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The battle royal had become something else entirely. An instant classic, and somewhere backstage, Sandro watched. Knowing that whoever survived… was coming for him.
The final five stood in the ring like monuments to violence.
Sweat poured. Chests heaved. Every man bore the marks of war, red welts, bruises forming, breath coming sharp and ragged. The noise inside the arena was constant now, not just cheers or chants, but a sustained roar of anticipation. Everyone in the building understood it.
Cole's voice cut through the chaos. "Five men left. Five absolute killers. One shot at the WWE Championship… and Hell in a Cell!"
Lawler could barely contain himself. "And every single one of them wants Sandro locked inside Hell in a Cell! This is survival now!"
No alliances. No patience. It exploded.
Then Orton struck.
He lunged at Cena, the two colliding in the center of the ring, fists flying in a blur. Cena responded with heavy right hands, backing Orton toward the ropes. Sheamus charged in, blasting both men with a double clothesline that sent Cena sprawling and Orton tumbling through the ropes, only for Orton to cling desperately to the bottom rope, feet dangling above elimination.
The crowd gasped.
Sheamus rushed Orton, trying to finish it, but Triple H cut him off with a spinebuster out of nowhere, slamming the Celtic Warrior flat on his back.
"WHAT A SPINEBUSTER!" Cole shouted.
Undertaker stepped forward now, looming over Triple H.
The two locked eyes.
The crowd erupted.
"These two…" Lawler said reverently. "This history runs deeper than most people even realize."
Before they could collide, Cena burst back into the fray, tackling Triple H and driving him into the corner. Undertaker turned his attention to Orton, who had managed to pull himself back into the ring. The Deadman grabbed him by the throat—
Orton slipped free and raked the eyes.
Undertaker staggered back a step.
That was all Orton needed.
RKO.
Out of nowhere.
The arena lost its mind.
Undertaker hit the mat hard, rolling instinctively toward the ropes. Orton smelled blood and rushed him, grabbing the Deadman by the hair and hauling him up, trying to force him over the top rope.
The crowd roared in disbelief.
"Is Orton about to do it?!" Cole yelled.
Undertaker fought, boots scraping against the mat, massive hands gripping the rope. Cena charged in and blasted Orton from behind, breaking it up. Orton turned—
ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT.
Cena hoisted Orton up and drove him down hard, then immediately transitioned, grabbing Orton again and muscling him toward the ropes with everything he had left.
Sheamus saw his chance.
He sprinted across the ring and hit Orton with a Brogue Kick so vicious it echoed.
Orton flipped over the top rope and crashed to the floor.
Eliminated.
The crowd erupted in thunderous applause.
"Randy Orton is gone!" Cole screamed.
Lawler laughed in disbelief. "What teamwork, temporary, but effective!"
Four men remained.
Undertaker was already rising.
Sheamus turned just in time to eat a massive big boot from the Deadman, staggering him backward. Triple H rushed Undertaker, firing off knees to the ribs, backing him into the corner. Cena and Sheamus collided again, trading stiff shots in the center of the ring, neither man giving an inch.
The match devolved into pure brutality.
Sheamus managed to rock Cena with a knee strike, followed by a series of clubbing blows. Cena fired back, lifting Sheamus and driving him down with a thunderous slam. He looked toward the ropes, thinking elimination—
But Triple H struck him from behind.
Pedigree attempt.
Cena blocked it, back body dropped Triple H, then turned—
Tombstone setup.
Undertaker had him.
The crowd rose to their feet as Undertaker lifted Cena, but Cena slipped free at the last second, shoving Undertaker toward the ropes.
Sheamus charged.
All three men collided in a violent tangle near the ropes.
Triple H saw it.
He sprinted.
Running knee.
All four men went down in a heap.
"This is insane!" Cole shouted. "Nobody can get a foothold!"
Slowly, painfully, they rose again.
Sheamus was the first to his feet.
He roared, feeding off the energy, and grabbed Cena, muscling him toward the ropes. Cena fought, throwing elbows, but exhaustion slowed him. Triple H joined in, driving his shoulder into Cena's midsection.
Undertaker hesitated.
Just a second.
Then he joined them.
Three men against Cena.
The crowd was conflicted, but they understood, this was survival.
With a final shove, Cena went over the top rope.
He hit the floor hard.
Eliminated.
The crowd gave him a standing ovation.
"John Cena is out!" Cole announced. "What a showing!"
Cena nodded grimly from the floor, respect etched on his face as he looked back into the ring.
Three remained.
Undertaker.
Triple H.
Sheamus.
The tension was unbearable.
Sheamus looked between the two legends, chest heaving, then smirked.
"Come on," Lawler muttered. "Does Sheamus really think—"
Sheamus charged anyway.
He went straight at Undertaker, swinging wildly. Undertaker absorbed it, firing back with heavy rights. Triple H jumped in, hammering Sheamus from the side.
For a brief moment, Undertaker and Triple H stood shoulder to shoulder.
Old enemies.
Temporary allies.
They battered Sheamus mercilessly, backing him toward the ropes. Sheamus tried to fight free, landing a headbutt on Triple H that staggered him.
Undertaker grabbed Sheamus by the throat.
Chokeslam.
Sheamus bounced off the mat and rolled toward the ropes, instinctively trying to pull himself up.
Triple H recovered just in time.
He grabbed Sheamus from behind and dumped him over the top rope.
Sheamus hit the floor in disbelief.
Eliminated.
The crowd exploded.
"SHEAMUS IS OUT!" Cole yelled.
Lawler exhaled. "I can't believe it… but here we are."
The ring was suddenly quiet.
Just two men remained.
Undertaker.
Triple H.
The arena came unglued.
The two stood across from each other, eyes locked, sweat dripping, bodies battered, history heavy in the air.
"This…" Cole said softly, almost in awe, "this feels right."
Lawler nodded. "Two of the greatest of all time. Old rivals. Old enemies. One more time."
They circled.
Triple H struck first, a sharp right hand snapping Undertaker's head back. Undertaker responded with one of his own, heavier, more deliberate. They traded blows in the center of the ring, each shot echoing.
Triple H ducked a clothesline and hit a spinebuster, planting Undertaker hard. He didn't waste time, grabbing Undertaker and trying to haul him over the ropes.
Undertaker fought back, landing elbows, breaking free. He grabbed Triple H and threw him with a side suplex that rattled the ring.
Both men rose again.
Undertaker attempted a last ride powerbomb, but Triple H slipped free, delivering a knee to the face. He hooked Undertaker's arms.
Pedigree.
Undertaker blocked it.
Back body drop.
Triple H landed hard and rolled near the ropes.
Undertaker advanced.
Triple H tried to swing—
Undertaker caught him.
Chokeslam.
The ring shook.
The crowd erupted.
Undertaker didn't stop.
He grabbed Triple H again, lifting him with a surge of strength that felt almost supernatural, and drove him down with another chokeslam. Then, with one final push, Undertaker heaved Triple H over the top rope.
Triple H hit the floor.
Eliminated.
The bell rang.
The arena exploded.
Justin Roberts' voice boomed.
"Here is your winner… and the number one contender for the WWE Championship… THE UNDERTAKERRRR!"
Fireworks erupted as Undertaker stood alone in the ring, chest rising and falling, eyes burning with purpose.
Cole was ecstatic. "THE UNDERTAKER HAS DONE IT! THE DEADMAN IS THE NUMBER ONE CONTENDER!"
Lawler nearly shouted over him. "Hell in a Cell! The match he created! The structure he made famous! That's his home!"
Undertaker raised his arms slowly, the crowd roaring their approval.
"And that means," Cole finished, voice full of awe, "Sandro Zhang is going to be locked inside Hell in a Cell… with the man who made it famous."
The noise inside the arena refused to die.
Even as Justin Roberts' announcement echoed through the rafters and Undertaker stood alone beneath the lights, the crowd kept roaring, a deep, rolling sound that felt less like cheering and more like a storm refusing to pass. Signs waved wildly. Fans stood on their chairs. Some shouted his name. Others simply stared, soaking in the gravity of what they had just witnessed.
Undertaker breathed it in.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned and walked toward the ropes. His boots thudded against the canvas, every step measured, every movement heavy with intent. He reached the ropes and leaned forward slightly, extending one massive hand toward ringside.
A production crew member didn't hesitate.
The microphone was in Undertaker's hand almost instantly.
The moment the crowd realized what was happening, the roar softened, then faded into an expectant hush. Tens of thousands of people leaned forward at once. Even the camera operators seemed to steady themselves.
Cole lowered his voice instinctively. "Uh-oh… The Undertaker's got a microphone."
Lawler nodded, barely breathing. "When the Deadman speaks… you listen."
Undertaker brought the microphone up slowly. He didn't rush. He let the silence stretch, let it grow uncomfortable. His eyes scanned the crowd, not with warmth, not with anger, but with that cold, unreadable intensity that had defined him for decades.
Then he spoke.
"Sandro…"
His voice was low, gravelly, and it carried effortlessly through the arena. Boos rolled through the crowd like distant thunder, layered with angry chants, resentment boiling over.
Undertaker paused, letting it happen.
"You've made yourself an enemy," Undertaker continued, pacing slowly, eyes rolling up just enough to show the whites. "An enemy of these people."
The crowd erupted in agreement.
"An enemy of the men and women in that locker room."
More cheers. Louder now.
"And an enemy… of this company."
Cole chimed in quietly. "He's not wrong."
Lawler shook his head. "Nobody wants that kind of heat."
Undertaker stopped walking.
"And that," he said, voice dropping even lower, "wasn't your biggest mistake."
The crowd leaned in as one.
"Your biggest mistake…" Undertaker said, raising his head fully now, eyes burning straight into the hard camera, "…was making me your enemy."
The reaction was immediate and explosive. The arena erupted in cheers, chants breaking out almost instantly.
"UNDERTAKER! UNDERTAKER!"
Cole raised his voice over the noise. "Nobody, nobody wants to be the enemy of the Deadman!"
Lawler agreed nervously. "That's a mistake people don't come back from! That's a death sentence!"
Undertaker let the chant roll over him, unmoving, unflinching. When it finally began to settle, he continued.
"In three weeks' time…" he said, "…I will come for the WWE Championship you're holding."
The crowd roared.
"But that's not what matters most."
Undertaker lowered the microphone slightly, his voice becoming almost intimate. Dangerous. Undertaker tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "…I will come for your soul."
The crowd lost it again.
Undertaker took a step forward, gripping the top rope with his free hand as he leaned toward the hard camera.
"At Hell in a Cell," Undertaker continued, "you won't be walking into just another match."
He turned slowly, extending one arm outward, as if outlining the structure in the air.
"You'll be walking into hell."
Cole swallowed hard. "Listen to this…"
"That cell," Undertaker said, "is my home."
The lights dimmed slightly, the purple glow intensifying.
"No one will come in to save you," he went on. "No allies. No interference. No escape."
The crowd hung on every word.
"So when that steel door closes… and the world fades away…" He raised the microphone slightly. "You will… rest… in… peace."
The arena exploded.
Undertaker dropped the microphone.
It hit the mat with a dull thud that somehow felt louder than the cheers that followed.
The lights snapped to deep purple as the opening toll of Undertaker's music rolled through the arena. The Deadman lowered himself to one knee, slowly, deliberately. His head snapped back. His tongue rolled out. His eyes rolled white. One arm rose, fingers curled as if grasping at something unseen.
The image burned itself into memory.
The crowd roared as one.
Cole was shouting now, unable to contain himself. "IN THRE WEEKS! A BLOODBATH WILL HAPPENED! UNDERTAKER AND SANDRO ZHANG, HELL IN A CELL!"
Lawler laughed in disbelief. "The Deadman's home! The structure that made him a legend! Sandro is walking into hell itself!"
The camera pulled back, capturing the image, Undertaker frozen in his iconic pose, purple light washing over him as smoke drifted along the floor. It was a sight ripped straight from wrestling mythology.
RAW faded to black on that image.
And the moment the screen went dark…
The internet exploded.
Twitter lit up instantly.
Clips of the final eliminations spread like wildfire. Videos of Undertaker tossing Triple H over the ropes. Screenshots of the Deadman kneeling in purple light. Quotes from his promo shared and reshared, fans typing in all caps, arguing, theorizing, hyping.
"UNDERTAKER VS SANDRO AT HIAC IS MONEY."
"THIS IS GOING TO BE A WAR."
"SANDRO ABOUT TO FIND OUT WHY HELL IN A CELL IS UNDERTAKER'S HOUSE."
Some fans debated whether Sandro could survive. Others swore this was the end of his reign. Analysts speculated endlessly about the match itself, the brutality, the psychology, the sheer scale of it.
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 20 (2010)
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, & 1x WWE Champion
Other Achievements: 1x Andre the Giant Memorial Battle Royale Winner, 1x Mr. Money In The Bank, & Youngest WWE Champion
Wrestlemania Record: 1 - 0