KnightMask's coach, M. Ike Hagar, had taken it upon himself to hire a weapon's specialist to help train KnightMask for his upcoming House of Hell match...however, thing are not working out as he intended them to...

"WHY WON'T YOU PICK IT UP?"

M. Ike Hagar's powerful voice echoed off every wall in the Slam Master's gym. KnightMask, with no voice of his own to answer with, simply shook his head. The practice ring was littered with kendo sticks, garotes, steel chairs, sledgehammers, nunchuku, baseball bats. KnightMask stood in the center of the ring, amongst it all...and refused to touch it, to even pick it up.

The lean, muscular man in the black bodysuit that stood next to Hagar shrugged his shoulders.

"Ain't no way I can work with a guy who won't even pick up a weapon," he said to Hagar. "Tell you what...I'll give you a refund."

Hagar's wide, mustachioed face was red and fuming by this point. Cautiously, as if he was backing away from a wild animal, the man in the black bodysuit backed away from the massive wrestling coach and headed towards the door. Turning back briefly, he asked, "You sure that guy's a wrestler...? He'd make a better priest, sheesh."

Then man then closed the door to the gym behind him. As other members of the Slam Master's gym looked on at the tableau, Hagar stared angrily at KnightMask, who simply stood in the middle of the ring, his head down.

"The answer is NO! HE'S NOT A WRESTLER!" Hagar pointed an accusing finger towards KnightMask as he ranted, "A BOYSCOUT? YEAH! A NICE GUY, SURE? ONE OF THE BEST DARNED SUBMISSION-WRESTLERS I'VE EVER SEEN? OH HELL YEAH! BUT A WRESTLER? NOT ON YOUR LIFE! DON'T YOU GET IT? THIS IS KILL OR BE KILLED! YOU WANNA COMMIT SUICIDE GOING IN AGAINST GILMOUR AND MYSTERY WITH KID GLOVES? GO AHEAD! BUT I'M NOT GONNA BE A PART OF IT!"

Hagar's words echoed in KnightMask's head as he drove down the lonesome stretch of highway. And so it had happened again. Another gym had closed its doors to him. Vast rolling fields yawned out in seemingly endless expanse on either side of the road. He passed by the deserted ruins of an old barn and what was likely once a farmer's house. A little further up the road was a church, or what was left of it. The roof had caved in long ago, leaving the steeple angled off to the side.

Alone, desolate. And most of all, anachronistic. A dated remnant from a past age, with no purpose, no utility in this one.

Maybe Hagar was right.

An arena's worth of electricity had surged through Mister Mystery in their match on the last Warfare and it had barely even slowed the monster down. And as for his own offense, well, he might as well have been shooting BB pellets at an armored tank. His iron limbs wouldn't bend, regardless of leverage and isolation. As for his strikes, well, the only reason Mystery seemed to even realize he was being struck was because he saw the blows landing on him. They certainly didn't seem to register on any physical level.

What could was a knight that couldn't slay a dragon...? Of course, it wasn't just going to be him in the ring, nor was it just Mister Mystery. He was going to have Crimson Cobra at his side now, just as Mystery was going to have Peter Gilmour...the so-called King of Wrestling. Gilmour was obese and obnoxious, but his capacity to both endure and impart violence was nearly limitless. And both him and Mystery also seemed to have endless reserves of hatred. In spite of their in-ring success, in spite of all their accolades, they both seemed to delight in demeaning and insulting their opponents. Mystery's mouth seemed more fitting to some angry short guy suffering from a Napolean's complex than a hulking, seemingly invincible behemoth who had no problem or compunctions about venting his rage physically.

It was a testament to the level of hatred in his soul, KnightMask supposed, that neither outlet seemed enough to sate Mystery.

Inexhaustible, insatiable rage.

Night had fallen and the road ahead seemed to disappear into the darkness, as if it was swallowed up. But for the Grace of God, there go you or I. The quote sprang up in his mind, unbidden. He looked ahead, down the highway, into wall of shadow. To be forever driven on by unending, unrelenting fury like Mystery...was he going down that road himself? He thought for a moment and then swung the car around in a u-turn, heading back towards the remnants of that ancient, decayed church he'd earlier passed.

His car parked on the side of the road, KnightMask sifted through the ruins. Old tomes on theology and philosophy lay strewn about, many no longer legible, some ready to crumble at a touch. Some paintings lined what was left of the walls. Many more lay strewn about the floor. Most had been destroyed with the rigors of time, but one stood out amongst the heap, preserved almost as if it were new.

Engraved in its frame were the words, 'Pax Dei'. The Peace of God...he'd learned about that back in, what was it? Around seventh grade, in his social studies class. It was that movement within the church, way back during the beginning of the dark ages, that gave rise to chivalry. To try to curb all the rampant pillaging and warring between the various warriors, the church tried to impress upon them a code of ethic in which piety, charity and kindness were taken to be expressions of manliness.

The painting itself was beautifully rendered, its detail so meticulous as to approach a photograph in its realism. As KnightMask studied the work, he became lost in it, so that he didn't notice the footsteps as they grew near and nearer to him, or the whistle of the bo-staff as it sliced through the air. No, the only thing that broke him from his immersion into the painting was the staff exploding off the side of his head.

KnightMask cleared his head with a shake and rose to see his attacker.

Not even the darkness could obscure the beauty of Natalia Rodrigo's sharply chiseled face. The hair that fell around it could have easily been composed of shadow, for how readily the two blended with each other. KnightMask wasn't particularly surprised by her attack. She'd made it clear, upon the death of her father, that she was intent upon restoring honor to her family and clan both. And that meant killing KnightMask. What was surprising, though, was that she tossed him a weapon before engaging with him.

It was by reflex that KnightMask caught the bo-staff. And if he didn't throw it down right away, well, it was hard for him to turn down an opportunity to impress her with his prowess and perhaps harder yet to pass up a chance to move with her, partake of her subtle, flowing grace and...well, be close to her. Although he never had formal training, melee weapons had always felt like extensions of his hands whenever he took them up. And so, for the brief length of their encounter, he managed to keep up with her twirls, feints and thrusts fairly well. The blows that he failed to parry, he mostly dodged. And the ones that did get through were mostly deflected.

And then, KnightMask suddenly dropped the bo, and the violent moonlit dance came to a halt. Rather than taking advantage of her newly disarmed opponent, Natalia also stopped. She kicked the bo towards KnightMask, but the masked grappler declined to take up the weapon.

"You stubborn mule....! Pick it up," she demanded of KnightMask, imperiously. "Tyrone Gunder! Pick up the weapon!"

Honor weighed heavily on her sleek shoulders, a burden that she'd inherited from her family and carried through her life, no matter how she loathed it, because it had come from her family. She would love to shrug the great weight off from her, to let her live the life her emotions longed for...and yet, to do so would be to betray her father's memory. It would make a waste of his life.

And yet, what bound KnightMask to his insane, suicidal code...? Not family! His brothers, his fathers, were violent and cruel. They were nothing alike. What would be lost if he, for the simple sake of preservation, abandoned, for a night at least, his crazed ideals?

"Tyrone...KnightMask...pick up the weapon!" where she once demanded, she now pleaded.

Hadn't she already strayed, by her actions her, tonight...? By following after the same man she was sworn by honor to kill, not to destroy him but...to help him? To give him the weapons training she knew he would need...? To try, be it or not in futility, to avert the gruesome fate in store form him on the coming Saturday, against those monsters, Mystery, Gilmour and Vyper...? She had drifted away from her loyalties, for him, she had come to the verge of betraying clan and family...and yet, here he was, refusing to even budge from his own code of ethic for her...? Who did he think he was, that he couldn't even meet her halfway, couldn't grant even the slightest appeasement?

She lunged for him with a cry, half-crazed in the throes of her rage. In the time took for her land, she had produced twin daggers hidden in the black strands of her hair, struck out with both as they twirled in her grip and launched a kick to KnightMask's midsection as he blocked the blades. Her attack was blind and unthinking, fueled solely by emotion. It was only owing to the fact that her skills had been imprinted so deep into her as to be natural on the level of instinct that her assault retained a degree of potency, regardless of her state.

Navigating through the wild sea of her attacks, KnightMask slipped behind her, pinning down her arms. Eventually, her body relaxed, giving KnightMask leave to do likewise with his grip. Stepping away upon her release, she turned to face the masked XWF star.

"Tyrone…are you so determined to follow this code of yours all the way to your death?” in the depths of despair, Natalia suddenly found a wild surge of courage flooding her. “To hell with these codes…bushido, chivalry! Let us no more be bound like slaves to the ethics of the dead and dying…to wars we never started…forget catch-wrestling, forget Brazilian jiu jitsu (Note to Reader: KnightMask's grappling art, catch-wrestling, has enjoyed a long and bitter rivalry with Brazilian jiu jitsu, the grappling art of Natalia's family). What power do these names and traditions have but that which we, the living grant them? Why not end this bondage…and live our own lives, authentically, freely…together!”

KnightMask paused for what seemed, to him at least, to be an eternity. Slowly, he shook his head. Natalia sighed sadly, but did not look surprised. KnightMask turned, and signaled that Natalia follow after him. When she did not, he looked back, stretching out his hand to hers. She took it tentatively, but once taking it, clasped it tightly. Hand in hand, they walked through the ruins, until KnightMask came upon the painting. There it was, the Pax Dei engraving glinting in the moonlight. He gestured for Natalia to look upon the image.

Armored knights, clinging desperately to the ledge of a cliff. Atop the cliff sat a chapel, at the chapel doors, priests held out welcoming arms. Beneath the cliff, teeming hordes, armed with menacing weapons and wicked sneers, beckoned the knights to fall and join them. Some were falling, and as they fell, changing, to half-naked, leering brigands and bandits.

And at the bottom frame, a second engraving read:

“Chivalry is the precipice by which all knights hang…over the great abyss of barbarism.”

Could she understand...? Could she see he could never abandon his code, whether or not it cost him his gym, his training partners, the woman he loved or even his life itself...? That if he ever allowed himself the freedom to indulge the whims of his untempered, unmitigated desires of emotions...then there was no going back? To even begin on down that road, meant the start of an unalterable ride on into the great abyss of unbound, savage fury.

He would face Gilmour, Mystery, Vyper and Bryce as David faced Goliath, when he put aside the armor and blade his brothers gave to him...and took the armor of his faith. KnightMask would carry no sling, only his hands, feet and the knowledge gained from a lifetime of training.

Natalia nodded slightly. Silently, she prayed that Crimson Cobra would hold fast to his promise...to protect the man beside her. She prayed that he might do what must be done, not only to win the bout...but to leave the cages...alive.