Up in the VIP section, Marcus Hale slowly turns toward Logan Rhodes, face twisted in baffled disgust.
"…What the hell is this?"
Logan tries to force a smile. "Don't look at me. The kid insisted on planning his own entrance."
When Ryoma finally reaches the mat at ringside, the drumbeat halts. The arena falls into absolute silence, unnatural, suffocating. Even Masuda's supporters can't find their voices.
Just before Ryoma steps onto the ladder, he pauses at the foot of the ring steps.
Hiroshi moves in behind him without needing a word.
With the quiet precision of a king's attendant, he lifts the robe from Ryoma's shoulders, peeling it away and folding it carefully against his arm.
Ryoma doesn't look back. He simply inclines his head, the smallest acknowledgment of trust. Only after he steps through the ropes does the eruptive roar begin.
The Cruel King Army, over a thousand die-hard fans, nearly half the entire venue, ignite into their thunderous chant:
