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Sheamus regrouped fast, planting his boots and lunging forward again, this time catching Creed in a powerful side headlock. Creed tried to squirm free, but Sheamus cinched it in tight, wrenching his neck and dragging him to the mat. Creed kicked his legs, arching up, then managed to roll Sheamus into a pinning predicament, one, two, Sheamus powered out, rolling to his feet with a scowl.
They went back and forth in a gorgeous rhythm. Sheamus used his brute strength, delivering punishing knee lifts, sharp forearms to the back, and a thunderous scoop slam that rattled the ring.
Creed countered with agility, springboarding off the ropes with a flying crossbody, slipping out of Sheamus' grasp with slick reversals, nailing a spinning heel kick that caught Sheamus flush on the jaw.
At one point, Sheamus caught Creed midair during an attempted crossbody and planted him with a wicked backbreaker that caused Creed to tell out in pain. The crowd winced in unison.
"Oh, that's gotta hurt!" the older commentator exclaimed. "Sheamus just turned the tide with that one."
But Creed wasn't done. He kicked out at two and a half, rolling away, holding his back, grimacing but not quitting. He pulled himself up using the ropes, shaking his head, determination etched into every line of his face.
Sheamus sensed blood, roaring as he beat his chest, readying for his new finished move the he called the Brogue Kick. The crowd surged to its feet, cameras flashing, but as Sheamus charged forward, Creed dropped, ducking under the kick and rolling Sheamus up from behind.
One! Two!
Sheamus barely kicked out.
"Smart counter by Creed!" the younger commentator shouted. "That Brogue Kick can end a match in a heartbeat which we have seen last week when Sheamus introduce it to us, but Creed had it scouted!"
They clashed again, fists flying now, Sheamus battering Creed with clubbing blows, Creed answering with chops that lit up Sheamus' chest, the sound echoing through the arena.
Creed gained momentum, darting forward with a spinning clothesline that rocked Sheamus. He sprinted to the ropes, rebounding, and Sheamus caught him again, this time hoisting him up for the Fiery Red Hand, muscles straining as he lifted Creed above his head.
"It's the Fiery Red Hand! This could be it!"
But Creed wriggled free, sliding down Sheamus' back at the last second and shoving him hard into the corner. Sheamus staggered back, and that was the opening Creed needed.
Creed hit the ropes once, twice, gathering speed, and blasted Sheamus with the Lost in the Woods, his signature spinning knee strike, catching Sheamus right on the side of the head. Sheamus crumpled to one knee, dazed.
The crowd gasped.
"He's got him reeling! Creed's got him!"
Without wasting a second, Creed pulled Sheamus in, setting him up and with a surge of adrenaline, he hit the Culture Shock, a Hammerlock Legsweep DDT, on Sheamus.
Creed floated over into the pin, hooking the leg deep.
One! Two! Three!
Ding, ding, ding!
The crowd roared, some cheering, some booing, as Creed rolled off Sheamus, panting, a huge grin on his face. The referee raised his hand, and Creed soaked it in, basking in the moment.
"And Austin Creed has done it!" the older commentator barked. "He's your new number one contender for the FCW North American Championship!"
The younger commentator laughed, shaking his head in amazement. "Man, what a match! Back and forth, strength against speed, experience against momentum and Creed just walked away with the biggest win of his FCW career!"
Creed climbed the ropes, throwing his arms wide, jawing at the fans who booed him, then turning to grin cockily down at Sheamus, who was stirring on the mat, shaking his head.
Backstage, the locker room had been watching on the monitors. There was an air of respect as some of the wrestlers nodded, clapping softly at the performance, because no matter who won, that was a hell of a match.
Sheamus slowly got to his feet, locking eyes with Creed. And instead of a shove or a cheap shot, Sheamus simply gave him a slow, grudging nod of respect before rolling out of the ring, leaving Creed to celebrate.
The cameras followed Creed up the ramp, capturing every step of his triumphant retreat, and then faded from the entrance stage.
After the opening match between Austin Creed and Sheamus tore the house down, the energy inside the FCW arena was electric. The fans were on their feet, some still buzzing about Creed's massive win, while others eagerly awaited what was next.
Throughout the night, the card delivered. Several fast-paced matches followed: a tag team bout where Charlotte and Alexa showcased their chemistry against Alicia Fox and Eve Torres, a technical clinic between Nick Nemeth and Dawson Alexander that had the crowd split in chants, and a women's promo segment that saw Davina and Savannah trading barbs, teasing a showdown that was sure to explode next week.
Each match and promo built on the last, keeping the audience hyped, their cheers, chants, and boos blending into a near constant roar.
Backstage, the tension was thick. Wrestlers watched the monitors, trainers moved between rooms, and producers coordinated with headsets. And in the gorilla position, that last stop before the entrance curtain, stood Sandro.
On each of his shoulder rested a championship, the FCW Florida Heavyweight title, gleaming under the arena lights, and the TNA World Heavyweight title, its distinct gold plate catching every flicker of light. His dark hair was slicked back, his jaw tight, his face a mask of focus.
The producer leaned in, headset slightly askew, giving Sandro the usual pre match cue, but Sandro, in his own fashion, didn't wait for the formal signal. He simply gave a curt nod, exhaled, and walked.
As soon as Sandro parted the curtain, the opening guitar riff of "Cult of Personality" crashed through the speakers, and the crowd erupted. It was chaos in sound, a mixture of cheers, boos, and unrelenting noise. Some fans pumped their fists, others booed with venom, but all eyes were on him.
Sandro strode down the ramp, his expression unflinching, his eyes focused dead ahead. He didn't slap hands, didn't smile, didn't pander. He was the champion, and this was his kingdom.
The bell chimed, and the ring announcer's voice rang out, polished and booming:
"Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall… and it is for the FCW Florida Heavyweight Championship!"
The crowd popped again, phones raised, flashes dancing across the arena.
"Introducing first, representing Dragon Boom, from Orlando, Florida, weighing 220 pounds… he is the FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion AND the TNA World Heavyweight Champion… Sandro Zhang!"
In the ring, Sandro climbed a turnbuckle, raising both titles high above his head. The gold glinted under the lights, a physical statement of dominance. He hopped down, handing the TNA belt to the ring crew, then passed the FCW Florida Heavyweight title to the referee, who held it aloft for the audience before placing it ringside.
And then —
Barry Allen's music hit.
A lighter, faster beat bounced through the speakers, and the crowd responded with a mix of cheers, though more sporadic, less overwhelming. Barry was an underdog, a fan favorite in some pockets, and he sprinted onto the stage like a bolt of energy, arms pumping, trying to fire up the crowd.
The ring announcer followed seamlessly:
"And the challenger, from Maple Grove, Minnesota, weighing in at 180 pounds… Barry Allen!"
Barry slapped hands along the ramp, his grin wide as he darted toward the ring. He slid in under the bottom rope, springing to his feet, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he pointed to the crowd, cupped a hand to his ear, and struck a quick pose, trying to overcompensate, to build his own momentum against the champion's looming presence.
Sandro watched from his corner, arms crossed over the ropes, eyes narrow. He didn't move, didn't react to Barry's showmanship. His stillness was its own kind of statement.
The referee gathered both men in the center, holding the FCW Florida Heavyweight title one last time, showing it to Barry, then Sandro, before turning to the hard camera and raising it high for all to see. There was a pause, a breath suspended in the roar of the crowd, before the referee handed the belt to the ringside crew.
He checked with both men, stepping between them, arms slightly extended, his voice firm but low, audible only to them. Both nodded, Sandro barely moving his chin, Barry rolling his shoulders.
And then —
The referee signaled for the bell.
Ding, ding, ding!
The match was officially underway.
Sandro advanced slowly, his gaze locked on Barry Allen with a look that could cut steel. Barry, for all his bravado on the entrance ramp, looked a touch hesitant now, like somewhere in his gut, he sensed this wasn't going to be a regular night in the ring.
The two circled, Barry bouncing lightly on his feet, arms loose, flashing the occasional grin toward the crowd. Sandro, by contrast, was calm, composed, every step measured, eyes never leaving Barry. He didn't acknowledge the crowd, didn't play to the cameras. This was personal.
They locked up in the center of the ring, collar and elbow, but it was immediately clear who had the advantage. Sandro muscled Barry back, powering him into the corner with alarming ease.
The referee darted in, calling for the break, and Sandro raised his hands for a second then buried a stiff forearm into Barry's chest as he backed away. Barry's breath hitched as he doubled over, a grunt escaping his lips.
The crowd didn't catch the difference. To them, it looked like just another aggressive exchange. But Barry's eyes were wide, his hand pressed to his chest as he stumbled out of the corner.
"Whoa, Sandro coming out hot tonight," the older commentator noted, his voice calm but tinged with curiosity.
"Yeah, he's not playing around," the younger commentator agreed. "Barry's gotta be careful, or this one's gonna get away from him early."
They circled again. Barry tried to shake it off, darting forward with a quick arm drag attempt but Sandro didn't budge. He held his ground, yanked Barry in, and with no wasted motion, snapped off a suplex that folded Barry in half on the mat. Barry let out an audible "oof" as he landed, hand shooting to his lower back.
The match pressed on. Barry scrambled up, still wearing a shaky grin, but when he lunged at Sandro, the champion caught him mid stride with a European uppercut that was stiff and unyielding, cracking against Barry's jaw. Barry's legs buckled. He slumped to a knee, blinking in shock.
"Yikes! That one looked snug," the younger commentator muttered, his tone light but alert.
Sandro gave him no time. He grabbed Barry by the arm, yanked him up roughly, and whipped him into the ropes. Barry hit hard and rebounded, only to be met with a kitchen sink knee right to the gut. Barry flipped over the knee, landing flat on his back, gasping.
To the crowd, it looked like a classic, high-intensity match. To Barry, it was something else entirely. Every shot Sandro threw had an extra edge, a sharpness that went beyond showmanship, it was punishment. And it was deliberate.
Barry crawled toward the ropes, clutching his ribs, but Sandro stalked behind him, never hurrying, always poised. He dragged Barry up, hooked him under the arm, and launched him with a release belly to belly suplex. Barry crashed down hard, legs flopping awkwardly, and for a brief second, he didn't move.
"Man, Sandro's got something to prove tonight," the older commentator said with a hint of tension. "Barry needs to find an opening fast."
Barry stirred, face twisted in pain, forcing himself to his knees. He reached up, clutching at Sandro's tights, trying to pull himself up, but Sandro stepped back, measuring him then unleashed a stiff shoot kick to Barry's chest. Barry dropped flat, the air knocked out of him, mouth gaping open in a silent gasp.
Still, the crowd bought it. They roared at the intensity, not knowing the story underneath. Barry clutched his chest, rolling onto his side, his breaths shallow. Sandro leaned over, voice low, words only Barry could hear. "Maybe next time, you think twice about going to such lengths harassing Alexa and scarring an 18 year old, that was fresh in the business."
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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, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, & 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion