Chapter 3
The Mishima facilities were breathtaking.
Hwoarang didn't often give out compliments – especially not to anything that was, in any way, related to Jin Kazama – but, by God, the training facilities…the state of the art gym…the fighting arenas…
Just another thing that reminded him of what the youngest Mishima had – and what he, no matter what he did, could never even dream of achieving.
He had arrived early that morning, dressed in black and dark grey, his hair pulled back and his sunglasses on.
He drew a lot of glances from the female population, but he was too tensed to notice. All he could think of was a fight from almost a year ago, and the young man he had promised himself to take down.
He walked on, "protected" by Mishima guards he could outfight with his eyes closed.
His meeting with the contestants passed by in a blur; he listened and observed but he never joined in. A brightly dressed Chinese girl – who at first glance, looked about twelve years old – asked him something, but he only smiled and turned his attention to the arguing set of twins.
After waiting a minute for his answer, she gave up, and faded back into the crowd. He felt something akin relief – he had never been a very sociable person.
He might have ignored her, but he didn't stop watching her. He didn't want to watch her, but something drew his eyes to her.
He mentally compared her to the other women in the room. They were all splendid to look at – trim and taunt bodies matched with beautiful faces – but there was something – something different – about this girl.
It took him a moment to place what it was. She was happy, he realised. The breezy, carefree sort of happy that came from youth and naivety and something else he couldn't quite place yet. Hope, maybe?
The mystery solved, he turned his eyes away from her and looked at a fairly average-looking man with a mask hanging by his side. The dreaded King, he thought. Personally, he'd be ashamed if he needed a magic mask just to get into the Tournament.
Just as Hwoarang was wondering how much longer this forced social intercourse could last, the devil himself walked into the elaborately decorated banquet room.
Jin Kazama.
Again – for what felt like the thousandth time that year – Hwoarang felt his blood boil. Seeing him – in person, not just in his head – was much worse. His body tensed and his fists curled, but his face remained impassive, unchanged. Baek had taught him well.
He watched, out of the corner of his eye, as the same brightly dressed Chinese girl squealed and engulfed the newcomer in a hug. Kazama laughed and bent his head to kiss the girl on the cheek.
Unknowingly, Hwoarang clenched his jaw.
Before he knew it, he had placed his untouched drink on the table and was making his way towards the happy couple.
A small voice in the back of his head tried to stop him. Act cool, it said. Remember Baek's teachings. Hwoarang ignored it as he faced off with his rival.
Jin Kazama, he noted, was looking at him with a mixture of bafflement and curiosity – almost as if he didn't know who he was. Typical, Hwoarang thought disgustingly, that the sheltered little rich boy can't even remember him. Well, he wasn't going to make a fool of himself by admitting he remembered him.
He broke eye contact with the older man and looked down at the girl he had brushed off earlier.
'Tae Kwon Do,' he replied, a long delayed answer to her previous question. He offered her his hand. 'And I'm Hwoarang.'