A single room.
Walls bare, wet with stormlight.
Floor of old stone.
At the centre stands a shallow basin carved from marble — cracked as if struck by lightning long ago. Inside it: water so still it looks like a reflection of endless nothingness.
Dollia paints gold lines across Drake’s back and chest.
She works in silence.
Not devotion.
Preparation.
Sphinx kneels before the basin.
He slices his palm with a razor’s edge — thin, precise.
Blood beads, and falls into the water.
The basin does not redden.
It glows.
SPHINX: “I do not lift weights. I lift ageless memories.”
The candles sway inward, as though his breath pulls gravity toward him.
He places both hands on the basin’s rim.
The glow spreads.
He doesn’t look at the camera.
He looks into the water, as though he sees someone — or something — beneath the surface.
His voice softens into a tone no mortal deserves to hear.
SPHINX: “I know you. Little curse. Hungry relic. Not a prize to carry… but a wound that requires worship.”
A ripple moves across the basin.
SPHINX: “They clap for you as though you were minted, but you were not forged in celebration. You were born in punishment.”
His fingers press harder into marble, and the stone creaks beneath his grip.
SPHINX: “You are not his to flaunt. You do not belong in his hands, among his victories, beside his smiles.”
He tilts his head, voice dropping into a lower register. An older register.
SPHINX: “He feeds you applause. You were meant to drink fear.”
The ripples intensify. The basin begins to hiss.
Dollia steps behind him.
She tears a gold scale from his robe and sets it aflame in a small bowl.
The smoke is thick. Metallic. Sharp enough to taste.
Drake inhales deeply.
The water reacts violently — boiling without heat.
He closes his eyes and whispers to the unseen thing inside that belt:
SPHINX: “Come home.”
The basin glows brighter, pulsing like a heartbeat ignorant of flesh.
Dollia steps into view, voice steady, not shouting — but cutting.
DOLLIA: “You think this match is about a title. About a curse vs conviction. But you misunderstand entirely.”
She moves closer to the basin.
DOLLIA: “This is about a starving creature in a cage of human hands. Saiko doesn’t wield it — he survives it. Barely.”
She gestures toward Drake.
DOLLIA: “And he…”
She swallows.
“…He was born to feed it.”
She kneels beside him, speaking to UOW as if delivering a eulogy.
DOLLIA: “If you deny him the right to judgement… if the hunger of that curse keeps starving while trapped in mortal fingers…”
Her voice cracks like a prayer losing faith.
DOLLIA: “He will not leave Empires End wounded. He will leave it unrestrained.”
Dollia leans in slowly, whispering as if terrified of the truth she’s affirming:
DOLLIA: “You do not want to see what he becomes without a victory. When a god is deprived of purpose… he does not weep. He consumes.”
She looks into the camera — directly, brutally.
DOLLIA: “I’m not afraid of him winning. I’m afraid of what happens if he doesn’t.”
Drake rises to his feet.
Slowly.
The basin becomes ever darker
The glow recedes into him, swallowed.
His eyes shimmer gold — calm, hungry, ancient.
The Sphinx speaks not in challenge, but in cosmic inevitability.
SPHINX: “Saiko Sasori… you mistake yourself for a rival.”
The Sphinx steps forward, steps heavy and ominous.
SPHINX: “You are merely the hand holding what is mine.”
A faint smile — cruel, gentle, reverent.
SPHINX: “I do not want your body. I want the burden you are starving.”
He lowers his voice to something reverent.
SPHINX: “Let me take it… before it devours you from the inside.”
Dollia ties the final thread across his chest — gold, binding nothing and everything.
DOLLIA (soft): “Three days until the Empire's End Pay Per View.”
The Sphinx lifts his head.
Eyes blazing gold.
Still water now black behind him.
He whispers not to Saiko, but to the curse itself—
SPHINX: “Three days… until you come home.”
DOLLIA (VOICE LOW, ALMOST PITYING): “You all keep asking what he thinks about America. As though a god cares about borders. As though concrete lines on maps matter to something that has seen the sun die and rise again for centuries.”
She kneels, tracing one golden thread on the floor.
DOLLIA: “He doesn’t see a country. He sees a marketplace of desperate souls selling themselves for applause. A nation where worth is measured in followers, belts, and broken bodies sold as entertainment. Where you call yourselves warriors and champions— but you fight for attention, not ascension.”
Her voice softens, but her words sharpen.
DOLLIA:“He sees your arenas the way a vulture sees a highway: a place where creatures end up when they forget how to look up.”
She stands.
DOLLIA: “And yes… he sees men like Saiko Sasori. He recognises them in the same way lightning recognizes dry wood: not as an equal, but as fuel.”
Her tone doesn’t rise. It doesn’t have to.
DOLLIA: “Sasori is not a villain to him. He is not a hero. He is a mortal trying to wear a burden meant for altars, not for shoulders. A man pretending that pain makes him the chosen one, when it only makes him tired.”
She tilts her head slightly, studying the camera the way a scholar studies fossils.
DOLLIA: “To The Sphinx, Saiko is not a rival. He is not even a threat. He is a symptom— a false champion in a culture that mistakes endurance for purpose.”
DOLLIA: “Surviving the curse does not make Saiko worthy of it. It only proves he has not died yet.”
She steps closer.
DOLLIA: “The Sphinx does not fight to win. He fights to restore order. To return what was stolen from a world that cannot comprehend the weight of sacred things.”
Her voice tightens with sorrow.
DOLLIA: “And that is why none of you terrify him. Not America. Not the crowd. Not your false martyrs or performance-heroes. Not Saiko Sasori holding a relic like a child choking a firefly.”
She whispers the closing line as though delivering a eulogy:
DOLLIA: “He does not come to defeat you. He comes to correct you.”
Night presses down over a city that no longer exists on any map.
Sand mutes the moon.
A forgotten empire rots beneath its own banners.
At the centre of its heart lies the Pit.Not an arena. A rite.
A Colosseum carved below ground, ringed with carved stone faces whose mouths were once fountains of oil for torches.
The flames burn low, hungry and green.
Crowds gather above the Pit — masked nobles, beggars, soldiers, slaves.
All silent.Not out of respect.Out of fear.
In the centre of the Pit stands a fighter with no name.
HIS TITLE, SPOKEN ONLY IN WHISPERS:The Sphinx.
Not Drake’s body. Not mortal flesh softened by modern comfort.
This body is hewn — scarred bronze skin marked with hieroglyphic wounds that glow faintly, muscles built from war, not weights, eyes already gold, not cracking toward it.
Hair matted with ash. Wrists bound not by rope, but by ritual cloth laced in gold and dust.
A mark on his sternum burns brighter than the torches: an ancient glyph of judgement.
A giant of the empire. Covered in lion skins, arms thicker than spears. The crowd chants not his name, but his worth.
“Twelve heads. Twelve skulls. Twelve victories.”
He raises a war club the size of a tomb door. Spikes of obsidian. Dripping pitch like tar-black blood.
The nobles throw coins. The slaves throw bones.
The Sphinx remains still, like a statue.
He waits.
A horn carved from the tusk of an extinct beast sounds a single note — low enough to vibrate bone.
The challenger rushes.A roar like a sandstorm.
The Sphinx steps forward only once.A breath. A blink.Impact.The club strikes his shoulder.
CRACK.
Not bone. Not flesh.
The obsidian shatters.
The crowd gasps — some scream, some flee.
The giant stares, horrified, as shards fall against the Sphinx’s feet like broken commandments.
The Sphinx lifts his head, voice quiet, almost apologetic.
SPHINX (ANCIENT TONGUE):“Mercy comes only to those who ask.”
The challenger, too proud, too loud, swings his fists instead.
The Sphinx moves.
No flourish. No stance. Just unending inevitability.
His palm strikes the giant’s chest — slow, deliberate, gentle.
The giant stops.
He looks down.
There is no wound.
But his body buckles, collapsing inward as though the strike made his heart remember something it feared.
He dies standing.
Then falls slowly, like a toppled obelisk.
Some cheer. Some weep. Most pray — not to him, but at him.
As though the killer is the only thing holy enough to listen.
The nobles whisper:
“God. Monster. Judge.”
The slaves whisper something else:
“Justice.”
The Sphinx stands over the corpse.
He does not celebrate.
He does not roar.
He does not bow.
A whisper.
SPHINX: “I do not wish to be worshipped. Only obeyed.”
The glyph on his chest dims.
For the briefest moment.
He looks almost human.
And for the first time we hear the tone of sadness in his divinity.
As though judgement is a burden, not a throne.
[CUT BACK TO PRESENT DAY]
Modern Drake Nygma sits alone, hands trembling, as though touched by a memory not his.
His reflection flickers — a fighter in a hoodie turning into that ancient bronze killer from the Pit.
Dollia watches from the doorway.
DOLLIA (SOFTLY):“You remember more each time.”
Drake doesn’t look at her.
He whispers like someone mourning a forgotten version of himself.
SPHINX:“I wasn’t made to win. I was made to judge.”
SPHINX (VOICE LIKE STONE BEING CARVED): “You keep calling them victims. You whisper about slavery as though pity can clean blood from history. But hear me— I did not protect them because they were precious. I did not shield them because they mattered to me.”
A slow inhale. Gold flickers beneath his skin.
SPHINX: “I defended them because they were mine. Not to love. To guide. To govern. To guard as one guards fire in the cold.”
His jaw tightens, muscles working overtime.
SPHINX: “In the empire that birthed me, they were not slaves. They were citizens of consequence. The foundation upon which kingdoms pretend to stand. The ones who bled so rulers could feast. The ones who toiled so generals could boast.”
Hands curl, not in rage — in remembrance.
SPHINX: “And while emperors praised warriors, while nobles praised lions, I was sent to defend the ones no throne would look at. The broken. The beaten. The voiceless who paid for other men’s triumph.”
His voice grows quiet. Heavy. Unyielding.
SPHINX: “I did not protect them because I admired them. I did not lift them because I respected them. Divinity does not feel. It acts. I guarded them because judgement demanded it.”
He glances past the camera — as though seeing the past standing inside the present.
SPHINX: “They belonged under my shadow, not beneath another man’s boot. Not because they earned protection… but because it was written that I would be the wall they hid behind.”
A pause.
Like a sentence being weighed.
SPHINX: “Do not mistake duty for affection. Do not confuse justice with mercy. I was never their saviour. I was their champion, the one they turned to when the laws of men failed.”
Dollia stands before the camera again, but now she speaks not as sister or herald—she speaks as someone relaying a decree.
Her hands are folded.
Her voice is calm.
Her eyes are merciless.
DOLLIA: “You misunderstand what he is doing here. You mistake him for a contender in your division, a challenger chasing your title, a monster trying to hurt people.”
A small shake of her head.
DOLLIA: “He does not want the UOW roster destroyed. He wants them protected. They are his to guard now. Not because he loves them, but because they exist beneath his command.”
The air thickens around her. No threat—just certainty.
DOLLIA: “To him, the roster is not a family or a battlefield. They are his people. His charge. His obligation. Like the old citizens he once stood over, shielding them from tyrants and false kings.”
She leans slightly forward.
DOLLIA:(Gentler, almost maternal): “And that is why Saiko Sasori is in danger.”
A pause.
No dramatic flourish.
Just inevitability.
DOLLIA: “You are not one of those he protects. You are not one of them. You are a man holding a relic that does not belong in mortal hands. And that makes you— not a rival, not an equal, but an intruder.”
Her expression softens into something strange: not pity, not empathy— protocol.
DOLLIA: “In that position, there are only two paths. Either you surrender what is not yours… or he takes it, and every bone in your body becomes a record of the attempt.”
She straightens the hem of her sleeve, as though offering hospitality.
DOLLIA: “So he has permitted me to speak what he will not bother saying himself.”
A final breath. Cold, clinical mercy.
DOLLIA: “Vacate the title, Saiko. Walk away. Save yourself the pain. This offer is the only kindness he gives— and he has granted me the honour of delivering it.”
Her voice drops to a whisper—gentle as a funeral blessing.
DOLLIA: “Refuse it… and Empires End will not be a match. It will be your removal.”
DOLLIA (VOICEOVER – CALM AS FUNERAL STEEL): “You keep imagining a victory celebration. Gold confetti. A raised hand. A new champion standing on the ropes.”
She shakes her head. Slowly. Almost amused.
DOLLIA: “There will be none of that.”
When The Sphinx holds the curse, it does not shine. It does not glimmer beneath lights.
It steadies.
Like a starving creature finally fed. Like a storm finally landing. Like metal remembering it was once a weapon.
The runes will be quiet. The belt will stop its twitching hunger.
For the first time in its history, it will rest.Not as a trophy. But as a tool of judgement.
The UOW locker room will change. He will not walk among other champions.Champions hold belts. He will govern them.
There will be no backstage politics. No alliances. No “favourites.”
There will be only:those The Sphinx protects, and those he removes.
Not out of emotion. Not out of malice. But because a god does not play in the sandbox he owns.
DOLLIA: “He will not ask for their respect. He will not need their admiration. He will stand beside the roster not as a comrade…but as structure.”
Crowds will feel it first.They won’t cheer him. They won’t boo him. They will lower their voices when his music hits, the way ancient crowds once did.
They will remember something their species has forgotten:Fear is not always terror. Sometimes it is awe-inspiring.
The stands will grow silent the way they did in the Pit, when his victories were not victories — They were verdicts.
No chants. No stadium thunder.Only hush. Only breath held still.
If Drake wins… he does not become champion.
The Sphinx returns to a throne disguised as a belt. A gladiator wearing gold not around his waist, but wielding it like law.
He will not throw the title over his shoulder. He will carry it like a man carries judgement. Close to the spine. Close to the heart. Like a promise.
A reminder:He defended slaves, not because they were innocent, but because they were his to protect. He will defend the roster for the same reason.
Not love. Not respect. Responsibility.
500 years ago, in the Pit of a dying empire, The crowd did not lift his arm after victory.
*They stood still — silent — because they feared what came after.Not the fight. The rule.A Sphinx Champion is not an event. It is a reign.A return.
DOLLIA (FINAL WHISPER, NOT A THREAT BUT A PROPHECY):“When he wins… UOW will not celebrate him.”
She lifts her eyes. A small, terrible smile.
“They will behave.”
DOLLIA (VOICE LOW, EVEN): “You think the danger is in his victory. You think disaster will arrive if he becomes champion. You believe a god with power is what you should fear.”
Her eyes stay calm. Too calm.
DOLLIA:“You are wrong.”
The curse will not settle. It will not rest. It will not grow quiet in Saiko’s hands.It will riot.It will scream against its keeper like a chained animal trapped in a burn.
A god denied is a weapon without a sheath. A title with no master.Its hunger will not stop — it will grow.
Saiko will not wear a championship. He will wear punishment.It will not protect him. It will feed on him.Every night. Every defence. Every heartbeat.He will not reign.He will deteriorate.
The Sphinx will not fall like a man. He will not drown in disappointment or ego.No.He will become aimless.Purpose is what binds him. Logic. Balance. Judgement.
Remove purpose……and the god inside him does not go quiet.It goes everywhere.
DOLLIA: “If you deny him judgement, he will not retire into peace. He will unravel into chaos.”
Suddenly victory becomes the world’s mercy. Defeat becomes its doom.If The Sphinx cannot protect them by right, he will protect them without permission.A god stripped of mandate does not stop governing. He stops negotiating.
Matches will stop mattering. Titles will cease to hold meaning.He will intervene where he chooses. He will turn every attack, every injustice, every cruelty in UOW into a personal war.
Not scheduled. Not sanctioned. Not preventable.
DOLLIA (WHISPERING):“He will still protect the roster… only you will not control who survives his protection.”
If he is denied, the audience will not see glory.They will see instability.
Lights will fail during his music. The camera feeds glitching when he appears.
Opponents trembling before the bell rings, not from intimidation — but from uncertainty.
No one will know where he goes next. What rules he will follow. Who he will decide is unworthy of existing in his ring.
Judgement will not be delivered in matches.It will be delivered whenever he feels the balance tilt.
He will not stand on posters. He will become a rumour. A shadow. A god without a temple, seeking worship in blood alone.
DOLLIA (FINAL PROPHECY):“If you stop him from becoming champion, you do not stop his purpose.”
A breath. A pause.
DOLLIA (QUIET): “You remove the limits on it.”
Her eyes soften — pity, but not for him.
DOLLIA: “So ask yourself, UOW… Do you want a god with a throne? Or a god let loose?”
The basin stands untouched now. The ritual is finished. The water has cooled to obsidian.
Dollia approaches it with the title belt in her hands — wrapped in cloth, trembling faintly beneath her fingers, as if something inside the leather still struggles to breathe.
She doesn’t place it in the basin.Instead, she sets it beside it, like a patient next to an open grave.
The camera moves closer.The water reflects two images above its surface:
The Sphinx standing tall behind her, silent, eyes gold.
Saiko Sasori not in flesh, not present — but in the reflection, distorted, flickering, like a candle burning too fast.
The water ripples once.
Not by touch.
As though reacting to a decision that hasn’t been made yet.
The illusory belt vibrates.Soft. Weak. Hungry.
Dollia looks into the reflection — not at Saiko’s face, but at his distortion.
Then she cups her hand into the basin and lets one drop of water fall onto the belt.
The metal hisses, steam rising like breath from a corpse suddenly exhaling.
She whispers, not to Saiko… not to the belt… but to the choice.
DOLLIA (BARELY AUDIBLE): “Three days. Choose how you want to be remembered.”
She steps back.The belt remains beside the basin, both waiting.
The Sphinx turns to leave.
Only one candle stays lit.
As he passes it, the flame goes out by itself.
Darkness.
FADE TO BLACK.