Mad Decade: Kaito Kiyomiya, Pro Wrestling NOAH, and the Weight of Being “The Future” for Ten Years

Korakuen Hall – December 7, 2025

Anniversary shows in professional wrestling are usually exercises in self-congratulation.

Old photos on the screen, ceremonial main events, polite applause for the passage of time.

Kaito Kiyomiya’s 10th Anniversary Produced Event, Mad Decade, was not that.

Instead, it functioned as something far more ambitious—and far more dangerous: a living résumé, publicly audited, in the most unforgiving building in Japanese wrestling.

Korakuen Hall has never cared how long you’ve been around. It only cares whether you belong today.

For Kiyomiya, that distinction has defined his entire career.

Kaito Kiyomiya: Ten Years as a Promise, Not a Memory

Kaito Kiyomiya’s career cannot be understood through titles alone, because titles were never the real burden he carried. The weight was expectation, applied early, relentlessly, and often unfairly.

To understand Mad Decade, you have to understand that Kiyomiya’s ten years were never framed as a journey toward greatness—they were framed as an obligation to be great on schedule.

From the moment he entered the dojo of Pro Wrestling NOAH, Kiyomiya was not treated as “a young wrestler.” He was treated as a solution.

NOAH, still living in the long shadow of its foundational era, needed more than competent wrestlers.

It needed a symbolic anchor—someone young enough to represent renewal, but disciplined enough to embody the promotion’s values: structure, realism, and emotional restraint.

Kiyomiya fit that mold almost too perfectly. Tall, technically sound, earnest to the point of stiffness, he looked like someone who belonged in NOAH before he had ever earned it.

That distinction matters, because it shaped how audiences reacted to him for years.

The Weight of Being “The Future” Too Early

Kiyomiya debuted in 2015, but he was positioned as “the future” almost immediately. That phrase sounds flattering, until you realize it freezes time around a wrestler. When you are the future, you are never allowed to be the present. Every flaw is magnified, every stumble framed as disappointment rather than development.

When Kiyomiya became the youngest GHC Heavyweight Champion in history in 2018, it was a historic achievement—and also a trap. The title confirmed NOAH’s faith in him, but it also accelerated expectations past what experience could reasonably support. He wasn’t just defending a belt; he was defending a narrative.

The comparison to NOAH’s icons was inevitable. The unspoken benchmark was always Mitsuharu Misawa, not in terms of moves or charisma, but in terms of meaning. Misawa was not simply great—he was foundational. Kiyomiya was asked, implicitly, to carry that same gravity without the benefit of time, trauma, or trial that forges legends.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth: for a while, he didn’t fully convince everyone.

Not because he wasn’t good—he was—but because he was too controlled, too respectful, too polished. In a company built on struggle, Kiyomiya initially felt like an answer key rather than a test. Fans didn’t doubt his talent; they doubted his scars.

Failure, Humility, and the Necessary Stall

What ultimately saved Kiyomiya’s career from becoming a cautionary tale was stagnation.

There were periods where his momentum cooled. Matches were strong but not seismic. Title reigns ended sooner than expected. Rivals like Kenoh repeatedly exposed the emotional gap between wanting to be ace and being able to withstand what that role demands.

In another promotion, these moments might have been reframed as missteps. In NOAH, they became education.

Kiyomiya was forced to confront a central question: was he trying to live up to NOAH’s past, or was he trying to survive its present?

That tension slowly reshaped his work. His matches gained friction. His selling deepened. His timing became less pristine and more human. He stopped wrestling like someone who wanted to prove he belonged, and started wrestling like someone who was willing to be embarrassed, beaten, and doubted if that’s what growth required.

This evolution didn’t come with a dramatic heel turn or personality overhaul. NOAH rarely does that. Instead, it came quietly—through losses that lingered, rivalries that escalated, and a growing understanding that being ace is not about winning, but about absorbing consequence.

Leadership as the Missing Ingredient

The formation of All Rebellion marked a subtle but critical shift in Kiyomiya’s identity.

For the first time, he wasn’t just the company’s chosen standard-bearer—he was responsible for others. Leadership, in wrestling, has a way of clarifying character. You can no longer be purely symbolic when other careers are tied to your gravity.

All Rebellion reframed Kiyomiya from “the future” into something more grounded: the organizer of the present. He wasn’t standing alone anymore, nor was he hiding behind legacy. He was actively shaping a direction, even if that direction was still contested.

This context makes Mad Decade resonate more deeply. The event isn’t a victory lap. It’s a progress report. Kiyomiya is not asking the audience to remember where he’s been—he’s asking them to judge whether the decade meant something.

Why “Mad Decade” Matters for His Legacy

The phrase “Ten Years as a Promise, Not a Memory” captures the uncomfortable brilliance of Kaito Kiyomiya’s career so far. Most anniversary shows are about closure. This one is about continuation under scrutiny.

Kiyomiya has never been allowed the luxury of nostalgia. He doesn’t get to be “fondly remembered.” He gets to be evaluated. Every match, every rivalry, every leadership decision is weighed against a question he did not ask to carry but has accepted nonetheless:

Can you be the ace of NOAH without becoming a museum piece?

Mad Decade suggests that Kiyomiya understands the stakes now better than ever. He is no longer wrestling to fulfill a prophecy. He is wrestling to define one—aware that the verdict will not be kind, unanimous, or final.

And in NOAH, that might be the highest compliment of all.

Mad Decade: Reading Kaito Kiyomiya’s Career Through One Night at Korakuen Hall

A produced anniversary show lives or dies on intention. If the matches exist merely to fill time between speeches, the concept collapses. Mad Decade succeeds because every match is chosen to say something specific about Kaito Kiyomiya—where he started, what shaped him, what he now protects, and what still threatens him.

The card is short, but it is dense. Think of it less as a wrestling event and more as a thesis defense, with each opponent called to the stand for a reason.

Match 1: Kaito Kiyomiya vs. Hitoshi Kumano

The Beginning, Revisited

Opening the show with this match is the clearest signal that Mad Decade will not be nostalgic in a lazy way.

Hitsohi Kumano was Kiyomiya’s debut opponent in 2015, and that fact alone does most of the narrative work. Kumano defeated Kiyomiya with a simple Boston Crab, which is often how matches are decided back in the days of training and being branded as a "Young Lion" which is too much of a complicated tangent to get into for this.

This match is not about rivalry. It is about measurement.

The match itself is calm, almost restrained. That restraint is the story.

Kiyomiya does not wrestle like a man proving anything. He wrestles like a man auditing himself.

His movement is sharper than his early days, his transitions more economical, his confidence quieter.

Where young Kaito wrestled with urgency bordering on anxiety, this Kaito wrestles with the assurance of someone who understands that control—not speed—is the real marker of growth.

Kumano’s importance lies in his steadiness. He is not presented as a threat, nor should he be. Instead, he functions as a fixed point in time. Against him, Kiyomiya is allowed to demonstrate evolution without exaggeration. The match is short because it should be. Stretching it would dilute the point.

The Japanese crowd knows how important the Boston Crab is. It is the move the match is built around. Kiyomiya not only survives it, but he escapes it to a respectful amount of cheers.

This bout answers the first question of the night: Did Kaito Kiyomiya become the wrestler he was supposed to become?

The answer, at least here, is yes.

Match 2: Daiki Odashima vs. Yuto Koyanagi

The Future, Introduced Without Apology

The placement of this match matters almost as much as the match itself. By putting a rookie bout immediately after his own opener, Kiyomiya makes a quiet but firm statement: his anniversary is not only about him.

Odashima, already somewhat battle-tested within NOAH’s ecosystem as one half of the GHC Jr. Tag Team Champions, wrestles like someone who understands expectation. Koyanagi, debuting, wrestles like someone trying to earn oxygen in a crowded room. That dynamic gives the match its tension.

The story is simple but effective: Koyanagi brings energy and ambition; Odashima brings structure and survival instincts. There is no fairy-tale debut win, and that is deliberate. NOAH has never been kind to fantasy, and Kiyomiya—who debuted under brutal scrutiny himself—clearly understands that shielding rookies from reality does them no favors.

This match exists to contextualize Kiyomiya’s own early years. Watching Koyanagi struggle to establish footing reinforces how unusual Kiyomiya’s rapid rise truly was—and how heavy that burden must have been.

Match 3: Hiroto Tsuruya vs. Midori Takahashi

Identity Before Accomplishment

If the previous match was about readiness, this one is about definition.

Tsuruya’s combat sports background is immediately apparent—not just in technique, but in demeanor. He wrestles like someone who expects resistance rather than applause. His strikes have intent. His positioning feels considered. This is important, because NOAH’s history values legitimacy as much as spectacle.

Takahashi’s role is crucial here. He allows Tsuruya’s identity to crystallize. This is less a competition than a presentation: this is what Tsuruya brings to the table.

Tsuruya’s win is secondary to the impression he leaves. The match serves as a reminder that Kiyomiya’s era of NOAH is actively curating the future, not merely waiting for it to appear. Kiyomiya, once the youngest prodigy in the room, now stands as the gatekeeper.

That role reversal is one of the show’s quiet triumphs.

Semi-Final: Kaito Kiyomiya & Harutoki & Alejandro & Kai Fujimura(ALL REBELLION) vs Naomichi Marufuji & Jack Morris & Junta Miyawaki & Andy Wu

The Present, Under Stress

This is the most strategically constructed match on the card.

All Rebellion is not just Kiyomiya’s faction; it is his ideological statement. To test it, the opposing team is assembled with precision:

• Marufuji represents institutional authority and legacy.

• Morris represents brute-force legitimacy and modern power.

• Miyawaki represents parallel youth—someone not beneath Kiyomiya, but beside him.

• Andy Wu represents stylistic disruption and external influence.

Each opponent presses on a different insecurity Kiyomiya has faced throughout his career.

The match itself is fast, efficient, and notably decisive. All Rebellion wins clean, and that matters. This is not about Kiyomiya surviving alongside allies—it is about his vision functioning.

Kiyomiya does not dominate the match; he orchestrates it. That distinction is critical. Leadership, here, is not about spotlight but cohesion. The semi-final answers another crucial question: Can Kiyomiya’s present hold together under pressure from the past, the future, and the unfamiliar?

On this night, it does.

Main Event: Kaito Kiyomiya vs. Kenoh – 60-Minute Iron Man Match

The Question That Refuses to Go Away

If every other match on the card is a statement, this one is an interrogation.

Kenoh is the most important opponent of Kiyomiya’s career not because of wins or losses, but because he refuses to accept Kiyomiya symbolically. Kenoh does not wrestle ideals; he wrestles consequences.

The Iron Man format is essential. This is not a match about moments—it is about endurance of identity. Over sixty minutes, Kiyomiya’s adaptability is tested repeatedly. Each fall tells a different story. Each comeback costs more than the last.

Kenoh’s approach is ruthless in its patience. He allows Kiyomiya to succeed just enough to believe, then systematically removes that belief. The longer the match goes, the less it resembles a contest and the more it resembles a philosophical dispute.

Kenoh’s 4–3 victory is devastating precisely because it is narrow. Kiyomiya does not fail; he falls short. And in NOAH, that distinction is crueler.

This match exists to leave the central question unresolved:Has Kaito Kiyomiya fully become the ace—or is he still becoming one?

Epilogue: Violence as a Punctuation Mark

The post-match attack by Doc Gallows and Karl Anderson served as a reminder that NOAH’s world does not pause for reflection. You celebrate, you bleed, and then someone kicks the door down.

An anniversary show that ends with unanswered questions is a bold choice.

But then again, so is spending ten years as “the future” and still insisting the story isn’t finished.

Why the Card Works as a Whole

Viewed individually, the matches are solid. Viewed together, they form a narrative arc that is rare in modern wrestling:

• The past acknowledged

• The future introduced

• The present validated

• The core doubt left intact

Mad Decade does not conclude Kaito Kiyomiya’s story. It reframes it. After ten years, he is no longer wrestling to fulfill a prophecy. He is wrestling to justify the responsibility he already carries.

And perhaps the most telling detail of the night is this:Kiyomiya wins early, leads effectively, elevates others—and still ends the night staring at the ceiling, reminded that in NOAH, certainty is earned one brutal minute at a time.