The void was a strange place. It wasn’t cold, nor warm. It wasn’t dark, nor was it light. It was nothing, and yet everything all at once. Michael Caine floated in it, an ephemeral sensation of weightlessness and confusion coursing through him. It took him a moment to orient his thoughts, to gather himself in the swirling nothingness that seemed to stretch in every direction.

“Woah,” he muttered aloud, though the sound seemed to echo inside his own head rather than carry through the void. “I’m floating. That was such a sick move. I could totally fly now. Wait… am I in space?”

The thought struck him like a steel chair to the back of the head, disjointed and raw. Memories surged, fragmented but vivid. The garage, the ladder, the spotlight in his mind’s eye illuminating his grand stage. He’d been in the middle of pulling off the most mind-blowing finishing move the world had never seen—a twist on a classic, one that would’ve cemented him as a legend in backyard wrestling lore. It was his “Ladder Death Match Special,” as he’d dubbed it. But as he floated in the vastness of the void, those memories felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else.

Stars and galaxies stretched endlessly in every direction, a cosmic sea of light and motion. He felt both infinitesimally small and bizarrely infinite, like a speck of dust caught in an eternal dance of creation. Nebulae pulsed with colors so vivid they seemed alive, tendrils of light weaving and unwinding like wrestlers locking up in an endless grapple. Comets streaked past, their icy tails leaving ghostly trails that faded into nothingness. He could feel the immense power of supernovas on the edge of his perception, like the distant roar of a crowd cheering for a titanic battle.

The sensation of floating was unlike anything Michael had ever experienced. It wasn’t weightlessness in the way he’d imagined astronauts felt. It was something deeper, as though his very essence had been unmoored. His body—if he even had one anymore—seemed to drift without resistance, and yet he felt connected to everything around him, tethered by invisible strings of energy and light.

“Is this what it’s like to ascend?” he wondered aloud, his voice swallowed by the shimmering expanse. “Man, this beats any cage match I’ve ever seen.”

And then… nothing.

“Oh, crap,” Michael said, the realization dawning on him like a bell ringing to start a match. “I totally died. Damn it. That move was sick, though. Absolutely original. The crowd—well, my buddy Greg and the neighbor’s dog—would’ve gone wild. If I’d lived long enough to use it on someone.”

The void offered no response, no rebuttal to his musings. It just was, and he was in it, floating endlessly. The vast, empty expanse around him shimmered with faint glimmers of starlight, each one distant yet achingly close. He felt as though he could reach out—if he had hands—and pluck a galaxy from the void, its spirals spinning lazily between his nonexistent fingers. The stars seemed to whisper secrets in a language he didn’t understand, their light pulsing in rhythms that matched the faint beating of something deep within him.

But something was happening. Slowly, subtly, he felt a pull, as if unseen hands were tugging at his very essence. At first, it was a gentle tug, like a current drawing him toward an unseen shore. Then it grew insistent, an overwhelming force that gripped him with the intensity of a submission hold, wrenching him forward. The cosmos blurred and twisted around him, stars streaking into long trails of light that danced and tangled like the ropes of a wrestling ring. Galaxies whirled past, their colors bleeding together in a cacophony of blues, purples, and golds, until the void itself seemed to collapse inward, dragging him through.

It wasn’t just movement; it was a sensation of being unwound and re-stitched, his very essence spiraling through time and space. He felt his consciousness stretch thin, a scream forming at the edges of his mind as the pressure built, only to be silenced by the deafening roar of reality reassembling itself. For one heart-stopping moment, he existed everywhere and nowhere, a fragment of a thought in the grand tapestry of existence.

And then, with a shunt like being slammed into the mat from a suplex, it all stopped. The pull released him, and he was whole again, tumbling into a new reality.

“Wait, what’s happening?” Michael’s voice quavered, his bravado faltering as the void seemed to shift and churn around him. Scenes flashed before his eyes—no, not his eyes. His… consciousness? Memory? Whatever part of him remained.

Wrestling arenas unlike anything he’d ever dreamed of unfolded before him on the holographic screen. Glowing platforms suspended in midair shimmered like constellations, their surfaces rippling with energy fields that responded to each footstep and impact. Warriors with shimmering, iridescent skin and cybernetic limbs clashed under a kaleidoscope of alien lights that shifted in time with the rhythmic chants of the crowd. The roar of countless voices in unison, a sound both guttural and melodic, reverberated through the room, sending a thrill through Mikhail’s wiry frame.

The announcer’s voice boomed, his tone a blend of gravitas and exhilaration, “Ladies and gentlebeings of the galaxy! Witness the ferocity of Tharok the Pulverizer, a champion forged in the blood pits of Drayax Prime, versus Klythara, the Winged Venom, mistress of aerial domination from the Aether Clans! Tonight, only one will walk away from this sacred battlefield alive!”

Mikhail’s four eyes widened as the camera zoomed in on the combatants. Tharok, a hulking brute with a metallic exoskeleton, flexed his cybernetic arms, each movement releasing a hiss of steam as glowing red conduits pulsed across his frame. His opponent, Klythara, floated effortlessly above the arena, her translucent wings glinting like razor-sharp blades as she circled him.

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The match began with an explosive clash. Tharok lunged forward, his massive fists striking the platform with a thunderous crack as Klythara darted away, her movements a blur of speed and precision. She retaliated with a flurry of venomous spines launched from her tail, each one sizzling as it struck Tharok’s armor. He roared, his visor flashing a menacing crimson, and retaliated by launching a devastating shockwave that sent energy rippling across the platform, knocking Klythara out of the air.

Mikhail leaned closer to the screen, his reflection briefly visible in the glossy surface. For a moment, he caught sight of his new face: blue-skinned, wiry, with those striking four eyes that seemed to glimmer with the same fire as the combatants on the screen. It was an alien visage, but there was something unmistakably familiar in the determination etched across it. He wasn’t just watching this spectacle; he was imagining himself in that arena, imagining his own name being chanted by billions of beings across the galaxy.

Klythara recovered mid-fall, her wings snapping open as she spiraled upward, delivering a vicious counterattack that caught Tharok off guard. She slashed at his exposed joints, her strikes precise and deadly, drawing sparks and shards of metal. But Tharok wasn’t finished. With a guttural roar, he tore a section of the platform loose and hurled it at her, the massive projectile careening through the air like a meteor. The crowd erupted in a deafening roar as the match descended into chaos, each move more brutal and awe-inspiring than the last.

It was raw, visceral, and utterly thrilling. And in that moment, Mikhail knew with absolute certainty: he belonged in that arena.

And then looking down he saw it—himself, or rather, a version of himself. Small, wiry, with striking blue-green skin that seemed to shimmer and shift in tone, at times almost lime-green under the faint light. His frame, though youthful, carried a surprising fitness, his muscles lean and taut like a coiled spring. He flexed his four arms instinctively, their movement fluid and natural, as if he’d been born with them. Marveling at how alien yet inherently right it all felt. He was no longer Michael Caine. He was something new. Someone new.

“Mikhail X’Cen,” a voice called, distant yet familiar, cutting through the swirling chaos like the crack of a ring bell. “Mikhail, get in here! Stop watching GEWF and come eat your strobians before they get cold!”

“Wait, strobians?” Michael—Mikhail—repeated, his voice higher-pitched and tinged with an accent he hadn’t possessed before. He blinked—all four eyes—and the void dissolved. Suddenly, he was in a small, dimly lit room with walls made of a smooth, metallic material that seemed to hum faintly. The air smelled faintly of something earthy and sweet, with a sharp undertone he couldn’t quite place.

A woman—or at least, what he assumed was a woman—stood in the doorway. She was taller than him by at least a foot, her skin a deeper shade of blue, with elaborate markings etched into it like tattoos that shimmered faintly in the light. Her four eyes glinted with impatience and affection as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Mikhail,” she said again, her tone equal parts scolding and amused. “Don’t make me come over there.”

“Uh… right, coming,” Mikhail said, his voice barely more than a squeak. His mind raced as he stumbled forward, his movements awkward and uncoordinated. His body felt… wrong. Too light, too flexible. He glanced down at his hands—thin and wiry, with an extra joint in each finger—and nearly tripped over his own feet.

“This is new,” he muttered under his breath, his heart pounding as he followed the woman—his mother? Was she his mom now? How did this work? Memories that weren’t his crowded his mind, intertwining with his own. He knew her name, her voice, her smile. She was familiar and alien all at once.

The next room was a small, cozy space dominated by a circular table laden with dishes of food that looked as strange as everything else in this new world. A pile of wriggling, insect-like creatures sat on a platter in the center, their glossy shells catching the light. Mikhail’s stomach churned at the sight.

“Fresh strobians,” his… mom said, gesturing proudly. “Caught them just for you. Eat up, Mikhail. You’ll need your strength if you’re going to keep watching those GEWF matches all night.”

Mikhail blinked, his four eyes struggling to focus on the wriggling mass before him. The room spun slightly as he tried to reconcile what was happening. The creatures weren’t just bugs—they were small, worm-like beings with segmented bodies that gleamed like polished metal, each about the size of a finger. Their tiny, glistening eyes and twitching antennae made them look uncomfortably sentient. He stared at them, his memories tugging at the edges of his mind.

Wait… he’d seen these before. Hadn’t he? The familiarity of their writhing forms made his stomach churn even more. It was as if some deeply buried part of his new self recognized them. A flash of something resurfaced: a distant memory—no, not his own—of plucking one of these creatures from the ground as it squealed faintly, its little mouthparts opening and closing as if pleading. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

“Wait… again?” he muttered, the question barely audible. The strobians twitched on the plate, their movements rhythmic and unsettling, and he felt a strange mix of revulsion and resignation bubbling within him.

“Right,” he said, his voice faint. “Thanks, Mom. Looks… delicious.”

As he sat down and reluctantly picked up one of the strobians, a thousand thoughts raced through his mind. What was this place? How did he get here? And most importantly, why was the Galactic Empire Wrestling Federation playing on the small, holographic screen embedded in the wall?

He watched the screen intently, his appetite forgotten. Two wrestlers clashed in the center of an arena that defied comprehension, its edges shimmering with energy fields that rippled with each impact. It was a totally different match from before. The larger wrestler lifted his opponent—a lithe, insectoid alien with wings—and slammed them into the ground with a force that shook the arena. The crowd roared, a cacophony of alien voices and cheers that resonated through the room.

“Someday,” Mikhail whispered, his chest tightening with a mix of awe and longing. “Someday, that’s going to be me.”

The thought was absurd. He was a ten-year-old alien kid with a wiry frame and no combat experience. But deep down, Michael Caine’s indomitable spirit burned brighter than ever. This was his second chance, and he wasn’t going to waste it.

As he chewed on the surprisingly tangy strobian, a plan began to form in his mind. He didn’t know how or when, but he was going to join the GEWF. He was going to rise through the ranks, defy the odds, and show the galaxy what it truly meant to be a wrestler.

Because if there was one thing Michael Caine knew, it was this:

The pain is real. The glory is eternal. And the legend… is just beginning.