Chapter Three: Glory and Atonement
Outworld is my home. I would have it no other way. That's what I thought in my youth. I grew up during the turbulent times when Kahn still competed with pretenders and rival warlords. I remember the sound of his hammer cracking countless heads and their desperate screams.
Cities burned at his feet. When he walked across a battlefield, the souls of countless hundred swelled around him. He was an anchor for them; a twisted, shining beacon for the dead. His dark soul beckoned them and added their strength to his own. I don't want to imagine how many souls reside inside his body. He's a husk in every sense of the word. Driven only by conquest and bloodshed, he cannot understand others. We are all his pawns, his sacrificial lambs.
Countless men and women would die for him. Countless have. And I was one of them.
Growing up in my village, there wasn't much to do. We'd play pretend, search for forgotten treasure, and otherwise waste our youth. The boys in our village were either squat and virulent or lanky and introspective. I was neither. My father was a farmer, nothing out of the ordinary. But his strength was beyond that of normal men. When he plowed the fields, the earth moved for him. He hardly bulged a muscle with tearing into the earth.
Survival was the key to everything. It's different from Earthrealm where even though they've killed and massacred their own in countless wars, they still have a chance. The chance to be free and determine their own fate without facing many obstacles in that path. To be good or to be evil. In Outworld, it seems you can't walk down a trail without meeting a brigand or a potential traitor in your midst.
It didn't take long for the Emperor to unite Outworld under his rule. All of his rivals were slaughtered and consumed by his powerful magic. I remember when he took that woman Sindel as his Empress. Even from a far, when Kahn stood from his balcony in the capitol, she looked miserable. There was haggardness and a bitter scowl on her face at all times.
She died less than a hundred years after their marriage. All that remained was their daughter, Kitana. The girl was hardly seen outside the walls of the palace. The house-wives gossiped that she become a demon and was whisked away. Others said that she became an assassin, molded and trained by Kahn's personal killers.
It's all true to a degree. That girl is a killer. The blood on her hands can never be washed away. She massacred an entire village with her sister about two thousand years ago. Nobody knows why. Kahn is brutal but for the most part efficient in his dealings. I said for the most part. Her cruelty and arrogance knows no bounds.
I used to think that. Kitana must be like her mother, tired and worn down from the years of service to her father and emperor. Any child raised like that would surely break down at some point.
That's not what you came to hear though.
We were attacked by one of the rival warlords. He demanded that we give up our territory and become a province of his domain. The village elder asked what we would receive in return.
"You'll escape with your lives old man." He said.
The elder refused. I was a hundred years old at that point. Young, brash, and hot-headed to boot, I couldn't stand the way that fool disrespected and robbed our homes. My father's strength surged through my body. The warlord mercilessly sliced the elder's head off. It rolled across the ground; his blood stained the earth underneath him. The look of horror and shock on his face made my blood boil.
"Anyone else have any smart ideas? Good."
"Get back to work. We'll be taking the old man's place. You're supporting a good cause." The warlord smirked.
I don't what made me take that step. I was never close to the elder or well liked by him. I was strong. Stronger than most of the boys in the village. When I walked, the earth shook underneath me. I stepped forward with my fist clenched. The warlord glanced at me and narrowed his eyes.
"Get back in line. Or are you a fool as well?"
"We are not slaves for your use warlord." I challenged him.
The warlord raised his bushy brows and curled his yellow teeth. He pointed to two of his guards and barked at them to kill me. I stood my ground. Their movements were sloppy and undisciplined. The elder had been killed by some upstart without much training or experience. He was a brigand leader at best, a cut-throat fool at worse. They drew their swords and lunged at my chest and throat. I inhaled and stamped my feet into the ground.
The earth shook and a tremor exploded underneath them. Wobbling in place, they dropped their blades. I took my chance. I lunged at one with my palm. It cracked against his neck and dislocated his neck from the violent blow. He fell to the ground while his friend stared in disbelief. I motioned for him to attack. He roared towards me with his blade in hand. I evaded to the right and slammed him into the ground. His sword popped in front of me. I roared with bloodlust and thrusted the blade into his heart. I gave it a violent twist, severing the veins and arteries along his heart. The look in that man's eyes still haunted me to this day.
It was power. For the first time in my life, I was no longer a anybody. I was somebody.
The warlord gritted his teeth. I had no idea what was going through his mind. At the time, I didn't care. I only wanted to kill him. The instinct coursing through me, I wondered how many others had felt that primal sensation? In Outworld's history, I was bout one of a thousand with the same tale. One of revenge and personal glory. Did Kahn feed off our savage desires? Our destructive impulses? I still don't know.
The warlord rushed at me and fell to the ground with a single thrust of my palm. He must have been weak or some pretender. There were countless in those days. He wavered in and out of consciousness. His glazed eyes stared into mine while he drooled. He begged for mercy and groveled at my feet.
I showed him none. Thus was the way of Outworld. I twisted his neck clean off and reveled in the power I felt. The people in my village became afraid of me. Even though I had avenged the elder, they saw me as a demon, not Bo'Rai Cho the strong. My own father disowned me for my barbaric treatment of our enemies. I gathered my belongings and never returned to my village.
I heard not long after another warlord, more competent than the last came a year later. I never heard from my father or my neighbors again. At that point in time, it made no difference. I only felt contempt and hatred for their weaknesses. Why should they fear me? I protected them and did what they could not.
I had no direction in life. For years I wandered Outworld honing my skills. I trained with some of the old masters from my youth. Master Su, Master Tojo. Master after so called master. They only taught the mockery of fighting to their students. Or they were harassed and forced to train the warlords controlling their areas. I would be refused by some, and accepted by many. It made no difference in my mind. My power surpassed them in ways they could not understand.
But then I was bested. I met this raggedy old man one day. I'd heard of him from my last master, the one who I had left with a crippled hand. He spoke of his elusiveness and secret fighting techniques. I was two hundred years old, still in the heart of my youth. It was either a fool's lie or perhaps the test I needed. I wasn't satisfied with my skills. No, I wasn't satisfied with the opponents around me. I'd never seen the Shokan or the Tarkata, so my only experience came from fighting other outworlders like myself.
I found this worn down dojo in the high mountains near the Kuatan Canyons. I heard the thunderous roars of beasts and the cracks of whips while I travelled the mountains. For days I searched. The heat soared and the nights froze with each passing cycle. Five days I searched for a man who might have been a phantom. I should have died out there. I hallucinated about the dead, the people I had killed in my conquests. I'd have these night terrors for years, even to this day I still do. They happen rarely, but when they do I realized one thing: you can do nothing for the departed.
Returning to the rickety dojo, I saw a light illuminating it. Had I simply missed the old man? I entered the room and found a fist crack against my face. The force behind it sent me reeling back. I tumbled and rolled to the floor. A man with grey hair and absurdly long eyebrows greeted me. He stood at the entrance of the dojo and stroked his wispy beard. He spoke in an old dialect of Outworld, something akin to Cantonese or Mandarin in Earthrealm.
"What are you looking for, slow footed fool?" he asked.
I rushed at him. My bloodlust increased as I stared down at the small man. I cracked my fingers and launched my palm at his face. I met a steel grip. The old man's robe blocked my hands.
"You are slow fool. Only fight with power and beginner's luck. A rock can be shattered, given the right amount of pressure" he scolded me.
I lunged at the old fool. He weaved in and out like water, his movements were too fluid, too fast for my hard, and stomps. When I shook the earth, he stilled it with his power. The blow was deflected and sent back at me. I fall on my back and stared up at the sky. It began to rain as the old man lunged his fist at my throat. The blood rushed to my head; I was bested by a man half a foot shorter than me. Yet he commanded his body with fluidity and control unlike any I had seen before. He moved like water. Firm yet fluid, shifting and writhing out of reality.
"You should have waited. I was just sleeping. Young people now a day just too damn impatient." He huffed.
"Are you the Old Man of the Mountain?"
He spat to the side and rolled his eyes at my question. He kicked my stomach and walked back to his dojo.
"Foolish old men call me that and four arm brutes down the way as well. Old Man of Mountain. I'm the only person on this cursed place. It keeps me alive"
I bowed my head before him. I hadn't bowed to anyone since I left the village. I had trained with "masters", but they were amateurs and charlatans I realized. This was a man who was an elder, not in any sense of disrespect. He could move mountains if he wanted to.
Like so many have asked me, I asked him.
"Master, teach me your ways. I stand humble at your feet." I pleaded.
"You think power will serve you? Bah, you serve it. And what will you do if I teach you, slow foot? Go and kill weak farmers and villagers? Damn warlords send their "best" and end up slaughtering innocents. You the same as them?" I inquired.
He was the first to test my resolve. Even with the brutality I had unleashed upon my opponents, his words stung more than any fist or kick had in my life. The look of shame and guilt in that man's eyes would become my guilt. And it has become the guilt of my countless failures as well.
I trained with Master Mei for ten years. During that time, a warlord had risen from the ruins of the Dragon King's empire. Nobody had heard of him or seen him up until the first year I trained with Master Wu. He wore the skull of a demon his face. His eyes burned with the flames of the Kuatan volcanos. When he walked, it seemed as if battle would break out at any moment. His prowess was only matched by his strange abilities. Many would be conquerors were simple bandits or trained fighters. He possessed dark magic that no man should ever use. They say when he walked through the battlefields, the souls of the departed flew into his body. He was a beacon for them, adding their strength to his own.
Shao Kahn became known as the Protector of Outworld. While he slaughtered the provincial warlords, he defended the people. He demanded tribute and goods to finance his conquests; the people complied whole heartedly. It was better to serve a warlord who could defend his territories and still show some degree of restraint than a warlord who was merely a pretender or incompetent fool.
Master Wu spent his nights drinking with me. It was the two of us alone during those lonely days. My body slowly hardened from the amount of liquor I drank for ten years straight. My liver must have turned to rot around that time. I'd fight him in a stupor half the time. Slowly over time, I realized what he was doing. He wasn't teaching me his fighting style. No, rather he trained me to develop my own. I had always power and force in my techniques. He made me like water by consuming so much alcohol. He imparted the fluidity of his own style and helped me to develop what would later become Drunken Fist.
I still couldn't beat the old man, but I came close. For those ten years, I didn't forget my desires. I was tired of the countless fights and petty warlords killing people. I was a killer, an unforgiving wanderer, but wasting the resources and lives of the weak peasants brought no honor to them. Razing and pillaging village after village, it was only a matter of time that Outworld would become a barren wasteland.
Wu and I would argue and contest the way of the world. He despised the killings, saying that no warlord was worthy to rule Outworld. He said that the true empire would never be reborn. When I asked him about it, he refused to tell me anything. I pressured him for years, but he never did. I couldn't just stand by and watch the people die. When word reached of the mysterious Shao Kahn's conquest, I found myself drawn to this man. His accomplishments had become urban legends. It was rumored that he had defeated the mighty Gorbak, Prince of the Shokan. Rather than kill him, he spared him and commended his abilities. He offered him the chance to become a general in his growing army. The Shokan had allied with the warlord. Never before had the reclusive people of the Kuatan sided with any. They spent years dividing their time between civil war and political upheaval. The old joke was how long would the new so called "dynasty" last?
His army was looking for worthy recruits from the nearby village. Some young Shokan and fool villagers fought in early form of Mortal Kombat. The Shokan sent a representative to ensure that their numbers were not thinned. It was a coming of age for the young four arms. The first kill signified they were now men in their culture. Wu forbade me to get involve with the bouts. I couldn't say no to it. I was still drawn to the promise of power, something that Wu had warned me about for years. Wu refused to speak to me when I told him I entered the bouts.
"You want to die like dog so be it. Go and never return to this place, Bo'Rai Cho" he said.
I never forgave myself for leaving Master Wu. Had I heeded his words, my fate and his would have been different.
I entered the tournament. The first few rounds were the same kind of conflicts I had faced in the past. Easy and overly eager fools. I did not kill them. Wu had created a conflict in my code. If I showed mercy to my opponents, I'd be considered weak I thought. Another fighter, a black spotted Shokan, tore through his opponents. He killed many during those four days. He was powerful, but he wasted potential lives that could have served the future Emperor in someway. I wanted to kill him.
And I did. The Shokan was like myself ten years ago. He relied on brute force and unpolished techniques. His coordination lacked the kind of hellish training that Wu put me through during our ten years together. When he wobbled and fell to the ground, the scene from my village burned in my mind. I hated wasted resources or people who could bring order to Outworld. He was a reminder of Outworld's nightmarish landscape.
"Mm…mercy. You have proven your strength, mortal" he begged.
I grabbed his neck and tore his head clean off. The spine followed with all of his innards visible from the gaping wound in his neck. Blood seeped from neck while his body writhered for several seconds before collapsing against the ground. I showed his head to the Shokan watching in the crowd. They roared and attempted to jump through the lines. A massive hammer spun through the air and knocked them all back ten feet. I felt a strong hand rest on my shoulder.
He towered three no four heads over me. It was Shao Kahn the Protector. He barked at the Shokan and told them to accept the consequences of entering one of their champions into his tournaments. He commended me on brutality and avenging the villager's sons and daughters. Kahn said he needed soldiers like me to bring unity to Outworld. The way he spoke with such passion and vigor, how could I say no? He could look into your soul and make you dance to his tune and make you believe evil was virtue and good was vice.
I never saw him again. I was promoted on the spot to a small regiment near the Living Forest. In the meantime, Kahn's conquest became known throughout the north. Out of the old empire, a man had risen to slowly unite the people. The old maps showed his territories at the time, year after year, the slowly grew. With each passing year as well, I too changed. The power had begun to go to my head. I killed many in the name of my lord. My powerful and erratic fighting style became feared throughout the southern territories. We were a small regiment of fools and blood-thirsty killers.
Blood was all I thought of, blood was all I saw. We would paint our faces with the blood of our enemies. No mercy for those who defied Shao Kahn, no mercy for those who denied the Protector. I left the regiment after thirty years of service. My fighting style had caught the attention of one of Kahn's first generals. I do not remember the man's name, only that he was shrewd and used glory hounds like me for his political advancement. He wanted me to instruct his soldiers in the way of my fighting style. I refused him. Nobody would be able to replicate my techniques, let alone Master Wu's fighting skills in a few months.
It was a mistake on his part. He challenged me to a fight and demanded my life for this dishonor. It made no difference to me. I slew him like any other fool that got in my way. I gladly took command of his outpost and trained the soldiers in my own way. I did not teach them Drunken Fist. I taught them techniques of strength and defense. Stand like a boulder and crush your enemies. Teaching recruit after recruit, it earned the eyes of a man who wanted to train a new type of fighter I had never seen: assassins. Outworld was ruled in the Golden Age by Onaga. Occasionally some fool would stir up resentment against his eternal rule, but they were crushed by his army. Or the assassins he had trained. It's eerie when I think about it. The parallels between Kahn and Onaga's myths seem like they were planned that way. As if something guided their actions or subtlety nudged them in that direction.
I trained children to become remorseless killers. It began to dawn upon me that amount of carnage I had caused. By this time, five hundred years had passed since I left my home. These could have been children stolen from parents or taken from their homes. And Kahn's once benevolent tyranny had devolved into a systematic brutality that even made me uneasy. I couldn't live with the shame of what I had done. For years I thought I was protecting Outworld, and yet I looked at the results. Countless had fallen to my fists, to my orders. I was no better than the warlords who slaughtered the villages of the north. I had become the shadow of what I hated.
During a patrol, I made it appeared as if I had died. I left behind the body of a man who looked like me and left my regalia and ornaments on his body. He was badly burned and half eaten by a creature lurking in the forests. They could hardly tell the difference. I grew my hair out and returned to Master Wu's dojo. He was gone.
I never saw him again. I still wonder if he is alive or he died alone? Was I one of the only ones who had known him? So many thoughts spun through my mind. I meditated there for days. I found no answer. I forsook my allegiance to Shao Kahn and his growing tyranny. At this point, he united all of Outworld. The Tarkatan Horde soon migrated from the Netherealm and began to terrorize the Wastelands. The Centuar's realm was one of the first added in Mortal Kombat. Outworld changed from a land of rustic beauty into a hideous amalgam of the other worlds. The legends and myths of old were replaced only with the Emperor's truth. Any trace of Onaga or men like Master Wu were buried or forgotten. The men who I had served with slowly died or were killed off. His ranks became filled with Tarkata, Centaurs, and the Shokan. So much violence and so much pointless death.
I had been a fool to serve him. The man I hoped to unite Outworld was a myth. And I had trained some of his soldiers and assassins. My actions paved the way for my techniques to be used against anyone deemed a threat or traitor to the empire. Children trained in those cold chambers throughout their childhood. It was a cult.
Song was one of those children. It happened over ten years ago. She couldn't have been more than twenty years old. I saw a little girl about to slit my throat. She pressed her small dagger into my neck. I instinctively grabbed her and tossed her off me. Song slammed into a wooden wall and gripped her broken arm. She stared at me and waited for death.
I took the blade from her and looked at her arm. A girl no older physically than a ten year old Earthrealm child cried in my arms. I doubt she had been shown any compassion or encouragement throughout her life. I could not make up for the brutality I inflicted upon Outworld. I could only live in the present and atone for my sins.
That is why I despise Shao Kahn. I placed my hopes on Kung Lao five hundred years ago. He beat Shang Tsung and held the title for fifty years. Then Goro came and slew him. Earthrealm is the last of Kahn's great conquests. Seido wishes to attack him, but they are a joke and too small compared to Outworld's army. Make no mistake, Ronin, Shao Kahn must die. I will not accept anything but his death or imprisonment.
As I said, the past is not as important. You cannot change it. You can only acknowledge and live with the burden of your actions.
Nothing can be forgiven, only eternal atonement awaits for killers like us.