From alt.games.mk Thu Jun 16 23:07:56 1994
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From: an98694@anon.penet.fi (Victar)
Organization: Anonymous contact service
Reply-To: an98694@anon.penet.fi
Date: Thu, 16 Jun 1994 23:24:48 UTC
Subject: STORY: Liu Kang, Kung Lao 1/2

"Mortal Kombat 2"(R) copyright Midway(R) Manufacturing Company. All Rights
Reserved. This fan-fiction story is completely unauthorized.

THE DRAGON'S JAWS


	I have just come from a long and costly war to determine the fate of our
entire world, and all who live within it. It is my duty to write this record
of the internecine events as best I may, for the knowledge of forthcoming
generations.
	The roots of the conflict reach back to over five hundred years ago. The
Shaolin Tournament for Martial Arts itself is much older than that, at least
two millennia older, perhaps nine times that, perhaps more ancient still.
Some believe that the Tournament, in cruder form, predates the founding of
the White Lotus Society of the Shaolin Order, of which I am a humble member.
For many, many centuries, the Tournament was an open contest meant to bring
honor and glory to all who sought to test themselves by competing within it.
	Then came the shape-shifter.
	His name was Shang Tsung; his intentions, wholly foul. Cursed by the gods,
hated by men, he artificially prolonged his own life by using his unholy
sorceries to steal the lives and souls of others. He wrested the Tournament
from its Shaolin patrons and sought to pervert it to his evil ends. A
virtuous and noble Shaolin monk named Kung Lao did reclaim the Tournament,
but only for a short span of years. Then Shang Tsung overpowered and murdered
him, with the aid of a monstrous protege called Goro. The Tournament has
remained in Shang Tsung's immortal and corrupt hands ever since, until barely
this year, when I took it back from him. I did not succeed wholly by myself.
I had the aid of six other warriors (some of whom had more estimable
motivations than others). I do not know how many of them survived the chaos
that ignited and ran rampant the very instant I vanquished Shang Tsung.
Before his withered frame fell all the way to the floor from the
spine-crushing impact of my last and most critical kick, his decadent palace
began to quake and crumble, as though his sickly vitality had been holding it
together all these centuries, instead of mere brick and mortar. I barely
escaped alive. The only other person I saw leave the disaster was John
Carlton, who has since done me the kindness of providing me with
transportation back to the Honan Province. I am currently on the last leg of
the return journey to my home, the Shaolin Temple, where I shall be able to
rest, return to the simple life of a fisherman, and devote myself to properly
rewriting a more detailed chronicle of all that has happened.
	Shang Tsung himself is dead. He must be. When I defeated him in single
combat, I also broke his mystical power, so that he could no longer protect
his already enfeebled body from the ravages of time and decay. That surely
must have killed him, even if his island fortress had not caved in on itself
like a dying horse that can no longer carry its master. Goro is also dead. I
disliked instigating their slaughter, but it was necessary; Shang Tsung had
been planning to unbalance the cosmic Furies and summon forces that would
have remade the world's surface into a demon-ruled pit of eternal darkness.
He had to be stopped. I derive no satisfaction from his eradication; if
anything, all I feel is a wash of relief that at long last, the nightmare is
over.

	[signature, "Liu Kang"]
	[date]

***************************************************************************

	The nightmare is not over.
	I received a warning today. The first sign that something was amiss came
when a stratospheric mass of dark, roiling clouds engulfed what had
previously been a clear sky. Day passed into night within the space of half a
dozen heartbeats, and yet the hour of the clock had barely waned into early
afternoon. I did not need any training in weather-lore to know that there was
something unnatural about the impending storm. A single flash of lightning
sparked so brilliantly as to mimic the brightest sunlight, forcing me to
shield my eyes, and a sudden, unbroken stream of heavy, soaking rain drenched
me instantaneously. (I was very glad that I carry this scroll within its own
waterproof case, because the slightest exposure to the surging elemental
forces would surely have destroyed it.) Thunder reverberated and echoed from
all sides. There was a second flash of lightning, and then a god materialized
before me.
	So, Raiden had also survived the Tournament.
	He appeared in the form of a mortal man, though his blazing white, pupilless
eyes and the occasional snakelike trickle of electricity skittering about his
seven-foot body marked him as something significantly more powerful... and
more menacing. Despite the thunder that never completely quieted while he
spoke to me, I could hear his sharp, alternately crescendo and diminuendo
"voice" burn itself into my brain with perfect lucidity. I am not certain
that he "spoke" to me entirely by means of ordinary sound alone.
	He departed without preamble, and so, too, departed the storm. If not for my
sopping wet clothing and the smell of fresh rain in the air, I might have
mistaken the entire experience for a bizarre waking dream. I remember the
general content, if not the precise phrasing of the warning: Shang Tsung is
alive. He has gained the support of a powerful patron. And he wishes to lure
his enemies into a second Tournament set in the Outworld, a place that exists
beyond the space and time within which ordinary mortals dwell. Worse still,
Shang Tsung has not abandoned his previous scheme to unbalance the Furies and
doom humankind to eternal darkness. I, personally, am in great danger.
	I do not want to believe any of it. I am too weary to even consider entering
a second Tournament; how long has it been I endured the horrors of the last
one? It feels like barely the extent of a few short days, even though I know
better. Sometimes, when I close my eyes at night, I can still smell the scent
of fresh blood and hear the screams of men and women dying in agony...
	Could Raiden be lying? I have never trusted him. When he participated in the
first Tournament, he came across as arrogant and uncaring about the
well-being of "lesser" living creatures. On the other hand, could competing
in mortal form and even experiencing the emptiness of death several times
have given him a sobering lesson in humility? Why would he ever want to lie
to me, in any case? What would he have to gain? I cannot know for certain
whether or not he was telling the truth. Psychological analysis is all but
useless upon a god.
	I carry an ill feeling within me. The storm is gone, but an ominous wisp of
dusky cloud cover remains visible, just above the far horizon of the pathway
home.

***************************************************************************

	Home has become the gateway to Hell.
	A horrible thing has happened to the people who have been like members of my
family to me, ever since my parents died and my elder brother disappeared to
parts unknown. I know how the tragedy came to pass, but I still have
difficulty accepting what has taken place. The last time I saw them all, I
had just sworn to enter Shang Tsung's Tournament and defeat him. The last
time I spoke to Master Wu, I said to him: "I will not fail... that is my
promise!" 
	I wonder what his severed head thinks of my promises now.
	I...

[illegible]

	I must start again.
	The morning after Raiden delivered his warning, I hastened up the pathway to
the Shaolin Temple at a much swifter pace. Ordinarily, I would have needed
two more days of travel to reach it, but I was so uneasy that I had resolved
to arrive by sunset. At one point, I caught a glimpse of a tiny corner of the
Temple's roof. It looked normal enough at first glance; then, I noticed that
there were an unusual number of birds circling the vicinity. I could not tell
what precise avian species they were, but their large, wide wingspread set
them well apart from ordinary songbirds or migrating seabirds. They appeared
to be hawks, or else...
	I suddenly did not want to continue my speculations. Instead, I redoubled my
pace yet again. I was sprinting so briskly that I nearly crashed into the
first living human being I had seen since bidding farewell to John Carlton.
	"Out of my way!" I snapped, simultaneously attempting to step around the
person who impeded my progress.
	"Wait," he said, interposing himself directly in my path. I tried to brush
him aside, but he was fully prepared for the attempt and had braced himself
to block me. One of his hands clasped my shoulder, and he fixed me with a
direct glare. Only then did I recognize him. My eyes narrowed slightly.
	"You," I growled.
	"Is that any way to greet your old friend Kung Lao?" he rasped in reply. 

***************************************************************************

	There are many phrases I could use to describe the last living descendent of
the Great Kung Lao: younger Shaolin brother, yes; fellow scholar of the White
Lotus Society, most certainly; rival student of martial arts, of course;
but... "old friend"? Well, I suppose that is not truly inaccurate, all past
animosities aside. We have long been on more or less friendly terms, although
we have had our differences. Our last meeting in particular had not gone
smoothly. I remember it well. It took place a short time after I had
announced my intentions to defeat Shang Tsung and reclaim the Shaolin
Tournament from his evil grip.
	"I was the first to ask permission to compete in Shang Tsung's Tournament!
Why did Master Wu grant your petition when he denied mine?" he had demanded
of me, with his usual bluntness. Kung Lao never was one to mince words.
	"Who am I to fully comprehend the wisdom of the Master?" I told him,
bringing my palms together and bowing my head in the traditional manner.
	"Don't give me that. You've always 'comprehended the wisdom of the Master'
better than I ever have, so stop acting so damn holy and tell me!"
	"'The admission of one's own shortcomings, is a first step to transcending
the limitations of the self,'" I quoted, or perhaps paraphrased, from our
mutual teachers' lessons.
	"Gods curse you, Liu Kang, you know I deserve a straight answer!"
	"I would like to suggest that you might venture to ask me with the proper
politeness. Perhaps that will bring you more success than invoking the wrath
of a thousand gods."
	I contemplated (with very slight amusement) what a curious spectacle it was
to watch him endeavor to control his temper. It took him ten whole seconds to
regain enough self-composure to grit his teeth and say: "Elder Shaolin
brother, please enlighten me upon this matter." It was not the politest
phrasing, nor was it spoken in the most courteous manner, but it was probably
the best I could have hoped from him, at the time. Besides, he did have some
cause. He most likely would not have behaved so rudely to me (or any other
Shaolin brother, for that matter) under ordinary circumstances, but Master
Wu's decision to permit only myself to enter the Tournament had doubtless
come as a severe blow to him. Here was the one chance to avenge his great
ancestors, and he had to watch it pass him by.
	"First, you know full well that I am the elder and more advanced in my
studies of the martial arts. Given that the Master is unwilling to risk more
than one Shaolin brother's life in the forthcoming Tournament, I am the
logical choice. Second, I am more expendable than you. Should the worst come
to pass, I have an elder brother who could carry on my family's name-"
	"-not that you or anyone else knows where he is-" Kung Lao hissed.
	"-whereas you are the last of your line. Someone must preserve the legacy of
the Great Kung Lao; who will do so if you die?"
	"And if I continue to live here, cowering within safe walls while my
ancestors' murderers roam at large and wreak havoc, then how could I possibly
be worthy of bearing the hundred thousandth fragment of any legacy at all?"
	"You have heard once why you must remain here. I will not repeat myself."
	"You haven't answered my question."
	"If you were to leave this temple and follow me to the secret location of
the Tournament, then there would be little I or anyone else could do stop
you." I wonder, in retrospect, what caused me to point that out? I can no
longer remember. Was it that I understood his agitation and sympathized with
his predicament, or was it simply that I was losing my patience with him and
no longer cared? 
	"No, elder brother, I cannot hound your trail like an honorless thief. I
shall enter the Tournament either by your side, or not at all."
	"So be it, then," and with those parting words I left him for the road that
would carry me to my destiny. I could feel his eyes fixed upon my back until
the Temple itself became hidden behind the summer vegetation and highland
peaks. For all I knew, he might have remained standing in that very spot,
looking at where he was last able to see my dwindling form, for the rest of
day and the length of the night. I suppose he was waiting for me to turn
around, come back, and tell him that I would welcome his entrance beside mine
into the Tournament, after all. Ridiculous. If more than one of us had
entered the Tournament, we might have been forced to fight or even kill one
another, and what benefit could have come from that? 
	He would have just slowed me down anyway.

***************************************************************************

	"Leave me be!" I snarled to Kung Lao, although my sudden hostility was more
the product of pent-up worry rather than any actual resentment of his desire
to restrain me. He now had a surprisingly strong grip upon my right wrist. I
could have escaped it in an instant, and concurrently incapacitated him with
a severe strike to his temple or his exposed floating rib, but it is against
the code for one Shaolin brother to needlessly instigate physical conflict
with another. "I must check upon the welfare of our brothers!"
	"There is nothing you can do for them, Liu Kang," he said, without
slackening his grasp in the slightest. "Please. You must listen to me." His
voice carried a slight quiver to it.
	"Speak quickly, then!"
	"You may wish to sit down for this. You see-" he paused, licking his lips.
It took me a moment to realize that Kung Lao, always so direct and
uncompromisingly straightforward with his words, was for once trying to break
his message gently.
	"Do not hesitate upon formalities. Tell me, or let me go. Now."
	"A terrible thing has happened. There is nothing you can do to change it
now. And I have overheard that Shang Tsung has laid a trap for you within the
Temple; if you go in there, he will be able to sense your presence and-"
	"What 'terrible thing'? What are you talking about? Shang Tsung is dead! I
killed him myself!" 
	His attempt to speak faltered.
	"Damn you! What must I do to make you-" I abruptly stopped speaking when I
noticed his eyes. They were unusually red, and puffy. The last dying rays of
sunlight sparkled upon two thin, all but invisible trails from the inside
corner of each eye down across his either cheek. He had very recently been...
crying?
	"I'm sorry," I whispered. "Please forgive me." His head inclined somewhat,
and he raggedly took in a shuddering breath. He voiced his next sentence
flatly, dully, without looking at me or showing of any trace of emotion. 
	"I am the only survivor."
	Panic engulfed me. Acting upon years of conditioned reflex, I rotated my
ensnared wrist so that its inner edge lay against the weak point of his
clasp, where his thumb and index finger touched. Then I freed my hand with an
ungraceful wrench and bolted in the direction of the Temple. "Wait!" Kung Lao
called, but I paid no attention to him. I had completely forgotten his
earlier warning about a trap, and I had to know whether his harrowing words
were true.
	They were.
	The Temple was in ruins. Parts of it were still burning, although the fires
were in the process of receding to embers and ashes. The "hawks" I had
spotted earlier were actually carrion feeders, which had flocked to the
Temple in great numbers. No wonder, that; there was plenty of fresh carrion
strewn about for them to gorge themselves corpulent upon. Death was
everywhere. The gutted, impaled, and decapitated corpses of my brothers
surrounded me. A few bodies even bore marks of being burned or tortured to
death. The familiar smells of blood and decomposition pervaded the air. Also
present were the odors of urine and defecation, stemming from the involuntary
relaxation of the body's bladder and sphincter muscles once life has fled.
Some of my brothers had been cut down with weapons in their hands; still
others had apparently been taken completely by surprise. None had been
spared, not the lowliest acolytes through priests of high rank...
	"Master Wu," I mouthed silently, and dashed inside. More blood and death
stained the Temple's entry corridors. The Master still sat upon his elevated
dais in the Great Hall, flanked on either side by ceremonial watch-fires...
or rather, most of him did. His neatly severed head rested in the middle of
the left fire. It made poor fuel, at best; the flames had died to the point
where they barely engulfed it. For a moment, I almost thought that his
charred face wore a serene expression, but then again my mind could have been
playing tricks upon itself. At least he had not suffered.
	Cruel, scornful laughter sounded from behind me. I whirled to confront Shang
Tsung himself. He appeared in a new, much more youthful incarnation than
before, but there could be no mistaking his features, his soulless eyes, or
his malicious voice. Two others were at his either side. One was a
green-dressed ninja, whom I recognized as Shang Tsung's personal bodyguard
(how had either of them survived the last Tournament?); the other was an
unfamiliar mockery of a human being, with long spikes for teeth and pieces of
metal embedded in his arms.
	"I was wondering when you would show up," Shang Tsung mused, with a grin
that was more sneer than smile.
	"MURDERER!!!" I screamed, and flew at him with the most powerful kick I
could summon. It did not connect, even though my aim was perfectly true. I
passed right _through_ the seemingly corporeal image of the wizard and
painfully collided with the stone column just behind him. I was fortunate not
to break any bones.
	"Did I mention that you cannot harm this astral projection of myself and my
comrades?" he laughed, his countenance dripping with false benevolence and
charm. I slowly endeavored to stagger to a standing position, aching from my
failed attack. "Unfortunately for you, the reverse is not the case. Please do
allow me to demonstrate." He snapped the fingers of his right hand, and the
green ninja leaned forward, lowered his mask, and spat at me with the eerie,
hissing sound of acid mixing with water. Even if I had fully recovered from
my impact into the column, it would have been difficult to dodge the vile,
olive mass of inhuman saliva; I am fast, but so was the green ninja, and his
projected image was very close. I could not even raise my hands into a proper
guard position swiftly enough. The spittle landed upon my chest, where it
hissed and itched and seared like a brand. I could not suppress a brief cry
of pain. 
	During the fleeting instant in which I glimpsed the green ninja's face, I
believe that I saw it alter to resemble the guise of a Reptile with blood-red
cat's eyes. But then he replaced his mask as swiftly as he had lowered it,
and the unmasked half of his countenance once again seemed to be that of an
ordinary man.
	"I could kill you right now, if I wanted to, and there would be nothing you
could do to stop me," Shang Tsung remarked, pleasantly. He might as well have
been discussing the weather. "Or would you like Baraka to present you with
another 'demonstration'?" He gestured with one hand, indicating his other
companion as he said the name "Baraka". The grinning humanoid flexed his
hands, causing the high-pitched <shing> sound of metal upon metal as the keen
blades of two long swords extended from the implants in his either arm. He
crossed the blades in front of his chest and stared at me in sadistic
anticipation. I ignored Baraka, who was clearly nothing more than just
another killer in Shang Tsung's employ, and directed the sharpest taunt I
could think of to the sorcerer himself. 
	"So, are you afraid to fight me on equal terms? Fearful that I'll crush you
a second time?"
	He laughed again. "Oh, I do so enjoy your sense of humor. In fact, I was
just going to invite you to participate in a new Tournament. I shall be in it
too, naturally, and if you do well enough then you just _might_ have the
chance for a rematch with me." He said that as if to imply that he had
defeated me during the last Tournament, and not the other way around. "You
will come, of course?"
	"You bastard! Make yourself solid, and I'll fight both you and your
hirelings right now!"
	"Hardly."
	"Coward!"
	"No," and his false veneer of friendship slipped a little. "You shan't goad
me into giving you an unearned chance at me. Your opinion of me means nothing
when I know better. Now be quiet and listen. I arranged the destruction of
your pitiful temple in order to prove to you that there is no place you can
hide. If you refuse to enter my tournament or try to run from me, then no
matter where you seek to lose yourself, I shall find you and again send
Baraka and his legions to slaughter everyone around you." 
	"The only one of us who seeks to run and hide is y-"
	"BE STILL!" he shrieked. I seemed to have touched a nerve. "I shall come for
you by the shore of lake Kioh Lung, to transport you to the Outworld, in
precisely one week! Be there or suffer the consequences!" There was a flash
of light and a puff of smoke, and then Shang Tsung and his two associates
were gone. 
	"Liu Kang, my elder brother, you are an idiot," came Kung Lao's even and
measured voice from behind me. "Did you not wonder why all the bodies were
those of our brothers, and only our brothers? We attempted to mount a defense
when the attack came. We could not touch a single one of them, any more than
you could touch Shang Tsung!"
	"Then you were listening to our entire conversation?"
	"Yes."
	"In hiding?"
	"What is your point?"
	A dark thought occurred to me. "How did you escape? How is it that _you_ are
still alive, when everyone else is dead?"
	"I hid. And if any of the others had been smart enough to hide with me, more
of us would have surviv-" 
	Before he could finish speaking the insult to the valor of our martyred
brothers, I dealt him a backfist strike squarely to the right side of his
face. He had not been expecting it. Perhaps I'd put a little more power into
the blow than I had first intended, because his head whipped sharply to the
left, and he crumpled backwards to one knee, twisting the ankle of his other
leg underneath him. A sanguine trickle of red dripped from the right corner
of his mouth, where his own teeth had cut into the soft flesh of his inside
cheek. From deep within me, something cried (no, this is wrong, you shouldn't
be quarreling with one another at a time like this), but I ignored it.
	"You," wheezed Kung Lao, "are still in shock." Then he limped away, without
making any effort to wipe the slowly oozing drops of blood off his face.  I
did not move from the spot upon which I stood for a very long time.
	I suppose I shall have to apologize to him later.

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From alt.games.mk Fri Jun 17 22:50:52 1994
Path: panix!news.intercon.com!howland.reston.ans.net!EU.net!news.eunet.fi!anon.penet.fi
Newsgroups: alt.games.mk
From: an98694@anon.penet.fi (Victar)
Organization: Anonymous contact service
Reply-To: an98694@anon.penet.fi
Date: Sat, 18 Jun 1994 01:27:16 UTC
Subject: STORY: Liu Kang, Kung Lao 2/2

***************************************************************************

	A week. I have only a week to prepare. Less than that, really, since
transporting our brothers' remains to the crypt beneath the Temple took Kung
Lao and myself an entire day. We would have preferred to cremate them first,
but I did not have the time and neither of us had the resources to build up
and properly control a great enough fire. It has also taken precious time for
me to write down what has happened. I suppose that I could have delegated
that task to Kung Lao, but not just yet. I will eventually, though. He will
have to stay behind and take care of this scroll anyway.
	A short time ago, I greeted the thought of a second Tournament with horror,
but now I think I do not fear the idea so much. Anything that can give me the
opportunity for revenge upon Shang Tsung cannot be all bad. I must use the
intervening time to prepare, to condition myself, to hone my skills and
perhaps even learn a few new ones for the struggle ahead. I no longer feel
the least bit tired. In fact, I've been going without sleep for the past
couple of nights.
	Kung Lao tried to talk to me tonight, about some matter or another. I think
he was urging me to rest for a little while, or something. I had no time to
listen to him. When he tried to get me to pay attention to whatever he was
saying by touching my shoulder, I bent his arm into a painful lock and flung
him to the stone floor, causing a bruise over his left scapula. He left me
alone after that, although I can sense that he continues to watchfully
observe my self-directed training. Doesn't he have anything better to do?

***************************************************************************

	The need to train drives me. I practice, I study, I've stopped eating food
and drink barely a few flasks of water each waking day. I do not sleep unless
I collapse in the middle of my techniques or my patterns, and even then I
simply begin where I had left off as soon as I resume consciousness. I pray
for the spirits of my ancestors to possess me and show me the way, and
perhaps they do. Skills and capacities that would have daunted me only days
before flow cleanly through me now. And they are all so simple...!
	It is not enough.
	I have not learned enough to ensure the success of my quest for vengeance
upon Shang Tsung and his ilk. I need more power. I need an edge. There are
only three more days...
	Kung Lao tried to persuade me to break my fast today. I didn't hit him, but
I did tell him in graphic detail what I would do to him if he did not leave
me alone at once, and take his turgidly- prepared, vomit-inducing "offering"
with him. I am busy meditating on a problem, and the problem is my lack of
power. I cannot afford any more of his infuriating disruptions.

***************************************************************************

	Only two more days. In desperation, this evening, I have started tearing
through the wreckage of the Temple, looking for anything that might possibly
be of use to me. My path crossed Kung Lao's once; he was trying to scrub the
last of our brothers' bloodstains from the entry corridors. As if anything
could ever restore these ruins to the merest semblance of their former glory.
I honestly don't know why he bothers to remain here at all. He darted out of
sight before I could order him to get his carcass out of my way, which was
good.
	No aspect of the Temple is too mundane for my search. I have lifted
floorboards and looked under them, I have ripped apart closets full of
garments, I have taken every clay vessel from out of the Temple's modest
food-preparation facilities, shattered them, and examined the shards. I don't
know what I am searching for, only that it must be somewhere within the
Temple's blackened walls. I must find it. I _must_. It-

[illegible]

	Temple library. Of course. Why didn't I think of it before? I don't know, I
just stumbled into the passage leading toward the library by chance, after
systematically incinerating every inch of the carpeting in the Great Hall. 
	I have to find them. The records. The forbidden keys. Now I know exactly
what I am looking for: the secrets that Master Wu himself refused to teach
me... well, not me personally, he refused to teach them to anyone who would
not swear, on pain of death, never to use them. Doesn't that sound ludicrous?
I've never questioned his wisdom before, but I see its flaws and follies
clearly now. What is the point of learning something if one is never going to
use it? I know the secrets are written down somewhere, and I shall shred to
tatters every book and scroll in the library until-
	-no. It isn't right to needlessly destroy volumes of knowledge. Articles of
luxury are one thing, but records of historical significance are another. I
may as well rip up this very scroll. No, no, no, I don't know what possessed
me to write that.
	Yes, I do. Vengeance. I have to find the Forbidden Scrolls; I need them to
avenge myself and my brothers upon Shang Tsung!
	The matter could be moot. The way to the library is barricaded. Probably at
Master Wu's orders, to preserve the library's contents from falling into the
hands of Shang Tsung and his pet vermin. It doesn't matter. All that matters
is getting around the barrier. By any means I have to use. I have attempted
to kick the heavy barricade, or shatter the closed doors with my fists. The
gateway remains immovable, and I think my left hand is bleeding. Damn! There
must be some way to get through. I can't use fire; the risk is too great that
the flames would spread to the Forbidden Scrolls. I have to think!

***************************************************************************

	I finally took a 400-year-old a sword from the Temple armory and used it
like an ax to chop my way through. It took much longer than I thought it
would have. I feel weakened... I suppose that is because I have been driving
myself into a frenzy of activity with no food, very little water, and very
little sleep. It can't be helped; I have no time to rest now. I've finally
found them. The Forbidden Scrolls, the ones that neither I nor any member of
the White Lotus Society other than Master Wu himself ever had access to
before, are now mine to study.
	They make no sense at all.
	The writing is shaky, draft script, looking as if it were dashed off in very
great haste. That makes it hard enough to read. What I fear even more is that
my mind is simply unable to grasp the ideas of which the Forbidden Scrolls
speak. A great deal is written in them of "transformation", "metamorphosis",
and power, so much power... and I cannot comprehend it! Out of desperation, I
am striving to memorize them word for word, in the hope that their true
meaning will reveal itself to me even if I become separated from them. One
more day. I have only one more day.
	Kung Lao appeared out of nowhere as I sought to memorize the twenty-fourth
line of text. He started talking to me. I couldn't make out what he was
saying. Something about Shang Tsung. His tones were garbled, I couldn't hear.
And I didn't have time to listen. I stood up, approached him purposefully,
raised my right arm-
	"Liu Kang, my elder brother," he began quietly, and the sudden change in his
speech from murky to transparently clear struck me so greatly that I halted
in mid-motion. "I have forgiven the first injury upon me because I know you
are driven mad with grief for our lost brothers. I have forgiven the second
because you are my elder, and the first to defeat Shang Tsung since my own
ancestor did so, five hundred years past."
	He shifted position, presenting me with only the guarded edge of his body.
"Do not attempt to physically harm me a third time."
	There was something very different about his bearing. His apparel reflected
and intensified the distinction. He was no longer dressed in the traditional
robes of our order; his new vestments included a gathered pair of slacks,
their cuffs tucked well into a pair of tight black, nearly knee- high boots,
and a loose, sleeveless vest covered by a second, sable vest upon his torso.
All together, they offered him the same, streamlined freedom of movement that
my own apparel gives to me. Both his forearms were tightly bandaged. His eyes
were hidden beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed black hat that he wore
slanted, and held in place with a chin strap. There was something odd about
the silvery edge of that hat's brim, but the scarlet character traced upon
his sable vest distracted my attention. The character clearly represented
military force.
	In short, he wore the livery of a warrior.
	I demanded to know what he was doing in that ridiculous getup. He dismissed
my question with a terse shake of his head and softly asked why I was
studying the Forbidden Scrolls. I was too exasperated and fatigued to explain
the matter to him, so all I said was that if he had come for the Scrolls, he
would have to reclaim them from my dead body.
	"Never, elder brother," he whispered, and departed. Just like that. I wonder
what the hell is wrong with him, anyway.

***************************************************************************

	I fell asleep while studying the Scrolls by candlelight, and my dreams
showed me things that my waking mind could never have grasped. I awoke in the
middle of the night, enlightened and mysteriously anxious. Something had
roused me, something other than my usual determination to remain awake so
long as I do not collapse in place from exhaustion. I left the library and
strained to hear what it was: Sounds. Voices. I crept outside, around the
back of the Temple, to investigate.
	Looters!
	They were so scruffily dressed, haggard, and mired in poverty, that what
else could they have been? Here was the chance to test myself, to learn once
and for all whether I had truly prepared enough to enter the upcoming
Tournament. I tried to keep my center balanced in a state of emotionless calm
when I presented myself to the four of them, but I could not shake a newfound
streak of anticipation from coloring my thoughts. For the first time I could
remember in a long while, a smile curled my lips. 
	"You may not enter here," I told them, still smiling. "This is a holy place,
and I shall not let you defile it. Leave, or else I shall have to make an
example of you," I continued, abruptly realizing how greatly I would relish
the opportunity do so.
	I heard some muttered whispers among the group of them; all I caught of it
were the phrases "He's deranged!" and "No, let's go." Then the tallest one
(presumably their leader) turned away from the group and asked, "Who are
you?"
	There was a day and age when I would have said aloud my name in response to
such a question, but no longer. The veil had been lifted from my eyes; for
the first time, I could clearly see that scum like him did not deserve to
know. "Your death," I told him, warmly, "if you do not depart. Now."
	"Kill him," the leader said. His followers didn't seem to want to obey his
orders, though; the three of them were all carefully backing away. I heard
the rustle of vegetation and the muted cry of some animal behind me. The
leader cursed and withdrew a long knife from his threadbare coat.
	This was the moment I had been waiting for.
	Before he could point his useless weapon at my body, I summoned the Power,
the Transformation, the Metamorphosis, call it what you will; it is known by
many, many names. I could see the delicious terror in his face as futilely
tried to defend himself with the knife. The attempt did him no good. I
destroyed him.
	It felt wonderful. It was so... gratifying.
	Is this Power what poor Master Wu was afraid of? Is this something that the
Great Kung Lao demanded be stricken from the syllabus of his followers five
hundred years ago? Is this that which is supposed to be so terribly
deleterious to practice? How silly. I finally have the edge I need. I'm not
any different for having used it, or for being ready to use it again. I am
writing this next to the shore of lake Kioh Lung, and whenever I pause to
look into the water, I see the same reflection as always. 
	I am waiting for evening to come. Shang Tsung will appear to transport me to
the Outworld any minute now. And then I'll kill him, no matter who or what
tries to get in my way. Even if it's an entire damn Tournament. In fact, I'm
looking forward to fighting my way up through the Tournament ranks to that
promised rematch with Shang Tsung and his allies. I yearn to experience the
thrill of mortal combat once more. And I hunger so greatly for _vengeance_
upon my enemies... upon _all_ my enemies...!
	I am ready for the next Tournament, now.

***************************************************************************

	I guess I'd better finish this.
	The moment I first spotted Liu Kang dashing up the path back to our home, I
could tell that he carried scars. Not ordinary physical scars, I mean;
despite his lightning quick pace he moved like a man carrying a great burden.
I do not know what horrors he had to endure during the earlier Tournament,
but they must have been terrible indeed. And of course, the shock of our
brothers' murder has hurt him greatly. I would be a fool not to expect that.
My fear is that his pain is so great, so overpowering, that it is changing
him into someone I cannot recognize. His self- induced starvation, sleep
deprivation, and general physical abuse of his own body make me uneasy
enough, but it is more than that. Much more. The Liu Kang I used to know
never would have gone upon such a destructive rampage throughout what is left
of our beautiful Temple, breaking pots, shredding artwork and clothing, and
generally destroying everything in his path without even knowing why. The Liu
Kang I used to know never would have so much as threatened me in the least
manner, let alone actively breaking the Shaolin code against interpersonal
violence. And the Liu Kang I used to know _never_ would have disobeyed the
ancient and express prohibition against any of the White Lotus Society ever
using the power of the Forbidden Scrolls, _never_.
	Damn him. I don't think he fully understands what the Forbidden Scrolls are.
I tried to explain their sinister nature to him; it was like attempting to
illuminate the finer subtleties of Han Dynasty poetry to a rock. The Scrolls
are the written embodiment of the Transformation of one's own quintessence,
and the literal Metamorphosis of one's form and physical abilities. They are
the secrets that form the core of Shang Tsung's power... Shang Tsung, the
shape-shifter, who can put on the body, skills, and identity of another as
easily as I might put my ancestors' hat upon my head. 
	Does that not seem to sound so terrible, at first? Think. If one no longer
possesses a single identity, but rather many, if one can warp one's being to
become any of a thousand creatures, be they benevolent or malefic, be they of
godlike intelligence or entirely mindless, then what becomes of one's self?
What happens to a single ego when it is suddenly a multitude? What ingot of
the mind and soul can long endure the strain of being artificially forced
into the molds of countless other minds and souls? The Forbidden Scrolls have
remained forbidden for so long because of what they do to anyone insane
enough to tap into their blasphemous power.
	Shang Tsung was not the first to become corrupted by the secrets of the
Scrolls. There have been countless others before him, other misguided fools
who brought the curse of the gods upon their own heads for daring to tamper
with the Laws that restrict us to be nothing more than what we are. Those
Scrolls are evil things. I have never understood why Master Wu suffered their
continued existence. When I beseeched him to obliterate those damnable
Scrolls, he tried to tell me that "knowledge is neither good nor evil in and
of itself", and that "it is only the manner in which knowledge is used that
brings benevolence or suffering." I disagree. There are some types of
knowledge that are purely evil, if only because they always bring suffering
regardless of how they are used. Liu Kang left those profane Scrolls behind
when he departed the Temple, so that I've finally been able to incinerate
them, and disseminate their ashes from the edge of a rocky outcropping for
good measure. But the damage has already been done. Liu Kang knows their
secrets.
	I worry, I fret, and I have been doing a great deal of thinking this past
week. A query, or three: if Shang Tsung could have "astrally projected" a
legion of killers to destroy our Temple all this time, then why hadn't he
done so long since? Why doesn't he just continue eradicating all his enemies
(for I know that he has many more enemies than just Liu Kang and I) in the
same manner? For that matter, why spare Liu Kang's life?
	It must not be that simple. I think Shang Tsung was lying when he implied
that he had arranged the massacre solely to prove that Liu Kang could not run
from him. Liu Kang has never been one to run from his duty, or his destiny,
and Shang Tsung knows it. No, I can feel the workings of a deeper plan, a
Machiavellian plan that supersedes mere retaliation or hatred. It may not
even be Shang Tsung's plan that I sense... what I mean to say, is that I fear
that Liu Kang is being manipulated into using Shang Tsung's own Secrets in a
fruitless effort to fight fire with fire.
	There is more. I am convinced that it is not as easy as Shang Tsung pretends
to create "astral projections". How much energy must it require to contort
our world's Laws of physical interaction in such an anomalous manner, even
momentarily? The cost has to be high. Very high. I doubt that he is the one,
or the only one, who works the tenebrous crafts that allow him to do it at
all. Liu Kang has written of a "warning" about Shang Tsung's "powerful
patron". That can only mean that some greater evil presence is backing that
soulless bastard's plans... or, more likely yet, using Shang Tsung as a pawn
in its own diabolic ambitions.
	I am frightened. Barely twelve hours ago... and perhaps, also, a lifetime
ago... something happened that burned into my mind that this was all no
frivolous matter. The event, in its own way, was more ghastly than the mass
murder of my comrades. I awakened during the early morning, rousted by
apprehensive instincts and frightful nightmares, and I could hear the faint
sound of voices outside. Did the voices belong to "looters"? Perhaps. Or
perhaps they were merely travelers. Our temple is fairly remote, but it is
not completely isolated from the surrounding world. 
	As I silently drew close to them, careful to hide my presence and keep to
the shadows in between the pale rays of predawn light, I saw Liu Kang
approach four of them openly. No one spotted me. I watched, and waited... and
saw that Liu Kang was unaware of a fifth traveler, circling in on him from
behind. When the leader of the group gave the order for the fifth traveler to
kill my elder brother, I interceded by casting my hat at the throat of Liu
Kang's would-be assassin. Its brim lodged firmly in his trachea and he went
down, sputtering and choking; perhaps I'll tell you about my hat sometime.
Liu Kang never noticed that I'd saved his life.
	Then darkness descended across my eyes, and I saw the true horror.
	Liu Kang, my friend, my elder Shaolin brother and, since the massacre, the
last living person I could liken to family... changed. He must have used the
Secrets of Shang Tsung; nothing else could explain his hideous metamorphosis.
His body warped and spasmed in the space of less than a single breath; scales
grew over flesh, and bones elongated into sinuous curves; until there stood
not a man, not anything even remotely resembling a man, but a gigantic horned
dragon with eyes of yellow fire and teeth of jagged obsidian. The beast... I
cannot bear to think of it as my elder brother... the beast lowered its
crested, crocodile's head toward the screaming leader of the travelers. The
doomed man tried to defend himself by waving a knife at the monster's
imperviously armored underbelly, a pathetic effort that was too little, too
late. The dragon's jaws snapped shut, and its victim's head, arms, and torso
disappeared within them, though the bloody stumps of his legs continued to
stand, mysteriously balanced in place. Then the dragon's form shifted and
shrank back to... to the appearance of someone I used to know.
	I could not for the life of me shake the demented thought that at least Liu
Kang was finally breaking his fast.
	I don't know what to do. No, that is not true, I _do_ know what to do, and
what is more, I am doing it. I have followed Liu Kang into the Outworld. It
was not difficult to sneak unnoticed through the dimensional gateway that
Shang Tsung left behind after he met Liu Kang at the shores of lake Kioh
Lung; as I may have mentioned before, I am more practiced than most Shaolin
in certain arts of concealment and invisibility.
	When I stepped through the Portal to the Outworld, this very scroll lay at
my feet. It rested upon a paper-thin stone square flecked with traces of
dried blood (the blood of what creature, and what became of it?), where it
had been carelessly dropped by a man who once treasured written words nearly
as much as he treasured human life. I am saddened. And scared. And angry,
furious at Shang Tsung for what he has done to my elder brother, and to all
my brothers. I am more furious at him than I have ever been over the murder
of my ancestors.
	Perhaps that is the difference between myself and Liu Kang, and why I have
remained immune to the temptation of the Forbidden Scrolls while he has not.
I grew up with anger and rage. I had to learn to control my emotions the hard
way. I had to learn to live with the acrimonious knowledge that Shang Tsung
had brutally murdered my ancestors and that there was precious little I could
do about it. Liu Kang, on the other hand, has never before had to endure the
searing bite of blood hatred eating away at his heart. He was always a little
too pure, too strong in his noble convictions, too serenely beyond such petty
failings, and there was a time when I envied him for it. But now, he is
confronted with genuine, unrestrained grief and rage, and he has not had
enough past experience in learning how to deal with emotions of such raw
potency. That, I think, is why his thirst for vengeance drives him to the
breaking point and beyond, whereas I do not and never shall allow my own
thirst for vengeance to rule who I am.
	There is little more I can add. I would keep this scroll on my person if I
could, and write down future events as they take place, but the risk is too
great that I might die and its knowledge would be lost forever. So, I shall
seal it once more within its element-proof container, and hurl it back
through the Portal. With luck, someone will eventually find it and preserve
it. I dearly hope that Liu Kang and I will make the contents of this scroll
redundant by returning alive to tell our respective stories in person, but I
must necessarily be realistic about my expectations.
	I go now to enter Shang Tsung's loathsome new Tournament, to avenge the
death of my great ancestors, and perhaps... just perhaps... to try to save
the soul of a friend. The way shall be perilous. I am afraid that I may have
to do battle with supernatural creatures of terrifying power and hideously
malevolent intent, be they gods or monsters, demons or devils, Shang Tsung or
his cryptic patron... 
	Or worse.
	I may have to fight against Liu Kang himself.
	May the spirits of my ancestors guide me.

[signature, "Kung Lao"]
[date]

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