Well, we're finally here. This has been a long time in the making.
As I prepare for the final venture into my Kumite series, I look back on the previous two with different degrees of criticism. The first one was incredibly immature, as I was really a neophyte trying to swim in the deep SNK pool. I hadn't put in the time yet to really respect and "get" the world. I was basically crashing action figures together in an 80-man tournament that was a huge mess.
I found my stride in the sequel, and began to really understand and respect the world I was writing about. That being said, I overcorrected; I put TOO much into the sequel, and it became an overambitious, overstuffed project that consumed a lot of my time and led to multiple hiatuses. Hiatii? Anyways, I've talked to my friends about this, and they've called the sequel the Simon's Quest/Zelda II of Kumite lol. Very apropos.
Ideally, I want this to be the perfect end to the trilogy; the culmination of everything I've experienced and learned, put into one last story that's just right. Maybe it will succeed, maybe it won't.
In any case, I've thrown the rulebook out the window. I don't care about canon, or timelines, or who's supposed to be dead or alive or old or young. The game itself hardly cares, so there's no point in me holding myself back with a bunch of restrictions. I'm really just going to do whatever I want at this point, even if it doesn't follow the story accurately or goes against some kind of established canon. My official stance on this is that it takes place before the events of KOF 14, but if you're expecting it to be accurate, it probably won't be. I'm really just telling my own story, and hoping it makes sense and entertains. I've already made so many mistakes that there's no point in staying on the rails anymore.
That being said, let's get started.
The year is 2015.
Rumors of a new King of Fighters singles competition had been floating around, but with no confirmation as to where, when, or who would be hosting. Regardless, even the utterance of the legendary fighting tournament was enough to put the world on edge, for all reasons: both grandiose and gripping.
An unassuming taxi cab raced across the road, well out of their designated route. The urban asphalt was replaced by the soft dirt of rural countryside, the city left behind in favor the majesty of greenery.
Its destination finally came into sight, and could not be in question: the biggest and most important monument in these parts consumed the landscape with its towering architecture. A castle, that had stood and endured for centuries, under the care of the Stronheim lineage.
The cab finally slowed to a halt before a large, spacious, well-kept courtyard, trimmed enough to entertain a game of golf. After paying the driver well for his time, the door opened...the entire car shifted from the mass of the body stepping out: a towering, behemoth of a man, looking at least 7 feet tall, clad in a fancy white suit that somehow accommodated his gargantuan figure. A white tie beautifully contrasted a black undershirt. Expensive sunglasses adorned his bearded face. As if there wasn't enough indication the man was someone of status...he reached into his pocket and unsheathed a long, exquisite cigar, which his much shorter, dark-suited, spectacled assistant reached over and lit for him.
The hairy giant took a long drag...and exhaled, smoke expelling from the corners of his lips.
"AHHHHHHHHH! The beautiful German countryside...a man can breathe out here, commissioner."
"Yes boss."
"The landscape...so lush! Obviously well-kept."
"Yes boss."
"And the grand castle of Von Stronheim... truly a monument of aristocracy!"
"Yes boss."
He took another drag, removed the cigar, tapped it a few times. His lips curved to a confident smile. "Well what are we waiting around here for?! We have business to attend to!"
The man gave a powerful knock with his substantial arm, easily heard throughout the manor. There was only a brief waiting period before the front door opened, and they were greeted by a slender man in a dark suit, with short, slick black hair. He adjusted his glasses (they shimmered ominously) before speaking:
"Good afternoon, sirs. Do you have an appointment with my master?"
The shorter man spoke first, stammering. "Ah w-well, you see-"
But he was quickly interrupted by the giant beside him. "My good man, we do not! But I can assure you, an audience would be worth your lord's time. He would not want to miss what I have to say, regardless of appointments!"
The greeter, unimpressed, scanned the large figure up and down, before turning eyes to his shorter counterpart, who tensed up upon receiving his icy gaze. A few suffocating moments passed, before the castle's resident spoke again:
"Please excuse me for a moment."
With a polite bow, the door slammed shut, leaving the big and small figures standing, wondering.
"Do you think he'll see us?" the short one asked.
The confident smile never waned. "I assure you, commissioner, an audience with us is not something that can be so idly avoided. He will see us... I swear it."
A few more uncertain moments passed, before the door opened again; this time, a slender suited man didn't step out, but a much larger man, relative to the visitor's own size. Dressed in casualwear, Krauser, regardless, carried himself with the importance of his status.
Upon seeing him, the visitors smile widened, and his voice boomed with warmth. "Wolfgang Krauser Von Stronheimmmmm! A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my German brother."
He extended his hand, and Krauser met it, commencing a meaty handshake. "The pleasure is all mine. Might I know who's visiting unannounced?"
He took out his cigar, politely blowing smoke away from his host's face, before speaking. "Aleksei Oleskyvich Antonov, at your service. Forgive me for my lack of scheduling, but I made a point not to do so, to stress the vital nature of our meeting. Please understand, my German brother, I meant no disrespect by this gesture."
Krauser stroked his smooth chin, contrasting his formidable mustache, before nodding. "Hm, well you certainly have gotten my attention, my Russian friend. Very well then, come inside, come inside! I have a maid that just finished baking a delicious apple cake! I gave her my old mother's recipe. Hein, prepare some coffee for our guests!"
Antonov removed his cigar, tapping the spent ash. "Your hospitality humbles me, Lord Krauser. I do, however, have one request...may I smoke inside?"
A nod. "If it pleases you, my Russian friend. Now come, come!"
The lord of the castle extended a hand to let Antonov walk first, but the Russian countered with his own courtesy, allowing the hosts to go in. As soon as their backs turned, he turned to his shorter counterpart and beamed.
"You see, my friend? That's how you get things done, even when you don't follow protocol. Simply speak loud, concise... and present yourself! Remember these things, Future Chief Director."
"Whatever you say, boss." the short one spoke with a contrasting meekness.
While the confections were prepared, Laurence Blood gave the strange guests the penny tour of what was once the site of a fateful battle with Terry Bogard, as well as lodging for the previous year's King of Fighters contestants. Antonov seemed to take utmost fascination in that second detail, as the questions came pouring out once the ice had been broken.
"So how many contestants were there?"
"48."
"And this was a singles competition?"
"Yes. That format hasn't been seen since the old days, when Geese Howard and my lord hosted these tournaments."
"Fascinating... while there is a stark beauty to the unity of teamwork, there is also a certain... romantic heroism of conquering your enemies singlehandedly, with nobody to back up your shortcomings. You yourself must be perfect: a flawless fighting machine, with no reliance on outside factors."
"Yes, yes, it's great. On the ashtray please, Mr. Antonov."
"Sorry."
By the end of the tour, Laurence was secretly sick of the guy, and his incessant interrogation only reminded the aide of his own hopeless position in the grand scheme of things, having not been allowed to compete in the previous Kumite... and now, even his position of being Krauser's right hand man was under threat by a siege of new staff members. He kept these thoughts to himself, of course.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!"
In the span of an hour, Antonov and friend had made themselves comfortable in the Stronheim manor. They sat in the parlor, his tremendous frame nearly swallowing his smaller counterpart on the same couch, indulging in Krauser's complimentary dessert and drinking coffee, whilst they traded booming, obnoxious laughter.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Krauser tilted back in his chair and nearly spilled his coffee. "I must say, Mr. Antonov, you certainly have many stories."
Antonov gestured with his fork. "As do you, milord, as do you!" That same fork then dug back into the caramel-brown crust of the baked treat, sending a scoop into his mouth, as he reached a forearm to wipe the crumbs. "Mmm... mmm! Delicious. Your maid has certainly outdone herself. A beautiful concoction... by a beautiful woman."
Iroha, who was refilling Krauser's cup, heard this and blushed profusely. She smiled and took a brief bow before retreating with the pot, producing lingering gazes behind her.
"Yes, your Castle certainly has a fantastic view." Antonov admired. "Except for that... certain furnishing over there."
His eyes cut to a fierce, rugged-looking man who was sitting, leg folded, in a nearby chair, rudely engorging on his own cake. He looked over and his scarred eye flashed red. "Grrrrr..."
"Don't mind Silber, I simply hired him to look mean." Krauser waved it off. "He has his uses. Now then! I believe I have been a generous host, so I feel I've earned the right to ask... what exactly is your purpose here, Mr. Antonov?"
"Your plates, sirs." Hein bowed and extended his hand, upon which the guests deposited their finished silverware.
"Thank you. May I smoke?" he addressed the head.
"Help yourself."
The giant Russian continued his strange tradition of having no desire to proceed forward without the smoldering end of a cigar hanging out of his mouth. He took a long drag, exhaled smoke... and his eyes re-opened.
"I must confess, my lord Krauser..." He spoke before taking another drag. "I come here today with avaricious motives. Avaricious... but ambitious."
Krauser put a hand to his chin. "I see."
He removed his cigar and brandished it. "You see, back home, I am a figure of great wealth and prominence. But I've always felt... an emptiness inside, like I'm missing something. That's when I decided to create a new object of my indulgence... and obsession."
He leaned in close, placing the cigar back in his mouth. With each word, smoke spilled out.
"King of Fighters."
Krauser's eyes intensified, as did Antonov's. A bit of a pseudo staring contest ensued, before the Russian continued his point with his same eccentric bravado.
"Yes, that was the missing piece! I see it now: the purity of hand to hand combat, the passion and honesty of sport, the glory of putting your spirit, your LIFE on the line... King of Fighters is the ultimate global spectacle! A monument to the strength of humanity, and the thirst to live life to your maximum potential, leaving no regrets!"
Krauser's eyebrows raised, and he responded with several acknowledging nods. "Laurence certainly wasn't lying about your romanticism. I know others who have a much more grim outlook of the annual tournament, but... your zest certainly captivates me."
"Thank you." He exhaled again. "That being said, to lay bare my mission coming here today: I wish to purchase your stock in King of Fighters."
That bombshell was the first freezing moment of the exchange; what had been, up to this point, a trading of loud exclamations and exuberant machismo, was now a humbling, sobering declaration, that brought the larger-than-life giants back down to their metaphorical sizes.
The next words were slow, and calculating. "Hein... my cup."
Having handed off his last dish to the butler, with no other obstacles remaining between them, Krauser leaned in... and spoke low. "So... you wish for me to sell away a vital piece of my legacy? Well you should know, Mr. Antonov: King of Fighters has meant a lot to me, and it's not something so easily frittered away to a rich hobbyist."
"Comrade Krauser, I pray you don't misunderstand my intentions." Antonov set down his cigar, to show his seriousness. "King of Fighters is not some toy, some frivolous investment to me to exhibit my possessions."
He proudly pounded his chest. "I bear the same fighting spirit inside me, that compels you all every year! I believe in the essence of what King of Fighters represents, and I only wish to take it, and carry it to greater heights. You see? I am the same as YOU!"
He leaned forward in his seat, brandishing his cigar so intensely that Hein had to intercept the droppings with a napkin. "Please my friend, I beg of you. I want to be a part of the world that you all share. I want to show what I can contribute to the world's greatest sport. I want to be... A KING OF FIGHTERS!"
A slight breathing period allowed the sales pitch to marinate, as Krauser leaned back, fingers gently stroking his mustache in thought. A few more seconds passed, before he presented his answer.
"Well, my Russian friend... you have certainly shown your hand. And you've certainly struck a chord in me. But there is still a skeptic in me... some foreign bigshot walks into my Castle, and waxes poetic about the virtues of King of Fighters, like he knows what he's talking about?"
"I assure you... I do." was the confident response.
A fierce grin crept onto Krauser's lips, and he rose to his feet. "Then perhaps we can settle this, and you slake my doubts... a contest of strength, man to man. Show me your fighting spirit. MAKE me believe you."
With a small, sinister laugh, Antonov handed over his ashtray and leavings to his counterpart, and too rose upwards. "My Lord Krauser... I would happily oblige."
A visit, which had begun with cake and coffee in the parlor, had now moved to the testosterone-scented confines of Krauser's training room. Worn mats plastered the floors. Battered equipment barely held together from his years of punishment.
He had found a willing dance partner in the form of the Russian stranger, who now stood across from him, as the two shared an intense staredown. The others had joined as well, as Laurence and Silber eagerly spectated on the sidelines. Iroha remained on standby, in the event of an injury.
"Yakov..." The Russian addressed his smaller counterpart. "Hold these."
"B-boss, are you sure this is a good...?!"
Before he could finish his worry, a shirt and tie combination had fallen in his arms, leaving Antonov's physique to be admired for the first time: his arms and chest surpassed even Krauser's in their monstrous girth, and his abdomen looked sturdy enough to repel a sword.
Krauser was already beginning to realize this was no poser. Yet still, he smiled.
"Well, you certainly look the part. But let's see if your fighting skills can back up your mass." With those words of challenge, he got into stance, bending his knees, extending his arms out, fingers wide.
Antonov smirked, expelling smoke, as he got in a similar stance. "I pray you don't go easy on me, milord. Anything less than your maximum power would upset your esteemed guest."
Krauser's eyebrow raised, noticing what still lie in his mouth. "You're going to smoke while we fight?"
Antonov only grinned, like it was a silly question. "I find it helps me relax and acute my senses, milord."
"You're an odd one...but whatever floats your boat. Now come on! Show me what you've got!"
Hein, the referee, stood between them, hand raised. "Ready?"
With a shimmer of his glasses, he brought his hand down. "BEGIN!"
The big men took their time, slowly inching forward, circling to cut radii... but moments later, both charged forward and the contest officially began. Everyone was forced to take a step back from the force of their kinetic energy becoming one.
As their bodies collided, their fingers met in the middle, clasping together in a Greco-Roman knuckle lock. Everyone watched with bated breath, as both parties strained to assert their strength onto the other... their muscles bared every vein, teeth gnashing, an audible exchange of exertive grunts between them.
"Hnnnnngggggghhhh..."
"Ghhhh...grrrrgghhhhhhh... GRRAAAAAAH!"
Krauser made the first move, as he gained control and jerked Antonov's arms downward, then yanked him forward until their shoulders crashed. The collision caused their fingers to break apart, and, as if following the next step of the dance, their arms flew around and wrapped around each other aggressively, in a mutual bear hug.
Again, both seemed to nullify each other, and no advantage was granted... finally, Krauser again initiated the next sequence, and he spun the Russian around, then dipped his arms lower, seizing him in a rear bodylock.
"B-BOSS! BREAK FREE!" Yakov encouraged on the sideline.
The German lord had a deadly grip, and it would have controlled most men... but the towering Russian was hardly such, and he was able to pry the hands free. He bucked upwards, bringing Krauser's head back north, and Antonov was able to repel him with a back elbow that stumbled the lord of the castle several steps back. It felt like getting hit with a tube of ground beef!
Krauser barely had time to massage the trauma on his chin; Antonov was coming, and his fist was cocked back like a catapult.
"HRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
The lord knew his fist was coming low, and Krauser shelled up in turn... but it was barely a match for what was easily the most MASSIVE uppercut Krauser had ever taken. Antonov was perfect, his step-in, his follow-through... the power of his fist crashed into Krauser's gold gauntlets, yet STILL took Krauser off his feet, and sent him airborne.
"S-such power!" Laurence gasped.
Krauser landed on his feet with no damage, but still skidded backwards like he was being pushed by a car. Thankfully, this granted him enough time to ready a counter; as Antonov was approaching, Krauser met him at kicking range, throwing a right body kick that crashed into the Russian's ribs clean. He followed up with a sobat, spinning around to double up on the damage... but that was where he got greedy. Antonov caught his foot, spun him back around until he was facing forward, and swung a left cross.
His swing was too wide, however, and it passed Krauser's head and brought the German into him, as Krauser punished him with a vicious body knee. He knew that wouldn't be enough to fell the giant, and Krauser followed up with a bodylock... and this was where the lord of Castle Stronheim demonstrated just who he was, as he picked up a man that seemed immovable, and sent him flying behind him with a release German suplex.
CRASHHHHHHHH! The impact of Antonov's body falling was like a junkyard car released by a magnet. The force was so great, everyone's feet were disrupted beneath them, and they made an effort not to fall. (except Silber)
"BOSS! ARE YOU OKAY?"
The Russian, despite the harsh fall, was all smiles. He reached over to recover his fallen cigar, slapped it back in his mouth, and returned to his feet.
However, he took too much time, and Krauser was coming at him. FAST.
"HYAAAAAAAH!" Krauser got a running start and went airborne, curving his legs so his gold-plated kneecaps were the main weapon... a double flying knee, straight towards Antonov's face. He was going for a knockout!
A smile. "Heh."
Smoke expelled from Antonov's nostrils as he reached out with his arms wide... and caught Krauser in mid-air!
"WHAAA?" Laurence gasped.
"AHH?!" Iroha too expressed shock.
Antonov wasted no time; he used the momentum to his advantage, and got a running start. As he ran, he lifted Krauser higher... HIGHER... until the man was above his head.
What came next was the equivalent of a small warhead being dropped in the room. Antonov screamed with such might, his cigar flew out of his mouth, as he brought Krauser down with all of his strength, in a powerbomb that shook the foundation of the castle.
SLAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!
This one actually did knock people off their feet; Laurence and Iroha were felled, and Silber quickly extended an arm to catch the fallen maid (she glared at him). Hein was smart enough to jump. Yakov, however, was sent flying like a ragdoll.
Antonov wasn't done. With Krauser at his mercy, he again scooped up the German lord, hoisted him horizontally above his head... with a 180 spin, he sent his opponent back down to Earth again, with another slam.
"YOU'RE DOING IT, BOSS! YOU'RE DOING IT!" Yakov pumped his fist.
"Milord, you must recover!" Laurence urged.
Despite the hellacious slams he took, Krauser was still there to retort. "I know that, Laurence!"
The German lord proved his durability, recovering to his feet with relative ease. Antonov came in, and swung a right, in the same pattern as his previous punch; Krauser was hip to it, and countered with a forearm to the face that recoiled the Russian. With more distance between them, Krauser was able to follow up with a body punch, stunning him long enough for the coup de grace: a standing dropkick, aimed low at the ankles. This cut through the Russian's root like clippers, and sent him on a hard crash to the ground.
Krauser was in a flow state. He barrel rolled backwards, recovering before Antonov could, and the German launched himself, snagging Antonov's neck in both hands and taking him down with a brutal cutter. Had the man not had a neck like a redwood, it's a very real possibility it could have paralyzed him.
"Yes, milord!" Laurence's tone reversed.
"Go for the finish, Krauser-sama!" Iroha cheered.
Both on the ground, Krauser fluidly transitioned to north-south and sank his arm around the damaged neck, trapping him in a head-and-arm choke. His veins bulged as he squeezed... squeezed... crushing the wind from this foreigner's lungs, who DARED to step into his castle and proclaim himself a fighter.
"B-BOSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!" Yakov screeched, fearing his dear friend may have bitten off more than he could chew.
Antonov did look visibly bothered: his first tell of the fight. Despite this, there was still no quit in him as his body began to move with life, getting his feet under him... with a push of strength, he found himself to his knees... and then... his feet. With one FINAL push, Antonov seized the arm and broke free, but not without a punishment in turn, wrapping his arms around Krauser's biceps, he spun him around, backpacking him... with a running start, Antonov went airborne into a somersault, slamming Krauser hard on his face, with the Russian's crushing weight bearing down on him.
Both men returned to their feet, feeling the wear of the battle, both having taken tremendous slams.
Their own respective macho prides propelled them back forward, to meet back in the middle like two crashing buses. Their arms lashed out in mutual embrace, and the grappling stalemate continued...
They struggled in each other's arms for several seconds until Krauser initiated the next action, shooting low at his opponents waist; Antonov took advantage of his now-superior height, raining down elbows upon the back of the toiling Krauser until he was forced to surrender control.
The Krauser sympathizers looked with horror as Antonov picked up their master, hoisting him atop his back...!
... But Krauser had a card left to play. He cleverly slid off the back, winding up behind the Russian giant, and was able to seize him in a rear bodylock. He lifted, went backwards... perfect German suplex!
"YES!"
"HAI!"
Krauser's follow-through was smooth, as he held him there, then rolled for ANOTHER one...but that's where he got greedy, for as soon as they were back to their feet, Antonov launched his elbow backwards and smacked him in the face, nullifying any desire for another slam.
And he wasn't done. Spinning around 180, arm cocked...he punished Krauser's greed with a MASSIVE lariat, literally spiraling the German lord through the air before a painful crash.
"MILORRDDD!"
"MASTERRRRRR!"
They thought for sure he was knocked out. No human being could take such a hit. At this point, they weren't concerned about a victory...they merely wanted a word from their master, just to verify he was still among the living.
... Instead, they got two.
"LEG TOMAHAWK!"
"Wha-?" Antonov could barely voice his shock, before Krauser sprang back to his feet and knocked the Russian down with his trademark leg lariat.
Antonov wasn't down for long. Up, but still rattled, he charged at an equally shaky Krauser...at this point, they had no strategy left. They simply cocked back their forearms, and blew the last reserves of their fighting spirit.
"HAAH!"
"HYAH!"
"HAAAH!"
"DAAAH!"
"HRRRGH!"
"GRRRA!"
They took turns in a game of face-bashing: forearm, after forearm, after forearm, neither one backing down, even as their heads were knocked about. A war of attrition, in its basest form.
Until finally, both stepped in at the same time, with opposite weapons... Krauser's left and Antonov's right connected at the same time, and both fell to a single knee. Seconds passed, that neither strove to stand up...30 seconds became a minute...and at that point, the two heaving warriors knew they had nothing left to give.
The next gesture to come wasn't aggression...but a hand, extended, in courtesy. Antonov examined offering by his host, and, deciding to trust him, took it with a hearty smile. With their combined strength, the fallen fighters helped each other to their feet. Where their energy had been depleted, newfound respect and admiration was gained.
"Well, my Russian friend... you've certainly proven that your fists can match your physique, and your silver tongue. But to be frank, I was fighting you with a handicap; had I used my Kaiser Wave, the match would have ended much quicker."
Despite the double sided compliment, Antonov took it in stride, with a grin. "The purity of your honesty moves me, milord Krauser! In the name of friendship and transparency, I must too confess...I was only fighting at half strength, as to not squander your hospitality."
The revelation that neither were fighting at full strength triggered one last crumb of tension, as both stared with a slight look of betrayal...
...But this was quickly quelled, by a simultaneous dipping of their heads, and a gale of hearty laughter. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
"Well, Mr. Antonov, you certainly intrigue me. I'd love to get behind you in your ambitious endeavor... But I need time to think. King of Fighters holds a special place in my heart, as it does all who have had the honor and privilege of being a leader of martial artists. Parting ways with my ownership can't be decided so easily. However, you're allowed at my castle anytime you like...so I implore you, please stop by at a later time, when I have more decisive words on the matter. I'll contact you."
That was a good enough answer for the guest, who extended an exhausted arm, and met the German in a handshake. "Milord Krauser, you are an honorable man and a gracious host! There will surely be another day we meet like this...and perhaps next time we can decide our contest of strength without the limitation of our humility, and your interior."
A grin, at that flowery-sounding challenge. "I eagerly await that day. Laurence, see him out. Hein! Pour me a brew. IROHA!"
"Hai!"
"... Ready the hot tub."
A Russian aristocrat's ambition drives him to seek out the owners of King of Fighters. Who will be his next target? FIND OUT NEXT TIME!
In the meantime, here's a BONUS SCENE that you can't miss!
BONUS SCENE
LATER THAT NIGHT...
As peace and quiet fell over the Stronheim household, Krauser was still glowing with the invigorating memories of the clash he'd shared with a man he could call his equal, in both stature and fighting spirit. That Antonov was certainly a character... one that Krauser quickly grew fond of, after one sit-down together. He was a man that the hardened monarch of the Castle might even call friend, should the day come.
Still in a good mood, he sauntered through the kitchen in a bathrobe, having raided the fridge for a longneck, and the cabinet for a bag of his favorite pretzels. He hummed a triumphant tune, worthy of the feat of strength he had exuded earlier that day. It was a feeling he'd like to keep.
Unfortunately, for a man of his history and lifestyle, such things were hard-kept.
"Good, you're out and about. That makes this easier."
His nerves shot up all at once, the bag slipping from his grasp as he swung around to capture the strange voice. "WHO'S THERE?!"
"Castle staff getting a little sloppy? Hahahahahahahahahahaha..."
He heard not one voice, but a group of laughter: maybe four or five guys. He frantically scanned up and down, but the darkness of the Castle obscured nearly everything... but, just faint, in the distance, his eyes were able to capture the outlines of silhouettes. At least two of them were indiscernible, but he knew there were people there.
Further to the left, two easier ones to spot: a man stood in front, with long blonde hair, and, standing directly to his side, a figure of equal color and length, with a white bowler hat atop their head. Krauser scanned the hands, and noticed an object... some sort of cane...
The most recognizable figure had an impressive mass, and the gold of his armor glistened even in the pitch black. His hairstyle was easily noticeable: a large blue mohawk, that almost served as a beacon to light the presence of their arrival. HE looked the most familiar...
"What is the meaning of this?!" Krauser challenged. "You invade my castle in the middle of the night? I demand an explanation!"
"It's time for you to fulfill your duty, Lord Krauser." one of the voices spoke. He couldn't tell from whom it came.
"The board is getting restless. A new King of Fighters is inevitable."
"He came to see you, yes? The Russian."
Krauser was annoyed not being able to tell who he was talking to, but he spoke into the darkness nonetheless. "Yes. He tried to buy my ownership."
"No matter who he goes to, it's impossible for him to fully own the rights to the great tournament." a deeper, gravelly voice spoke. "Only one man holds the true claim to it."
"Nobody knows where he is." Krauser reminded.
"Then perhaps... we should bring him back." a sadistic, almost maniacal voice seemed to speak. It came from the direction of the two blondes.
"Here's what you're going to do," the other voice beside him spoke, "You're going to make that Russian a counter offer he can't refuse. A new tournament, with everything on the line."
"What do you mean, 'everything'?"
"MASTER!"
The commotion finally caught the attention of Iroha, who, clad in a silk bathrobe, still fearlessly charged the intruders with her dual butterfly knives drawn.
CLANG!
Steel clashed against steel, and her attack was in vain: out of nowhere, a sixth figure had emerged, dressed in pink, wielding a scimitar that blocked her knives at the base. They were left in a stalemate, neither backing down from their bladed deadlock.
"With or without my brother-in-law, King of Fighters will go on." a voice continued. "You're going to host the next tournament, and as for the prize, you will announce this: the winner of this tournament will become the majority shareholder of King of Fighters. The great tournament itself... will be the reward."
"Are you mad? It'll never work!" Krauser retorted. "Not without...!"
"That's why we said it's time to bring him back. He will come... of that, I have no doubts."
"This is madness..." Krauser breathed out, his mind jumbled by the weight of the proposition placed before him. It was too much to take in.
"Lord Krauser, there can be nobody else." one of the voices addressed him. "It's time for you to make a choice. Join us, and you can have the world at your fingertips... but regardless, with or without you, this is going to happen. King of Fighters will soon be in our hands."