenn Sterling knew better than most how to violate such sanctity with nothing more than his presence. Glenn didn’t just play a bad guy on TV, Glenn was the bad guy. 

In this delicate ecosystem, Glenn Sterling moved like an exotic species introduced to disrupt the natural order. His presence was deliberately intrusive—a three-piece suit among compression shirts, handmade Italian leather shoes stepping precisely where athletic slides had tread moments before. Each movement displayed the calculated grace of a man who had spent decades perfecting his physical narrative. Nothing spontaneous. Nothing wasted. Every gesture designed to communicate the finer things in life, without saying a word.

Glenn swirled the cabernet in his glass, nostrils flaring slightly at the bouquet—a private performance of refinement meant to contrast with the fighters around him swilling protein shakes and energy drinks. His eyes, cold and appraising, swept across the room with the practiced disdain of old money surveying a nouveau riche gathering. Glenn had decided to take advantage of an unexpected night off.

"This," he gestured with his free hand, voice pitched to carry just far enough to be heard by those he deemed worthy of his observation, "is what combat sports has become? A collection of cauliflower-eared brawlers gorging themselves before they roll around in a cage like animals at feeding time?"

Several crew members exchanged glances, but no one took the bait. Keeping their eyes down, continuing conversations in lower tones. Glenn thrived on provocation. Everyone knew it. Most of the wrestling world knew the reputation that preceded him—a man who weaponized words with the same precision he once applied to technical wrestling. Engaging meant playing his game on his terms.

Colton Hayes had spent twenty years fighting on his own terms. He took a slow sip from his water bottle, eyes never leaving Sterling's form. The memory of their last encounter lived in his muscles—the satisfaction of proving the "pure wrestler" wrong, of showing that cage fighting techniques could triumph over Sterling's classical approach. It had been a victory that shut many mouths... but apparently not the one that mattered most.

"Something on your mind, Sterling?" Colton's voice cut through the room's ambient noise, direct and unadorned. No flourish, no pretense.

Glenn looked up with practiced slowness, the corner of his mouth curling into what might generously be called a smile.

"Hayes." The name fell from his lips like something distasteful. "I was just reflecting on how much our industry has... evolved. When men who made their names beating bloody pulps in cages can suddenly claim legitimacy in the art of professional wrestling."

"Legitimacy?" Colton echoed, crossing the distance between them with measured steps. "Funny word coming from someone I already beat clean in the center of the cage."

Colton Hayes—the man who had already beaten Sterling once—wasn't one to let a remark like that slide. He stood up from the table and advanced a half-step, not invading Glenn's space but establishing new boundaries within it.

Glenn's response was a theatrical chuckle, precisely calibrated to communicate amusement without surrendering status. His fingers adjusted French cuffs monogrammed with his initials—a pointless gesture serving only to draw attention to their quality.

"One match doesn't rewrite history, Hayes." His voice carried the weight of generations of tradition. "One fluke doesn't erase the fundamental difference between what I represent and what you are."

"Fluke?" Colton repeated, the word landing between them like a loaded gun.

Glenn leaned back, crossing one leg over the other in a gesture of exaggerated ease. "Of course. One lucky night, and suddenly people think you belong next to my name. But let’s be honest, Colton…" He picked up his wine glass, swirling it slowly before finally taking a sip. "If I hadn’t underestimated you, we both know how that match would’ve ended."

A hush had fallen over the catering area, heads subtly turning toward the growing confrontation. Jax Braddock stopped mid-bite from his plate, watching the exchange with silent intrigue. Even Julian St. James, sitting a few tables away, raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by the tension in the air.

Colton let out a short, humorless chuckle, running a hand over his jaw.

"So that's how you’re telling it, huh?" Colton said, voice steady but carrying an unmistakable edge.

Glenn placed his glass down with a soft clink. "That’s how history will remember it. Unless, of course, you think lightning can strike twice?"

Colton’s jaw tensed.

Glenn leaned forward slightly, his tone lowering just enough to ensure Colton heard every word.

"See, in this world—the real wrestling world—your win meant nothing. No one cares that you caught me on an off night. No one sees you as a threat. And if we ran it back? You wouldn't last ten minutes in a proper wrestling match."

The words were meant to sting. And they did.

Not because Colton doubted himself, but because he knew exactly what Glenn was doing.

He wanted Colton to take the bait.

And Colton, being who he was, couldn't help himself.

"A proper wrestling match? Your world was scripted Glenn, my world is real… Alright then." Colton’s smirk returned, but this time it carried something sharper. "You want to prove that? Let’s do it. Next week. Contenders 2. You and me, one more time."

Glenn’s smirk widened, but there was something new in his eyes—a flicker of hesitation.

Not fear.

But recognition.

Recognition that he had just put himself in the same position as before.

"Oh, Colton… you really do love punishment, don’t you?" Glenn sighed theatrically, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "Fine. One more time. But this time, when I beat you, there will be no excuses. No lucky punches. No cage to hide behind. Just pure, undeniable wrestling mastery."

Colton rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck as if already preparing.

"Let’s see if you can back up all that talk, wrestler."

With that, Colton turned and walked off, leaving Glenn to sit with his own challenge. As Glenn lifted his wine glass to his lips, he muttered under his breath, barely audible:

"This time, you won’t walk away."

Another rematch was Set.

Next week, at Contenders 2, Colton Hayes vs. Glenn Sterling II.

No more luck. No more excuses.

Just a score to settle

Matthew vs. Cade Mercer

The atmosphere inside Madison Square Garden had transformed from corporate pageantry to raw anticipation, thousands of souls collectively leaning forward as the moment of combat approached. This wasn't merely the main event—it was the foundation upon which Summit Fighting League would build its empire, the first official chapter in its competitive legacy.

Jonathan Marks adjusted his headset at the commentary position, his expression conveying the gravity of the moment.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the time has arrived for our main event of the evening!"

Beside him, Dex Williams couldn't resist adding, "Also our opening match."

"Fair point," Jonathan conceded with professional grace. "A highly unusual show format tonight, but here we are—standing on the precipice of history!"

As the arena lights dimmed, cage announcer Danny Diaz stepped to center stage, his voice carrying a signature tone in making moments feel monumental.

"Ladies and gentlemen... IT IS TIME for the main event of the evening! And it is for the SFL WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP!"

The crowd's roar intensified, the payoff for hours of waiting finally at hand.

"Introducing first—hailing from Cork, Ireland! The man who came up one win short at Strike Force Legends, who wasn't supposed to return to the States but knew his business was unfinished... Standing 6'2" and weighing in at 235 pounds... I give you... MATTTHHEEEWWWW!"

Matthew's music pounded through the sound system as emerald lighting swept the entrance ramp. Matthew emerged with focused intensity, jaw set in determination, fists clenched at his sides. No pageantry, no excess—just a fighter recognizing the gravity of his opportunity.

"And his opponent..." Diaz continued as the arena darkened once more, "The man who defeated Titan... Jax Braddock... and the man who just entered the cage! Being escorted by his team—striking coach Ethan Carter, conditioning coach Brent Norris, and the architect of his career, manager Clayton Reed... Standing 6'5" and weighing in at 260 pounds, he is THE JUGGERNAUT... CAAAADE MERCERRRRRR!"

The Garden's reaction transformed into a complex soundscape of admiration and animosity as Cade advanced toward the cage, his entourage moving in practiced formation behind him.

"Notice the difference in energy," Dex observed. "Matthew's entering like he has something to prove. Cade? He looks like he's here to collect a debt he's already calculated down to the penny."

Within the cage, referee Jason McCarthy summoned both competitors to center. "This is for the SFL World Championship. Victory by pinfall, submission, or knockout. Nothing else stops this fight."

Matthew nodded sharply. Cade remained impassive.

McCarthy raised his hand to signal the timekeeper—

Thunderous entrance music cut through the arena.

"Wait a minute!" Jonathan exclaimed, straightening in his seat. "That's Titan's music!"

The crowd erupted as Titan emerged at the top of the entrance ramp, his signature sunglasses in place despite the arena's dimmed lighting, his unmistakable smirk conveying absolute confidence.

"Is he seriously hijacking the biggest fight in SFL history?" Dex questioned, genuine surprise coloring his typically measured commentary.

Inside the cage, Matthew's irritation was evident as he threw his hands up in frustration. Cade's reaction proved more measured—a slight tilt of the head, the barest suggestion of amusement, like a predator recognizing a worthy adversary's approach.

Titan made his way toward the commentary position, slapping hands with select fans before casually picking up a headset and settling in beside the announcers.

"Gentlemen," he offered with practiced nonchalance.

"Titan... this is unexpected," Jonathan managed. "What brings you here tonight?"

"Well, Jonny, I figured I'd get a front-row seat." Titan's voice carried the easy confidence of someone accustomed to commanding attention. "Because let's be real—whoever wins this? That title's just on loan until I decide to take it."

Titan offered an exaggerated thumbs-up toward the cage. Matthew's patience visibly thinned, flipped Titan off in return. While Cade's subtle grin suggested he welcomed the additional challenge.

The bell finally rang.

Matthew exploded into action, launching himself at Cade with a flurry of body shots before the larger fighter could establish his methodical rhythm.

"Matthew comes out swinging!" Jonathan announced as the Irish fighter pinned Cade against the cage, unleashing hooks that connected with audible impact.

"Brilliant strategy," Dex analyzed. "Cade is dangerous, but he's a methodical destroyer. Don't let him settle into his pattern!"

Matthew ducked a counter attempt and executed a perfectly timed swinging DDT, driving Cade's head into the canvas with concussive force.

"ONE!"

"TWO!"

Cade powered his shoulder up, halting the count.

"Cute," Titan remarked, leaning back in his chair. "But that's like trying to chop down an oak tree with a steak knife. You need more than that to beat Cade Mercer."

Matthew dragged Cade upright, but Cade blocked the incoming jawbreaker and countered with explosive power, driving Matthew into the unforgiving steel with a double-leg takedown.

"Raw force from Mercer!" Jonathan exclaimed. "He just launched Matthew like he weighs nothing!"

Titan smirked as Cade transitioned seamlessly into his ground assault—methodical, precise, punishing. Each elbow sliced downward with surgical precision as Matthew covered defensively. Blood began streaming from a laceration above his eyebrow.

"This is what makes Cade so dangerous," Dex explained. "He doesn't just fight you—he disassembles you, piece by piece."

"No shame in losing to him," Titan added with calculated casualness. "I mean, I did. Difference is, I don't plan on making that mistake twice."

Cade dragged Matthew to his feet and executed a belly-to-belly suplex that sent Matthew crashing into the cage wall. The entire structure shuddered from the impact. A predatory calm settled over Cade as he secured Matthew's arm and locked in the Juggernaut Clutch—a modified Kimura that had forced submissions from fighters renowned for their resilience.

Matthew's scream pierced the arena as Cade hyperextended the joint, torquing past what seemed humanly tolerable. Referee Jason McCarthy positioned himself to watch for submission. But incredibly, Matthew rolled through the hold, using momentum and desperation to twist free.

"He escaped!" Jonathan's voice cracked with disbelief. "How did he get out of that?"

Blood-streaked Matthew's face, yet remarkably, he was grinning—a warrior's acknowledgment of the battle's worth. When Cade charged, Matthew caught him with perfect timing—REVERSE JAWBREAKER!

"Mercer is stunned!" Dex shouted as Cade staggered backward. "Matthew has a legitimate chance here!"

Matthew backed into the corner, measuring his distance as Cade struggled to regain composure. The Garden rose collectively as Matthew prepared to strike. The Irish fighter exploded forward—CORK CLOTHESLINE! The impact resounded throughout the arena as Cade's body rotated violently from the force, crashing to the mat.

"ONE!"

"TWO!"

"THR—"

Cade's shoulder lifted, defying what seemed inevitable.

Titan laughed into his headset. "Come on, kid. You REALLY thought that was gonna do it?"

Frustration etched across Matthew's blood-streaked features as he hauled Cade upright, positioning for another clothesline. He charged forward—

Cade ducked beneath it.

Matthew pivoted—directly into Cade's waiting grasp.

In one fluid motion, Cade hoisted Matthew overhead and executed the Terminal Impact—a running powerbomb that drove Matthew spine-first into the steel cage wall. The sickening collision silenced even the most vocal fans as Matthew crumpled lifelessly to the canvas.

Cade mounted a incapacitated Matthew and methodically unleashed the Mercer Mauler—a ground-and-pound sequence of elbows and fists that rendered defense impossible. Once Matthew no longer attempted to block the series of punches Cade covered Matthew.

"ONE!"

"TWO!"

"THREE!"

Jason McCarthy raised Cade's hand in victory, but The Juggernaut barely acknowledged the gesture. His focus remained fixed on Matthew's prone form, his expression revealing nothing.

Clayton Reed entered the cage with the championship belt, draping it over Cade's shoulder as medical staff attended to Matthew. Titan removed his headset and stood, slowly applauding with exaggerated appreciation. "Enjoy it, Cade," he called toward the cage. "Real soon? That title's coming home to Titan."

The broadcast concluded with its most telling image: Cade Mercer, newly crowned champion, locking eyes with Titan through the steel mesh—the next chapter in SFL's story already writing itself before the first had fully concluded.

Winner: New SFL World Champion, Cade Mercer via Pinfall (15 min)

No Parking in the Kingdom

The show was over. The energy of Summit Fighting League’s first night had faded into the quiet hum of the Madison Square Garden garage. The roaring masses now reduced to a memory echoing through empty corridors, leaving behind only the skeletal remains of what had been a night of intensity and spectacle. Titan walked through the near-empty space, a smirk tugging at his lips. His footsteps resonated against concrete with the confident cadence of a man who had reclaimed something essential.

The night had unfolded exactly as he'd orchestrated—he had made his presence undeniable, his return unmistakable. Not through victory in the cage, not yet, but through the gravitational pull he still commanded. That knowledge settled in his bones with comfortable weight as he approached the section where he'd left his SUV earlier that day.

He stopped abruptly, confidence faltering. The space stood empty—just bare concrete where his vehicle should have been commanding territory. Confusion gave way to disbelief as his eyes scanned the surrounding area, searching for his misplaced chariot.

Denial kicked in immediately. He must have parked somewhere else. The garage was massive; he'd simply forgotten the exact location. Reaching into his pocket, Titan extracted his key fob, thumb pressing the alarm button. The electronic cry would guide him like a beacon.

Silence answered.

A frown deepened across his features. He pressed again, more deliberately this time, as if the device might respond to dominance. The silence that followed felt deliberate, almost mocking. Understanding crashed through him like ice water, dousing the warm glow of his earlier triumph.

His gaze darted across the garage until it locked onto a familiar figure—the weathered parking attendant from that morning, his decades-etched face impassive as he methodically wiped his hands on a rag. The man moved with the unhurried confidence of someone who had seen empires rise and fall within these concrete walls, unmoved by any of it.

"Hey! You!" Titan's voice bounced off the walls, harder than he'd intended, betraying the first cracks in his composure.

The old man turned, recognition flickering in his eyes without a trace of apprehension. He regarded Titan with the clinical assessment of someone who had encountered every variety of entitlement over thirty years and found all of them wanting.

Titan drew himself up, broad shoulders squared as if preparing for confrontation. "I need valet to get my car."

The attendant looked at Titan with a confused face. Titan, not sure if the attendant was playing a joke on him or if he was battling a memory loss disease.

“The black escalade, it was parked right here. I’m assuming the valet parked it for me like I asked.”

Like he asked.

The attendant acted like he had just remembered after thinking deeply, “ah yes…” the attendant paused.

"Your vehicle was towed." The words fell from the attendant's lips without emotion, neither apologetic nor triumphant—simply factual, like reporting the weather.

"Towed?" Titan repeated, the word feeling foreign in his mouth, as if his brain refused to process its implications. The concept that something of his could be removed against his will belonged to a reality he didn't inhabit.

Titan’s jaw clenched as his memory finally caught up.

Shit.

The old man nodded once, a gesture economical in its certainty. "Yeah. Parked in a no-loading zone. Had to go." No elaboration, no justification—just the calm finality of cause and effect.

Realization crystallized in Titan's consciousness, memory reconstructing his earlier arrogance with painful clarity. The deliberate positioning of his SUV in the entrance, the petty satisfaction of inconveniencing others, the smug certainty that rules existed for lesser beings. Actions that had seemed like demonstrations of power now revealed themselves as childish tantrums.

He pivoted away before his face could betray the humiliation building beneath his carefully maintained facade, fists clenching at his sides as if physically restraining his wounded pride. This wasn't happening. Not to him. Not to Titan. The universe, it seemed, had been waiting for precisely this thought to complete its punchline.

The garage's hollow silence shattered beneath the approaching thunder of Detroit steel—a rolling baritone that belonged to another era. An old-school V8 announced itself with mechanical authority, cylinders firing in perfect sequence to produce that distinctive American growl that no modern engine could replicate. The sound reverberated against concrete walls, amplifying as it approached, commanding attention rather than requesting it.

Into Titan's moment of reckoning glided a midnight-black limousine that seemed to stretch beyond reasonable proportions, its elongated body a monument to excess from a time when bigger meant better. Not the sleek, European styled transportation of today's corporate elite, but a deliberately anachronistic statement piece—squared edges, gleaming chrome trim catching the fluorescent lighting, and white-wall tires that whispered of territories and eras where Glenn Sterling still reigned supreme.

The machine prowled to a stop beside him with theatrical timing, its engine settling into a predatory idle that vibrated through the concrete into the soles of Titan's feet. The limousine didn't merely park—it positioned itself, a calculated power move in physical form. It waited with the patient menace of an apex predator that had tracked its quarry across miles, now savoring these final moments before the kill, secure in the knowledge that escape was impossible.

The tinted window descended revealing immaculately styled blonde hair framing a face sculpted by genetics and maintained by wealth. Glenn Sterling reclined against butter-soft leather, one arm draped casually along the door, his expression containing the specific strain of satisfaction that comes only from witnessing an enemy's downfall.

Mischief danced in his blue eyes as he took in the tableau—Titan stranded, his carefully constructed aura of invincibility cracked by something as mundane as parking regulations.

"Need a ride, champ?" The question dripped with honeyed venom, each syllable perfectly timed for maximum impact.

Titan's jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, tendons standing out along his neck as rage and humiliation waged war beneath his skin. Before he could marshal a response that wouldn't sound like desperate flailing, the window ascended once more, sealing Sterling away. But not before the muffled sound of his laughter escaped the luxurious confines, hanging in the air like invisible smoke.

The limousine pulled away with the smooth inevitability of fate, taillights receding into the night like distant stars mocking earthbound observers. Titan remained rooted, hands-on hips, the physical embodiment of thwarted entitlement. No vehicle. No response. No salvaging of pride.

Behind him, the soft, knowing chuckle of the parking attendant provided the final punctuation to his humiliation—the common man's quiet victory over self-proclaimed royalty.