NEW - NOIR EXTREME WRESTLING

Xuan_Ying: The days between our meeting had vanished like falling ash. Time became measured not by sunrises or sunsets, but by repetitions. Another hour beneath a gym’s cold fluorescent lights. Another notebook filled with observations. Another training session where exhaustion was invited to stay until it had nothing left to teach me. Solitude had always been the language I understood best, and in its silence I prepared both the body that would step into battle and the mind that would decide it. There was little footage of Chanyota to study. She moved with a confidence untouched by hesitation, as though every decision had already been made long before her muscles obeyed it. There was no wasted motion, no needless spectacle. In one match she survived the chaos of a fiercely contested triple threat. In another, she stood across from Noir’s champion, Sara León, and walked away having accomplished what few others could, victorious. The cheerful woman who had wrapped me in an unexpected embrace backstage had become someone else beneath the lights. Not different. Complete. It confirmed what instinct had whispered from the moment we met. Beneath warmth could live steel. A smile could conceal the edge of a blade. The private locker room offered no comfort. Concrete walls absorbed every sound until even breathing felt louder than it should. The faint smell of athletic tape lingered alongside leather, disinfectant, and the metallic scent that every arena eventually inherited. My gear rested against my skin with familiar weight. The butterflies arrived exactly when they always did. Faithful companions. People often spoke of conquering fear. I never bought into it. Fear was not an enemy. It was proof that what waited beyond the curtain still mattered. Standing behind the entrance curtain, I closed my eyes for a single breath. The darkness there was absolute. Then. The opening note. It rang through the Hammerstein Ballroom like the first crack of thunder before a storm.

Xuan_Ying: I parted the curtain. Heat greeted me first. Columns of fire erupted along the stage, their breath washing over the back of my neck and the exposed skin of my arms. The warmth carried with it the scent of burning fuel, smoke, and anticipation.I stepped forward, not with arrogance, not with defiance, only certainty. The certainty earned by years no one else had witnessed. Countless mornings before sunrise. Countless evenings when my body begged for rest and received another repetition instead. Every sacrifice invisible to everyone except the woman now walking toward the ring and the one watching above it. Behind me, the phoenix spread across the towering screen, wings forged from living fire. The arena lights remained dim as I walked through the darkness. Then, one by one, the house lights awakened. Light spilled across the Hammerstein Ballroom in widening circles, washing over the audience until the shadows surrendered their hold. The darkness receded exactly as ash does when disturbed by the first determined beat of new wings. I climbed through the ropes without breaking stride. The canvas yielded gently beneath my boots. With one fluid motion, my fingers found the collar of my entrance coat. The fabric slipped free and with a single turn the long white coat bloomed outward in a wide circle behind me, ember-lined panels catching the arena lights as though scattering sparks into the air before it settled across the ringside floor in one graceful arc. Silence returned, not outside the ring, but inside me. I drifted backward into my corner, lowering myself into a familiar crouch. My forearms rested against my knees. My breathing slowed. Chanyota would emerge from the darkness we had both chosen to enter. Only then would we discover whether two rising flames could share the same sky, or whether one would be asked to become ashes so the other could continue to rise.

Xuan_Ying:

Xuan_Ying:

Chanyotaaa: If there's been any change in my life before the match, it's that I've added another 10 to 15 kilograms of plates to my basic strength training every day. Not because that's all you're worth — but simply because I can't afford to push myself to my limit out of sheer anxiety and burn out. If I have to defend my record in that ring, then my conditioning needs to go further. Every day, I push myself to the point where I practically own the weight room, and in the remaining time, anyone from NOIR can find me on the treadmill. After anaerobic training has made my muscles full and resilient, I need to keep running — so they can explode with power in an instant. I put on my boxing gloves and pound the heavy bag again and again. It's not my specialty, but I keep finding ways to supplement my abilities... When I show up backstage at NOIR again, that night I'm as calm as ever. If I have to face a god in that ring, then at least before she takes my body, I'll make sure she gets a taste of what I can do. More precious than any shiny record on paper is my own courageous heart. I'm about to walk into the flames of the phoenix — but maybe, just maybe, it'll be me who rises from the ashes.

Chanyotaaa: I heard the notes of fire, and the smell of smoke and fireworks from the stage instantly drifted backstage, casting a more mysterious veil over the place. Through the screen, I saw you wearing that gorgeous feathered cloak – the phoenix about to descend upon NOIR – and your cloak seemed to vanish back into your pocket as if by magic. I slapped my chest a few times with both hands, knowing I was in peak condition. I didn't wish for anything more; I knew I could show my strength here with ease, giving fate an answer – an answer to our meeting. "Come on, our Japanese girl... our spiritual booster! Chanyo....taaaaa!" The lights shifted in an instant from a scorching blood‑red to a cool, striking blue‑cyan – that was my request, of course. Though my heart burned as hot as yours, my flame in this bout would be like fire from the depths of a glacier. Confidently, I walked down the stage ramp, smiling, as the successive flashes of cool blue light guided me along a path that felt like happiness. The friends here were as enthusiastic as when I first arrived at NEW. I'd never designed such a stunning entrance before – maybe I was still a little reserved. As I slipped between the ropes and stepped onto the canvas padded with soft mats, I saw those fans from a new perspective, and I saw that Chinese beauty finally standing across from me in the ring. Naturally, I struck my signature pose to show my strength – that fearless, natural power. I smiled, satisfied and content, toward my fans and toward my opponent tonight. I gave you a slight nod and bow, a gesture of humility and respect, then headed to my corner, pulled on the ropes to stretch a little, crouched down, and prepared myself to hear the bell of fate ring.

Chanyotaaa:

Chanyotaaa:

Chanyotaaa:

Xuan_Ying: I watched you emerge from the curtain as though the arena had been waiting for your smile. It arrived before you did. Bright. Effortless. Untouched by doubt. The Hammerstein Ballroom answered in kind, the audience lifting your name into the rafters while the pale blues and silvers of your gear shimmered beneath the lights like moonlight dancing across winter water. There was something almost paradoxical about you. Joy rested so easily upon your face that, for a fleeting moment, I could almost forget the compact strength hidden beneath it, the coiled power in your shoulders, the steady balance in your stride, the quiet certainty carried by someone who had already proven she belonged here. Most people mistake confidence for noise. True confidence is usually silent. It announces itself not through grand gestures or haphazard words, but through the absence of hesitation. I had seen enough of your matches to recognize it. And I knew exactly where I wanted to strike first. Not your jaw. Not your ribs. Your certainty. Every fight begins long before the first blow lands. Sometimes it begins with a glance that lingers a heartbeat too long. Sometimes with a breath that arrives half a second late. Sometimes with the smallest fracture in composure, so insignificant no one in the audience notices…except the person searching for it. I wanted to be the one who introduced you to that first crack. Because uncertainty grows the same way fire does. One spark. Then another. Until even seasoned forests begin to wonder whether they were ever truly immovable. The bell rang. Its sharp metallic voice cut cleanly through the arena. Right on cue, the butterflies abandoned me. Faithful creatures. They always came before the battle and always vanished the instant it began, retreating somewhere deep within me until another curtain, another opponent, another promise demanded their return. Our ritual was complete. There was only the ring now.

Xuan_Ying: The canvas welcomed my first step toward its center. You answered with one of your own. No theatrics. No circling born of indecision. Just two competitors allowing inevitability to shorten the distance between them. I studied the rhythm of your walk even then. Some glide. Some stalk. Some charge. You moved with an ease that disguised calculation beneath comfort. Good. I did not wait for permission from the moment. My weight settled almost imperceptibly over my right leg. The muscles in my left thigh tightened like the drawn string of a bow hidden beneath still water. The kick left the floor in a blur, arcing low toward the outside of your lead thigh with the crisp efficiency of an axe swung against the trunk of an ancient maple. No one fells a great tree by attacking its highest branches. They begin where the roots surrender their strength to the earth. Power lives in the legs. Steal the foundation and eventually the mountain above it begins to question its own balance. For one suspended heartbeat, the arena itself seemed to inhale. The crowd disappeared. The lights vanished. There was only the space between my boot and your leg and within that narrowing distance lived a single unanswered question. Would preparation meet opportunity…or would you already be waiting for me?

Chanyotaaa: When the distance between us in the ring shrank to less than a meter, I knew the fight had truly begun. You might have already seen through my techniques and skills—but a human is not a weapon. A weapon can only execute the techniques it was built for, while a person possesses the ability to analyze and reshape every technique. With the same unspoken understanding, we didn't even raise our hands for a collar tie. Instead, we simply stood there, calmly locking eyes, our chests rising and falling in rhythm. Ding! In that very instant when the bell rang, your leg came down like an axe, chopping straight into my front leg. I clearly witnessed your speed. I felt even prouder of my own judgment—I longed to receive the baptism of true power. "UgHHHH! What a hit!" As your boot landed on the outside of my quadriceps, my body couldn't help but stagger to the side. But I immediately tensed the struck muscle—you could see it swell up in an instant—and I stubbornly straightened back to my stance. At the same time, I used the very same technique you had just unleashed, delivering a kick of equal force to the symmetrical spot on your thigh—a warrior's charge of a kick. "Ha!" The crowd erupted at that eye-for-an-eye exchange. The simple, primal meaning behind it was savagery and defiance. I can't boast that your kick had no effect on me—but at the very least, you'll have to take an equal share of power's impact right here with me.

Xuan_Ying: The impact drove you a half step backward. Not far. Just enough. Your lead leg betrayed the strike before your face ever did, your balance briefly renegotiating its contract with the canvas. It was a small victory, so small the crowd would scarcely notice, but wrestling had taught me long ago that entire matches were often hidden inside moments too subtle for applause. Then you answered. Your shin carved through the air with startling precision, returned to sender. The crack against my left thigh echoed through muscle and bone, a sharp bloom of pain radiating upward before settling deep beneath the skin. My quadriceps tightened involuntarily, every nerve briefly awakened by the honesty of your strength. Good. Pain is difficult to counterfeit. It had given me something no amount of footage ever could. It introduced me to you. Not the smiling woman who had greeted me in the hallway. Not the cheerful competitor beneath blue and silver lights. The fighter. Your kick told me enough, heavy, disciplined, confident. I welcomed it. Knowledge purchased with bruises is usually the most reliable kind. The map I had been drawing since our backstage meeting gained a new contour. Another truth.

Xuan_Ying: Without hesitation, I lifted my leg again. The movement was nearly identical to the first. The same subtle shift of weight. The same tightening of my hips. The same promise of another low kick. Patterns are comforting things. The mind begins to trust them almost immediately. It expects repetition because repetition has always made the world easier to understand. For a heartbeat…I offered you that comfort. Then I stole it away. My kicking leg settled back beneath me before it ever found its target. Instead, momentum continued where the strike did not. My shoulders unwound. My hips followed. The arena blurred into streaks of light and shadow as I pivoted through the spin, my ponytail whipping through the air like the tail of a comet cutting across a midnight sky. The back of my fist emerged from the rotation with quiet violence, slicing toward your jaw in one uninterrupted motion. No wasted effort. No flourish. Only precision. Strength can dominate. Endurance can survive. But speed asks questions that neither strength nor endurance have time to answer. As my fist closed the final inches between us, the world narrowed once more into a single suspended instant. Could your instincts untangle the deception before impact? Or had the phantom of my second kick already stolen the fraction of a second this defense required?

Chanyotaaa: Your thigh lifted once again. Perhaps we were destined to trade blows back and forth like this for several rounds, until one of us finally gave way. I planted my stance firmly, bracing for your next axe-like instep strike. But what I expected never came. Instead, your leg swept through the air before me in a stunning arc—and then a sharp crack exploded against my cheek and jaw. You moved like a dandelion spinning and twirling through the air—fluid, graceful, yet terrifyingly powerful. My head was whipped to one side and dropped uncontrollably downward. The lights vanished from my sight in an instant, replaced by the swaying canvas, the ropes, and your combat boots.

Chanyotaaa: Before my body was thrown off balance, I grabbed your wrist with my opposite palm—clutching it as tightly as an eagle gripping its prey. Thanks to that hold, I didn't collapse straight onto the canvas. I tilted my head to one side, my jaw aching fiercely, the aftershock of that heavy punch still lingering in my skull, not yet faded. Through the strands of my disheveled hair, I looked at you, still wearing that satisfied and competitive smile. Then, in a swift motion, I raised my head, used the hand that was gripping you to instead hook around the back of your head, and drove my other elbow and forearm crashing into your chest.

Xuan_Ying:

Chanyotaaa:

Xuan_Ying: The back of my fist found your jaw with a sharp, satisfying honesty. For the briefest instant, I felt the conversation between bone and bone travel the length of my arm, a clean answer to the question I had asked only a heartbeat earlier. Your head snapped sideways, your body surrendering just enough for gravity to begin its patient work. But you refused it. Before the canvas could claim you, your fingers closed around my wrist, firm. The fall became a pause instead. You remained standing, your dark hair spilling across your face in tangled strands, hiding one eye while the other remained fixed upon me. There was no panic waiting there. No frustration. Only resolve, sharpened by impact rather than diminished by it. A quiet smile almost found me. Sturdy. The word settled somewhere in the back of my mind. Not as praise, but as information. The map continued to draw itself. Then your hand found the back of my head. There was no hesitation. Your forearm drove into my chest with the weight of a battering ram, stealing the air from my lungs before pain had time to show its face. The impact thundered through my ribs, compressing my breath into a single involuntary gasp as my boots surrendered inches across the canvas before the ropes caught me. The cables stretched behind my back like drawn bowstrings. For one suspended moment, I remained there, feeling them strain beneath my weight. Meeting you head-on would be like arguing with a mountain. Mountains are not persuaded by conviction, they are navigated. Wrestling has never belonged solely to the strongest. It belongs to timing. To leverage. To deception measured in fractions of seconds. To understanding that rivers do not carve stone because they strike harder, but because they never stop finding another path.

Xuan_Ying: The ropes released me. Momentum surged forward before thought could interfere, carrying me back toward the center of the ring. Every step disguised intention beneath urgency. I let my posture invite the obvious conclusion, shoulders squared, eyes fixed forward, every movement suggesting another direct collision. Sometimes the greatest deception is giving your opponent exactly what they expect to see. I watched you prepare to meet me. Good. At the final instant, I vanished from the line you had prepared to defend. My weight dropped beneath yours in one liquid motion, my boots skimming across the canvas as I folded into a baseball slide. The world narrowed to flashes of white canvas beneath me and the powerful pillars of your legs on either side. My hands reached instinctively. One. Then the other. Fingers searching for your ankles with impressive precision. If my timing proved true, my momentum would become yours. Your foundation would disappear before your body understood it had been stolen, your feet swept backward as the rest of you continued faithfully toward the future they expected to find. Even the tallest tree falls forward. Long before it realizes its roots are no longer beneath it.

Xuan_Ying:

Chanyotaaa: I had already braced myself for you to charge in with your momentum. You weren't the type to just sit back and passively wait for an opening—at least, I could see that hunger in your eyes. Maybe it was for victory, or maybe for something else that drew you in even more. I kept bouncing lightly on the balls of my feet, constantly shifting my center of gravity. If you came crashing down on me from above, I could potentially use your momentum to flip you over my shoulder and slam you onto the canvas. If your target was my lower base, then I figured my footing was nimble enough to evade this attempt. Finally, I saw a fiery figure slide rapidly right through my legs like a baseball player stealing a base. "Don't think I'm just a big dumb brute, babe..." I knew I couldn't let you get a hold of either of my ankles—whether it was a leg-pickup takedown or a submission hold, neither would be good news for me. I jumped straight up in place as high as I could, letting your fingertips just graze the soles of my boots. I quickly estimated the distance you'd slide from your forward momentum. The moment I landed, I spun around rapidly, with my back facing the ropes and facing the direction you were sliding. I too used the recoil of the ropes behind me to propel my body forward. Just as I was about to reach you, I hurled myself into midair, raised my tree-trunk-thick biceps, and aimed them squarely at your chest. "Chanyota's here, my dear Phoenix!" Like a meteor that has yet to fully burn out, I plunged downward with a cyan glow and the crushing weight of a mountain, my target set to land squarely on your body.

Chanyotaaa:

Xuan_Ying: My hands swept through empty air. For the briefest instant, I understood. Not because I saw you. Because I didn't. You had read the trap a hair’s width before it could close around you, your feet leaving the canvas as my fingers slid harmlessly beneath them. The opening I had tried to carve into the match sealed itself as quickly as it had appeared. The map between us had just become more interesting. You landed lightly despite the strength packed into your frame, wasting nothing. Before I could gather myself, you were already moving again, sprinting toward the ropes with the urgency of someone who understood that hesitation is often the shortest path to defeat. The cables stretched deeply beneath your weight. Like a bowstring finally released, they hurled you back toward me. It was remarkable. For someone built with such obvious power, you carried yourself with astonishing speed. Your muscles never seemed to burden your movement. They served it. Every stride dissolved effortlessly into the next until you became less a charging opponent and more an avalanche finding the only direction gravity would allow. I had only just begun to rise when you left the canvas. For a suspended breath, you seemed to hang beneath the lights, one elbow drawn tight. The point of your elbow aimed squarely toward my chest. Had it landed, I doubted there would have been much cooperation left between my ribs and my lungs. Thought disappeared, instinct remained. My shoulders twisted and my hips followed. The canvas rolled beneath me as I slipped clear an instant before impact. The ring shook. Your elbow crashed into the mat with a heavy crack that echoed through the Hammerstein Ballroom, the vibration traveling across the canvas and into my palms before I had even finished the roll.

Xuan_Ying: There was no satisfaction in your mistake, only opportunity. I climbed to my feet almost before the momentum had left me. Across the ring, you had dropped to one knee, your breath catching as you pushed against the canvas to recover. It would only take a moment. A fighter like you never remained grounded for long, which meant neither could I. No time to borrow momentum from the ropes. No room for elaborate setup. Only distance, timing and conviction. The balls of my feet bit into the canvas. My body compressed like a spring wound to its final turn. Then released. I exploded forward, every stride collapsing the space between us before your balance had fully returned. My eyes never left the line of your head as you rose, watching the exact instant your posture began to straighten. There. That fleeting moment between kneeling and standing. Between vulnerability and stability. I left the mat, one knee drove upward, cutting through the arena lights toward your temple with the speed of a falcon stooping from impossible heights, every ounce of momentum gathered into a single ascending point. Around us, the Hammerstein Ballroom erupted. The crowd had stopped watching two wrestlers exchange holds. Every attack answered. Every answer challenged. Neither of us allowed certainty to survive for more than an instant. The match had finally shed its cautious opening pages.Now..it had begun to write itself in fire.

Chanyotaaa: "OooooUghhhhh!" You were like an agile rabbit. I thought I would catch you one hundred percent at this spot, but all that remained beneath my elbow was the endlessly trembling canvas, and an elbow joint shattered from the violent impact. I tried to fend off the agony radiating from my arm with groans and roars, but I didn't roll around on the canvas for too long, as that would only signal my defeat. I quickly supported my injured arm and dropped to one knee. When my gaze returned to the front, the phoenix was already soaring over, seemingly engulfed in devouring flames. Finally, I was going to face the scorching heat of the fire head-on. I gritted my teeth; no matter where that knee landed, it was no small challenge. I could only hope to get back on my feet and not let a pinfall take me out directly. "Thud!!!" You must have driven something into my head, as if a thousand tons of fireworks were exploding all at once inside my brain. Even though your knee pad acted as a cushion between your knee and my jaw, the power of the flames seemed to pierce through everything, and my body began to stiffen and go limp in that moment.

Chanyotaaa: But I had already prepared in advance. As you were about to descend upon me with your flying body, I used a clutching motion, and while you targeted my head, I clamped directly onto your abs. It was a desperate bear hug. I no longer expected to inflict much pain; I just hoped to reduce my subsequent disadvantage. I knew I would stiffen and lose consciousness the moment I took that impact, so I had already prepared to turn. I caught you, bear-hugged you, and locked my wrists. In the instant my mind went blank, I felt your skin—hard but slick with sweat. Then, using the backward momentum you had given me, I threw you backward into a back suplex. "Peeeeng!" We landed on the canvas at the same time. The massive dizziness made it impossible for me to get up, but I hoped my plan was still working at that moment, because I could still feel your texture in my embrace. I wasn't about to let go of my wrists easily. I didn't even know what part of you—your head, your neck, or your back—had just slammed onto the still-vibrating canvas.

Chanyotaaa:

Xuan_Ying: The point of my knee found your temple with the clean clarity I had imagined. For one fleeting instant, I felt your head yield beneath the impact, the force of the collision traveling back through my hip and spine like the echo of a temple bell struck at dawn. The arena disappeared. There was only contact. Then, your arms found me. Not with precision, but with instinct. They wrapped around my waist in the final, desperate language shared by every fighter who refuses to surrender. Your hands locked together behind my back, fingers weaving into an unbreakable chain before thought could ever have reached them. The embrace was anything but gentle. It reminded me of watching nature documentaries as a child, seeing the jaws of an alligator close around its prey. Once they decided to remain shut, they simply did. I could not tell whether consciousness still lived behind your eyes. Perhaps the knee had stolen it, perhaps it hadn't. Your body offered no answer. Muscles remember their purpose long after the mind has gone silent. The momentum I had driven into your head became my own undoing. Still imprisoned inside your grip, I had nowhere left to fall except with you. The world tilted, then vanished. The canvas rushed upward until it met us with a thunderous impact that reverberated through the ring and out into the Ballroom. The air burst from my lungs as our bodies struck almost as one, your arms refusing to surrender even after the collision. I tried to turn. Nothing. Your grip remained, not active, not reactive, simply absolute. For a moment I considered waiting, but wrestling has never rewarded hesitation. Every second spent wondering becomes a gift offered freely to the opponent.

Xuan_Ying: Whether you were unconscious or merely surviving on instinct no longer mattered. What mattered was opening the cage. I shifted my weight just enough to create the smallest pocket of movement, planting one forearm against the canvas for balance. My free arm rose above us, elbow folding sharply before driving downward toward the crown of your head. Deliberately. Each strike carrying a single purpose. Pain has a remarkable way of reminding the mind where it left the body. If awareness still lingered somewhere beneath the ringing silence I had left inside your skull, perhaps these blows would summon it back. I needed you awake. An unconscious opponent cannot choose to let go, but a conscious one can be persuaded. I could only hope the blows would land and you’d answer the alarm. The roar of the crowd, whose voices had risen into a single, mangled swell. They no longer cheered for one wrestler or the other. They cheered for two competitors so unwilling to yield that even a perfectly landed strike had become merely the beginning of another struggle.

Xuan_Ying:

Chanyotaaa: "Bang!" Even though your aim wasn't perfect, causing your elbow to miss a clean hit on the top of my head or my forehead, it was more than enough to jolt my consciousness back—a consciousness that had been slowly drifting away. I opened my eyes to see the referee waving his fingers above me; he probably thought you were going to kill me. I stared at him blankly, then looked down at my own predicament. "Oh... Xuan, darling, I'm holding you..." I muttered those words almost instinctively, until I caught sight of your elbow pads and professional wrestling gear, and my own cyan-blue knee pads. Only then did I realize that this match was far from over. We were now pressed skin to skin. And in that moment, I fully grasped the essential reason why you are called the Phoenix—heat, absolute heat. With your superior athleticism, the warmth radiating from your muscles and skin makes you feel exactly like a phoenix ready to soar out of an erupting volcano at any moment. Our slick, sweaty bodies were pressed together, and I realized you were desperately trying to pry my hands apart, which immediately put me on edge. I knew I needed a different strategy to pull myself out of this disoriented state. "I'm sorry, Xuan," I whispered softly right into your ear. Then, I opened my arms, slipped them under your armpits, and locked my hands together behind the back of your head. My legs separately hooked around the outside of your thighs to trap them. Slowly, I began to push and compress your head forward, feeling the scorching heat of your skin against mine, and feeling the thrilling, trembling pulse of our muscles as they excitedly strained against each other.

Chanyotaaa: This won't make you give up, because I know you can endure far more than this. But I must offer my entire being as a sacrifice to this girl who fills me with such joy and utterly captivates me. In return, I might earn myself more scars and bandages, but it's all worth it. Being in close proximity to such a powerful energy source revitalizes me for every single battle. I savor leaning my body backward, feeling the visceral tear of my muscles pulling and twisting your shoulders and neck apart. "You can tap out, darling, but I know you won't..." I whisper into your ear. I usually shout this line out loud to the crowd, but I know you don't deserve to be treated like that. I won't let you feel any humiliation—this is simply pure competition and mutual surrender to the moment. I hope I also have a side that can make you yield, especially in these close-quarters submission techniques, feeling the way we press tightly against each other, exchanging our sweat with every move.

Xuan_Ying: My elbows became slower, less precise. Beneath me, something shifted. At first it was subtle, a breath drawn deeper than the last, a slight tightening in muscles that moments ago had belonged only to instinct. Then I heard it, a quiet inhale. Consciousness had returned. Your grip never loosened, if anything, it became more purposeful. The unconscious strength that had imprisoned me transformed into intention as your arms adjusted around my waist, your body rolling with practiced efficiency until, before I could reclaim even a fraction of control, the positions between us had reversed. I found myself seated against you. Your chest pressed firmly against my back, my shoulders were drawn backwards. Then your hands found each other behind my head. There is a dreadful beauty to a technique performed by someone who understands it completely. Your forearms slipped beneath mine with patient precision, lifting them higher and higher until resistance itself became the mechanism tightening the trap. Your fingers interlocked behind my skull, and the moment your elbows drew inward, I understood. A full nelson. My eyes widened, not with panic, but rather recognition. Some dangers announce themselves loudly, others whisper. This one whispered. Pressure spread across my shoulders first, slow and relentless, rolling through my neck before making a home between my shoulder blades like iron being driven gradually deeper beneath the skin. Every instinct urged my arms downward, yet every attempt only fed the hold, my own strength becoming another thread woven into the prison surrounding me.

Xuan_Ying: You leaned closer. I could feel your breath against my ear over the thunder of the crowd when your voice arrived softly, almost apologetically,"I'm sorry..." A pause. "You can tap out, darling, but I know you won’t." It was confidence not cruelty that fueled the words. The kind possessed by someone who believed the outcome had already been decided. The crowd seemed impossibly distant. Its roar faded beneath the rhythm of my own breathing, each inhale growing shallower as the hold continued to tighten. My muscles strained, searching desperately for angles that no longer existed. Every shift of my hips, every twist of my shoulders, every ounce of effort merely reminded me how thoroughly you had secured your position. Pain is an impatient teacher, it demands immediate attention. Taunts are different, they are seeds, they wait to see whether doubt will water them. I closed my eyes for the briefest instant. The pain could remain. Your words could remain. Neither would be allowed to decide the ending. Weakness exists in every hold, not because the technique is flawed, because humans are. One must breathe, adjust, blink. I only had to hope to endure long enough for your weakness to reveal itself.

Chanyotaaa:

Chanyotaaa: You didn't say a single word, but I knew you were feeling, recording, and mapping out everything—including your own mind, and mine, in this very moment. I silently waited for the Phoenix to conjure a way to soar free, but I would never let my guard down or loosen my hold. I locked my hands even tighter behind your head, so much so that I could see the muscles around your shoulder blades twitching frantically from tension. I hooked my legs through your ankles, then leaned back, forcing your legs apart and lifting them completely off the ground. This wasn't about humiliation—it was about cutting off every possible anchor you had to the canvas. You were left with no choice but to struggle and roll against my hard, unyielding muscles. You stayed silent. All I could hear was a faint, almost baby-like moan escaping you. Yet you weren't panicking—or at least, you didn't show it. It confused me, and at the same time, it earned my respect. The referee hadn't seen a match like this in a long time—no screaming, no cursing, not a single superfluous exchange. I pursed my lips, waiting for an opening. You gritted your teeth, waiting for a flaw. We were locked in a silent battle within the world that belonged only to us. The referee tentatively pointed at you. "Do you submit?" I couldn't help but let out a faint chuckle at his question. How could a proud Phoenix ever give up just like that? I shook my head first, signaling to the referee that it wasn't time yet. At the same time, I was awaiting your answer. Even though I already knew what it would be, I still longed to hear it from your own lips.

Xuan_Ying: Your hold refused to yield. It possessed the quiet structure of an ancient oak rooted deep beneath frozen earth, unyielding. Every subtle adjustment I made was denied before it had fully begun, your strength patiently reminding me that some doors cannot simply be forced open. So I stopped trying. Strength had never been the language I intended to speak with you. To challenge you there would have been like asking the tide to retreat through stubbornness alone. Buried somewhere within every masterpiece of technique is a single thread that, if found, can unravel the entire tapestry. You leaned backward, determined to tighten the full nelson even further. Your shoulders settled against the canvas as your powerful legs threaded around mine, anchoring us together until it felt as though the ring itself had swallowed us whole. Pressure spread relentlessly through my neck and shoulders, each breath arriving a little shallower than the last.

Xuan_Ying: The referee knelt beside us, "Do you give up?" His words drifted through the roar of the arena like distant waves, almost foreign against the constant chorus of pain echoing through my body. I turned my head as much as the hold would allow, meeting the official’s eyes. There was no desperation waiting in mine, no plea, just one demand, “Count.” The single word left my lips quietly. Firmly. It drew a puzzled look from the referee, whose gaze shifted instinctively toward our shoulders. Only then did realization wash across his face. In tightening the hold, you had forgotten the geometry beneath us. Your shoulders rested flat against the canvas, with mine firmly above yours. Neither of you had noticed. Not you nor the official, likely not even the audience. The submission had become a pin. The referee dropped instantly beside us. His hand struck the mat, "ONE!" The sound cracked through the arena like the first roll of thunder before a summer storm. I felt it, not the count, but the change it would force inside you. A wrestler of your caliber would never willingly remain pinned. The moment you understood what had happened, instinct would demand adjustment. Your legs would shift. Your shoulders would rise. Your arms, however briefly, would abandon perfection in favor of escape. That fraction of time, that single imperfection, was all I had been waiting for.

Chanyotaaa: I had braced myself to hear your refusal and denial, but instead I heard a word that didn't belong to this moment. I was utterly confused, wondering if this was your own unique combat language. "ONE!" The vibration from the ring transmitted up to my shoulders? What the hell! "Referee, what are you doing?!" I was amazed, wondering if you possessed some kind of mind-bending power. I had you completely locked in my dominant submission, unable to move, yet the referee started counting for a pinfall! It wasn't until I finally felt the weight you had been silently concealing that it hit me like a flash of lightning! This isn't a BJJ or Judo dojo—this is professional wrestling. I had stupidly pinned my own shoulder to the canvas! Your calmness stemmed from your experience and confidence. If you hadn't announced it yourself—perhaps even tricked the referee—you might have already had me pinned for over three seconds. It was only the referee's oversight that forced you to declare your brilliant wrestling IQ yourself. "TWO!" Good heavens, I was running out of time. I had to do something fast. Even if I completely let go of you right now, there's no way you'd let my shoulders leave the canvas within a single second. I had to resort to an even crazier maneuver. I unhooked my legs from around your waist to get myself up, maintaining the strength in my arms as tightly as possible, and hoisted you up with me to a standing position on the canvas. "You really are a genius, Miss Phoenix." I said it with genuine praise and respect. "But now, forgive me for what I have to do next... Ugh!" Immediately, I surged forward with explosive force, taking you down with me while trapping you in a Nelson hold, attempting to smash your front body and face squarely into the canvas ahead of you.

Xuan_Ying: You moved, not hurriedly, not desperately, but because you had to. The referee's count had forced your hand, and in this ring there are moments where even the strongest competitor must abandon perfection to preserve something greater. Your shoulders peeled from the canvas, carrying both of us upward in one seamless motion, your forearms still locked beneath mine as though forged from tempered steel. My boots found the mat again. The crushing pressure that had threatened to fold my shoulders inward eased with the change in angle, replaced by a different truth. Freedom had not arrived, only breathing room. Your grip still imprisoned my arms high above my head, every attempt to lower them countered instantly by the immense strength coiled through your shoulders and back. For the first time since entering the hold, I could feel your intention changing. You were no longer trying to make me surrender. You intended to break my balance instead. I felt your weight shift. Your center of gravity drifted forward. The realization settled over me with remarkable calm. This was the price. Every escape carries one. Every advantage demands payment. I had forced you to stand and now you would collect your debt. There would be no elegant counter. No clever reversal hidden inside. Only impact.

Xuan_Ying: I steadied my breathing, not to escape, but to prepare. The body has an extraordinary instinct for fearing what it cannot prevent. It tightens. It resists. It wastes precious strength wrestling with inevitability. I had learned long ago that inevitability is rarely defeated. It is endured. Your powerful frame pitched forward, carrying me helplessly with it, your forearms still cinched beneath my arms as though you intended to drive every ounce of your momentum through my body before allowing the ring to finish the sentence. The canvas rushed towards me, relentless and unforgiving. I tucked my chin as much as your hold forgave, surrendering to the fall instead of fighting it, hoping instinct could soften what determination could not. The world disappeared, not gradually. Instantly. My face struck the canvas with a violence so complete it silenced every other sensation. The ring answered with a deafening crack that echoed through my skull, as though someone had rung a church tower bell from somewhere inside my own bones. Light fractured behind my eyes into brilliant white before dissolving into scattered embers drifting through an endless darkness. For a fleeting moment, I could no longer tell where the ring ended and my body began. Pain arrived late. It always does. First came the shock, that strange, hollow emptiness where the body forgets how to speak to itself. Then, like floodwaters breaching a broken dam, sensation returned all at once. Fire spread across my cheek, my jaw throbbed, my nose burning with sharp intensity.

Chanyotaaa: I was the first to get to my feet. My weight and the firmness of the canvas were more than enough for you to feel the full impact of that slam. I crawled over to you, grabbed your trunks, and rolled you over, exposing you to the harsh glare of the ring lights. I treated you with the gentlest touch I could manage. Our previous exchanges had been aggressive enough—I didn't need to be unnecessarily rough with you in these minor movements. I looked at your face, still as beautiful as ever, though I knew the pain behind it was known only to you. I lifted one of your legs and positioned my full weight entirely over you. "Please count for us, Mr. Referee," I said, maintaining my politeness and elegance. I deliberately averted my gaze from your face, afraid that if I became too captivated by your beauty, I might let an opportunity slip away. "ONE!" the referee quickly dropped to one side and slapped the canvas.

Chanyotaaa:

Xuan_Ying: The arena had become an ocean. Its waves still crashed somewhere beyond me, thousands of voices rising and falling in great tides of sound, yet they reached my ears only as distant echoes carried from another shore. The lights above blurred together into molten halos, drifting lazily across my vision while every breath scraped through lungs still searching for air. Then your weight. Your body settled across mine with certainty, pressing me firmly against the canvas before I had fully gathered myself from the wreckage of your facebuster. One of my legs was folded upward in your grasp, elevated high against your shoulder to steal what little leverage remained to me. A good cover. The kind that wins championships. I could barely feel it. Then I heard it. “One!” The referee’s voice drifted through the ringing inside my skull. SMACK! His palm struck the canvas. The vibration traveled through the ring beneath my spine before the sound ever reached my ears. Time slowed, I closed my eyes. To listen. The body can speak louder when the world is shut out. “Two!” Another crack of flesh against canvas. Closer now. Louder. The count was no longer approaching. It had arrived. There would not be another moment after this one. Every muscle protested when I called for the favor. My neck burned. My ribs throbbed. My face still pulsed with the memory of the canvas. Every part of me pleaded for stillness. Rest. But there are promises that exist deeper than pain. Promises made not to other people but to the version of yourself left standing inside yesterday’s ashes. From the girl in Shanghai, drifting through an empty hollow home. I had carried that promise across an ocean. I would not abandon it beneath these lights. Somewhere beneath exhaustion. Somewhere beneath bruises. Somewhere beneath the ringing silence filling my head. I found it. That stubborn ember. Small, flickering, still alive.

Xuan_Ying: “No.”The word released as little more than a breath. My trapped leg exploded free from your grasp, driven less by strength than by refusal. My hips twisted violently, stealing every ounce of momentum I still possessed as my shoulder rolled from the canvas. At the same instant, my arm shot skyward, rigid and unwavering, reaching toward the lights above as though refusing to let the sky itself close over me. The referee’s hand stopped inches above the mat. Hammerstein erupted. Its distant waves crashed ashore all at once, flooding back into the world around me as air finally returned to my lungs in ragged, burning breaths. I rolled onto my side, chest rising and falling with desperate urgency, every inhale reminding me that survival is rarely graceful. Across the ring, the pain still lingered. So did you.

Chanyotaaa: I could gradually feel your heartbeat returning to its unyielding rhythm. When the second count began, I felt it pounding harder and harder, and I even started to feel anxious for you. "You have to kick out, Xuan," I thought. My own mind began to spiral into chaos—I was your opponent; I should have been desperate to seize any opportunity to eliminate you from the start. But now, I was slowly starting to worry about you, afraid that you might fail. Yet the instinct of a true warrior kept me from going easy on you. If you ever found out that I deliberately let you win, I'm sure that would be the end of our relationship. So, as the crowd in the arena cheered and applauded, celebrating your resolve to get back up, I didn't hesitate. I followed your footsteps and stood behind you, watching you lie on your side on the canvas, gasping for air. I bent down, and the sweat from my hair trickled down onto your arm. "Good job, Xuan. Come on, we're not done yet." I leaned in close to your cheek, even feeling the urge to tell you what was about to happen next.

Chanyotaaa: I slid one hand under your jaw to lift you up, then sharply slapped the top of your head, pushing it downward and tucking it firmly under my armpit. Stepping over your legs, I quickly bent low and spun around in the center of the ring. Bathed in the blazing arena lights, I pivoted and leaned backward. With your spine twisting against my thigh, I pulled you upright and locked you into an Abdominal Stretch right in the middle of the canvas. As my abs slowly ground into your back, your hips rode against my stomach, bending your spine into a tight S-shape. I pressed down on your legs with my thighs, wrapped my arms around your neck, and began to bend you backward using an Olean pull. My stretch had begun. I didn't exert sudden force to make the pain explode all at once; instead, I gradually increased the tension from my wrists little by little. Perhaps, after that Nelson hold, the ligaments and muscles in your neck and spine were already fatigued. What I needed to do was keep stimulating them continuously, never allowing them a moment to relax or recover, until they silently announced their surrender to you. "Here we go, Xuan! Hold on tight! Kiyaaaaa~!"

Chanyotaaa:

Xuan_Ying: My arm had barely fallen from defiance before it became your next weapon. Your fingers closed around my wrist with confidence, and in one fluid motion you drew me forward, folding my body around yours as effortlessly as a blacksmith bends heated steel. My spine twisted. My ribs stretched. Before I had fully recovered from escaping your pin, I found myself trapped once more. This time kneeling upon the canvas, imprisoned inside a tightly woven abdominal stretch. You settled into the hold patiently. With each measured adjustment, you leaned a little farther into the stretch, your powerful frame tightening around mine like the slow turning of a winch. Pain blossomed across my side, creeping beneath my ribs before curling around my spine. Every breath demanded more effort than the last, as though the air itself had become reluctant to enter my lungs. The body is an honest creature. It cries out long before the spirit ever considers surrender. Mine was doing exactly that. Its complaints were information. I studied the hold instead of resisting it. Your hips were entwined with mine. Your upper body anchored securely against me. Yet here on the mat, strength alone could not become absolute. To generate pressure, you had sacrificed your base. I could feel it. Your balance rested almost entirely upon a single pillar. Your right leg. The realization settled quietly inside me. Mountains appear immovable, until you discover the single stone carrying their weight. I drew a slow breath through clenched teeth. Not to dull the pain. To gather myself beneath it. My thighs trembled as I called upon them, first the right, then the left, each muscle protesting as though I were asking it to lift the world itself. Inch by agonizing inch, my knees left the canvas. My legs straightened beneath us until, despite the relentless torque wrenching at my ribs and spine, we stood together.

Xuan_Ying: The pressure intensified. So did my opportunity. Now your balance depended entirely upon that lone planted foot. I let my weight drift just enough to disguise intention before my free leg swept behind yours, my calf hooking firmly around it. There was no explosive burst of strength. Only leverage, timing and gravity, waiting patiently to be invited. I turned my hips. The foundation beneath you disappeared. Our bodies tipped together, neither leading nor following, but surrendering to the same inevitable descent. The canvas arrived quickly to meet us, and with it came the sharp crack of impact reverberating through the space. You had landed face down. For the briefest heartbeat, surprise still lingered in your movement, your body occupied with recovering from the fall rather than anticipating what would come next. In wrestling, a heartbeat is an eternity. I intended to spend every fraction of it. If I could free myself from you in the chaos of the fall, my hands would reach instinctively toward your legs as I pushed onto my knees, taking the chance to circle behind you. The opening would be as fragile as morning frost beneath the first rays of sunlight. If I moved quickly enough, your powerful legs would become mine to command, your spine bending backward instead of mine. The Boston crab was already taking shape in my mind. The question was no longer whether the idea was sound. Only whether I could weave it into reality before your remarkable strength found its footing once again.

Chanyotaaa: During the time I had control over you, I spared no effort in slowly pouring my strength into you, focusing all my attention on you. From start to finish, you never let out a moan that could be heard by more than a few people. Initially, my impression of you was cold—or even aloof—but by now, I've reversed that judgment. It's the calmness born of absolute confidence. I felt an intense grappling, as if the mountain I was holding onto began to shake in an earthquake. I was surprised to find that even as your left leg bore such pressure and torque, it still tried to use your knee to support your body. I first lurched sharply to the left, then to the right, and was lifted off the ground, with only the sole of my right foot staggering slightly to maintain balance. "Really... you really are a miracle..." When you finally managed to stand up, I looked so ridiculous and tiny hanging onto you, forced to constantly keep my balance. By now, I could no longer use twisting to cause you much pain.

Chanyotaaa: Finally, what I had been dreading came true. You, during one of my submission attempts, used an unconventional yet highly effective technique to make me suffer under my own moves. Your calf quickly made my base disappear, and I fell uncontrollably toward the mat. At that moment, I gradually felt a shortness of breath—breaking down muscle strength like yours was no easy task. I gritted my teeth and prepared to get up. When I looked up, I found nothing in front of me. A bad feeling stirred in my heart. Without needing to turn around, I knew what was coming. I was instantly pulled backward and slammed onto the mat. Just as I was about to push up with my palms to stand, a solid pair of hips landed on mine, immediately pinning me completely to the mat. Then came the soreness in my groin and spine, along with sweat seeping through. I looked back and could only see your still calm expression, with your head slightly turned, and your broad shoulders. Your spine was straight, as if nothing had happened at all. "Ughhhh…" I groaned softly, my legs clamped under your armpits, unable to move even an inch. I buried my head into the sweat‑soaked mat, clenched my fists, and resisted your fiery magic with endurance and silence—an art of slow burning, of being burned to cinders.

Chanyotaaa:

Xuan_Ying: Your legs settled heavily into my grasp, powerful and solid. The kind of weight earned through countless hours beneath barbells and inside rings. For a brief instant it felt less as though I held another human being and more as though I were trying to command the roots of an ancient tree. I welcomed the challenge. Planting my boots firmly against the canvas, I lowered myself with deliberate patience, my hips sinking deeper toward the mat as the Boston Crab folded to its fullest expression. I did not wrench, I did not rush. Your spine resisted magnificently. The muscles across your lower back stood out beneath the arena lights like tightly drawn cables, refusing to surrender even as I leaned farther into the hold. I could feel every reluctant millimeter your body conceded, each one purchased through relentless pressure rather than brute force. Then I heard it, not your voice. Your fingertips. They scraped desperately across the canvas beneath us, nails dragging against the mat in short, uneven strokes as you searched for anything solid enough to pull yourself toward the ropes. The sound was almost gentle. A quiet scratching beneath the roar of the crowd. Yet somehow it spoke louder than the crowd itself. It told me the hold mattered. I doubted it would finish you. Not someone like you. Women built the way Chanyota is built do not simply surrender because pain arrives. You negotiate with it, endure it. Carry it farther than most people believe possible. I knew that because so did I. The Boston Crab was never intended to be the final page of this story. It was another sentence. Another paragraph. Another careful stroke of the axe. Long before this match began, I had chosen where to attack. Your foundation.

Xuan_Ying: The great maple does not fear the first swing. Nor the second. It stands proudly through both, convinced of its own permanence. But wood remembers every strike. Even the ones that seem too small to matter. The opening kick to your thigh. The relentless pace. Every reversal that forced your powerful legs to catch your balance. Every stumble. Every adjustment. Every ounce of effort demanded from the pillars carrying your remarkable strength. This hold was not separate from those moments. It was built upon them. Another measured swing against your trunk. Not dramatic enough to fell the tree. Only deep enough to ensure the next blow would bite a little farther. And the one after that, farther still. The phoenix does not defeat the mountain by burning hotter than the sun. It survives long enough to discover that even mountains are slowly carved away. One patient season…One careful strike…One unyielding moment at a time.

Chanyotaaa: My forehead starts sweating even more heavily, and the canvas beneath my head grows unusually damp from it. You press down harder, stretching my spine to an even greater tension—yet you never once ask me if I want to give up. It's as if you had everything planned out, and I just happened to be the one who showed up to help you complete it. I first try to push myself up into something like a push‑up position, reducing the friction between my body and the canvas, hoping to crawl toward the ropes and free myself with a rope break. But the moment I see the distance, I quickly abandon that plan—there's no way I can drag myself that far under your weight. Pain and exhaustion twist my face into an unbecoming expression as I glance back at you—that same cold, aloof profile, firm and exuding an authority that needs no explanation. I reach my arm behind me, grabbing at your boot, trying one more step toward breaking your balance. The referee keeps moving around my side. "Give up? Chanyota?" He points at me, asking over and over at my most agonizing moments. I just shake my head—a firm shake. I don't want to waste breath by shouting; I'm trying to escape this nightmare that has trapped my legs.

Xuan_Ying: Your hands searched blindly. Not for victory. For refuge. Fingers clawed desperately across the canvas before finding my boots, pushing, pulling, testing every angle as though somewhere beneath the leather there existed a hidden weakness neither of us had yet discovered. There wasn't. I remained rooted. Every instinct inside you sought movement. Every adjustment only allowed me to settle deeper into the hold. The referee circled nervously beside us. "Do you submit?" His voice barely registered. The question itself seemed almost comical. Submit? No, not you. I had already learned enough about Chanyota to know the answer before he finished asking. Wrestlers forged from iron do not surrender simply because agony has become familiar. They bargain with it. They endure it. They wait for it to blink first. The hold had lived long enough now that its purpose had begun to change. The sharp violence of its first moments had given way to something quieter, more insidious. Fatigue. Every breath you drew carried the weight of your own spine. Every second your hips remained trapped asked your lower back to hold on for another impossible moment. This was no longer about making you quit. It was about making your body remember. The thigh I had attacked at the opening bell. The balance stolen throughout our exchanges. Every choice we had forced upon one another remained written inside muscle and bone. Another measured swing against the maple's trunk. I leaned farther backward, allowing my shoulders to drift toward the canvas until the back of my head hovered only inches from yours. I could feel your body resisting with every fiber it possessed, your powerful frame refusing to bend another fraction despite the relentless pressure threaded through your hips and spine. It was enough. With one final, deliberate pull, I drew every last ounce of tension from the submission before releasing it entirely.

Xuan_Ying: Your body collapsed. Not dramatically, but heavily. Your arms and legs spilled across the mat like branches finally relieved of winter's snow, your muscles momentarily forgetting the instructions they had followed so faithfully only seconds before. I did not allow the silence to linger. Recovery is a gift, one I had no intention of offering. Dropping smoothly to one knee beside you, my hand found a careful grip in your hair, guiding rather than wrenching as I lifted you upright. Your body followed reluctantly, settling onto your knees while your posture still carried the lingering memory of the Boston Crab. Your breathing was uneven. Your shoulders slow to answer. The damage was invisible, but the consequences were not. I planted my left boot firmly into the canvas. The ring answered with a muted thud beneath my weight. My hips turned. My right leg rose without hesitation, cutting through the air in a clean, disciplined angle toward your temple. There was no anger behind the strike. Only purpose. I wondered whether your remarkable strength could command your body quickly enough. Whether your aching hips could carry you clear. Whether your protesting spine would grant you one final movement before my shin reached its destination. This kick would reveal how much of the mountain still remained standing.

Xuan_Ying:

Chanyotaaa: You kept inching your back toward my head, until our spines were almost flush against each other. Another second and I might have sobbed like a little girl. The ache in both sides of my groin was searing; the merciless muscle compression chafed my skin raw, leaving vivid red streaks. I caught hold of your boot, but I could scarcely budge it—all I could do was cling to it, bracing against your ever-deepening punishment. After one failed breakout attempt, and then one more infernal stretch from you, you finally relented. I gulped down fresh air on the canvas, my oxygen nearly spent from the fear and agony. I sprawled face-down, clutching my lower back—I wasn't sure it would help, but at least it reminded me that my spine was intact, and that I could still will my hands to move. Then I felt the canvas quiver faintly beneath me as Xuan paced around. A tug at my hair told me she wanted me up. With a dull throb, I was hauled back to my knees. I knew exactly what was coming—that knee would knock me cold, and Xuan would pin and eliminate me within seconds. In my current state, I knew that knee was more than capable. I couldn't just kneel there and wait for my death sentence to be handed down.

Chanyotaaa: I didn't make the first move—I knew that would tip off your sharp instincts. I deliberately looked submissive as I watched you take your stance in front of me. I needed to gamble. "One!" I calculated in my mind, silently counting down. If my reactions could still keep up with the rhythm, I'd have room to counter; if not… I might need a stretcher. "Two!" I was willing to accept both the reward and the risk. Winning the match—that would be incredible. Even if I got caught, at least I'd have proven that I could give the Phoenix some trouble too, and not let her underestimate me. "Three!" Your knee came hurtling toward me with a whistling wind, the target unchanged—still my temple! My movement was almost simultaneous with your leg. I ducked my head and lunged forward, the scorching gust from your knee brushing past my cheek. Without hesitation, I dove at your supporting leg, wrapped my arms around it, and rolled—taking you down onto the canvas with me. In the chaos, I scrambled to locate my legs. The moment I confirmed I had a grip on your knee, I rose firmly to my feet, even though my thighs were still trembling from the Boston Crab. "Sorry, Xuan!" I don't know why I was so cautious with you—before every move I made, I even felt guilty about it. I lifted your leg from the face‑down position and locked your left leg securely against my shoulder with an RNC‑style grip. I placed both my legs side by side on one side of your body, rather than straddling you, so that I wouldn't be easily tripped by your tricks when I moved. I did my best to fold your thigh backward at an unnatural angle. Now I was almost close enough to feel the full blaze of the indomitable Phoenix—and it was truly painful.

Chanyotaaa: If I were a superhuman, maybe this match would be easy and comfortable. But I'm just a naive girl trying desperately to look up to, reach out to, and challenge a legend. Yet I'll see this naivety through to the end. I began to press down on the top of your foot with my shoulder as the fulcrum.

Chanyotaaa:

Xuan_Ying: The kick found nothing but air. For the briefest breath I understood, you had seen it coming. The temple I had sought to strike vanished beneath the arc of my shin as you folded low with startling speed, your smile replaced by the singular expression shared by all predators in the instant before they pounce. There was no hesitation. No celebration of your escape. Only pursuit. Your shoulder crashed into my standing leg before I could reclaim my balance. The bright cathedral lights of Hammerstein wheeled overhead as gravity claimed me, my chest and stomach striking the canvas with a hollow thud that drove the breath from my lungs. Before I could gather even a single thought, your hands had already found my leg. Like iron jaws closing around prey. The next movement stole the air from my chest more completely than the fall itself. You drew my thigh upward, folding my leg toward my spine with relentless determination. It felt less like a wrestling hold and more like an attempt to uproot my entire hip from its socket. Every ligament protested at once, white-hot pain racing through my waist and lower back until my vision narrowed to little more than scattered shafts of light. My fists struck the canvas in frustration. The ring absorbed each blow with an indifferent thud while agony coursed through me in relentless waves. This was not the sharp sting of a strike that faded with the next exchange. This was slower. Patient. A fire determined to consume the foundation one careful ember at a time. No, I could not remain here. This was pain even I knew could not be negotiated forever.

Xuan_Ying: Brute strength offered no answer. You were too securely anchored, too powerful through your hips to simply pry apart. Fighting you directly would only tighten the trap. So I stopped fighting you. I listened. Your body pressed relentlessly into mine, driving me forward with every ounce of pressure you committed to the hold. The force you intended to imprison me became something else entirely. A current. I planted both palms firmly against the canvas. My arms trembled beneath the strain as I pushed my chest upward, stealing just enough space to breathe before reaching ahead with one hand, then the other. The ropes shimmered in the distance, only a few feet. Yet they seemed impossibly far away, stretched across the canvas like the horizon itself. I crawled. Desperately. Each pull of my fingers was answered by another wrench upon my trapped leg, another bolt of pain that climbed my spine and settled behind my eyes. Still...another hand, another breath, another inch. The crowd dissolved into a distant tide beyond the ringing in my ears. The only world that remained was the coarse texture of the canvas beneath my fingertips and the black ropes waiting just beyond my reach. They were no longer ropes. They were shoreline. And I, dragged beneath a merciless sea, clawed toward the surface with everything the phoenix still possessed. If I could touch them just once the referee would have no choice but to pull you away.

Chanyotaaa: For the first time in the entire match, I got an over‑the‑top reaction from you to my submission hold. You were still sparing with words—just pounding the canvas in fury. I could feel the dull rumble of your fists through the soles of my feet. I know how painful those joint locks can be for joints with limited mobility—I've experienced it myself during BJJ training. The ropes ahead were your best option now; if you could reach them, we'd be back to the center of the canvas. I locked your ankle even tighter against my shoulder, trying to slow your crawl toward those ropes. The referee was almost crawling across the mat himself, not wanting to miss a single perfect touch of the ropes on your part. "Quick! Come on!" — I actually found myself cheering for you in my mind. How I wished you could break free quickly with a rope break, even if I was the source of your pain. But I still had the strength to keep you pinned here. Should I turn a blind eye and let you continue fighting me in the ring? I began to waver—I'd never had thoughts like this before, until I met you. You are such a formidable warrior; falls and bumps mean nothing to you, yet every single one of them sends a jolt through my heart. So… should I let go? With that thought, I loosened my arms just slightly.

Chanyotaaa: Taking advantage of that moment—perhaps you felt the grip loosen—you lunged forward with even more resolve and speed. I could almost see your fingertips brushing against that wobbling rope. Even the referee was about to turn around and signal me to release the ankle lock. "NO!" I suddenly shouted—this was my final decision after an inner tug‑of‑war. I respect you, I admire you, I might even love you—but I cannot accept facing you without giving it my all. Not even once. I yelled as if emerging from some cruel struggle, then quickly and powerfully hauled you back to the center of the canvas. As I continued stretching your thigh forward, I spoke to you from closer range. "I'm so sorry, Xuan. Please forgive me—I can't accept the possibility of cheating or deceiving myself inside. I can't live with that version of me. After this, I'll make it up to you, but please forgive me for seizing this opportunity and giving it everything I have right now. I'm truly sorry… and truly, thank you…" I was nearly sobbing as I said these words to you—trivial little things, at least in others' eyes. But the foundation of my strength is a pure and courageous heart. I cannot let it be tarnished like this, because in compromise after compromise—with myself and with others—I would surely lose my power.

Chanyotaaa: With that thought, I made up my mind—and with a cry that was both pained and relieved, I suddenly threw myself backward, wrapping my legs tightly around your left leg from behind. I crossed my calves, pressing my boots against the back of your quadriceps tendon, turning your leg into a natural lever as I continued the ankle lock on the canvas. I hoped this would truly earn your recognition. "I'm sorry, Xuan… I'm sorry…" I kept murmuring, not because of winning or losing, but because my distraction might have caused you even more pain than you should have endured—which was never my intention.

Chanyotaaa:

Xuan_Ying: The ropes were so close I could almost feel their coarse fibers against my fingertips. Each painful crawl had carried me another precious inch through the storm you had pressed into my leg. My shoulders strained, my palms burned against the canvas, and somewhere beyond the haze of pain the ropes waited like the shoreline after a shipwreck. Only a little farther. Then your voice shattered the salvation at my fingertips. "No!" The pressure crushing my thigh vanished so suddenly it felt almost foreign, like silence after thunder. For one fragile second relief flooded through my hip, blood rushing back into muscles that had been stretched to their breaking point. I knew better than to celebrate. Predators rarely abandon a wound. With one sharp tug you dragged me backward, stealing away every inch I had clawed for. The canvas scraped beneath my chest as my body slid away from salvation, and before I could recover you threw yourself onto your back, your legs winding around mine with practiced precision. Your calves crossed behind my trapped leg. Your hips locked into place. Then your hands found my foot. The twist was immediate. My ankle felt as though someone had wedged it into the roots of an ancient tree before attempting to turn the entire forest around it. Pain spiraled upward through my calf, into my knee, then coiled higher still, searching for every vulnerable joint along the way. You had abandoned the trunk. Now you sought the roots. A clever adjustment. One worthy of you. I bit down hard enough that my jaw ached, refusing to gift the arena the cry threatening to escape. My free leg lashed backward. Once. Twice. Again. The heel of my boot hammered into your thigh with frantic urgency, each strike carrying just enough force to demand your attention.

Xuan_Ying: To anyone watching, it was desperation, a trapped animal kicking wildly against the snare that held it. I encouraged them to believe it because the kicks were never meant to free me. They were bait. I wasn't trying to overpower you. I was searching for the smallest surrender of your weight, the slightest instinctive adjustment as your body absorbed each impact. Wrestling is filled with lessons that no coach can simply explain. They are etched into muscle through thousands of repetitions until instinct speaks louder than thought. This was one of them. If I could persuade your hips to drift even a fraction, just enough. Our tangled bodies would no longer be anchored in place. I would turn my hips attempting to roll into your newly shifted weight. Using your mass to my advantage. And the ropes waiting beside us would cease to be distant spectators and become accomplices. I could already picture it. One rotation, perhaps two. My fingertips stretching outward until they found the top rope. My long limbs would shorten the road needing to be traveled. Height had always followed me like an unnoticed shadow. For years I had treated it as nothing more than another measurement, another statistic recorded beside my name. But in moments like this, it became inheritance. A quiet gift from my mother, whose long frame had been passed to me before I ever understood what it might someday mean. As another kick drove into your thigh, I imagined her somewhere beyond the brilliant arena lights, beyond the smoke and noise and roaring crowd. Not watching with worry. Watching with certainty. As though the same hands that had once steadied my first uncertain steps were now gently guiding my reach toward the waiting ropes. The phoenix does not always escape by flying. Now and then, it survives by finding one more inch of earth upon which to stand.

Chanyotaaa: "Ugh!!" At this point, I lost all ability to hold back my cries and groans. It looked like I was the one trapping a beast, but only you knew that you were methodically savaging my already battered thighs—just as you had been doing all along, destroying my foundation. I gritted my teeth, hoping you would just submit, but I never heard a single word from you. I don't even know how you could endure such pain. I would have to visit you after the match, even if it meant being turned away once again. Then, after another powerful heel strike, I could see my quadriceps visibly swelling up. In that position, I simply couldn't dodge your every attack. I had no choice but to release your ankle, kick you to one side, and roll to the other while clutching my thigh, all the way to the ropes. I had to grab those ropes to help myself get up. I clung to the ropes, even starting to limp. I didn't know if that ankle lock had hurt you, but it certainly left my leg in much worse shape than before.

Chanyotaaa: I had no choice but to lean my back against the turnbuckle, gripping the top ropes on both sides. Sweat had long since soaked through my entire body—at this rate, even a mosquito couldn't find a foothold on me. I realized I had just squandered the most critical opportunity. Now everything had to start over for me. I watched that cold, glamorous girl climb back to her feet once more, and I truly couldn't help but want to applaud her. If she won, then my undefeated streak would forever carry the mark of having fallen to this Chinese girl—and I would accept that. But I wasn't about to surrender completely, even if it meant spending a few days in the hospital. I looked at you, with pure competitive spirit, grinning openly and freely. I was waiting for the Phoenix to show me her sacrificial ritual before taking flight. If I could survive it, I could even brag afterward that I had once fought a god. Slowly, I lowered my hands from the ropes, returning to my starting stance, waiting for your next move.

Chanyotaaa:

Xuan_Ying: The hold unraveled as suddenly as it had been woven. One final kick buried itself into your bruised thigh, and I felt your grip loosen. You released my ankle before the damage to your own foundation could deepen any further. We had both learned something. You had discovered my leg could be broken down. I had learned yours could be made to remember every strike. For several seconds neither of us advanced. I lay where I had fallen, breathing through the fading fire wrapped around my ankle. The pain no longer arrived in violent bursts. It lingered now, quieter, more insidious. A river carving stone rather than a wave crashing against it. The joint throbbed with every pulse of my heart, reminding me that injuries do not disappear simply because the hold has ended. The ropes greeted my hands as I pulled myself upright. Their familiar tension steadied me while I tested the weight beneath my left foot. Pins and needles. Then pain. Sharp enough to steal a breath from my lungs. I winced despite myself, instinctively drawing the leg back beneath me. You had done your work well. The ankle still belonged to me, it simply no longer trusted me. I closed my eyes for the briefest moment, listening not to the crowd, nor to the referee circling anxiously nearby, but to my own body. Every ache was a protest. Every injury revealed a truth about the battle unfolding before me. No warrior leaves a forest untouched. No forest leaves the warrior unchanged. Time. I needed time. Just another minute to let blood return where pain had settled. Just another few careful steps before asking the joint to carry me into battle once more. But wrestling is merciless with its currency.

Xuan_Ying: So I released the ropes. The first step hurt. The second, less so. By the third, sensation had begun to return, not comfort, never comfort, but familiarity. Pain ceased being an interruption and instead resumed its proper place beside me, another companion determined to follow until the final bell. Across the ring you waited. Still smiling, even now. Simply watching. Your powerful frame rested subtly upon one leg while the other bore the unmistakable signatures of our earlier exchanges. Crimson bruises bloomed across your thigh beneath the arena lights like storm clouds spreading across pale sky. Every shift of your stance betrayed a stiffness you tried valiantly to conceal. The maple tree had not fallen. But the cuts had bitten deep. We stood opposite one another, each leaning ever so slightly upon wounded foundations. Two mountains weathered by the same storm. Neither willing to admit how much had already been lost. I limped the final steps toward you, hiding the weakness within measured rhythm until we stood within arm's reach once again. My fingers found your wrist without hesitation. The moment our hands touched, I understood this was no longer a contest of untouched strength. It had become a contest of endurance. Of accumulated damage. Of which foundation would finally surrender first. Drawing a slow breath, I planted my good foot, accepted the protest from the injured one, and turned my hips with precision, attempting to send you across the ring with an Irish whip. You were still immensely powerful. Mountains are not toppled by one great earthquake. They crumble, stone by patient stone.

Chanyotaaa: If the match began with pride and admiration, then by now it had become a struggle of trapped beasts. Our strength and spirit were being drained by the competition, and at this intensity, we could hardly recover at all. Finally, you were the first to break the motionless standoff, dragging your injured ankle toward me. In this state, it would be unnatural to act as if nothing was wrong. I lowered my head and watched you approach—my thighs couldn't move the way they used to either. Your vise‑like hand seized my wrist, your eyes as cold as ever. I had grown accustomed to your fighting style, and no longer had the hesitation I felt at the beginning—but by now I had already lost too much. If only I had realized sooner… My body was yanked violently, and my feet were almost forced to move with you. Yet this time, I knew I couldn't fall into your rhythm. I quickly grabbed the ropes with my other hand, holding on for dear life. Even though your tremendous pull sent a tearing sensation through my chest, I knew I couldn't let go—no matter what.

Chanyotaaa: And so we found ourselves once again locked in a standoff at the corner. I refused to follow your rhythm across the entire canvas. My sudden rejection caught you off guard—you seemed a little shocked and puzzled, perhaps not believing that I could still muster the will and ability to resist under these circumstances. I held your gaze, steady and calm, even though I knew this realization had come a little too late. I had nearly exhausted every skill in my arsenal—maybe I had impressed you, but clearly it wasn't enough. Perhaps I had been too cautious from the very start. This time, regardless of the outcome, I resolved to maintain my full competitive spirit in these final exchanges. My eyes began to harden, turning as cold as yours. "Don't even think about pulling me out there." With one arm and my hand gripping the ropes, I braced against your Irish whip. If you insisted on moving a mountain, then at the very least I would make sure you wore out both your arms in the process.

Chanyotaaa:

Chanyotaaa: Power surged back and forth between our arms. After tonight, we'd probably both have to get used to strained muscles just to lift a water glass—but right now, I felt it was all worth it. I was going to bet everything on my last signature move. When I sensed your strength starting to waver—maybe you needed to regroup, or maybe your ankle was complaining again—I grabbed both your wrists with both hands and pulled you in with all my weight. In that cramped space of the turnbuckle, my bruised and swollen thigh pressed against the padding, letting me use it as leverage. But I had no room for error—one slip and I'd be slammed into the turnbuckle like a truck. As you rushed toward me, I trapped one of your arms, bent forward quickly, and hoisted your torso across my shoulder, while my other hand hooked your thigh. "UGHHHH!" I roared as I lifted you up. Your skin was burning, carrying that intoxicating scent. I gripped your firm muscles, grinding against them as I held you. Then I felt the weakness in my right leg—it was as if all the weight was punishing it relentlessly. Sweat poured down me like rain, my teeth clenched against the pain, and slowly, like a limping wanderer, I stepped out of the corner, dragging our broken bodies along. I had no energy left for a victory lap. I made it to the center of the ring. "This is the last strike, Xuan!" I meant it—if this couldn't make you yield, or couldn't secure a pin, then my tank was empty. "NOIRs! Chanyota is coming!"—that was the first time that night I'd shown the fans my power slam. My legs almost gave way on their own; I tried to toss you just a little higher on my back, then uncontrollably fell straight backward. "UGHHHHH!" As my back crashed onto the canvas, I felt both of us bounce off the mat. I writhed in agony, twisting my spine—how I wished I could spring up like before and go for the pinfall, but right now I could barely move an inch across the canvas.

Chanyotaaa:

Xuan_Ying: My fingers tightened around your wrist. I pulled. Nothing. Not even the slightest surrender answered my effort. Only then did I lift my eyes. Your free arm. Curled tightly around the top rope. Of course. The realization came an instant too late. Strength alone had never made you dangerous. It was your instincts, those quiet calculations hidden beneath your cheerful smile, that made every exchange a lesson paid for in bruises. You had felt the hesitation in my injured ankle, recognized the weakness in my leverage, and anchored yourself to the ring before I had even committed to the whip. With one violent pull you erased the gap between us. Your arm wrapped around my neck while the other threaded effortlessly beneath my leg, lifting me skyward with frightening ease. My stomach settled across your broad shoulders as the lights of Hammerstein turned upside down above me. There it was again. That impossible strength. The kind that made gravity itself seem like only a suggestion. You carried me toward the center of the ring with deliberate steps, preparing the familiar architecture of your finishing slam. I recognized it before it arrived. The Fireman's Carry Slam. The crowd recognized it too. Their voices rose into a single crashing wave. My muscles instinctively tightened for the landing.

Xuan_Ying: Then, something changed, not in me, but in you. A single uneven step. The shoulder beneath my ribs trembled. I felt your breath skip. Your weight shifted awkwardly beneath us, no longer balanced by confidence but held together by stubborn resolve. The wounds. Your thigh. Your back. The countless fractures I had spent this match carving into your foundation had remained hidden beneath determination until now. With a cry born somewhere between effort and pain, you forced yourself through the throw anyway. Not your intention, but the Back Body Drop was what you could manage given the circumstances. The ring vanished beneath me, then returned all at once. My back exploded against the canvas with enough force to empty my lungs, every vertebra ringing like struck steel. White light flooded my vision before dissolving into darkness around the edges. There was only silence. When sound finally returned, it arrived in scattered bits. The roar of thousands. The referee's hurried footsteps. My own ragged breathing. I waited for your weight to rest across my chest. For your arm to hook my leg. For the inevitable count, but it never came. Confused, I forced my eyes open to see you laid beside me. Broken. Both hands clutched desperately at the places I had spent the entire match attacking, one pressed against your aching lower back, the other gripping the battered thigh that had absorbed kick after kick since the opening bell. Your face, once bright with fearless enthusiasm, was twisted by pain you could no longer hide. The maple had not fallen all at once. It had simply reached the moment when one more swing was enough. The axe had never been my foot. Nor my submissions. Nor my strikes. It had been patience.

Xuan_Ying: The ring itself seemed to breathe with us, carrying the echoes of every collision that had brought us here. Eventually, I forced a knee beneath me, every muscle objected. My ankle still throbbed with each ounce of weight it accepted. My spine reminded me of your slam with every breath. My chest rose and fell like a bellows feeding an exhausted fire. The phoenix was wounded. But it was still burning. I crossed the short distance between us before your body could fully answer your command to stand. My hands found your wrists. Gently, almost respectfully, I drew you upward. Your posture folded naturally beneath fatigue, your upper body bowing toward me as though the battle itself had become too heavy to carry. This was the moment I had been building toward since the opening kick to your thigh. My arms threaded beneath yours. I locked both of your wrists securely, drawing them behind your back in the unmistakable embrace of a double underhook. Two exhausted souls balanced between victory and defeat. I let gravity become my final ally. Dropping suddenly to the canvas, I carried you with me. Your forehead and chest were driven sharply toward the mat as the double underhook DDT landed with a thunderous crack that echoed throughout arena. The impact rippled through the ring. Everything stood still. You lay facedown across my lap, motionless except for the slow rise and fall of weary breaths. Most wrestlers would have reached for the cover. The Phoenix Requiem was never meant to end with the fall. Only begin. Without hesitation I shifted my legs around your waist, threading them securely until your hips were anchored against mine. My right arm slipped beneath your jaw, my forearm settling carefully beneath your chin as my other hand completed the grip.

Xuan_Ying: The guillotine closed. Not with cruelty. But with the solemn certainty of a final verse already written. The first movement had brought the phoenix from the ashes. One question remained, whether even a spirit as indomitable as yours could still find the strength to keep standing, when the fire itself had wrapped its wings around your throat.

Chanyotaaa: All I could see was the blinding light above the ring, so harsh that I couldn't make out anything that followed. Amid the gasps from the crowd, I could tell you had stood up again, defiant and strong. You walked over, bringing that familiar presence with you. My vision was completely compromised—I was in a blind spot. You pulled me up with an almost irresistible force, expertly wrenching my arms backward. My shoulders endured that twisting torment once more, until your fingers locked in tight and my head was forced forward, nearly tucked under your armpit. "Ughhh… my shoulder…" I couldn't bear the pain any longer. If I'd had a free hand, I would have tapped out against your thigh right then and admitted defeat. But you clearly weren't going to let it end that simply. You pulled me back and dropped me hard. "Thud!" My forehead was the first to smash into the worn‑out canvas, followed by the jarring impact bruising my chest. The ligaments in my shoulder were also stretched and torn in that sudden, brutal pull. In an instant, my body was like a bomber that had lost its engine—all mobility gone in a flash. My head was trapped between your thighs, my arms dangling limply at my sides. This was the first time in NOIR that I had shown myself so broken—completely and utterly shattered.

Chanyotaaa: I couldn't open my eyes—not really—because everything was whirling, and my chest felt like it had been pierced by a lance. Every cough shot agony through me. I knew your moves; I'd studied them. Then it came—the cold leather of your arm guard, burning against my skin, cinching around my throat. My body tried to arch up, to plant my feet, but your legs coiled around my waist and back like serpents. "No… no…" I coughed, choked, thrashed—pulling myself backward frantically, palms clawing at the canvas, heaving upward. But my sight dimmed, my limbs grew heavy, and my neck was bent back into another sickening crunch… "Give up?" The referee dashed in, knelt beside me, and jabbed a finger at my face. I couldn't answer—my throat was locked, I couldn't pry you off. My other hand grabbed blindly at your arm, your ribs, your wrist, your stomach—anything—but it was all for nothing.

Chanyotaaa:

Chanyotaaa:

Xuan_Ying: The world narrows until it is no larger than the circle of my arms. Everything beyond it, the crowd, the lights, the referee's voice striking the canvas with his knees as he crouches beside us, fades into something muted and distant, like rain heard from the bottom of a lake. All that remains is the rhythm beneath my forearm. Your breathing. Your heartbeat. The slow unraveling of a body that has finally reached the edge of what even extraordinary will can command. You are still fighting. I feel it in every frantic tug at my wrists, every desperate strike against my ribs. They land with less certainty now, like waves that once shattered cliffs but have become foam upon the shore. Your strength is not vanishing all at once, it is ebbing, tide by reluctant tide. Even diminished, it is formidable. Even fading, it commands respect. You refuse to believe your body. It has already surrendered truths your spirit will not accept. Quietly, I draw my shoulders back another fraction, tightening the guillotine until there is scarcely enough space left for hope to breathe between us. Your neck presses against the crook of my arm. I hear the strained rasp of lungs searching desperately for air that no longer belongs to them. It is a terrible sound. Every fighter eventually discovers that there exists a point where courage can no longer negotiate with flesh. You feel human now. Not smaller. Not weaker. Simply mortal.

Xuan_Ying: The mountain I spent the entire match climbing is finally beneath my feet, and I realize its summit is lonelier than I imagined. I do not want to break you. I only want the bell. Just a single moment where consciousness slips gently from your grasp before permanent harm can find you. A flicker of darkness. Long enough for the official to understand what your pride never will. But you are impossibly stubborn. Your body erupts one final time, a desperate storm throwing itself against inevitable calm. Every muscle contracts in wild protest, instinct making one last argument after reason has already left the room. I feel your shoulder shift sharply against my chest, a muted pop carried through bone and muscle, followed by involuntary tremors coursing through your frame. For the first time since the opening bell, I speak directly to you. My voice is little more than a whisper, nearly swallowed by the roar surrounding us. "Thank you, Chanyota..." The words surprise even me. Not born of kindness, rather honesty. "It's alright..." I murmur, my forehead lowering until it almost rests against your hair. "You can let go." There is no triumph in my voice. No mockery. No mercy. Only understanding. Because somewhere beneath the ash of old memories, beneath every promise that forged the woman I became, I know another truth. On another night, with one mistake, one reversed counter, one different breath. It could just as easily have been my heartbeat fading beneath your arm. We had taken one another as far as two souls could travel without breaking. Beyond this point there was no victory left to earn. Only the quiet dignity of surviving the fire we had built together.

Chanyotaaa: In that instant, your arm began to cut off everything flowing through my neck—blood and air both stalled against your bronze‑colored muscles. Instinctively, I let out a whimpering sound—"Wuu… wuu…"—a warning from my nervous system to my brain in the grip of extreme oxygen deprivation. Tears began to well up at the corners of my eyes from the choking. There I knelt on the canvas, pulled into your embrace. All the moments in this match when I had fought for glory and victory—along with my fading vision and this slowly tightening guillotine choke—would be snatched away in a heartbeat. I still held onto that naive competitive spirit, stubbornly fighting on—even as my saliva was about to drip uncontrollably from the corners of my mouth. The referee peered through the only gap where he could see my face, pointing at me. "Do you give up? Are you okay? Chanyotaaaa!" His voice seemed to travel through some kind of processor before reaching my ears, as if drenched in a massive reverb effect. I kept pushing against your shoulder, your chest, with the last of my strength, still shaking my head in resistance. Until I heard you speak. "Thank you." "Alright." "You can let go…" Your words seemed to tell me, one last time, to stop these futile efforts. I had apparently earned a measure of your respect—otherwise, there would have been an easier pinfall, especially when I could barely move. But you chose your signature finisher to see me off on my final journey. A sense of fulfillment suddenly washed over me, inside your grip, and I tried to let go. "Next… next time… for sure…" I squeezed out those final words through my throat, then released every defiant muscle in my body. My will was the first to betray me. I tapped the mat lightly, then your shoulder. "I give… give… she wins, Mr.referee."

Xuan_Ying: At last…the storm chooses stillness. Your spirit hasn’t been conquered, but even the fiercest fire must eventually concede to the limits of the wood that feeds it. I feel it before I hear it. A single tap against the canvas. Another against my shoulder. Gentle. Almost apologetic. For an instant I remain motionless, scarcely believing it. The woman who had stood before me with sunlight in her smile and mountains hidden beneath her skin had finally reached the end of the road she refused to admit existed. The referee had been kneeling beside us for what felt like an eternity, waiting for the question to answer itself. The instant your surrender reaches him, his arms slice through the air. The bell rings. Its sharp chime cuts through the arena like the first birdsong after a violent storm. Immediately my grip disappears. Victory is never permission to linger. As the tension leaves your body, it recoils all at once, muscles unwinding with the force of a drawn bow finally released. My hand instinctively slides behind your head, guiding it gently so it does not strike the canvas as your exhausted frame collapses free from the hold. The match is over. There is nothing left to prove. I never entered this ring hoping to injure you. Pain was unfortunately the only language our profession speaks. The lesson was always meant for me. Steel cannot know its own strength until it has survived the furnace. Neither can a soul. Slowly, I rise. Every muscle protests. Bruises bloom beneath my skin like ink spreading through water. My left ankle still burns with every shift of weight. My ribs remind me of your forearms. My shoulders remember your relentless grip. I carry pieces of you now, written across my body in shades of purple and crimson. The referee takes my wrist. He raises it toward the lights.

Xuan_Ying: The arena erupts around us, but the sound reaches me only in fragments. I have never cared much for applause. Crowds are oceans, beautiful from a distance, impossible to carry home. Instead…I look back. You remain on the canvas, drawing slow, precious breaths, the same woman who welcomed me backstage with a towel and an easy smile, the same woman who very nearly broke me tonight. Even now, I cannot decide whether I understand you. Perhaps that is the point. Some people are rivers. You cannot learn them by looking across the surface. You must survive being carried by their current. I offer you one final, silent nod. Not for losing, but for enduring. Then I turn away. The walk toward the curtain feels strangely familiar now. The lights grow dimmer with every step. The roar of the crowd fades behind me until only the echo of my boots remains, striking the entrance ramp with quiet finality. The audience is still trying to understand what they witnessed. First Mina Anderson. Now Chanyota. Two extraordinary women. Two infernos. Two lessons. The ashes clinging to my boots are no longer reminders of where I came from. They are proof that I continue to walk through fire and emerge still burning. As the black curtain closes behind me and the noise of the arena becomes little more than a distant wind, one thought settles quietly into my mind. I had crossed an ocean searching for the place where I was meant to become who I truly was. Noir had given me my answer.

Xuan_Ying: