Shao Kahn's palace, a landmark of the eastern continents of Outworld was home to many of the native born species, sentient and otherwise. One among them was not Shang Tsung. The native born and certainly not the sorcerer himself wouldn't know otherwise, but he had a sharper tongue on him than most.

Like a dagger.

Outside of the city beyond the palace was the Valley of the Dead to the east, and Dead woods to the west. He dare not yet cross the ocean to Lost Edenia, but he would certainly find himself at dawn by the great crack in the continent that separated Mt. Eterna from Skarlet's city.

Long ago this would have lead him to New Edenia, and even further west the Pyramid of Argus, but this was a different Outworld than the one he had learned of.

As he sat alone camped on the bank of the great river, he listened for the whistle of the kettle and felt the heat of the iron handle. His tea was ready and his thoughts clear as the smoke filled his lungs like a cleansing vapor with the hint of Camellia sinensis leaves.

Shao Kahn was the protector of Outworld before the timelines were shattered. Even in death.

Who are you now?

By noon Shang Tsung had walked two miles up stream and not a moment presented itself to cross the river. Parted like a great scar, the continents could be seen from the edge of the other, but to cross alone, or to swim, may have been more dangerous than the rift between them.

At the center of the city he could walk down and find the thinnest stretch, or clear the Dead Woods to find the thickest where it then opens up to the ocean. He chose the thinnest, but even still as he travelled west along the banks, the tree line of the forest to be seen by dusk, he could find no means to cross without swimming.

There would be no return for Shang Tsung. Erron Black crossed the sea on all of Skarlet's longships and what was left by the fishermen would not be his to use. He'd have to find help, or dare to swim across. As a sorcerer, he would have appeared at the very place he meant to be already, but his sharp tongue would not get him across this time.

By nightfall it was too late to cross. The slosh and slap of the water as life bustled burdened his mind. Tea could not calm him, and the river mocked him as loudly as the laughter of the new Kahn in her palace. Skarlet would want him to succeed, sure, but as under Shao Kahn, Shang Tsung was not native born to Outworld. He would never fully gain her trust, nor her respect.

Not unless he could bring magic back to the realms.

Do you still exist?

His encampment was nothing more than what he could carry on his back. A simple bed roll and his kettle with the mug tied to a string. A scroll, ink, and pen in his pouch, and the claws that sharpened his left hand all joined him in silence as a low snicker of fire stared back at him until just embers peered into his eyes to make sure he were still awake.

The forest's fingers scratched the dry air above them in the distance. He itched his chin and stared into the river as it glistened with activity under the moon. Never had he such a mundane challenge and never such a mundane answer.

He narrowed his eyes, a dim orange light caught his attention in the distance across the stretch. It was a boat, a canoe or raft of some sort. Something a fisherman would have that carried an oil lamp and a single person. He could only see the fire sparkle in its iron cage and the silhouette of a ship, the barely blackened figure of a man or woman in robes. Who ever it was had chosen to cross the river in just the right spot, at just the right time for Shang Tsung.

Here he would wait and hope the fisherman, if that is who he or she were, would come to shore on the other side. It wasn't uncommon, and he was thankful to which ever deity presented this opportunity.

"Well met." He spoke under his breath to no one but the ears of the world.

New Edenia? No, he had no clue of the village or city that lay just above The Golden Desert. Never needed to travel past Mt. Eterna. The land so dead and arid even Shao Kahn would send only his worst to conquer.

As the ship met the center of the river and the waters calmed for him to pass, Shang Tsung lit the fire brighter and stood for the other to know him. The other figure acknowledged the man at the bank and seemed to steer his wooden craft directly for Shang Tsung. Inside, he felt some semblance of relief, like a voice had answered his call to assist in this difficult task only to have that breath sucked back into the lungs of despair when a shadow shot like a bullet in the night into the robed figure and cause them to fall into the maw of the glistening black river beneath the apathetic moon.

He shot back with anger and grit his teeth at the faceless man that towered over him, bow clean of its bitter arrow high over head.

"How do you expect me to cross it now?" He recognized this man as the masked guard that guided him to Skarlet Kahn.

No response.

The boat drifted aimless along the vast expanse of troubled waters.

The sea of blood boiled within Shang Tsung and the bottled cry for help drifted away. As dirty and corrupt as Shao Kahn was, he would never have done this.

He prepared to kill the guard, to take full advantage of consequences of becoming an enemy to the current Kahn. His claws sharp and his fingers strained like a tiger ready to close the gap between them and lunge for the masked man's jugular.

Before the man could feel the hot breath of his enemy on him, the masked guard lowered his bow and then unfastened a curled rope from his waist to toss at the sorcerer's feet.

A hook at one end, and leather tied to grip at the other. Shang Tsung was disarmed and his sharp tongue dulled as he couldn't find the words, couldn't understand.

Was this the help he thought he called for, or more games?