PROLOGUE

### Prologue – Part 1: *The Final Breath and the Spirit of Wrestling*

#### **The Last Breath**

The heart monitor’s beeping echoed through the sterile hospital room, its rhythm slowing like the fading beat of a worn-out drum. Ricky Ramos, once a vibrant sixteen-year-old, now lay frail, a mere shadow of the kid who had dreamed of wrestling glory. His breath was shallow, rattling in his chest, each inhale a fight, each exhale a surrender. The cancer ravaging his body had taken nearly everything.

Sixteen. Too young to die.

Too young to have his dreams snatched away before they had a chance to bloom. Wrestling was supposed to be his future. He could still see it in his mind: **WWE Champion Ricky Ramos**. He heard the roar of the crowd, felt the lights blazing down on him, the ring beneath his feet. That was the life he had wanted, the only life he cared about.

But now it was fading. His body, once strong, was too weak to move, too brittle to fight back. His fingers twitched by his side, a feeble attempt to form a fist that would never clench.

*This can’t be the end.*

The beeps from the heart monitor grew further apart, each one echoing in the quiet room like the last tolls of a bell. Ricky could feel the cold grip of death wrapping around him, the creeping inevitability pulling him under. His vision blurred, darkness eating at the edges, and he felt his chest tighten. Each breath took more effort until—finally—there was nothing.

The darkness swallowed everything, the world dissolving into emptiness. He felt himself drift, weightless, the cold numbing his senses until there was only the quiet, velvety black void. *This is it*, he thought. *The end.*

---

But as the last breath left his body, something changed. Something *impossible*.

A spark. A sudden flash of blinding light, cutting through the darkness. Warmth spread through Ricky, filling the void with a sensation that was unfamiliar after all this time—*strength*. Energy coursed through him, a pull dragging him up, away from the cold abyss. His eyes opened, and instead of darkness, he found himself standing—not lying, not broken, but *standing*.

He looked down. His body was no longer frail. His muscles were back, his skin filled with color. He flexed his hands, feeling the power thrumming through them. He was *alive*.

The world around him was strange—a vast expanse of soft, glowing canvas stretching infinitely. The ground beneath his feet felt like the mat of a wrestling ring, shimmering with an ethereal light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. The air buzzed with energy, electric and alive, filling his lungs like pure adrenaline.

Ricky took a hesitant step forward, his senses reawakening. *Where am I?*

The ground trembled, and from the golden light ahead, a figure emerged. A massive, towering figure, draped in a shimmering robe of purple and gold. Power radiated from it—raw, overwhelming power. Each step sent ripples across the canvas, the air thrumming with its approach. The figure wore a wide-brimmed hat, tilted just enough to cast a shadow over its face, and a pair of oversized sunglasses that gleamed under the golden glow.

Then, the voice—deep, gravelly, and dripping with charisma. “Ohhh yeah, *brother*!” It rumbled, each word filled with intensity that shook Ricky to his core. “You thought you were done, didn’t ya? Thought you were on your way to the big *goodnight*? Not yet, oh noooo, *not yet*!”

Ricky blinked, his mind struggling to process what was happening. That voice, that cadence—he knew it. He knew it better than anything. “Macho Man?” he whispered, barely able to form the words.

The figure threw back its head and laughed, a booming sound that echoed across the glowing canvas. “Close, brother, *real close*! But I’m somethin’ more.” The sunglasses flashed as the figure leaned closer. “I am the *Spirit of Wrestling*, yeah! The very *essence*, the heartbeat of the squared circle, dig it?”

Ricky’s jaw dropped. The Spirit of Wrestling? Was this real? Could any of this be real?

The Spirit grinned, a wide grin that seemed to shine with an inner light. “I can see the confusion, brother. You’re thinkin’, ‘Is this for real? Am I dreamin’?’ Nahhh, this ain’t no dream, kid! This is the *real deal*! You got the call, brother. The *ring* wasn’t done with ya, and neither was *I*, ohhhh yeah!”

Ricky shook his head, taking a shaky step forward. “But… I was in the hospital. I was dying.”

The Spirit jabbed a massive finger at Ricky, energy crackling around it. “That’s right! You were down for the count, brother! Flat on your back, starin’ up at the lights, ready to hit that three count! But guess what? You didn’t give up. You’ve got the heart of a *champion*, and that’s why you’re *here*! Yeah!”

Ricky’s heart pounded. He could feel the truth in the Spirit’s words, even if none of this made sense. “But… where is here?”

The Spirit of Wrestling crossed its massive arms, muscles bulging beneath the robe. “You’re in the space between spaces, brother! The *void* where the spirit of wrestling lives and breathes, yeah! And I’m here to tell ya, *Ricky Ramos*, your journey ain’t over yet! You’ve got more matches left in you, *a lot more!* Ohhhh yeah!”

Ricky’s mind raced, the reality of his death and this strange rebirth swirling around him. “Why am I here?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

The Spirit grinned, throwing a massive arm around Ricky’s shoulder. “Lemme break it down for ya, brother! You had a *fire*, a passion that burned so bright it lit up the darkest corners of that hospital room. You wanted that ring, wanted it so bad you could taste it, yeah! And that’s why you’re here!”

Ricky swallowed, his throat tight. “But… I lost. I was dying.”

The Spirit shook his head. “Oh no, brother, you didn’t *lose*! You fought to the very end, and that’s what it means to be a wrestler! Wrestling ain’t just about who wins or loses. It’s about the *fight*, the spirit, the will to keep goin’ even when the odds are stacked against ya!”

The Spirit stepped back, spreading his arms wide as golden light flared around him. “That’s why you’re gettin’ a second chance, brother! I’m talkin’ about a new life, a new opportunity to step into the ring and show the world what you’ve got! You’re gonna be reborn, yeah, in a brand new world. A world where wrestling ain’t just a sport—it’s the *heartbeat* of life!”

Ricky’s eyes widened. “A new world? Reborn?”

The Spirit’s sunglasses flashed as he nodded. “That’s right! It’s called *Wrestlorama*, brother! A place where wrestling is life itself. A world where every move, every slam, every pinfall has meaning! And you, brother, you’re gonna be a part of it!”

Ricky swallowed hard, his heart pounding. A world where wrestling was *everything*. It sounded impossible, like something out of a dream. “Why me?” he asked, his voice trembling.

The Spirit leaned in, a grin spreading across his face. “Because, brother, you’ve got the *Ace*! The potential to be the best at every style—power, speed, agility, technique. You’re gonna be a jack-of-all-trades with the ability to master ‘em all!”

Ricky’s eyes widened. “I can do it all?”

The Spirit nodded, his voice a low growl. “That’s right. But it ain’t gonna be easy. You’re gonna have to fight for it. Wrestlorama’s full of challengers, people hungry for the top spot. But I’ve seen your heart, brother, and I know you’ve got what it takes.”

The Spirit extended a hand, his eyes locked on Ricky’s. “So what do ya say, kid? You ready to step back in the ring? Ready to live again?”

Ricky looked at the outstretched hand, his heart thundering in his chest. A second chance. A chance to live, to fight, to be something more than he’d ever thought possible.

He reached out, his hand trembling, and clasped the Spirit’s hand. “I’m ready.”

The Spirit grinned wide, sunglasses flashing. “Welcome to *Wrestlorama*, brother! Let’s see what you’ve got!”

A blinding light exploded around Ricky, and the world shifted.

---

#### **The Rebirth**

Ricky—no, **Theo Vera** now—felt warmth on his face, the soft glow of sunlight filtering in. His eyes fluttered open, and he realized he wasn’t in the void anymore. He wasn’t in the hospital.

He was *alive*.

Theo sat up, blinking at his surroundings. He was in a small room, cozy and cluttered. Posters of wrestling legends covered the walls, championship belts hung from hooks, and a shelf full of action figures lined one side of the room. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cool floor. He felt strong. His body was alive, buzzing with energy, muscles ready to move, to fight.

*This is real,* he thought. He was in a new world, a world where wrestling was everything.

Theo stood, his reflection catching his eye in the mirror across the room. He looked different—stronger, sharper. His dark eyes stared back at him, filled with determination. This wasn’t Ricky Ramos, the kid who had been too weak to fight back. This was Theo Vera—a wrestler with a second chance.

He smiled, a fire igniting in his chest. Wrestlorama was waiting. And he was ready.

### Prologue – Part 2: *Theo Vera’s New Beginning*

#### **The Awakening**

Theo Vera stirred under the warmth of the morning sun, filtering through thin curtains, casting a golden glow across the room. He blinked his eyes open, momentarily disoriented, caught between dreams and reality. The memories flooded back—not just of yesterday, but of a whole different life.

He remembered the hospital, the cold touch of death, the feeling of fading away. He remembered *him*, the Spirit of Wrestling, larger than life, with that booming voice full of fire. And then—*rebirth*. A second chance to live, to wrestle, to be something greater.

But here, in this world, he wasn’t Ricky Ramos anymore. He was Theo Vera, grandson of Moncha Muscle, one of Wrestlorama’s toughest legends.

Theo pushed the blankets off and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cool wooden floor. The room around him felt both familiar and new. Posters covered the walls—vintage wrestling matches, championship belts, action figures on the shelves. There was history in this room, a lifetime of passion and wrestling. He felt it all at once, the memories of Theo Vera blending with his own.

His eyes caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror across the room. He stepped closer, staring at his reflection. He looked the same yet different. Stronger, vibrant—alive. The person staring back at him was ready. This wasn’t the frail body he’d once known. This was the body of a wrestler.

A knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts.

“¡Levántate, muchacho! You’re gonna sleep the day away, huh?”

Theo turned, his lips curling into a smile. He knew that voice well, the warmth behind every word.

“Coming, Abuela!” he called back, his voice steady and full of energy.

He pulled on a black sleeveless hoodie and some shorts, his outfit adorned with tribal patterns that spoke to his Puerto Rican heritage. His grandmother, “Muscle Moncha,” wouldn’t let him forget where he came from—and that was fine by him. The culture, the pride, it all fueled him.

He took a deep breath and stepped out of his room, heading downstairs.

---

#### **Morning with Grandma Muscle Moncha**

The scent of fried eggs and plantains greeted Theo as he made his way down to the small, but cozy kitchen. The house was filled with warmth and history, every corner adorned with memorabilia from his grandmother’s wrestling career—old photographs, championship belts, vintage posters that covered entire walls. It was a shrine to her legacy.

Moncha Muscle—**Grandma Moncha** to Theo—stood by the stove, her broad back to him, flipping eggs with the ease of someone who had more strength in her pinky finger than most had in their whole body. Tattoos covered her arms, each one a story from her past, each one a testament to her strength.

She turned as Theo entered, her sharp eyes softening at the sight of him. “You’re quiet this morning,” she said, her voice tinged with amusement. “Nervous?”

Theo shook his head, though he couldn’t quite hide the buzz of anticipation thrumming in his veins. “Just thinking about what’s ahead.”

Moncha chuckled, placing a plate of food in front of Theo at the kitchen table. “Wrestlorama Academy ain’t for the faint of heart, you know that. It’s tough, it’s brutal—they’ll throw everything they’ve got at you. But you’ve got the spirit, mi nieto. You’re going to do just fine.”

Theo’s heart skipped a beat. Wrestlorama Academy—the most prestigious wrestling school in the world. It was the ultimate proving ground, and only the best survived its grueling tests. Theo had one week until his first day there, and his excitement was matched only by his determination.

“Tell me more about it, Abuela,” Theo said as he dug into his breakfast. “What’s it really like?”

Moncha grinned, her eyes lighting up as she sat across from him. “The Academy’s divided into divisions, each focused on different fighting styles. You’ve got your **Powerhouses** who rely on raw strength. They’re the ones who slam their opponents straight through the mat, leave craters with every move.”

Theo’s mind filled with images of men and women capable of feats that defied logic, bodies flying through the air, the ground cracking beneath their strength. He’d seen flashes of it in his vision—the kind of strength he now craved.

“Then you’ve got the **High-Flyers**,” Moncha continued, “those who move like the wind, leaping off turnbuckles, diving from impossible heights. They’re fast, unpredictable, and they strike before you even know what’s happening.”

Theo nodded, imagining the rush of air, the feeling of freedom in those moments mid-flight, the electricity of the crowd.

“**Technicians** are all about precision,” Moncha said, leaning back. “They’re the ones who know every hold, every counter. They’ll tie you in knots and make you tap before you realize what’s happening.”

Theo respected that style deeply. Technique over power, the art of wrestling in its purest form. He’d have to learn that too—every style, every move.

“And the **Brawlers**,” Moncha added with a wink. “They’re the wild ones. They don’t care about finesse. They’ll hit you with fists, elbows, knees—whatever they can. It’s all about heart and instinct.”

Theo smirked. The Brawlers reminded him of the backyard fights he’d seen back home—raw, real, and unpredictable.

Moncha’s expression softened. “You’ve got a week, Theo. A week to get ready. Wrestlorama Academy’s gonna test you in ways you can’t even imagine. But I know you’ve got what it takes. You’re my grandson. You’re Vera, and we don’t back down.”

Theo swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding. “I won’t let you down, Abuela. I’ll make you proud.”

---

#### **A Visit from Comai Mama Maria**

Later that morning, Theo found himself sitting in the living room, a sense of excitement mixed with nerves still lingering. He knew the importance of this upcoming week. He needed to be prepared—both physically and mentally. As he was lost in thought, there was a knock at the front door.

“I’ll get it!” Moncha called from the hallway. Theo could hear the door creak open, followed by a familiar voice—one he hadn’t heard before, yet somehow knew.

“Moncha, querida!” the voice said, full of warmth and vibrancy. “I brought some empanadas. Figured you could use a visit.”

Theo perked up, turning his head towards the door as Moncha led an elderly woman into the living room. She was a short, plump lady with kind eyes that sparkled with mischief, her hair covered in a colorful scarf. In her hands, she held a tray covered with a cloth, the delicious aroma of freshly made empanadas wafting through the air.

“This is my **comai**, Mama Maria,” Moncha said, smiling as she introduced Theo to her friend. “And this here is her grandson, **Tito**.”

Theo looked past Mama Maria to see a boy about his age, standing behind her, peering around the room with curious blue eyes. Tito had an average build, with bright eyes and a confident air. He wore a jacket over his casual clothes, the hint of a sly grin on his face. He pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up his nose and stepped forward, extending a hand.

“Theo, right? I’ve heard a lot about you,” Tito said, his grin widening.

Theo shook his hand, smiling back. “All good things, I hope?”

Tito laughed. “Of course. My grandma’s always talking about how you’re gonna be the next big thing at Wrestlorama Academy.” He looked Theo up and down, an appraising gleam in his eyes. “Guess we’ll see if the hype’s real, huh?”

Theo could tell instantly—Tito was a talker. He had that kind of confidence that didn’t shy away from saying what was on his mind. He seemed like the type who was always two steps ahead, always thinking, always planning.

Mama Maria smiled warmly at Theo, her eyes twinkling. “I’ve brought some food for you, chico. You need all the strength you can get before next week, right?”

Theo nodded, his stomach growling as he eyed the tray. “Thank you, Mama Maria. I’ll need it, that’s for sure.”

Moncha gestured for everyone to sit, her eyes twinkling with pride. “Let’s eat, and then we can talk. Tito, why don’t you share some of that wrestling knowledge you’re always bragging about, eh?”

Tito puffed his chest out with mock pride. “Oh, you’ve got it, Moncha. I’ve got all the secrets—strategy, psychology, the works.” He looked at Theo, raising an eyebrow. “I think you’ll find my insights... invaluable.”

Theo chuckled, nodding. He could already tell that Tito was going to be a handful, but there was something about him—a spark, a determination. And maybe, just maybe, Tito’s strategies would come in handy at Wrestlorama Academy.

---

#### **A Team Begins to Form**

As they ate together, Theo listened to Tito talk, the young manager-in-training animatedly discussing match strategies, famous rivalries, and the ins and outs of the Academy’s divisions. Mama Maria and Moncha laughed, sharing stories of their own—of Moncha’s legendary matches and Maria’s antics at ringside, cheering her friend on.

Theo felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time—a sense of belonging, of being part of something bigger. This was his world now. A world of wrestling, of family, of second chances.

And with Moncha Muscle and Tito by his side, Theo knew he wasn’t facing this journey alone. Wrestlorama Academy was going to be tough, brutal even, but he was ready. More than ready.

Because this time, he had the chance to become something greater—a chance to make his mark on a world where wrestling was life itself. And he wasn’t going to waste it.