By the time Rydeen Hagane laces up her boots and steps through the curtain, the arena doesn’t so much roar as it rumbles, like a subway train approaching at full speed—steel and sweat and inevitability. She’s not the kind of wrestler who arrives with pomp, pyro, or a chorus of ring rats begging for selfies. She comes with the quiet confidence of a cement truck rolling downhill. Noriko Matsumoto, known to fans and foes alike as Rydeen Hagane, doesn’t need to scream. Her fists do the talking.
Born in the chrysalis of JWP Joshi Puroresu, Hagane’s debut came in 2012, wrestling her own trainer, Leon, to a draw. A fitting start. Like the best Japanese craftsmen, Hagane was forged slow, methodical, and hard as hell. She wasn’t here to be cute. She wasn’t here to be idolized. She was here to batter anyone unfortunate enough to share a ring with her. If you blinked, you missed her throwing you across the ring like a bag of cement.
You see, Hagane was a throwback—even in 2012. Her brand of violence didn’t flirt or preen for Twitter. It cracked collarbones. It broke fingers. She was born a decade too late or maybe a decade too early. But Joshi wrestling—Japan’s own bullet-riddled love letter to pain and beauty—always finds room for someone who wrestles like a tree limb in a hurricane.
Her rise through JWP was measured. Not flashy. But the moment she beat Rabbit Miu for the Princess of Pro-Wrestling Championship in 2015, the air changed. Hagane didn’t win with trickery or finesse—she flattened her. Her power was in her body, her soul, her silence. And her face told stories: of late-night trains back from dead-end shows, of aching knees and ice baths, of matches fought in front of a dozen people where the bell rang just to remind you you were alive.
She held that title twice, pairing it with the JWP Junior Championship like a badge of bloody honor. She never asked for belts, but the belts clung to her like bruises. Still, she never touched the Openweight Championship. She came close. She challenged Arisa Nakajima in 2016. Gave her hell, too. But when the dust settled, it was Nakajima who stood tall. Even warriors get their chins checked.
When JWP shuttered in 2017, some wrestlers vanished. Some begged for scraps. Hagane just moved forward, like always. She joined Pure-J, the spiritual successor to JWP, without drama, without a promo, without a goddamn whisper. Just the sound of leather boots stepping into a new warzone.
In Pure-J, she became the pillar, the hammer, the iron spine holding up a promotion on shaky legs. She didn’t just work her matches—she anchored the cards. You needed someone to carry the weight? Rydeen was already lifting. She challenged, she defended, she tagged with everyone from Akari to Saki, and she was always, always, the most dangerous woman in the ring.
And that name—Rydeen Hagane—it didn’t just sound like a weapon, it was one. “Rydeen” a nod to thunder, “Hagane” meaning steel. A storm of metal. That’s how she wrestled. Not pretty. Not poetic. But holy hell, did it resonate.
Out on the indie circuit, she became a mercenary with a moral compass. Sendai Girls, Seadlinnng, Oz Academy—she showed up like a bar brawler on a business trip. She didn’t need to win. She needed to hurt you. Ask Meiko Satomura. Ask Aja Kong. Ask the canvas she kept pounding like it owed her money.
In Seadlinnng, she teamed with Command Bolshoi and Hanako Nakamori to defeat High Voltage. In Zero1, she stood alongside Aja Kong and Takako Inoue in a fantasy dream match that should have been booked on a billboard in Times Square. She even stepped into Ice Ribbon, Oz Academy, Wrestle-1—hell, she wrestled Hikaru Shida before it was trendy. She was everywhere, like smoke, like static, like some quiet force that made the ring tremble just a little harder under your boots.
And if you ever needed proof she was tougher than rusted nails and heartbreak, just look at her record. She’s wrestled men. She’s wrestled legends. She’s wrestled ghosts. Sometimes in six-woman chaos. Sometimes in one-on-one wars that left the mat soaked in regret.
But titles? She never hoarded them. She wasn’t one of those trophy case wrestlers, all smiles and straps. No, Rydeen wore scars instead. Titles were just punctuation. The story was in the grind.
Tag League the Best became her ritual. Every year she laced ‘em up with her partner Kazuki—“The☆Wanted!?”—and took beatings from some of the best: Kana, Nakajima, Rabbit Miu, even Sareee. Never a whimper. Never a wave. Just another match, another ring, another arena that would remember her long after the lights faded.
Even now, in her late 30s, she hasn’t slowed. She’s still that same iron monolith. Still showing up on cards with the quiet fury of a crowbar wrapped in velvet. Still hammering away in Pure-J like it’s a calling from some wrestling god who only speaks in bruises.
Rydeen Hagane may never be inducted into some shiny Hall of Fame, because her work wasn’t designed for glass cases. It was designed for the ring—where she’s bled, broken, and thrived. She’s the wrestler you don’t appreciate until she’s gone. The kind whose matches don’t get gif’d, but get remembered. The kind who doesn’t sell shirts—she sells pain.
And maybe that’s why the fans who love her really love her. Because she’s not a character. She’s not a cosplay. She’s not a brand. She’s a fighter. A bruised saint with a lariat that could stop your heart and a stare that could chill tequila.
In a wrestling world littered with false idols and Instagram influencers, Rydeen Hagane is a dying breed—a blue-collar demigod forged in sweat and stubbornness. She is the sound of a bell at midnight, the ache in your knees after a street fight, the echo of thunder you feel before you hear.
And she’s still swinging.