For hours that day, he'd practiced his throws against trees, as the legendary judoka and pro-wrestler Kimura had done before him. Afterwards, grabbing hold of a branch, he did muscle-ups and pull-ups until at last his arms gave and he collapsed to the Earth below him.

The masked man was alone in the forest, with no company but its wild inhabitants and his own thoughts.

Alone. Or so he believed.

The submission-wrestler found a boulder sitting at the foot of a steep hill. It loomed over him, tall and ominous. Its shadow swept over him, casting him into darkness, in spite of the noonday sun.

Hadn't Kimura also rolled boulders up hills as part of his legendary training? Continuing in his imitation of the greatest of all judokas, he set about rolling the massive rock up the slope. Setting himself beneath it, he threw his strength and his spirit against the lifeless stone.

It didn't budge.

Then he thought of Steve Davids...again and again ricocheting Angelus's head off the turnbuckle. Steve Davids, that towering, wild-maned barbarian, stomping Angelus while KnightMask looked on.

Strength and spirit were joined by a new companion, hatred. The bolder began to move. Slowly, slightly, it moved. Under the constant shadow of the boulder, he lost track of time. Seconds, minutes or hours...all he knew was the strain of his muscles and his will against the unyielding rock before him. His arms began to quiver, while the steely muscles of his legs seemed to melt underneath him.

"Its all a lie...all a lie."

He was alone in the forest. He knew he was alone. And yet, he also knew with just as much certainty...that if he turned around, he would see him, to his side...Steve Davids...that modern-day barbarian...the unrepentant savage. He could hear him as clearly as the slow grind of the boulder over the Earth.

The hatred charged his muscles with new life. Hatred of Davids...hatred of the fact that he might be right. His teeth grinding together in the effort, he inched the rock up the face of the hill. Davids seemed to follow him, breathing down on him, mocking him. He yearned terribly to turn and strike him. Taking in a breath, he fought back on the urge. Grunting through his teeth, he channeled all his anger towards the task he'd undertaken.

"You're an idiot...a gnat that needs to be squashed," he recognized immediately the voice of Sebastian Duke. He could feel the near-7 footer towering over him, looking down on him as if he was a bug at his feet.

"You're nothing to me. You're certainly not man enough to teach that boy Azzo how to be a man...what are you going to do? Feed him a steady diet of the lies you've convinced yourself are true? The lies that make you think that by being a spineless worm...you're somehow being moral...? You pathetic masked mute...don't you see that you're just a pawn in a game far bigger than you? You're nothing but a dull, impotent blade...that Wallace Witasick, in his utter desperation...has attempted to wield against me...ME. And once he realizes how unfit you are to the task...he'll toss you aside like so much trash...."

His nightmares flashed before him...the nightmares of ancient conqueror...with the face and countenance of Sebastian Duke, slaughtering fleeing Christians inside the gates of Rome, mowing down fleeing women and children...

Springing up with the suddenness of a trap, there was something else...somehow, for some reason...he remembered the explosion that killed Martin O'Connor...the US Olympic gold medalist...the man whose win had brought comfort to his cancer stricken coach...the man who had inspired KnightMask and an entire generation of young amateur wrestlers...incinerated until not even a corpse was left behind...

As he ground his feet into the Earth and attempted to rally his flagging muscles, he suddenly saw Duke...looking on at the wreckage of Martin O'Connor's exploded van...his arms crossed, his face dark, imperious...and...guilty! There was no logic, no deduction or pretense to it that made the connection...in the throes of muscle fatigue...as his mind verged on unconsciousness...the conclusion came to him and he accepted it as a man accepts a dream.

Another current of hatred flowed through him...and again...he found himself moving forward, step by arduous step.

On and on he pressed...

Until...the fires of rage flickered inside of him...dwindled...and died.

The rock began to give back against him. Something strange happened. His mind's eye...and his actual vision...seemed to fuse together...and become one.

With this singular vision...he beheld the US title. Mine....mine....MINE! It must...be MINE! My soul, my life....my honor...I'll give it all...to have it!

Mad ambition coursed through his veins now...as he nearly raced up the hill. And then...it too was gone...and he was left once more...with nothing but his ever ebbing strength and his pain wracked body.

Then another set of hands added themselves to his own...the hands of his best friend...his tag-team partner...World-1 International...in the depths of his depression after being cast out of his first dojo...World 1-International had inspired him with his death-defying bravery in the ring and his determination and creativity in training...and most of all, he'd moved him with his friendship.

His delirious mind did not consider that World 1-International could not possibly be at his side; he had all the unshakable, unflinching certainty of a man whose rationality had gone out of him. And knew that he could not fail his friend...could not give up on this man who believed in him...who gave him his friendship...

In a blink, World 1-International was gone just as suddenly as he'd come...and KnightMask was alone again. He felt a soft, firm hand upon his cheek. Natalia...Natalia! He saw her eyes, crystalline...piercing...he didn't know if they were accusing him...hating him...or loving him. He knew nothing about them...but he felt....he felt...something wild and violent, like whipping winds...something that made him ignore pain and fatigue...something that gave him the courage to wager everything he had within him against the immobile, lifeless thing that pressed down upon him.

Then she too, was gone...and the boulder seemed to poised to, at long last, roll back on him and end his toils....forever.

"We wrestle not against flesh and blood...but against powers and principalities..."

A man whose father had nearly died came by his side then...and on the other side, a man derided as a savage and a psychopath...they joined him, the hypocrite...the failed hero...the masked lunatic...and together...together....they pushed against the boulder...together, together...through blood, sweat and tears...through chokes and slams...punches and joint-locks...broken bones and concussed minds...they could push on...not as KnightMask, Steve Davids and Sebastian Duke...but as three men who sought...for one....shining moment...to find their demons exorcised....for a single moment...to break the spell of illusion...to brush with nobility and courage...

He reached the summit of the mountain...and with a final, savage push...he rolled the boulder over the summit...to send it tumbling down the other side of the hill...

As he passed out from exhaustion, he found his hand clutching the cross that hung from his neck.