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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
In the ring, the smug smiles vanished from the faces of Paul Heyman and Brock Lesnar. Heyman's jaw dropped in genuine surprise, while Lesnar pushed himself off the turnbuckles, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the stage. The digital graphics on the TitanTron flared to life, burning bright crimson as the red and black skull and knife logo rotated on the screen.
Sandro Zhang stepped out from behind the curtain.
The fans cheered louder, but the visual reality of the God King's condition quickly silenced any thoughts of a miraculous recovery.
Sandro was not wearing a tailored suit. He was dressed in his pristine white wrestling gear, but the fabric was heavily obscured by thick layers of athletic medical tape. A massive bandage was wrapped tightly around his lower ribs, and thick strips of kinesiology tape stretched across his right shoulder and up the side of his neck.
He didn't move with his usual, arrogant swagger. Every step looked stiff and painful. He held his right arm slightly closer to his body, clearly favoring the injured shoulder that had absorbed the brunt of the F-5 impact.
But despite the obvious physical toll, Sandro's head was held high. His face was a mask of cold, unbreakable pride.
He didn't walk out alone.
Flanking him closely, matching his slow, deliberate pace, were AJ Lee, Nikki Bella, and Alexa Bliss. The three women looked fiercely protective. They didn't smile at the crowd, they glared down the ramp at Paul Heyman and Brock Lesnar, making it abundantly clear that they had no intention of letting the champion face the wolves by himself.
BOOM!
A wall of golden sparks rained down from the lighting rig as Sandro began his slow march toward the ring.
"He is here!" Cole shouted over the roaring crowd. "Against all medical advice, pushing through what has to be excruciating pain, the God King refuses to surrender his crown!"
"Look at the condition he is in, Michael," Lawler noted, a deep concern in his voice. "He is heavily taped. He can barely rotate his right shoulder. But you have to admire the sheer heart of the champion. He is not going to let Paul Heyman strip him of his life's work without a fight."
"He is a warrior!" JBL praised, standing up at the desk and clapping his hands. "He is showing exactly why he sits on the throne! You want the gold, Brock? You are going to have to pry it from his cold, dead hands!"
Sandro reached the bottom of the ramp. He paused at the steel steps, taking a slow, deep breath, wincing slightly as his ribs expanded. He slowly climbed the steps and ducked under the middle rope, stepping onto the black carpet.
AJ, Nikki, and Alexa slid into the ring right behind him, taking up a protective formation near the ropes.
Sandro unbuckled the WWE Championship from his waist. He handed the gold belt to Nikki Bella for safekeeping. He then reached out, and AJ Lee handed him a live microphone.
Sandro turned to face the wooden table. He looked at Heyman, who was staring back with a mixture of shock and annoyance, and then shifted his gaze to Lesnar, who was bouncing on his toes, looking ready to strike at any second.
Sandro raised the microphone to his lips.
"Whatever corrupt, pathetic little plan you cooked up back there in your office, Paul... it failed," Sandro spoke, his voice raspy but laced with a chilling, quiet authority. "I am not quitting. And I am certainly not forfeiting my championship."
The crowd cheered loudly, backing the defiant champion.
"I'll admit," Sandro continued, keeping his cold eyes locked on Lesnar, "I didn't expect the cowardly ambush last week. I didn't expect you to resort to a blindside attack to try and soften me up before the pay per view. It was a cheap shot. But if you thought throwing me off a stage was going to keep me down, you severely miscalculated."
Sandro took a slow, painful step toward the table.
"You can break my ribs. You can tear my shoulder. You can throw me through a mountain of steel," Sandro stated, his voice rising with raw intensity. "But I absolutely refuse to give either of you the satisfaction of seeing me stay down. I am the WWE Champion. I am the World Heavyweight Champion. And this Sunday, at Money in the Bank, I am going to defend my crown."
Sandro stopped at the edge of the wooden table. He looked down at the contract resting on the leather folio. He reached out with his left hand, picked up the silver pen, and looked back up at Heyman.
"Slide it over," Sandro demanded.
Heyman scoffed, a dry, mocking laugh escaping his lips. He used two fingers to slowly push the contract across the table.
Sandro placed his right hand flat on the document to hold it steady. As he applied pressure, a visible wince of pain flashed across his face. His jaw clenched tight, the muscles in his neck straining as he fought through the genuine, agonizing ache in his shoulder. With slow, deliberate strokes, Sandro signed his name on the dotted line, officially locking the main event in stone.
He tossed the silver pen onto the paper and took a step back, standing tall despite the injuries.
Heyman slowly reached out, pulling the contract back toward him. He looked down at the signature, shaking his head with a wide, cruel smile.
Heyman raised his microphone, taking a step around the table, closing the distance between himself and the injured champion.
"Sandro, Sandro, Sandro," Heyman mocked, his voice dripping with condescension. "That signature right there? That is, without a doubt, the stupidest decision you have made in your entire, remarkably short career."
Heyman gestured toward Sandro's heavily taped torso.
"Look at you," Heyman laughed, shaking his head. "You are barely standing. You are holding your breath just to keep your ribs from shifting. And you honestly expect to step into a ring with the Beast Incarnate this Sunday? You couldn't beat Brock Lesnar if you were at one hundred percent, you arrogant child. In your current condition? It isn't going to be a wrestling match. It is going to be a slaughter."
Sandro didn't blink. He stared a hole straight through the advocate, his anger simmering just beneath the surface.
But Heyman wasn't finished. The General Manager of RAW decided to cross a line that no man in his right mind should ever approach.
Heyman lowered his microphone slightly, his eyes drifting away from Sandro. He slowly looked past the champion, his gaze settling on AJ Lee, Nikki Bella, and Alexa Bliss standing near the ropes. Heyman's lips curled into a deeply disgusting, predatory smirk.
"But don't you worry, Sandro," Heyman said, his voice dropping into a slimy, highly personal register that echoed through the silent arena. "I am a benevolent man. After my client breaks you in half this Sunday... after he leaves you permanently scarred, disabled, and drinking your meals through a straw for the rest of your life... I'll make sure your girls are taken care of."
Heyman took a step closer, staring directly at the three women.
"In fact," Heyman grinned, licking his lips in a vile display of disrespect, "I think I'll take care of AJ, Nikki, and Alexa personally. When you're stuck in a hospital bed, they are going to need a real man to look after them. I'll be more than happy to become their new... Daddy."
The reaction was instantaneous.
A collective, massive gasp of pure shock and visceral disgust sucked all the oxygen out of the Montreal arena. The fans immediately showered the ring with the loudest, most hateful boos of the night.
At the broadcast desk, the commentary team was absolutely appalled.
"My god, that is repulsive!" Cole shrieked, ripping his headset off his ear. "There is absolutely no place for that kind of trash on this broadcast! Paul Heyman just crossed a line that you do not cross!"
"He is trying to bait him!" Lawler yelled, visibly disgusted by the comment. "Heyman is using the cheapest, most vile tactic in the book to try and get Sandro to swing first!"
"Heyman is a piece of garbage!" JBL roared, his face turning a dark shade of red. "You do not talk to women like that! You do not disrespect a man's family! Sandro has every right to rip that man's throat out right now!"
Inside the ring, the three women didn't look scared, they looked absolutely revolted. Nikki Bella stepped forward, her fists clenched white, looking ready to leap over the table and punch Heyman in the mouth herself. AJ sneered, her eyes burning with a fierce, protective anger. Alexa crossed her arms, glaring at the advocate with pure, unfiltered disgust.
But the most terrifying reaction came from the God King.
Sandro Zhang didn't yell. He didn't curse.
He simply froze.
The heavy, white medical tape wrapped around his chest seemed to stretch as his breathing completely stopped. The plastic casing of the WWE microphone in his left hand groaned under the sudden, immense pressure of his grip. His dark eyes locked onto Paul Heyman, the cold, calculating billionaire facade melting away to reveal something deeply, dangerously violent.
The silence inside the ring was deafening, heavy and uncomfortable.
Heyman's vile smirk slowly began to falter. The advocate took a cautious half step backward, suddenly realizing that he might have pushed the button a little too hard.
Brock Lesnar noticed the shift in energy immediately. The Beast pushed himself off the turnbuckles, taking a heavy step forward, placing himself squarely between his advocate and the enraged champion, his massive fists raised and ready to strike.
Sandro didn't blink. He didn't take his eyes off Heyman. His body was tense, coiled like a spring, the physical pain of his injuries completely erased by the blinding, white hot rage pumping through his veins.
The standoff was agonizing. The fans were on their feet, screaming, waiting for the powder keg to explode. But Sandro didn't swing. He stood his ground, his anger barely contained, holding the line as the heavy, suffocating tension threatened to shatter the very foundation of the ring.
Sandro slowly inhaled, the breath hitching slightly against the tight medical tape wrapping his ribs. The cold, unyielding silence in the ring felt heavier than the championship gold he carried.
Paul Heyman had realized his mistake. The RAW General Manager took another slow, calculated half step backward, instinctively seeking the massive, protective shadow of his client, Brock Lesnar. Lesnar didn't move, his massive chest rising and falling as he glared down at the God King, fists clenched and ready to rip Sandro apart the moment he stepped forward.
But Sandro didn't step forward.
The white hot rage in Sandro's eyes slowly hardened into something much colder. He raised the WWE microphone back to his lips, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a dark, poisonous edge that echoed clearly through the tense arena.
"You should really keep those filthy thoughts to yourself, Paul," Sandro advised quietly, the absolute lack of shouting making the threat feel infinitely more dangerous. "Because you are incredibly fortunate that you are standing behind that monster right now."
Sandro didn't take his eyes off the advocate.
"You talk a big game, Paul. You like to manipulate the board. You like to throw your weight around as General Manager," Sandro continued, his voice smooth but laced with venom. "But you seem to be forgetting something very important. Once I defeat your client this Sunday... once I expose the Beast and retain my championship... you aren't going to have anywhere left to hide."
Heyman scoffed nervously, trying to maintain his arrogant facade. "Is that supposed to be a threat? Because as General Manager, I could have you fired for even suggesting—"
"Oh, you can't fire me, Paul," Sandro interrupted with a dry, hollow chuckle. "But I can fire you."
The Montreal crowd buzzed with confusion.
Heyman furrowed his brow, looking genuinely perplexed. "Excuse me? I am the General Manager of Monday Night RAW. I answer to the Board of Directors. You have absolutely no authority over my employment."
"Are you sure about that?" Sandro asked, tilting his head slightly. The cold billionaire facade slowly returned, replacing the raw anger with a sharp, calculating intelligence.
"Let's take a trip down memory lane, shall we?" Sandro suggested, taking a slow step to the side. "Months ago, when I was building the Undisputed System, I hired you to be my Special Advisor. I paid you a small fortune to handle my legal affairs and negotiate my contracts."
Heyman nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. "And you fired me from that position. We all remember."
"I did," Sandro confirmed. "But what you clearly don't remember, Paul, is the fine print. When I drafted that initial contract bringing you into my inner circle, I made sure my legal team included a very specific, ironclad clause. A clause that stated I, and only I, retained the sole authority to terminate your employment within the WWE."
The entire arena fell dead silent as the fans processed the revelation.
"Even when the Board of Directors appointed you as General Manager... they never voided that original clause," Sandro revealed, a small, triumphant smile breaking through his stoic mask. "Which means, Paul, despite your shiny new title... I still own your contract."
The crowd absolutely erupted!
"FIRE HEYMAN! FIRE HEYMAN! FIRE HEYMAN!" The chant started in the front rows and instantly spread through the entire stadium, shaking the broadcast cameras.
Heyman's face went completely pale. His jaw dropped, and he frantically shook his head.
"That's a lie!" Heyman yelled into his microphone, his voice cracking with panic. "That is an absolute fabrication! I personally read every single line of that contract! I know exactly what I signed!"
Sandro let out a quiet, genuinely amused chuckle. "It is truly unfortunate, Paul, that even a man as careful and legally astute as yourself... can still have the wool pulled completely over his eyes. You should have had a better lawyer."
Lesnar, who had been completely silent during the exchange, suddenly turned his head. The Beast looked down at his advocate, a deep scowl crossing his face.
"Is he telling the truth, Paul?" Lesnar demanded, his deep voice carrying over the crowd noise.
Heyman physically recoiled, looking up at his client with wide, terrified eyes. "Brock... I... I don't know!" Heyman stammered, frantically patting his pockets as if the contract might magically appear. "I have to check the files! I have to call my office!"
For the first time since returning to the WWE, the absolute, unwavering confidence of Brock Lesnar seemed to crack. The Beast looked confused, his eyes darting between Sandro and Heyman, suddenly unsure of the ground he was standing on.
Sandro simply smiled. He had completely flipped the script. He had taken Heyman's most personal, vile insult and weaponized it to expose a massive structural weakness in their alliance.
Without another word, Sandro dropped his microphone. It hit the canvas with a dull thud.
Sandro turned his back on the ring. AJ Lee, Nikki Bella, and Alexa Bliss immediately moved with him, flanking the champion closely. The four of them slowly backed away from the wooden table, slipping through the ropes and dropping to the floor.
They walked backward up the long steel ramp, their eyes locked on the ring. Sandro wore a small, deeply satisfied smirk as he watched Paul Heyman frantically trying to explain the legal technicality to a very angry, very confused Brock Lesnar.
"I do not believe it!" Cole shouted, his voice ringing with absolute disbelief. "Sandro Zhang just pulled the ultimate trump card! He still controls Paul Heyman's employment?!"
"It's brilliant!" Lawler laughed, clapping his hands. "Sandro had the last laugh! He completely neutralized Heyman's mental games and put the General Manager in the most awkward, dangerous position possible right in front of his own client!"
"The God King is playing chess while these morons are playing checkers!" JBL roared triumphantly. "Heyman thought he could get under Sandro's skin, but he forgot that Sandro is a billionaire who buys and sells people for a living! He owns Heyman!"
As Sandro and his family disappeared behind the curtain, the commentary team began to look ahead to the looming pay per view.
"Sandro may have won the war of words tonight," Cole noted, the excitement slowly fading into serious concern. "But you have to ask the question: After the physical toll of last week, after being thrown off that stage, is Sandro Zhang going to be anywhere near one hundred percent this Sunday?"
"I don't see how he could be," Lawler admitted, shaking his head. "He is heavily taped, he can barely move his shoulder, and he has to step into the ring with a man who is arguably the most dangerous athlete in the world."
"Do not count the God King out!" JBL argued fiercely. "He is a survivor! He will be ready, and he will defend that gold!"
Monday Night RAW faded to black, leaving the WWE Universe completely breathless as the final pieces were set in motion for the biggest championship clash of the year.
The moment the broadcast ended, the digital wrestling community went into overdrive.
Twitter, Reddit, and every major wrestling forum exploded with simultaneous discussions regarding the two biggest moments of the night.
The first massive wave of speculation surrounded the shocking, unprovoked assault by Randy Orton.
"Why Dolph Ziggler?!" A top rated post on a wrestling subreddit asked. "Orton and Ziggler have zero history! Orton just walked out there, completely dead inside, and punted him twice! What is going on?"
Fans quickly began connecting the dots back to the God King.
"Think about it," one user replied in the thread. "Ziggler has been quietly receiving backup from Sandro. Sandro trusts him. The WWE might be preparing to push Ziggler into a much bigger role as a direct ally to the God Kinf. Orton isn't just punting Ziggler, he is targeting anyone connected to Sandro. Orton is trying to dismantle the God King's support structure before he makes his own move for the title."
The second major topic of discussion was the highly personal, explosive contract signing. The internet was flooded with memes mocking Paul Heyman's sudden realization that he might be legally owned by the man he was trying to intimidate. "Heyman prided himself on being the ultimate legal mastermind, and Sandro just hit him with the Uno Reverse card!" a viral tweet read, accompanied by a picture of Heyman's terrified face.
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 21 (2011)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida, USA
Brand: WWE - RAW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Styles
Faction: The Undisputed System
Championships History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion, 1x TNA X Division Champion, 1x WWE United States Champion (1st - 376 days), 1x WWE Champion, & 1x World Heavyweight Champion
Other Achievements: 1x Andre the Giant Memorial Battle Royale Winner, 1x Mr. Money In The Bank, Youngest WWE Champion, PWI Top 500 (No.1) - 2010, & 1x KOTR (2010)
Wrestlemania Record: 2 - 0 Main Event: 1 - 0