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Bray Wyatt wins. But he didn't stop there. He whispered to Abyss, something quiet, something dark, then kissed his forehead and laughed as Harper and Rowan stood behind him. He didn't come for a match. He came to baptize pain. And the show wasn't over yet.
After that, the atmosphere inside the arena shifted again. The crowd, still buzzing from the eerie presence of Bray Wyatt and his Family, now found themselves leaning forward with anticipation as the unmistakable thud of heavy boots echoed through the sound system.
The next match after was a Falls Count Anywhere match, and it's for the TNA Legends Championship. The crowd erupted into noise when they heard what the next match was.
It was a strange but electric feeling, this wasn't just TNA's gold on the line anymore, this was pride, strength, and the silent battle of eras. The Irish Powerhouse versus Big Daddy Cool. Raw brutality meeting cold blooded experience.
Sheamus's theme exploded through the speakers, raucous and aggressive, bringing fans to their feet. Dressed in his signature white gear and adorned with green and gold accents, the Irishman stomped onto the stage with intensity written all over his face. His pale chest heaved with anticipation, eyes locked forward as he let out his signature roar. The crowd popped hard.
Sheamus beat his chest like a Celtic war drum, marching to the ring with intent. He wasn't here just to entertain. He was here to make a point, to rip that title away from Kevin Nash and prove that his time wasn't just coming. It was now.
And then—
The lights dimmed.
A slow, pulsing rhythm began to rise. Kevin Nash emerged from the curtain like a monolith, draped in black and red. The TNA Legends Championship rested across his shoulder like a battle trophy.
He walked with that trademark confidence, that laid back yet intimidating swagger only a few legends ever carried with them. He paused at the top of the ramp, soaking in the crowd reaction, some cheers, some jeers, all loud.
Nash flicked his hair back and cracked his knuckles. This wasn't just a defense. This was a reminder that the Main Event Mafia wasn't just a gimmick, it was a legacy.
Both men stood in the ring now, the tension thick between them. The referee stood in the middle, lifting the Legends title into the air. The gold shimmered under the spotlight, a silent challenge to both competitors.
He handed it off to the ringside crew.
DING DING DING!
The match was on.
The two behemoths locked up center ring like bulls in a coliseum. The crowd roared as their chests collided, forearms locked, muscles flexed. Nash, with his height and weight advantage, pushed Sheamus back a step but Sheamus growled and surged forward, managing to force Nash into the corner.
He followed it up with stiff clotheslines, one, two, three, each one landing flush across Nash's chest. The last one rocked the big man enough to force him to stumble forward.
But Nash wasn't rattled.
He caught Sheamus with a brutal knee to the midsection, doubling him over, then smashed his forearm across Sheamus's back with a sickening thud. The Irishman dropped to one knee but quickly got up again, only to be met with another thunderous strike.
The two exchanged heavy blows now. Fists like hammers. Forearms like clubs. Neither man giving an inch.
The brawl spilled outside the ring. Nash whipped Sheamus into the steel steps with such force that they exploded apart, the top half flying sideways. Sheamus clutched his shoulder but got up quickly, only to lunge forward and slam Nash spine first into the barricade, shaking the whole thing.
The fans in the front row leaned back, eyes wide, mouths open.
They kept fighting up the ramp. Nash slammed Sheamus face first into the barricade near the stage, and Sheamus responded by driving a knee into Nash's gut before tossing him against the stage curtain.
They brawled backstage briefly, with camera crews struggling to follow them as they crashed through equipment cases and knocked over lighting rigs.
Sheamus picked up a trash can and dented it over Nash's head with a satisfying crunch. Nash stumbled but didn't fall, he caught Sheamus by the throat and drove him through a stacked pile of chairs with a sidewalk slam.
"Holy shit!" the crowd chanted as both men groaned in the wreckage.
Somehow, they dragged themselves back toward the ring. Back through the curtain. Back to the stage.
Sheamus, now bleeding slightly from the brow, roared and delivered a rolling senton to Nash right on the steel ramp. The big man grunted, but still rolled away to avoid being pinned there. Sheamus followed, pulling Nash to his feet.
He went for a big boot, but Nash ducked it and caught Sheamus in mid turn with a vicious elbow to the jaw.
Nash then lifted Sheamus, his back straining under the effort, and walked a few slow, methodical steps…
JACKKNIFE POWERBOMB.
Right onto the unforgiving steel ramp.
Sheamus's body bounced from the impact, laid out cold.
Nash collapsed onto him—
1… 2… 3!
DING DING DING!
The bell rang. Nash's music hit, and the crowd gave a mixed but thunderous ovation. Some were stunned. Others just respected what they'd seen.
Kevin Nash stood up slowly, chest heaving, the TNA Legends Championship returned to his shoulder by the referee. He raised it high with one hand while staring down at the broken warrior at his feet.
This wasn't just a win. It was a message to all that he still got it.
But there was no time to rest.
The lights changed once again, now returning to a more traditional setup. The ring crew had cleared the debris, the commentary team recovered, and the buzz was now turning toward the next spectacle.
The next match before the main event was a normal singles match. But the participants are two people related to the participants, who will put the main event.
The fans roared again, and the energy shifted.
Sting's music hit, that familiar haunting tone mixed with a sense of righteous vengeance. The Vigilante of the Main Event Mafia stepped through the curtain, bathed in white spotlight and black shadows, his long black trench coat fluttering with each step. Face painted in that iconic white and black design, he held the bat high in one hand, saluting the crowd.
No words.
Just presence.
He walked with purpose, climbing the steps and entering the ring with a kind of measured grace only he possessed.
Then Big E's entrance music hit.
The crowd popped as Big E exploded onto the stage, energy overflowing. No Sandro, no backup, just Big E, the powerhouse bodyguard, here to prove himself against a legend. He pounded his chest and stormed down the ramp, the intensity in his eyes undeniable. He slid into the ring, stared Sting down, and cracked his neck.
The referee stepped in, checked both men, and called for the bell.
DING DING DING!
Big E came out the gate like a freight train. He bulldozed Sting into the corner, unleashing brutal shoulder thrusts into his ribs. One after another, the ring shook with each impact. Sting grimaced but fought back, slamming fists into Big E's back before escaping the corner.
Sting hit the ropes, ducked a clothesline, and delivered a running dropkick to Big E's knees. The big man dropped slightly, and Sting followed up with a DDT that echoed through the ring.
Big E was up fast though, his resilience on full display. He caught Sting on the rebound with a massive belly to belly suplex, sending the icon flying.
The pace was blistering.
Sting used his experience and cunning, slipping out of Big E's bearhug with an eye rake, then dropping him with a clothesline from the second rope. He went for a quick cover—
1… 2... kickout!
The fans were on fire, rallying behind both men.
Big E powered through Sting's offense, hitting him with a trio of backbreakers and then a running splash.
1… 2… Sting kicked out!
Big E's eyes widened, but he nodded. Respect. The Vigilante wasn't going down easy.
Sting pulled himself up, staggering a little, and fought back with a Stinger Splash in the corner, before tossing Big E into the ropes and connecting with a back body drop.
He then let out a loud Woo! that the fans followed suit which was his war cry and pulled Big E up on his head and—
SCORPION DEATHDROP!
The crowd exploded.
1… 2… KICKOUT!
Sting's eyes narrowed. He couldn't believe it. Big E had survived it.
The big man slowly stood up, wobbling slightly. Sting charged again, but Big E caught him clean.
BIG ENDING!
He rolled into the pin—
1… 2… NO!
Sting kicked out just before the ref's hand hit the mat. The fans screamed. Big E sat up, eyes wide, stunned. He looked at the ref, then at Sting, then back to the crowd.
Respect turned into focus.
But Sting wasn't done.
He waited.
As Big E stood, slightly dazed, Sting suddenly sprang up and hit another Scorpion Deathdrop, this time landing it clean and tight.
He didn't go for the pin.
He turned Big E over.
SCORPION DEATHLOCK.
The crowd stood in unison. The ropes were too far. Big E clawed, tried to push himself up, but Sting sat back deep.
The pain was visible. Big E grimaced, tried to twist, he raised a hand, but finally, after one last desperate push, he tapped out.
DING DING DING!
Sting collapsed back as his theme played again. He got to his feet, arms raised, breathing hard.
Big E lay on the mat, spent, but alive. Sting walked over, looked down, then extended a hand. Big E stared for a moment… then took it.
The two stood in the ring, locked in a quiet moment of mutual respect. The crowd gave them both a standing ovation.
Tonight wasn't just about wins and losses, it was about proving something. Big E had shown he belonged. Sting had shown he still the deadly vigilante he was. And everyone watching had seen a match they'd remember.
After that, now it was time for the main event everyone had been waiting for, the clash of heavyweight champions, a dream match forged from tension and rivalry.
The Submission Match. The FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, Sandro Zhang, versus the TNA World Heavyweight Champion, Kurt Angle. No pinfalls. No disqualifications. One way out, tap or snap.
The arena lights dimmed and then burst into vibrant light as "Cult of Personality" by Living Colour hit the speakers. The crowd roared, the bass vibrating in their chests as Sandro Zhang stepped out onto the stage.
Wearing his signature white and red trunks with gold trim, the FCW Florida Heavyweight Title strapped proudly over his shoulder, Sandro stood tall under the spotlight. He scanned the crowd, eyes focused and fierce.
A smirk crept across his face as the audience erupted in chants of his name. He didn't need to scream, didn't need to play to the crowd, his presence alone commanded attention as he. walk down the ramp.
Every step was deliberate. Every glance calculated. He wasn't just representing himself, he was carrying FCW on his back. Once in the ring, Sandro stepped to the center, raised the title high, and spun in place, showcasing the gold like a proud warrior presenting his blade before battle. The camera zoomed in on his eyes. Calm. Cold. Ready.
Then the tone changed.
The iconic theme of Kurt Angle blared through the speakers, intense, commanding. The Olympic Hero emerged from the curtain, the TNA World Heavyweight Championship clasped around his waist.
But this time, the reaction was split. The crowd was loud, some cheering, most booing, all chanting in rhythm, "YOU SUCK! YOU SUCK!", Kurt didn't care as his face set in that trademark smirk. He didn't just walk to the ring, he owned the walk, his chest puffed out, his shoulders back, the confidence of a man who had broken legends.
When he stepped into the ring, he didn't wait. He marched straight to Sandro, stopping inches from his face. The two champions stood nose to nose, neither flinching, neither backing down. The referee had to physically step between them, pushing them apart, ordering them to their corners.
Then the ring announcer's voice boomed.
"The following contest is a Champion vs. Champion match, a Submission Match! The only way to win is by submission or knockout! And it is for the FCW Florida Heavyweight Championship AND the TNA World Heavyweight Championship!"
The crowd roared as Sandro was introduced first, "First, representing Dragon Boom, from Orlando, Florida, weighing in at 220 pounds, he is the FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion… SANDRO ZHANG!"
Then, it was Angle, "Next, representing the Main Event Mafia, from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, weighing in at 237 pounds, he is the only Olympic Gold Medalist in professional wrestling history AND the TNA World Heavyweight Champion… KURT ANGLE!"
The referee took both titles, holding them up for the crowd to see, two symbols of dominance, two prizes on the line. He handed them off to the ringside crew, then signaled for the bell to officially start the main event of Forbidden Door.
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 19 (2009)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida USA
Brand: FCW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Style
Faction: Dragon Boom (Tag Team)
Championship History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions & 1 FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion