THUD.

He had failed. His whole life was a failure.

THUD.

He had failed to protect his mother from Toshin.

THUD.

He had failed to see Heihachi for what he really was. Allowed himself to be betrayed.

THUD.

He had failed to fight the darkness encroaching upon his soul. He had failed to realise the potency of the Devil Gene flowing through his body.

THUD.

He would not fail again.

With a final blow, the makeshift punch bag was ripped from its moorings. He looked at it for a few moments, as he breathed heavily, the sweat pouring off his body.

He knelt by the nearby stream, splashing the cool water on his face. He gazed at his reflection. He didn't look evil - the face looking back at him was the same that had greeted him throughout his life. But the malevolence was there, awakened two years ago by his grandfather's betrayal. He remembered the sheer blind fury that had fuelled him, remembered hardly noticing the pain of the huge feathered wings that had split his skin as they emerged from his back - remembered hardly noticing the wings at all.

What the hell was he? What kind of hell was he?

It had taken two years to get any kind of answer. Much of it Jin Kazama had already guessed - he had been told that Kazuya Mishima, his father, had possessed some sort of dark power that was not entirely his own. It seemed that that legacy had been passed down to him.

He shuddered as he remembered his mother, fearful, crying, telling him at the age of fifteen the truth about his father; how upon his death, she had been confronted by a devilish spirit, who she had fought and defeated. Or at least, thought she had defeated...

Could it be? Had that encounter tainted him with evil, before he was even born? Did he even have a choice in the path his life would take now? How could he live any kind of normal life, knowing what he knew? There were many questions to which he could find no answers.

He looked around him, trying to take solace in the forest, listening to the myriad of sounds around him; the trickling of the stream, the rustling of the trees, swaying in the light breeze, the chorus of birds singing. Sometimes, he felt that he could almost hear his mother calling him.

He thought Ling. She had been one of his few friends at the Mishima funded college that they had both attended, if only for a short time. She had no idea of Heihachi's true nature. He had warned her, anonymously, by email. He hoped she had the sense to take it seriously.

But Heihachi was hatching a new plan - he had announced a fourth King of Iron Fist' Tournament. The stakes were high - the winner would be handed the Mishima Ziabatsu, in all its entirety. He had wondered why Heihachi had gone to such extreme measures.

He had obtained a list of the entrants so far. Some of them were familiar names; Yoshimitsu, the bizarre but kindly ninja; Paul Phoenix, the American martial artist; Nina Williams, the deadly Irish woman - people that had been competing ever since the first tournament. Although the competitors were still applying, there was one name that had provided him an answer to his question...and it had chilled him to his core.

Kazuya Mishima.

He had almost been physically sick when he had read that name. At first he had hoped that it was just someone with the same name, some prankster, but he knew the truth in his heart. His father was, quite literally, alive and kicking.

Despite knowing firsthand the potency of the Devil Gene, having survived his grandfather's brutal, point blank assassination attempt, Jin was still stunned by his father's resurrection.

Between them, Heihachi and Kazuya had made the Mishima Ziabatsu one of the most feared conglomerates worldwide, letting the darkness within show through the cracks of a seemingly respectable veneer. It was obvious to him that Heihachi had set a trap for Kazuya, and that Kazuya was walking, probably willingly, into that trap.

All his thoughts had lead him to one conclusion; he could use this tournament - if he could bring and end to the Mishima Ziabatsu, destroy the progenitors of his bloodline, then perhaps his nightmare would end.

Perhaps finally he could be free.