The screen faded in from black, revealing a small candlelit space backstage. The walls were draped in dark velvet, smoke curling lazily through the air from a nearby incense burner. A tarot table was set in the center of the room, covered in deep red cloth, the surface littered with strange, custom-made cards.

Drew the Cameraman: Nope, didn’t sign up for Brood shit. I’m not doing Brood shit.

Adam Copeland: Shut up and film the thing, Drew.

Drew the Cameraman: If you even think about pulling out a pair of wrap around sunglasses and vampire teeth, I’m going to call the whole thing off.

Adam Copeland: I try one creative thing for the first time in like… eight years, and you gotta take the piss. Could you just be a friend, and film the damn thing, Drew?

A hooded figure moved to sit at the table.

Drew the Cameraman:Who the fuck is she?!

Adam looked at Drew, clearly exasperated.

Drew the Cameraman: Right, right…. Shut up and film the thing, Drew. We’re rolling, 3…2…1….

Drew pointed at the scene in front of him in a silent way to say “Action”. The mysterious figure at the table was hooded, cloaked, and silent. Edge took a seat across from them, leaning forward with a mix of intrigue and amusement. The Rated-R Superstar, dressed in a long leather coat, his shorter hair slicked back, rested his elbows on the table as he looked down at the spread of cards before him.

The camera slowly panned over the four oversized tarot cards on the table. Each card was illustrated not with traditional symbols, but with stylized, almost mythic renditions of four EBWF legends. The tarot reader spoke in a soft, raspy voice, pointing to each card as she went.

Tarot Reader:The Rebel, CM Punk. With his grown of thorns, taped fists, standing her defiantly atop his broken throne.

This image made Edge smile and she continued.

Tarot Reader: The Silent Assassin, Randy Orton. Shown coiled and calm with eyes that gleam like daggers.

The image of his friend made Edge narrow his eyes, but the Tarot Reader swiftly moved on.

Tarot Reader: The Judas, Chris Jericho. Dressed in a golden robe, holding a chalice, but beware the shadows that loom behind him.

Edge smiled as she pointed to the final card.

Tarot Reader: The Icon, Edge himself, cloaked in fire, stepping through this burning door labeled ‘Legacy’.

The tarot reader, their face obscured beneath the hood, slowly flipped over “The Rebel” card, revealing it now surrounded by storm clouds.

Tarot Reader: Your path begins in chaos. The Rebel confronts the Icon. Old grudges. Unfinished wars. A battle for the crown… and the soul.

Edge stared at the card, his expression unreadable. Then he smirked.

Edge: We’ve been here before haven’t we, Punk? You’re the man with the megaphone, the martyr complex. I’m the one with the chip on my shoulder? Phil, let’s be real. You’re the one with the chip on his shoulder that never seems to fall off.

Edge addressed the tarot reader.

Edge: He calls himself the Best in the World. Maybe he was, once. Maybe he still is. But tonight? He’s just the next guy in the bracket.

He leaned back slightly, eyes gleaming in the flickering candlelight.

Edge: We’ve beaten the hell out of each other before. We’ve traded wins, words, scars. But this… this is King of the Ring. And that crown doesn’t care how many pipe bombs you’ve dropped. It cares who’s left standing. And after tonight, Punk won’t be standing. He’ll be staring up at the lights—again. Just like he was when Adam Cole beat him for the World Championship.

The tarot reader flipped the next card: “The Judas.” Jericho’s image now cracked, gold fading, shadows creeping closer.

Tarot Reader: The past beckons. A lion in winter, eyes turned backward. The Icon knows his tricks. His truth. His thirst for legacy.

Edge chuckled softly.

Edge: Ah… Chris Jericho. We’ve bled together, laughed together, fought each other, outlasted damn near everyone. But it’s been a minute since he’s been anything resembling a King. He’ll talk circles around the rest of the field. He’ll charm the crowd, ride the wave of “Judas” all the way to the ring… and if I see him in the finals? I’ll give him a harsh reminder that the crowd can’t carry him to victory.

The reader turned the final card. “The Viper.” This time, the card glowed faintly. A serpent curled around a golden scepter. The only card untouched by decay or damage.

Tarot Reader: The crown waits. But only one can sit upon the throne. The path leads to the Viper. Or… it ends in fire.

Edge’s gaze softened for a moment as he stared down at the card bearing the image of his longtime friend—and longest reigning partner.

Edge: Rated RKO. The longest reigning champions in EBWF history. We set the standard. We’ve been such a fucking menace, held the gold so long they’ve had to rethink the way they write the record books. If it’s Randy and me in that final? That’s not just a match. That’s a collision of destiny. Of legacy. The fantasy bookers and internet nerds will finally get the thing they’ve always wanted.

Edge stood slowly, his voice lowering to a gravelly whisper as he picked up “The Icon” card and tucked it into his coat.

Edge: Jericho. Orton. Punk. Three legends. Three threats. But none of us are here to be anyone’s nostalgia reel. We’re all here to own the endgame. This tournament isn’t about who was the best then. It’s about who is the best now. And when the final bell rings? You’ll all be wondering what the hell just happened…

He leaned into the camera, eyes burning.

Edge: You’ll kneel before the Rated-R King.

The candles extinguished with a gust of unseen wind. The screen faded to black.