DW Clash 89
📺 Live on the Sanctioned Violence Network
📍 The Stratford Arena, London, England
📆 16th February 2026
Ringside
The camera pans across the architectural marvel of the Stratford Arena, its towering LED screens shimmering against the London night as a capacity crowd roars with anticipation. Inside, the electric atmosphere is thick with the scent of popcorn and the hum of high-definition production. Pyrotechnics explode from the stage as the “Clash” graphics pulse on the screens, and the camera dives toward ringside where the commentary team is already buzzing.
“Welcome everyone to a sold-out Stratford Arena! I am Steve Pringle, the voice of Dynasty Wrestling, and we are officially on the collision course for Doomsday 2026!”.
“And I’m Eddie Bates, the man who actually knows what it’s like to step through those ropes, Steve! Look at this place tonight! It’s vibrating!”.
“The energy is undeniable, Eddie, and the stakes couldn’t be higher. We are just two weeks away from Doomsday on March 2nd, and tonight’s card is a powder keg. We start with tag team warfare as the sinister Irish duo, The Cursed, look to bring their dark clouds over the London favorites, British Hospitality!”.
“Pringle, those Cursed boys are ‘cursed’ for a reason—they break bones and they don’t apologize for it. But keep your eyes on the main event later tonight. The Essex Pretty Boy, Oliver Harrington, puts that DW UK Championship on the line against the Master of Manipulation, Maxwell Blackwell. Two of the most cunning minds in this business finally clashing for gold!”.
“A massive title fight indeed, but we’ve also got a Triple Threat that could steal the show. Union Jack, Geoffrey Hobbs, and Liam O’Donovan in a three-way dance where speed meets sophistication meets Dublin grit. Plus, the powerhouse Oliver Reed looks to silence the arrogance of Riley Smith, and the high-flying Leo Lewis faces his ultimate test against the sadistic ‘Surgeon,’ Stijn De Raaf!”.
“Stijn is going to dissect that kid, Steve. It’s not going to be pretty, but it’s going to be effective. Let’s get to the ring, the bell is about to ring and London is ready for a fight!”.
Ringside
The lights in the Stratford Arena suddenly plunge into a deep, atmospheric violet as the opening chords of “Black Honey” by Thrice echo through the rafters. A thick fog rolls across the entrance stage, and stepping through the mist is the soul of London himself, the DW Heavyweight Champion, Cedric Thornfield. He walks with his signature stoic grace, the gold of the Heavyweight Title gleaming under the arena lights as he ignores the flash and pomp, moving toward the ring like a man chasing ghosts.
“Listen to this ovation, Eddie! Camden’s own, the ‘Shadow Saint,’ is home and he is still the king of the mountain!” Steve Pringle shouts over the roar of the London crowd.
“He’s a mythic figure in this city, Steve, but being at the top means you’ve got a target on your back the size of the River Thames!” Eddie Bates counters as Thornfield enters the ring.
Cedric stands in the center of the squared circle, eyes closed as he absorbs the “Cedric! Cedric!” chants echoing from every corner of the state-of-the-art arena. He slowly raises the microphone, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carries a chilling conviction that silences the thousands in attendance.
“Last week… I stood in the shadows and I watched,” Thornfield begins, his gaze fixed on the entrance ramp. “I heard the echoes of ambition. I heard Jet—the ‘Mr. Millennium’—proclaiming his time has come. And I heard the ‘Lionheart’ Jonathan Sullivan, a man who believes his destiny is written in gold. Both men have laid their claims. Both men want to take the soul out of London.”
The crowd erupts in boos at the mention of a potential title change, but Cedric remains calm.
“I do not fear the storm; I am the storm,” Thornfield continues with poetic stoicism. “If you want a seat at the table… if you want your moment at Doomsday on March 2nd… you know where to find me. I am ready for all comers. I paint in bruises, and I have plenty of canvas left”.
“The champion is laying down the gauntlet! He’s not hiding, he’s inviting the chaos!” Pringle exclaims as Thornfield raises the Heavyweight Championship high above his head to a thunderous cheer.
“It’s a dangerous game, Pringle. You don’t invite a shark like Sullivan or a firebrand like Jet to dinner unless you’re prepared to be the meal!” Bates adds.
As Cedric’s music kicks back in and he exits the ring, the camera cuts backstage to two distinct monitors. In one locker room, Jet sits leaning forward, a cocky, brash smirk playing on his lips as he taps his chin, clearly unimpressed by the champion’s words. In another part of the arena, Jonathan Sullivan stands tall, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowed with an unwavering, competitive focus that suggests ‘The Lionheart’ is already visualizing the King’s Cross Lock.
Tag Team Match
The Cursed vs. British Hospitality
The lights in the state-of-the-art Stratford Arena shift to a stark, cold white as a jaunty, upbeat Brit-rock anthem with a heavy guitar riff kicks in. Out step British Hospitality—the charismatic and no-nonsense duo of Harry Black and Alexander Hate. Harry, a muscular brawler, and Alexander, a bearded submission specialist, march toward the ring in their matching black and white gear, each sporting the Union Jack on their trunks. They wave to the London crowd, high-fiving fans at ringside who roar for the hometown favorites.
“You have to love the energy of Black and Hate, Eddie! These two are the heart and soul of the London brawling scene!” Steve Pringle shouts over the “Right Good Fight” theme.
“Energy doesn’t win matches, Pringle! They’re walking into a butcher shop tonight, and the butchers are from Dublin!” Eddie Bates counters.
The atmosphere curdles instantly. The upbeat music is cut dead by the low, guttural guitar riffs of “A Vicious Breed”. The Cursed—Kane O’Malley and Lorcan Murphy—emerge from the shadows. They don’t wave or smile; they march with a menacing glare, their faces shrouded in darkness.
“The Cursed are here to bring misfortune to Stratford,” Pringle notes solemnly. “Both these teams are desperate to climb the ladder toward the Dogs of War and those DW UK Tag Team Titles“.
The bell rings, and the contrast is immediate. Alexander Hate starts for the faces, locking up with the powerful Kane O’Malley. Hate uses his technical prowess to slip behind O’Malley, looking for a clean waistlock, but the powerful Irishman back-elbows him square in the jaw. Head official Jerry Law warns O’Malley, but the sinister brawler just sneers.
“O’Malley doesn’t care about the law, Pringle! He and Murphy are here to systematically dismantle people!” Bates adds.
O’Malley drags Hate to the corner and tags in Murphy. They unleash the Dublin Drive, a harrowing sequence of alternating clotheslines that leaves Alexander slumped against the turnbuckles. Murphy, the agile technician, pulls Hate into the center of the ring and applies a grinding hold, showing no emotion as he wears him down.
The London crowd begins a rhythmic clapping, desperate to see British Hospitality fight back. Hate finds an opening, landing a desperation strike on Murphy. He lunges for the tag—he gets it! Harry Black enters like a house on fire!
Black drops O’Malley off the apron with a stiff right hand and catches the charging Murphy with a signature slam! “What a sequence by Harry Black! He’s cleaning house!” screams Pringle. Black signals for the end, but O’Malley slides back in, unseen by the ref, and clips Black’s knee.
“That’s the ruthless streak right there!” Bates shouts. “The Cursed always have a sinister plan!”
With Black hobbled, The Cursed take full control. They isolate Harry, cutting the ring in half. O’Malley hoists Black up into a powerbomb position while Murphy climbs the top rope.
“Look out! They’re looking for the Dublin Curse!”
Murphy leaps, delivering a diving stomp as O’Malley slams Black down with incredible force. Murphy makes the cover, hooking the leg deep.
1… 2… 3!
The dark riffs of “A Vicious Breed” blare as Murphy and O’Malley stand over the fallen British Hospitality.
“A clinical, brutal victory for The Cursed,” Pringle says as the winners exit. “The Dogs of War better be watching their backs, because these two are climbing the rankings with a trail of bodies behind them.”
“They didn’t just win, Steve, they made a statement. The line for the Tag Titles just got a lot more dangerous.”
Backstage
The camera cuts to the polished backstage area of the Stratford Arena , where DW Lead Interviewer William Smithstands ready with a microphone. Beside him, towering like a figure out of a dark saga, is the 6’6″ frame of Bjorn Asulf. “The Viking” stands with a mythic arrogance, his massive frame chiseled and imposing, his eyes fixed forward with a chilling, vacant conviction.
“William Smith here, and I am joined at this time by a man who has left a trail of destruction across Dynasty Wrestling, Bjorn Asulf,” Smith begins, his voice tinged with professional caution. “Bjorn, for months now, you and the 6’10” Finnish powerhouse, Eero Koshinen, have engaged in a series of brutal encounters that have practically brought this building down. After the chaos we’ve seen, where do things stand between the ‘Norse Nightmare’ and the ‘Colossus of Finland’?”.
Bjorn doesn’t look at Smith. He remains stoic, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sounds like grinding stone. “For too long, the iron of Norway has clashed with the stone of Finland,” Asulf says with poetic, chilling threats. “Eero Koshinen… he is a giant who believes he is the final boss of this kingdom. But I am the Berserker King, and I do not come to play games of sport. I come to pillage. I come for war”.
He finally turns his gaze toward the camera, his expression one of primal intensity. “We have bled in your rings. We have broken your wood and your steel. But the cycle must end. At Doomsday on March 2nd, I want no exits. I want no interference. I challenge the ‘Helsinki Hammer’ to step inside the Steel Cage“.
“A Steel Cage match at Doomsday?!” Smith exclaims, looking shocked.
“Four walls of cold iron,” Bjorn continues, ignoring the interruption. “One survivor. Eero, if you are the god you claim to be, meet me in the cage… and let us see whose legacy is written in the blood of the other”.
Bjorn Asulf stares intensely into the lens for a final beat before walking off, leaving Smith standing in the wake of the “Norse Nightmare’s” ultimatum.
Single Match
Riley Smith vs. Oliver Reed
The strobe lights at the Stratford Arena shift to a garish, neon gold and silver as the upbeat but grating pop-rock of “The Prodigal Son” blares. Riley Smith struts onto the stage, adjusting his designer scarf and checking his reflection in the polished surface of his high-end wrist watch. He sneers at the London fans, dismissively waving a hand at the front row as he sashays toward the ring.
“Here comes the man who thinks he’s a god’s gift to the wrestling industry, but the only thing Riley Smith is gifted at is being an absolute narcissist!” Steve Pringle vents.
“It’s called ‘brand management,’ Pringle! Riley has the look, the tan, and the talent. You’re just jealous of those abs!” Eddie Bates retorts.
The mood shifts instantly as the heavy, rhythmic thud of “Industrial Heart” hits the PA system. Oliver Reed emerges to a visceral roar from the crowd. No scarf, no tan—just taped fists and a look of pure, blue-collar aggression. Reed marches to the ring with the intent of a man clocking into a graveyard shift.
“Oliver Reed is the antithesis of everything Riley Smith stands for,” Pringle notes. “He’s a hard-hitting brawler who’s earned every inch of ground in this business.”
The bell rings, and Riley Smith immediately tries to play mind games, offering a mock handshake before slicking his hair back. Reed doesn’t play along. He lunges forward, catching Smith with a stiff European Uppercut that sends the “Prodigal Son” reeling into the ropes. Reed follows up with a series of clubbing blows to the chest, the sound echoing through the arena.
“Reed is tenderizing him! Riley’s designer looks are taking a beating!”
Smith manages to scramble out of the ring, cowering behind the ring post to catch his breath. As Reed pursues him, Smith catches him with a thumb to the eye—unseen by Jerry Law—and slams Reed’s head into the steel steps. Back inside, Smith takes control, slowing the pace with a grounded chinlock, mocking the crowd by shouting, “Is this your hero?!”
Reed, fueled by the “Oliver! Oliver!” chants, fights to his feet. He breaks the hold with a belly-to-back suplex and begins his comeback. A big boot in the corner, followed by a thunderous spinebuster, leaves Smith gasping. Reed climbs the turnbuckle, looking for the “London Bridge” elbow drop.
“He’s going for it! This could be it for Riley Smith!”
But as Reed leaps, Smith rolls out of the way. Smith quickly grabs the referee’s shirt, pulling Jerry Law into his path to create a distraction. As Law recovers his footing, Smith reaches into his trunks and pulls out a pair of brass knuckles.
“Wait, what is he doing? Where did those come from?!” Pringle screams.
Before Reed can turn around, Smith strikes! A devastating, illegal right hand connects squarely with Reed’s jaw. Smith quickly kicks the “knucks” under the ring and collapses onto Reed, hooking both legs as Law turns back to make the count.
1… 2… 3!
“He stole it! Riley Smith just robbed Oliver Reed in broad daylight!” Pringle yells in disgust.
“A win is a win, Pringle! He used his resources. Riley Smith is headed to Doomsday with momentum and a pristine face!” Bates laughs as Smith scurries up the ramp, clutching his jaw but wearing a self-satisfied smirk.
Backstage
The camera cuts to the polished wooden doors of the Commissioner’s office. Without knocking, Jet—the self-proclaimed “Mr. Millennium”—swings the door open and struts inside. He’s clad in a custom-fit designer tracksuit, his confidence radiating off him like a physical heat. Matt Anarchy, the DW Commissioner and the first-ever Heavyweight Champion, is seated behind a mahogany desk, looking over a stack of contracts. He doesn’t look up immediately, but he doesn’t look surprised either.
“Anarchy, let’s skip the pleasantries,” Jet says, leaning over the desk and planting his palms on the wood. “I just saw Cedric Thornfield out there acting like he’s a philosopher-king. He said he’s looking for ‘all comers’ for Doomsday. Well, the only ‘comer’ this company needs to worry about is the man who carries the star power of a thousand suns. I want that Heavyweight Title match on March 2nd.”
Matt Anarchy slowly closes a folder and looks up, his weathered eyes meeting Jet’s intense gaze. The former champion leans back, crossing his arms.
“You’ve certainly got the mouth for it, Jet,” Anarchy says, his voice calm but authoritative. “And look, I’m a man of my word. I’ve watched your career. I know what you’ve accomplished in this ring and across this industry. Out of respect for those accolades—and because I know the fans want to see if you’re as good as you say you are—I’m going to give it to you.”
Jet’s smirk widens, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “Smart move, Matt. You just booked the biggest main event in Dynasty history.”
“Don’t start printing the posters yet,” Anarchy interrupts, pointing a firm finger at Jet. “The match is yours at Doomsday, but this isn’t a free ride. I need to know that the Jet of today is the same man who earned those accolades. You need to keep proving yourself. Between now and March 2nd, I’m putting you in matches that will test every bit of that ‘Millennium’ hype. If you stumble, if you falter, you’ll be walking into Doomsday with a lot more than just a title to worry about.”
Jet’s smirk doesn’t fade, but it tightens. He stands up straight, adjusting his collar. “Line them up, Matt. It doesn’t matter who you put in front of me. At Doomsday, I’m taking what belongs to me, and Cedric Thornfield is going to find out that you can’t fight a force of nature.”
Jet turns and exits the office with a cocky swagger, leaving Anarchy staring at the door, a contemplative look on his face.
“He’s got the ego, Steve, but does he still have the engine?” Eddie Bates asks as the broadcast transitions back to ringside.
“We’re going to find out very soon, Eddie! But up next, it’s every man for himself! A Triple Threat Match: Geoffrey Hobbs vs. Liam O’Donovan vs. Union Jack!”
Triple Threat Match
Geoffrey Hobbs vs. Liam O’Donovan vs. Union Jack
The lights dim to a sophisticated gold as the sharp, orchestral strings of “The Arrival” play. “Gentleman” Geoffrey Hobbs steps onto the stage, wearing a tailored three-piece suit and a sneer of utter superiority. He adjusts his cufflinks, looking disgusted by the Stratford crowd as he hands his expensive blazer to a ringside attendant.
“Look at the poise of Hobbs. He doesn’t just wrestle, Steve, he educates these peasants on the finer points of grappling!” Eddie Bates says admiringly.
“He’s an arrogant elitist, Eddie, and he’s got his work cut out for him tonight!”
The arena explodes as a heavy, patriotic rock anthem hits. Union Jack charges out, draped in the flag, his energy infectious as he high-fives the fans. Close behind him comes Liam O’Donovan, the “Dublin Dynamo,” whose gritty, blue-collar entrance creates a stark contrast to Hobbs’s snobbery.
The bell rings and the dynamic is immediate. Union Jack and O’Donovan lock eyes, showing mutual respect, but Hobbs tries to play the opportunist, rolling out of the ring to let the two “savages” beat each other.
“Classic Hobbs! Why work when you can watch?” Bates laughs.
Jack and O’Donovan aren’t having it. They both slide out, grab Hobbs by the collar, and roll him back in. The two faces take turns lighting up Hobbs’s chest with blistering chops. O’Donovan sends Hobbs into the ropes, and Jack catches him with a high-angle dropkick. As Hobbs rolls to the corner, Jack and O’Donovan square off, and the pace quickens. Jack hits a standing moonsault, but O’Donovan rolls through and attempts a cloverleaf!
“The technical prowess of O’Donovan is world-class!” Pringle notes.
Hobbs breaks it up with a stiff kick to O’Donovan’s head. With the referee, Jerry Law, distracted by Jack trying to get back in, Hobbs rakes O’Donovan’s eyes and throws him shoulder-first into the steel ring post. Hobbs takes control, utilizing a slow, methodical pace. He traps Union Jack in a Regal Stretch, wrenching the neck while shouting insults at the front row.
“Hobbs is picking them apart like a surgeon,” Bates observes.
The comeback begins when O’Donovan staggers back into the fray, catching Hobbs with a desperation “Liffey Leap” forearm smash. All three men are down as the Stratford Arena rises to its feet. They trade strikes in the center of the ring—right hand from Jack, European uppercut from Hobbs, headbutt from O’Donovan!
Union Jack gains the upper hand, hitting his signature “London Eye” spinning slam on O’Donovan. He covers—1… 2… but Hobbs breaks it up by dropping a knee into Jack’s spine!
Hobbs tosses Jack out of the ring and turns his attention to the dazed O’Donovan. He signals for the “Final Verdict,” his bridging fisherman’s suplex. He hoists O’Donovan up, but O’Donovan flips out of the hold, lands on his feet, and hits a devastating “Emerald Isle” neckbreaker!
O’Donovan makes the cover, but Union Jack dives back in at the last microsecond to break the count!
“This is chaos! Anyone’s match!” Pringle screams.
Jack goes for a clothesline on O’Donovan, but O’Donovan ducks, and Jack accidentally nails the referee, Jerry Law! Law tumbles to the mat, dazed. In the confusion, Hobbs rolls out and grabs his heavy, brass-topped walking cane from ringside.
“Oh, come on! Not like this!”
Hobbs slides back in and cracks the cane across the back of O’Donovan’s head. Union Jack charges, but Hobbs ducks and delivers a low blow that sends Jack to his knees. Hobbs tosses the cane away just as Law regains his senses. Hobbs drapes himself over O’Donovan.
1… 2… 3!
“The ‘Gentleman’ just committed highway robbery in London!” Pringle yells.
“It was a masterclass in strategy, Steve! Hobbs stays winning!” Bates cackles as Hobbs exits, smoothing his hair and looking down his nose at the fallen heroes.
Backstage
The camera cuts once again to the heavy oak doors of the Commissioner’s office. This time, a firm, respectful knock precedes the entry of “The Lionheart” Jonathan Sullivan. He enters the room with a focused, quiet intensity, dressed in a sharp “Lionheart” training hoodie, his presence commanding yet professional.
Matt Anarchy looks up from his desk, rubbing his temples as if anticipating the conversation. “I had a feeling I’d be seeing you tonight, Jonathan.”
“Then you know why I’m here, Matt,” Sullivan says, his voice steady and resonant. “I’ve spent fifteen years clawing my way through this industry to get back to the top of a mountain like Dynasty. I heard Cedric out there. He’s a fighting champion, and I’m a man who lives for the fight. I want that Heavyweight Title at Doomsday.”
Anarchy leans back in his leather chair, tapping a pen against the desk. He remains silent for several long seconds, weighing the request.
“You’re a world-class athlete, Jonathan. A veteran. And honestly? You’ve earned a seat at that table,” Anarchy says. “But here’s the complication: about twenty minutes ago, Jet walked through those same doors demanding the exact same thing. He thinks the sun rises and sets on his arrival.”
Sullivan’s jaw tightens slightly at the mention of Jet. “Jet is talented, Matt, but he’s a distraction. I’m a competitor.”
“Well,” Anarchy says, a small, competitive spark lighting up his eyes, “Cedric Thornfield did say he’d take on all comers. He wants to be a legend? He can defend against two of the best at once. At Doomsday, it’s going to be a Triple Threat Match for the DW Heavyweight Championship: Cedric Thornfield vs. Jet vs. Jonathan Sullivan.”
Sullivan nods slowly, the magnitude of the announcement settling in.
“But listen to me, Jonathan,” Anarchy adds, his voice dropping to a stern, cautionary tone. “I told Jet the same thing: don’t get complacent. I’m not just handing out main events for the sake of it. I need to see the ‘Lionheart’ at one hundred percent between now and March 2nd. I’m going to test your resolve. If you can’t handle the pressure I’m about to put on you in the coming weeks, you won’t just lose the match at Doomsday—you’ll lose your legacy. Am I clear?”
Sullivan leans in, his eyes burning with a fierce determination. “Matt, I’ve survived longer than most people stay in this business. Pressure doesn’t break me; it turns me into iron. I’ll see you—and I’ll see Jet—on the road to Doomsday.”
Sullivan turns and exits, the camera catching his reflection in the glass door—a man possessed by the singular goal of becoming champion once again.
“It’s official, Steve! A Triple Threat Main Event for the richest prize in the game!” Pringle exclaims.
“Jet’s ego, Sullivan’s heart, and Thornfield’s darkness… someone is leaving Doomsday in an ambulance, Pringle!” Bates adds.
Up next, the technical mastery of Stijn De Raaf looks to ground the high-flying Leo Lewis!
Single Match
Leo Lewis vs. Stijn De Raaf
The Stratford Arena lights shift to a bright, obnoxious red, white, and blue as a bombastic, over-the-top march blares through the speakers. Leo Lewis struts out, draped in an American flag like a cape, a wide, plastic smirk plastered on his face. He pauses on the stage to flex his biceps, pointing to the rafters while mouthing, “You’re welcome!” to a chorus of heavy booing from the London crowd.
“Here he is, the ‘Self-Proclaimed Savior of the Colonies,’ Leo Lewis,” Steve Pringle sighs. “The man has an ego that could span the Atlantic, and he’s not shy about telling us how much better everything is in the States.”
“He’s a specimen, Steve! Look at that definition! Lewis is what a world-class athlete looks like, whether you like the accent or not!” Eddie Bates shoots back.
The music cuts abruptly, replaced by a rhythmic, cold industrial beat. The screens turn a clinical gray as Stijn De Raafwalks out. Known as “The Amsterdam Avenger,” the Dutchman moves with a terrifying, mechanical precision. He doesn’t look at the crowd; he stares through Leo Lewis as if he’s already visualizing which joint he’s going to pop first.
“And there is the most dangerous man from the Netherlands,” Pringle says. “Stijn De Raaf doesn’t care about flags or fans. He cares about anatomy and pain.”
The bell rings and Lewis immediately tries to use his collegiate wrestling background to out-grapple the Dutchman. He scores a quick takedown and transitions into a front facelock, slapping the top of De Raaf’s head mockingly. “USA! USA!” Lewis shouts, playing to the hostile crowd.
“Lewis is playing with fire. You don’t mock a man who knows forty-seven ways to snap your radius!” Bates warns.
Lewis sends De Raaf into the ropes and attempts a leapfrog, but De Raaf stops mid-run, catches Lewis’s ankle in mid-air, and wrenches it downward. Lewis lets out a guttural scream as he hits the canvas. The Surgeon has arrived. De Raaf doesn’t follow up with a pin; instead, he begins a methodical assault on Lewis’s left leg. He drops a series of clinical elbows onto the knee joint, each one more calculated than the last.
“Look at the focus of De Raaf. He’s not wrestling; he’s performing an operation,” Pringle observes.
Lewis managed to find a burst of “American Grit,” kicking De Raaf away and hitting a desperation standing dropkick. He limps to the corner, clutching his knee, and tries to hoist De Raaf up for a military press slam. His leg gives out under the weight, and De Raaf slides down his back.
De Raaf kicks the back of Lewis’s leg, sending him to his knees, and then strikes with a lightning-fast roundhouse kick to the side of the head. Lewis is dazed. De Raaf calmly steps over the “All-American,” trapping both arms in a brutal, modified rings of Saturn-style submission he calls “The Dutch Door.”
Lewis flails, his face turning a deep shade of crimson as De Raaf pulls back, adding agonizing pressure to the shoulders and neck. Lewis has nowhere to go. He frantically taps the mat.
“It’s over! De Raaf just dismantled him!”
The referee signals for the bell. De Raaf holds the lock for an extra three seconds, ignoring the referee’s count, before finally releasing a broken Leo Lewis.
“A clinical victory for Stijn De Raaf,” Pringle says as the Dutchman exits without a word. “He came in, he did the work, and he left Leo Lewis’s American Dream in a heap.”
“He’s a machine, Steve. Plain and simple. If you’ve got an injury, De Raaf will find it. If you don’t, he’ll give you one.”
Backstage
The camera cuts to the interview area where William Smith is standing with the former champions, Ben Noble and Kandi Sparks—collectively known as The Sovereign. Noble looks focused and intense, while Sparks radiates a quiet, dangerous confidence. Both are wearing their signature red-and-black gear, looking every bit the elite duo that once sat atop the mountain.
“I’m joined at this time by Ben Noble and Kandi Sparks, The Sovereign,” Smith begins. “Last week, you two pulled off a gritty, hard-fought victory over the rising threat of The Cursed. That win has moved you right back into the conversation, but where do you go from here?”
Ben Noble steps forward, his eyes locked on the lens. “William, last week wasn’t just about a win. It was about a reminder. We let our focus slip for a second, and the Dogs of War took advantage of it to take those titles. But after we sent The Cursed back to the shadows, we’ve officially cleared the path.”
Kandi Sparks steps up beside him, a sharp smirk on her face. “The Dogs of War think they’re the top of the food chain because they’ve got the gold around their waists. But everyone in this arena knows that those titles look better on us. We’ve done the work, we’ve climbed back up the rankings, and we aren’t interested in waiting in line anymore.”
Noble nods, his voice dropping to a serious, challenging tone. “Dogs of War… you’ve been running through the tag division like you own it. But you haven’t faced us since we found our fire again. So, let’s make it official for the whole world to see. At Doomsday on March 2nd, we want our rematch. We want our titles back. Dogs of War… if you’ve got any bite to back up that bark, you’ll meet us in the ring.”
“The challenge has been issued!” Smith says to the camera. “The Sovereign wants the Dogs of War at Doomsday!”
“They’re playing with fire, Pringle!” Eddie Bates chimes in from the commentary desk. “The Dogs of War don’t just defend titles, they hunt people! Noble and Sparks better be careful what they wish for.”
“Maybe so, Eddie, but The Sovereign is back on the hunt! Up next, it is time for our massive Main Event! The DW UK Championship is on the line!”
DW UK Championship Match
Oliver Harrington (c) vs. Maxwell Blackwell
The atmosphere in the Stratford Arena reaches a fever pitch as the house lights turn a vibrant, obnoxious pink and the heavy bass of “Glitter and Gold” shakes the floor. “The Essex Pretty Boy” Oliver Harrington sashays onto the stage, the DW UK Championship slung over his shoulder with casual arrogance. He stops to check his hair in a hand-held mirror, blowing a kiss to a chorus of visceral boos.
“He is the man of the hour, Steve! The winner of the European Wrestling League and the most talked-about champion in the country!” Eddie Bates screams with glee.
“He’s a narcissist with a gold-plated ego, Eddie! And tonight, he meets a man who can match him move-for-move in the department of deception.”
The lights flicker and fade into a shimmering, distorted blue as a rhythmic, hypnotic synth track fills the arena. “The Mirage” Maxwell Blackwell emerges, moving with a fluid, haunting presence. He adjusts his velvet cape, his eyes fixed on the gold around Harrington’s waist with a predatory focus.
“The Master of Manipulation is in the building,” Pringle notes. “Blackwell doesn’t just beat you; he tricks you into beating yourself.”
The bell rings and the psychological warfare begins immediately. Harrington offers a test of strength, but as Blackwell reaches out, Harrington pulls back to slick his hair. Blackwell retaliates by offering a clean break in the corner, only to snap Harrington’s head across the top rope the moment the referee, Jerry Law, turns his back.
“It’s a chess match of low-lives!” Bates cackles.
The match is a clinical display of “anything you can do, I can do dirtier.” Harrington gains the advantage with a thumb to the eye, following up with a series of arrogant stomps. He tries to use the middle rope for leverage during a pin, but Blackwell—ever the veteran—grabs the referee’s trousers to pull him out of position and break the count.
As the action spills to the outside, Harrington tries to send Blackwell into the steel steps, but Blackwell reverses it. While Jerry Law is busy counting them both out, Blackwell reaches under the ring and pulls out a hidden foreign object—a heavy brass ring. He slides back in, waiting for Harrington to follow.
“Blackwell is looking to end the ‘Pretty Boy’s’ streak right here!”
But Harrington is one step ahead. As he climbs through the ropes, he purposefully “stumbles” into Jerry Law, knocking the official down. In the chaos, Harrington delivers a blatant low blow to Blackwell. As Blackwell doubles over in pain, Harrington spots the brass ring Blackwell dropped.
“Look at this! The thief is getting robbed!” Pringle yells.
Harrington scoops up the ring, slips it onto his finger, and delivers a devastating “Pretty Vacant” forearm smash right to Blackwell’s temple. He quickly stashes the ring in his trunks just as Law groggily recovers. Harrington drapes a single arm over Blackwell, looking directly into the camera with a wink.
1… 2… 3!
“He did it! Oliver Harrington survives by the skin of his teeth and a whole lot of deception!” Pringle exclaims.
“That’s why he’s the champion, Steve! He’s smarter, faster, and he looks better doing it! The EWL winner continues his hot streak!”
Harrington stands tall, clutching his UK Championship, his face a mask of smug satisfaction as he exits through the sea of jeers.
“What a night in London,” Pringle concludes. “We are on the road to Doomsday, and the landscape of Dynasty Wrestling has never been more volatile! Goodnight everyone!”
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