To say that he was bored would be an understatement. Time had been his to play with for interminable eons, rewinding the clock again and again, running through countless permutations of Earth and her sisters. It had been amusing the first few times, but quickly lost its luster, even for all the power that he could harvest from the many variations that he'd allowed to play out. But there were only so many ways you could arrange things before it got a little stale... he needed variety! He needed change!
The sorcerer of sorcerers could easily see why the Titan whose throne he stole had gone quite mad, attempting over and over to create a realm where 'good' and 'evil' were in constant conflict, to create something that could be simply observed and not manipulated.
An idea came to hm, as he nudged the sands of time in a particular direction to see if something new would happen with the current setup, long-forgotten whispers of the many lives he'd collected squirming up from the depths of his soul. Magics he'd quite foolishly dismissed out of hand could be useful in finding some new wrinkle to amuse himself with-the alternative was to relinquish his throne to another and throw himself into oblivion, which for all that he was feeling the ennui of eternity wasn't yet in the cards.
Yes, he thought, as he began the preparations to hold a new tournament for the first time in countless iterations of the world he had so despised, even while mortal. Time did have a relative relationship to space, and if he was smart about it he could avoid drawing the attention of powers yet greater than him, at least not attention that would find him reduced back down to a pathetic shell of a human.
His servants took many decades to finish the preparations but he was a patient God. With a burst of sorcerous might the veil was torn and the invitations were sent out...and for the first time in quintillions of years Shang Tsung felt giddy with anticipation.
His teeth ground for a moment as he took the missive from the messenger, who quickly retreated in the face of his king's foul spirits. Though the temper was to be expected, recent setbacks had set him in a particularly dangerous mood. Rarely did he blame his underlings, capable as they were in enacting his many schemes, but at times he had to remind them just why he was the boss.
Turning the crisp white envelope over thoughtfully, he looked at the wax seal on the paper. A curious emblem of a dragon's head pressed into the red wax, even though the front of the envelope had that broken circle icon embossed into it. The offset perpendicular lines, one thicker than the other, were something he had longed to see, but that dragon head? That was something else.
"So they want to invite me to the grandpappy of all fighting tournaments, eh? More my speed than any crummy street fight. They're going to see just why I'm the King."
Laughing darkly to himself, he opened the envelope and read through it, before incinerating it with a careless blast of heat from his nostrils.
"Oh yes, they'll see, they'll see indeed." Throughout his expansive fortress his minions shrank back in fear as his laughter resounded through the stone halls...
The doorway shut and vanished behind him, leaving the king and a small retinue standing on the rocky shores of a volcanic island. Tropical shrubs and trees lined a gravel pathway leading up into the interior of the island, ascending the steep slopes to a temple three quarters of the way to the peak, barely visible through the perpetual fog shrouding the mount. He knew the other fighters had already arrived, most likely, things did tend to come to him rather slowly after all. Not through any fault of his own, but people were hesitant to involve him in things like this. All the same, he weathered the trek up the sharp ascent with little complaint.
Nearing the temple he was greeted with a large decorative gate. There was a large carving of the same dragon head inlaid with gold in the center of the gate's top spar, while the two pillars on either side of it were engraved with the image of a disembodied hand in stark white stone. Odd, but he'd seen stranger stuff. Beyond the gate was a stone courtyard, hooded figures in dark robes milling about as they fulfilled their tasks as needed and as assigned. Before him was another stone stairway, this one much shorter, flanked by two gargantuan fire bowls that burned with unearthly green flames. There ahead of him was the temple proper, wood stained red with white rice paper panels illuminated from within. Wordlessly the two attendants pulled the doors to the temple open, admitting him and his retinue without a challenge.
It had been a day and though the appointments were lavish enough for an emperor he was beginning to grow restless. He had been provided with reading material that was meant to inform him further of both the world he was in (what kind of a name was Earth for a planet?) and the tournament he'd been invited to, but he had little patience for it, truth be told. At last, though, a gong resounded, and the doors to his guest room slid open to admit a wizened old figure in luxurious silk robes. He knew little of Earth customs and attire even though his own world was a close match for it in many ways. The man bowed deeply, seemingly unbothered by his advanced age, and smiled a cruel, sly smile at the king.
"I am the master of this island," he said in a voice as oily as it was ancient. "My name is Shang Tsung; please allow me to accompany you to the tournament hall." Rising from his seat and ignoring the slight narrowing of eyes at the damage his size had done to the rich appointments (don't invite kings if you have flimsy furniture, guy), he allowed this little lord to lead him through the halls. He paid little attention to what the man was saying, not much concerned with the history of the realm, or of the promises of great power and wealth should he be victorious. Though the promise of a terrific wish with almost no limits had him practically salivating. The things he could do with THAT were beyond imagining. Perhaps there was some merit to this tournament, after all.
At last, they entered a large, circular room, that had but two doors on the ground level, though there were balconies rising in tiers above the arena floor. And to one side sat a dais, with a gilded throne upon it. "And here we are, the arena that I promised you," Shang Tsung said. It was at first glance roughly eighty feet across, the floor made of polished slate tiles. "As you may have read in the introductory leaflet, this tournament is simple. Your opponent will come through that door over there, and my magicians will transform this courtyard into a battlefield suitable for your clash. For your bout itself, there are no rules, no time limits, no scoring, no restrictions, and no forfeits. You fight until one of you is unable to continue... or dead. Between bouts you are free to rest up, heal as needed, or partake in the pleasantries my island has to offer.
"In the past," Shang Tsung continued, clearly enjoying hearing himself speak, while the king just grew more restless and eager, "the rules were slightly different. If this were an official, sanctioned tournament, you would be given a rather short three minutes, in two bouts of ninety seconds each, to defeat your opponent. A winner would be determined whether or not both fighters were still on their feet...and furthermore the challengers would be sent to an arena, rather than having one made-"
"What does this have to do with us here today?" the king interrupted with a gruff snarl. "Did you bring me here to test my might, or to talk my ears off?" Shang Tsung just smiled indulgently, and bowed ever so slightly.
"I merely wished to impart some of the history of my island. It has long been the site of many attempted Konquests; the gods whom sanction the tournaments are busy with their own affairs, and only allow a proper tournament to be held once every twenty years. Ample time to train up powerful Kombatants and pit them against the Konqueror's own champions. This tournament is being held for my own amusement. I have... other patrons than the Elder Gods, whose desires align with my own, in this instance..."
The king sensed there was more than what he was being told, but that was not his concern. If and when the self-important wizard became a problem for him, he would deal with it. But the man's earlier words piqued his interest. No rules...he could work with that. But, he considered, and turned to Shang Tsung, who was beginning to turn back to the doors they had entered from. "Wait," the king commanded. "I want to change the format a little. It won't be any fun to cut loose if I already know who's fighting. For my bouts, I want your magicians to make the battlefield first, and then my opponent and I can meet each other. It won't be any fun otherwise."
Shang Tsung raised an eyebrow, but then just smiled indulgently. "It will be as you command, O King. We'll see how adaptive you really are. If it please you, then, your first battle will start shortly." Perhaps he'd been anticipated for his eagerness, the king mused, as the spectators for this match had been filing in while they spoke, and the stands were nearly full. And with a much greater diversity than he expected; all manner of humanoids like he'd never seen before filled the seats, watching and waiting patiently. Grinning haughtily, Shang Tsung assumed his throne, and with a gong the sound of chanting filled the air.
In a great flash of light the arena changed...