Prelude

What happens in a world without giants? Without a UFC to command the octagon or a WWE to dominate the airwaves, all that’s left is chaos—a battlefield of desperate promotions fighting for scraps.

In this world, no global juggernaut unifies the combat sports or wrestling industries. Instead, the landscape is a fragmented mosaic of regional promotions, each scrapping for survival and relevance.

Wrestling was a divided kingdom, split into factions that had once thrived in the shadow of the former empire. In the Midwest, wrestling promotions filled community centers with gritty, no-frills action, while along the Southeastern coast, staged matches in rundown arenas that echo with the sounds of sweat and ambition. Out west, brought its fiery shows to fairgrounds under the scorching sun, and in the Northeast, battles attempted to keep old-school traditions alive in cramped venues overflowing with history. Across the South, pitted fighters against each other in humid, makeshift rings, while in the Pacific Northwest, combined brutal matches with the rugged atmosphere of its surroundings. Wrestlers and fighters alike live hand-to-mouth, working for handshake deals and envelopes stuffed with cash—if they’re lucky. Fans gather in high school gyms, bingo halls, and aging civic centers, drawn by a mix of raw curiosity and unshakable loyalty to the scrappy spirit of their local heroes.

For the athletes who lived in this world, there were no guarantees. No million-dollar contracts. No steady income. Just survival. They fought for envelopes stuffed with cash—if they were lucky. They wrestled in small-town armories, aging civic centers, and half-filled arenas, performing for diehard fans who still believed in the dream even as the industry crumbled around them. Promoters made promises they couldn’t keep, referees worked under the unspoken agreement that no one really wanted the rules enforced, and every night, a fighter might step into the cage for a match that would define their career—or end it.

And yet, despite it all, there was something real here. Something raw, something untouched by corporate polish. This was the last true proving ground, where those who wanted to be great had no choice but to fight their way to the top, by any means necessary.

The media landscape mirrored the industry’s fractured state. With no dominant networks dictating the narrative, three rival corporations held power, each shaping public perception in its own way. For years, these three titans had existed in an uneasy balance, each sticking to its own domain. They had fought their wars in boardrooms and on the airwaves, testing boundaries before ultimately recognizing that any direct conflict would be too costly. An unspoken truce had been formed.

• Peak Media Group (PMG): The most aggressive of the trio, Peak Media thrived on entertainment and lifestyle programming. From reality TV to glossy celebrity exposés, they specialized in captivating the masses. Combat sports and wrestling? Barely on their radar—until the money started flowing.

• Ironclad News Network (INN): A bastion of hard news and investigative journalism, Ironclad prided itself on being the voice of reason. Serious, uncompromising, and resolute, INN had no patience for the so-called frivolity of entertainment or sports.

• Pinnacle Creative Network (PCN): Catering to intellectuals and cinephiles, PCN produced documentaries, cultural programming, and prestige series. They shunned anything lowbrow, seeing combat sports as beneath their high-minded vision.

  
  

In this fractured world, Logan Drake dared to dream. Logan Drake wasn’t a billionaire. He wasn’t a media mogul, a fight promoter, or a corporate shark. He was just a man with a vision—a vision that no one else was willing to take a chance on. His vision was bold, audacious, and fraught with risk: a one-night tournament called Strike Force Legends. For decades, the debate had raged: Who was superior—the wrestler or the fighter? It was an argument whispered in locker rooms, screamed across barstools, and tested in underground fights that no one dared sanction. But no one had ever put the question to rest.

Logan wanted to change that.

His idea was simple. A one-night tournament. Fighters versus wrestlers. No politics, no scripts. Just pure, unfiltered combat. Strike Force Legends wasn’t just a business venture; for Logan, it was deeply personal. Years of small wins and moderate success had left him restless, haunted by the nagging sense that he was capable of more. This tournament wasn’t just a gamble; it was a battleground for his own redemption. It was his chance to prove—to himself and to the world—that his vision could transcend the limitations of the fractured landscape and reshape the industry forever.

His pitch caught the attention of Victor Blackwell, the shrewd and calculating CEO of Peak Media Group. While INN and PCN dismissed the idea as ridiculous, Victor saw the potential—not in the sport, but in the money. Blackwell didn’t care about the sport. He didn’t care about honor, discipline, or legacy. He cared about power. He cared about control. He cared about money. As the CEO of the most aggressive media empire in the industry, he had already reshaped entertainment, rewriting the rules to serve his vision.

Peak Media made Logan an offer he couldn’t refuse, though it left him with everything to lose. The tournament became a reality. The matches were booked. The world tuned in to see fighters and wrestlers collide in the cage, a spectacle unlike anything the industry had ever produced. It was a chaotic, violent, unpredictable success.

The pay-per-view shattered records. The arena was packed. The event was an undeniable, history-making moment.

But success came at a price.

By the time the dust settled, when the last bell had rung and the last fight had been fought, Logan was broke. The money had disappeared—swallowed by expenses, fighter payouts, and Victor Blackwell’s cut.

Logan had given everything for the tournament. And in return, he had nothing.

For most, that would have been the end.

But for Logan Drake, it was just the beginning.

Because months later, Peak Media came calling again.

But this time, they didn’t want a one-night tournament.

They wanted a league.

They wanted to rewrite the entire industry.

And so, the Summit Fighting League was born.

For Logan, it was a second chance. For Victor, it was a calculated gamble. For the fighters, it was a battlefield.

And in a world built on ambition, betrayal, and chaos, Logan was about to learn the harshest lesson of all:

Chaos isn’t a consequence.

It’s the currency of this new era.