Belakor

The scene opens backstage in chaos. Just after Belakor threw Mo Jae off the catwalk on Ambition 99. Medical personnel rush past, shouting directions as the faint wail of a siren echoes outside. The camera pans to Belakor leaning against a wall, his face calm but intense. He wipes away the blood from his cut with a red crusted rag, and his duffel bag rests at his feet. He glares into the camera, speaking coldly. Belakor: Mo Jae is gone. They’re loading him into that ambulance right now… like the one I warned him about. This wasn’t a win Mo, it was a statement. You walked in full of honor and pride, fighting for respect and legacy. And now? You’re leaving in pieces, your legacy bleeding out in the back of a black ambulance. Belakor steps forward, his shadow stretching across the wall. Belakor: I told you this wasn’t about winning. It was about exposing you…. I just had to squash a bug along the way. You’re not a warrior, not a hero, you’re just a fraud who thought honor could save him. Tonight, I didn’t just beat you. I dismantled you. He flexes his bloodied hands, his tone lowering. Belakor: Think about this Mo, you didn’t fail them. You failed yourself. And if you step into the ring with me again, I won’t just send you to the hospital. I’ll send you somewhere you don’t come back from. Belakor grabs his duffel bag, slings it over his shoulder, and smirks at the camera before walking off as the screen fades to black.

*The screen flickers on to a dimly lit locker room. Belakor sits on a bench, head down, hands clasped with a hockey stick propped up on the bench beside him. After a pause, he lifts his head, eyes cold and unblinking.* Belakor: Mo Jae. The great warrior. The noble man. The paragon of honor. *He gave a slight smirk as he shook his head* Belakor: Or so you pretend. Your bows, your rituals it’s all a mask. You’re not respecting your opponents, you’re just feeding your ego. Your honor isn’t about tradition, it’s theater for applause. And in playing the hero, you disrespect the heritage you claim to honor. *He leaned forward, and his voice sharpened.* Belakor: Let me teach you what respect truly means. Three things. Poslouchej dobře.[Listen well.] First: Respect is earned through struggle. You beat me at Riot…. Congratulations. But what you’ll remember is me dropping you onto the mat afterwards. Not your win. The moment the they saw you lying there. Second: Respect doesn’t beg for approval. You need their cheers like oxygen. That’s not respect, that’s závislost. [Addiction.] True respect exists in silence. Third: Respect demands proof. You’ve proven nothing to me. You dance for them like a puppet, using your heritage as a prop. Real warriors don’t bow for applause. *Belakor leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees.* Belakor: You’ve won over the crowd, but I’m not convinced. I implore you to stand across from me again, no masks, no pageantry, blood sweat and truth. *He grabs the hockey stick beside him, tapping it lightly on the floor.* Belakor: And if you’re not ready for that… well, there’s always this… *Standing, he slings his duffel bag over his shoulder and stares into the camera.* Belakor: I’m not here to bow. I’m here to test. And Mo Jae… zatím jsi selhal. [So far, you’ve failed.] *The screen cuts to black as the tap of the hockey stick fades into silence.*

Can’t tell ya

The OCW arena buzzes with activity as the crowd murmurs in anticipation. Suddenly, the light dims. A low unsettling hum echoes through the speakers, growing louder as fog begins to flow onto the stage. A large figure with a scarred face, Markus Belakor. His rugged clothing and the worn duffle bag slung over his shoulder catch the light briefly before he stops at the center of the stage. His eyes sweep across the crowd, both thoughtless and erratic. Belakor stands silently for a moment, letting the atmosphere build. Then he reaches for a microphone tucked into the side of the bag. The crowd quiets, intrigued by the new presence. Belakor: You don’t know me… but you will. He paces slowly, his boots thudding against the metal ramp, his voice low and deliberate. Belakor: Places like this, they’re always the same at first. Full of noise, bravado, people puffing their chests like it’ll make a difference when it counts. But here… He gestures toward the crowd, with a faint smirk. Belakor: Here feels… different. It’s not the noise. It’s the cracks I see underneath it. Belakor stops at the edge of the ramp, staring into the sea of fans as if trying to see through them. His expression is unreadable, his voice dropping to a near growl. Belakor: The question isn’t if this place will break. It’s when. He grips the strap of his duffle bag tightly, the knuckles of his hand turning white as he lifts the bag slightly, showing it off slightly. Belakor: You probably wonder what’s in here, right? You think it’s a weapon, a statement, or maybe some token of a past I’m running from. He chuckles, shaking his head as he takes a few steps forward. Belakor: none of those. What’s in here? It’s a reminder of why I’m here. A reminder that sometimes… He raises his head, his gaze locking with the camera, his voice sharpening Belakor: Sometimes, you have to tear everything down to find what’s real. The audience murmurs, some intrigued, others uneasy, as Belakor steps back into the fog. The ominous hum rises again, and the lights flicker briefly before returning to full brightness. By the time the haze clears Belakor is gone.