UltraViolence Championship
Circle of Steel Death Match

Daron Smythe © vs. Eric Herrera ©

“The Lessons in Losing”
 

“You either win or you learn.”

That's what Coach Jenkins used to say.

I still remember the burn of the mat against my back like it happened yesterday. I was 14 years old, a freshman at Wheeling Central Catholic High, too young to step into a pro ring, but too hungry to wait for the chance. So I did what any kid with dreams of headlocks and high spots would do—I joined the high school wrestling team.

Back then, I floated between 165 and 171. I wasn't the biggest. I wasn't the strongest. But I had fight. That kind of dogged determination that you don't learn in a training center or from watching tapes. It was wired into me.

One night, we were up against the number one team in the state. Their lineup was stacked. College-level guys in nearly every slot. At 171, they had a kid named Marcus Wells. State champ. Undefeated. A future D-I athlete. Our regular 171? He suddenly came down with a case of the flu—or fear, depending on who you asked.

Coach looked around the locker room, then looked at me.

“You ready, Daron?”

I was 165 soaking wet and a few slices of cafeteria pizza deep, but I nodded. And I went out there and I got pinned. Second period. Boom. Just like that. A kid they said would be lucky to go .500 had just been put on his back by the best in the state.

And I was pissed. Not at him. Not at my coach. At myself.

But you know what happened next?

I kept working.

That winter, we saw them again at the Riverbend Invitational. Same kid. Same weight class. I told Coach I wanted him. This time, it wasn’t a pin. It wasn’t a blowout. It was a war.

7–5.

Still a loss... but different. He shook my hand that time, looked me in the eyes. There was respect there.

Then came the Ohio Valley Athletic Conference tournament. Our paths crossed in the semifinals. Everyone expected him to coast through. Hell, he probably expected it too.

But somewhere in that second period, as he shot in for a cradle and I rolled through—hooked the leg, locked my grip, and bridged—he realized the kid from Wheeling he pinned two months ago wasn’t the same kid anymore.

1:42 in the third. Fall.

That win didn’t just get me into the finals. It taught me something I’ve carried with me into every locker room, every match, and every main event I’ve stepped into since.

You don't run from failure. You learn from it.

Just like I’ve learned from Eric Herrera.

The first time we locked up, he cheated to win. Held the ropes. Ref didn’t see it, but I sure as hell did. The second match? He brought everything he had. Hit me with half his moveset and still barely kept me down.

Now here we are, third time’s the charm.

And this time?

I’m not the same man you wrestled last time, Eric.

Now you’re stepping in with the AWS UltraViolence Champion. The guy who’s been thrown through tables, wrapped in barbed wire, and smiled while bleeding just to prove a point. You’re stepping in with a wrestler who doesn’t just fight for glory—he fights because he knows what it means to bounce back.

Because I know what it’s like to be the kid who got pinned.

And I know what it’s like to be the man who got his hand raised.

Eric… you might’ve won the first two, but this one?

This one’s mine.

Flash forward: The Ohio sky hangs gray above the Wheeling waterfront, the sun long tucked behind a veil of clouds. A light wind brushes across the rustling Ohio River, the current flowing steady—unbothered. On an empty stretch of trail that runs along the river, a lone figure lowers himself onto a worn, weathered bench beneath a faded streetlamp.

Daron Smythe.

His hoodie is soaked in sweat, clinging to his arms and shoulders. The sleeves are pushed up, revealing taped wrists and hands still red from pounding the heavy bag. His joggers are dusted with dirt and gravel from roadwork. His hair is damp, sticking to his forehead, and a small cut just above his brow—split open during sparring earlier—bleeds slowly, unnoticed. He leans forward, elbows on knees, breathing heavy but measured, a bottle of water in one hand.

His ECWF hoodie is unzipped halfway, revealing the AWS UltraViolence Championship draped across his lap—weathered, scuffed, but gleaming beneath the streetlight's glow.

Daron stares straight ahead at the water, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. The fatigue in his body battles with the fire in his chest.

DARON: "Three weeks ago, he caught me slipping."

His voice breaks the silence. Quiet. Controlled. Like a man speaking to a ghost.

DARON: "The first time—he cheated. The second time—he earned it. I'll give him that. But this time… Champions Carnival…"

He looks down at the UltraViolence Title.

DARON: "This time, I’m bringing everything."

He unscrews the cap on the water bottle and takes a long swig before pouring some over the back of his neck, letting the cold water snap him back to focus. A pair of joggers pass by, nodding in quiet respect. One of them recognizes him. Daron gives them a nod but doesn’t say a word.

He reaches into his duffel bag and pulls out a small, crumpled photo—a snapshot of him as a teenager, headgear on, arm raised after a high school wrestling match. The smile on his face in that photo? Pride. Relief. A lesson learned after the second time he’d faced the same kid and lost.

Now, years later… it’s a different ring. A different war. But the lesson’s the same.

You don’t run from failure. You learn from it.

DARON: "Eric… this ain’t about pride anymore. It’s about closure. And at Champions Carnival... I write the final chapter."

Daron folds the picture, tucks it back into his duffel bag, then looks at the belt on his lap. His hand moves over the nameplate.

#1 Daron Smythe.

He stands up, slings the championship over his shoulder, and starts walking down the path again—toward the next fight.

And this time?

He’s ready.

Daron continues, walking towards the camera, AWS UltraViolence Title belt proudly draped over his shoulder…

DARON: You talk a lot, Eric.

You talk about legacy. You talk about how you're a legend, about how you're the standard bearer of this championship. About how you “grabbed the tights,” about how you “cheated”—but that it was still a win.

You call that a lesson? Nah, man. That’s just desperation dressed up in nostalgia.

You wanna lecture me about mistakes? About underestimating you?

Let me set something straight—I’ve never underestimated you. I know exactly who you are. Hell, I knew who you were before I even laced up my first pair of boots. I watched you bleed, fight, claw your way into conversations that matter. I’ve seen you rise and fall and rise again. But now?

Now, all I see is a man who’s afraid of being forgotten.

Daron stands slowly, cracking his knuckles before picking up the UltraViolence Title and slinging it over his shoulder.

You talk about being the reason this company is still standing. About how you built this place. Let me ask you something, Eric…

Where were you when I was carrying this damn company on my back?
Where were you when I was taking on all comers, winning championship after championship?
Where were you when I became a Grand Slam Champion in less than a year?

I’ll tell you where you were.

You were gone.

You left.

And while you were off reminiscing about past glories and polishing replicas in trophy cases, I was here—doing the work.

You think I named myself #1 because it sounded cool?

No. I earned it.

I earned it the hard way. In blood. In failure. In growth. You say you pinned me once, that you escaped by the skin of your teeth the second time. You're right. You did.

But just like in high school wrestling, I’ve faced the same kind of uphill climb before. I remember being fifteen years old, giving up weight and strength to a kid who was state-ranked. I got pinned in the second. Came back and lost 7-5 in the rematch. And then, third time out? I pinned him in front of the whole damn Ohio Valley.

You know what I took from that?

Failure isn’t the end.

It’s the lesson.

And the lesson I’ve learned, Eric, is this:

You don’t rise by clinging to what you used to be. You rise by adapting. Evolving. Enduring.

You say I’m building an empire that’s already crumbling?

Good.
Because you know what I do best?

I build dynasties from ashes.

Daron now steps in closer to the camera, his tone lowering, sharper.

At Champions Carnival, you’re gonna see that I’m not just some “new generation kid” who forgot about you.

I remember you, Eric.

I remember the fighter. The scrapper. The guy who didn’t have to cheat to win because his fists did all the talking.

But if you’ve got to drag tights and cut corners to beat me now?

Then maybe you’ve already lost.

Because I’m not just defending a title. I’m defending everything I’ve bled for. Everything I’ve fought for.

This isn't just about a match. This is a goddamn declaration.

Daron Smythe is here to stay.

And if you want this championship?

You better come take it the right way.

Because this time, Eric?

You're not catching me sleeping.

You're not stealing one.

You’re stepping into the fire…

...and I’m the one holding the match.

Daron stares down the lens for a long moment, then walks off screen, the UltraViolence Championship gleaming under the sunlight.

Fade to black.

Becoming the Inmate