CHAPTER I: THE CONQUEROR'S CROWN
Two Years Ago — The Tournament of Blood
In Yggdrasil, in the bleeding darkness of Outworld—that cursed DLC realm where shadows breathed and magic writhed like living serpents—a tournament of champions thundered toward its brutal climax.
The arena. The roar. The blood.
Several players clashed and crashed, bone against bone, steel against flesh, all hungry—desperately hungry—for the reward the creators had dangled before them like meat before starving dogs. One player, a wolfman with silver fur matted by virtual sweat and someone else's blood, grabbed an opponent by the throat, hurled them through the air—a ragdoll, a broken thing—into another combatant. Bodies collided. Bodies fell.
The wolfman stood tall, chest heaving, victory so close he could taste it—
Until he wasn't standing anymore.
He turned, too late, always too late, and someone's iron grip seized his throat. Up, up, up into the air he went, dangling, choking, and then—
CRACK.
The wraith hammer fell like divine judgment.
Down. Down. Down.
One by one, they fell—all of them fell. The wraith hammer wielder moved through the arena like death incarnate, like the Reaper himself had learned to play video games. Some were crushed by the weapon itself—bones breaking, ribs cracking, skulls splitting. Others eliminated by devastating magic—green fire, soul-screaming darkness, lightning that tasted like copper and fear.
When only one opponent remained—a half-dragon player, scales gleaming obsidian and emerald, eyes wide with the terrible knowledge of defeat—they finally saw him clearly.
The wraith hammer wielder.
The inevitable.
The champion.
He teleported, reality folding like paper, and materialized directly before his final victim. The half-dragon rushed forward in desperation, in defiance, in the doomed courage of those who know they've already lost but refuse to surrender without trying.
THUD.
Hammer to the stomach. HP to zero.
It was over.
The announcer's voice—booming, bombastic, beautiful in its theatrical excess—erupted across the arena like thunder, like prophecy: "WE HAVE A WINNER! On this day forward, from this moment eternal, we hereby proclaim that Shao shall be called SHAO KAHN, RULER OF OUTWORLD!"
The virtual crowd erupted. Screamed. Roared. Worshipped.
"Enjoy your title and rewards, Shao Kahn!"
He laughed—not a chuckle, not a giggle, but a laugh, deep and dark and delicious—raising his hammer high, bellowing into the digital heavens: "HAHAHA! BOW BEFORE ME, FOR I AM KHAN OF THIS WORLD! I AM CONQUEROR! I AM ETERNAL! HAHAHAHAHA!"
Present Day — The Last Minutes of Paradise
Shao Kahn sat upon his throne.
Sat. Slouched. Slumped.
Depression settled over him like a burial shroud, heavy and suffocating. All his hard work—months, years of grinding and building and creating—was about to be erased. Deleted. Gone. The characters he'd made, the friends he'd fought beside, the fun times he'd had in this world, especially in this particular DLC—his Outworld, his kingdom—it would all vanish in minutes.
Just. Like. That.
Snap.
He rose from his throne—slow, reluctant, like a condemned man walking toward the gallows—and gazed at the statues lining his throne room. Stone warriors. Stone friends. Crafted by players who'd loved this DLC as much as he did, who'd bled virtual blood and spent real money to make this place matter.
"I'm going to miss the fun times we had, my friends," he whispered, his voice—his real voice, not Shao Kahn's thunder—small and human and breakable. His right hand reached out, fingertips brushing cold stone. "My one regret..." A sigh, heavy as the world. "...is that we never had the chance to test our power against Nazarick."
Nazarick.
The legendary guild. The untouchable fortress. The dream fight that would never happen now.
He turned, and there they stood—his virtual daughters, his NPCs, his almost-children. Mileena. Jade. Kitana. He'd made them because he'd always wanted to be a father, but unfortunately, life had other plans. Steel mill shifts didn't leave much time for dating—twelve-hour days in the heat and the noise and the screaming of metal against metal, molten steel flowing like dragon's blood, the constant danger, the exhaustion that sank into your bones. Who wanted to date a laborer covered in soot and too tired to smile?
So he'd made daughters in a game instead.
He'd made them powerful. Deadly. Beautiful. Called them 'The Emperor's Daggers'—three blades, sharp and loyal, designed to protect their father-king.
He sighed, realizing he'd never seen them in actual combat. No one had ever dared attack his kingdom. No one had been foolish enough, brave enough, stupid enough.
He walked up to them, these digital daughters with their perfect postures and their programmed loyalty. "I guess this is it, girls..." His voice cracked—just a little, just enough. "It was fun making you three... even though my friends gave me so much crap for making you all too attractive." A chuckle, bitter and sweet. "They said I had issues. Maybe they were right."
He walked back to his throne, each step echoing in the vast chamber—thud, thud, thud—and spoke the command word that brought them to life in that limited, heartbreaking way NPCs came to life:
"Follow."
They moved. They obeyed. They followed.
He sat down—collapse was more accurate—and looked at the three, giving another command that felt, now, at the end of all things, like a prayer:
"Bow down."
They obeyed. Kneeling. Three daughters, three warriors, three impossible dreams given digital flesh.
He glanced at the screen—that cold, clinical countdown—watching the numbers tick toward oblivion.
00:00:04
00:00:03
00:00:02
"It was fun while it lasted," he whispered.
00:00:01
"I really hope I don't have a big shipment tomorrow." His thoughts drifted to the real world, to the steel mill, to pallets and forklifts and the foreman's perpetual scowl. "If I have to work all night, I'm going to be so pissed."
00:00:00
The screen went black.
Died.
Ended.
Finished.
...
00:00:01
00:00:02
The Impossible Awakening
He opened his eyes.
Stone. He was staring at the stone. The wall of his throne room—his throne room, Shao Kahn's throne room—rendered in impossible detail. Too real. Too textured. He could see the individual cracks in the mortar, the way shadows pooled in ancient crevices.
What the hell?
He looked around. Left. Right. Panic rising like bile in his throat.
Didn't they close the game?
He moved his hand—his hand, not a controller, not a mouse, his actual hand—trying to open his menu screen. Nothing happened. No blue interface. No options. No logout button.
Where the fuck is the menu screen?
"Father, are you alright?"
The voice—feminine, new, real—cut through his spiral of confusion like a blade through silk.
He turned his head, slow as a nightmare, and saw them.
His daughters. Mileena. Jade. Kitana. Looking at him with worried expressions—not programmed concern, not scripted dialogue, but actual worry etched in their eyes, their postures, the way Kitana's hand moved toward him, hesitant, afraid.
"Lord Shao Kahn," Kitana repeated, her voice soft, uncertain, human. "What is troubling you?"
Shock hit him like a hammer blow—his hammer, Shao Kahn's hammer, the weight he could suddenly feel hanging at his side.
He looked right. Left. Right again. Panic blooming, spreading, consuming. His right hand shot to his head—except it wasn't his hand anymore, was it? Too large. Too powerful. Too green.
"What's happening?" The words tumbled out, and his voice—
His voice.
Hisvoice.
Deep. Deeper than the Mariana Trench. Deeper than hell itself. Shao Kahn's voice, not his own, not the tired steel mill worker who sounded perpetually hoarse from yelling over machinery.
He rubbed his throat, fingers—massive fingers—exploring the impossible reality of his new vocal cords.
"Is your throat sore, Father?" Mileena asked, her mask hiding her expression but not the concern in her tone.
The daughters looked at him, all three, wondering why he was acting strange, not knowing—not knowing—that their father was freaking out, drowning, dying inside this impossible body.
He stood—rose, erupted—from the throne and walked away, stride long and powerful and wrong. "I will be back," he managed, voice steady despite the screaming in his mind. "I need to check something."
Their worry intensified. He could feel it radiating from them like heat from the furnaces back at the mill.
The Walk of Realization
He left the throne room.
Down the hall—stone floor, stone walls, stone everything—he walked, and saw people. Not sprites. Not rendering tricks. People. Humans, yes, but also other species—humanoids with scales, with fur, with wings—all bowing their heads as he passed.
Bowing.
To him.
Each bow drove the reality deeper, sharper, colder into his chest.
This can't be happening, right? There's no way. No possible way. I'm dreaming. Hallucinating. Having a psychotic break from too many double shifts.
But the air—he could feel the air, cool against his skin, carrying scents of stone and smoke and something cooking somewhere far away. His lungs expanded. Contracted. Breathed.
He walked through a door onto a long stone bridge, massive and ancient and real, and stood in the middle of it. Turned his head.
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh god.
His kingdom—Outworld—spread before him in impossible, breathtaking, terrifying detail. Mountains in the distance, sharp as dragon's teeth. The city below, sprawling and alive, smoke rising from chimneys, lights flickering in windows. The sky above, wrong-colored, alien, beautiful.
"One last test," he whispered. "One last test to prove my theory. To prove I'm insane. To prove this isn't real."
He raised his right hand.
Reality rippled.
A war hammer—his war hammer, Shao Kahn's weapon, the skull-crusher, the spine-breaker—appeared in his grasp. Heavy. Solid. Real.
He used the small pointed spike on top, brought it to his palm, and cut.
Pain.
Not the dull acknowledgment of pain from a game. Not the abstract concept of damage. Actual pain—sharp, bright, immediate—shooting up his arm.
He looked at his hand.
Blood.
Red. Warm. Wet. Real.
The wound healed—flesh knitting together in seconds, supernatural, impossible—but the blood remained on his skin. Proof. Evidence. Truth.
The smirk started small. A twitch of lips. Then wider. Wider.
"I'm... I'm in the game," he chuckled, low and dark and dangerous. "I'm... I'm Shao Kahn."
The laughter grew—louder, LOUDER—until it burst forth like thunder, like prophecy, like the roar of a conqueror realizing his destiny:
"I'M SHAO KAHN, RULER OF OUTWORLD!"
His voice echoed across the bridge, across the city, across the world.
The Weight of Fatherhood
When his laughter finally calmed—subsided, settled, surrendered—he shook the blood from his hand, watching droplets fall through space like crimson tears.
"Okay," he muttered, thinking aloud, mind racing. "So I'm in the game. I can bleed. I can use my spells. I can summon weapons. That's... good? That's good. But that's not all."
He remembered.
His NPCs.
"I have three daughters..." The words felt heavy on his tongue. "And a lot of other generals."
Daughters. Not code. Not programming. Not fake anymore.
Daughters.
He walked back inside—through the door, down the hall, past the bowing subjects—and returned to his throne room. Opened the door.
There they stood. Waiting. Loyal. His daughters, his warriors, his children.
Seeing them—really seeing them now, not as NPCs but as people—made something crack open in his chest. All those years wanting kids. All those lonely nights after mill shifts, too tired to go out, too isolated to connect, watching other people have families while he had... nothing.
But here.
Here.
In this impossible world, he had daughters.
Jade looked at him and bowed. "Father, what did you need to check that was so important?" Polite. Proper. Perfect.
Shao Kahn smiled—not his terrifying conqueror smile, but something softer, something human—and placed his massive hand on her shoulder. Gentle. Careful.
"Everything is fine, my daughter."
The words felt right. Felt real.
Then his tactical mind kicked in. He needed information. Intel. Understanding.
"Jade, I need you to send a scouting party outside of our kingdom. I need to check on something."
She nodded, efficient, obedient.
"Kitana and Mileena," he continued, looking at the other two, "I need you to gather my most trusted generals. I would like to have a meeting."
They nodded, but their eyes met—glared, actually, hatred flashing between them like lightning.
Oh right. The rivalry programming.
He sighed. "And please don't try to kill each other while doing so."
Both sisters sighed in unison—perfectly synchronized frustration—and spoke together: "Yes, Father."
They walked off, shooting each other death glares until they disappeared through separate doors.
When they left, he walked to his throne and sat down, waiting. Thinking. Planning.
Okay. I'm king of this world. I know how my OCs think and act—I designed them, after all. Lucky I made them loyal to me. But now they're living people. Actual people with thoughts and feelings and autonomy.
The weight of that realization settled over him like armor.
I must choose my actions carefully. Not just with the generals, but with everyone. The people of this kingdom—they're not NPCs anymore. They're real. They deserve... they deserve a good king. A real leader.
Not just a conqueror.
A father.
One Hour Later — The War Council
He sat on the throne—spine straight, posture regal, every inch the emperor—when his daughters returned.
All three bowed.
Kitana spoke first, voice formal, respectful: "Father, we have returned, and the generals are waiting outside."
Jade added, "And we have word from the scouting party."
Good. Efficient. Exactly as planned.
He nodded, allowing satisfaction to color his tone. "Good. Send them in, and let us see what lies beyond our borders."
The doors opened.
His generals entered—his generals, his warriors, his court—and despite everything, despite the impossible situation, pride swelled in his chest.
First: Quan Chi and Shang Tsung, his prized sorcerers. Quan Chi—pale as death, bald as bone, eyes like frozen lakes. Shang Tsung—soul-stealer, shape-shifter, eternally young through dark magic. Both moved with the fluid grace of predators, of men who'd mastered death itself.
Second: Goro and Baraka, his most deadly warriors. Goro—towering Shokan, four arms like pillars, each muscle carved from living stone. Baraka—Tarkatan savage, arm-blades gleaming, teeth filed to points, a living weapon barely contained by flesh.
Last: Skarlet, blood magic mistress. Assassin. Rogue. Beautiful and lethal as a rose made of razors. She moved like water, like shadow, like the blood she commanded.
Seeing them—all of them, his creations, his characters, now alive—put a smile on Shao Kahn's face despite himself.
He remained seated, his anchor, his power made manifest.
"It pleases me," he began, voice carrying the weight of command, "that you all have come to this meeting. I have sent a scouting party outside of our borders to gather intelligence, and I have heard they have returned with information."
Goro chuckled—deep, rumbling, contemptuous. "If they are Tarkatans, then all we will know is that the grass is green." The insult hung in the air like smoke.
Baraka's response was instant, visceral, explosive. He whirled on Goro, arm-blades extending with a shing that sang of murder. "WATCH YOUR TONGUE, SHOKAN DOG, OR I WILL RIP THE FLESH FROM YOUR BONES!"
The two warriors faced each other—four arms versus arm-blades, mountain versus monster—ready to attack, to kill, to paint the throne room with each other's blood.
FWOOSH.
A fireball struck the ground between them—green flame, soul-fire, warning—forcing both warriors back.
Shang Tsung stood with his hand still raised, expression calm, almost bored. "Perhaps you two should settle down." His voice carried the dangerous silk of a garrote wire. "You are in the presence of Shao Kahn."
The warriors growled—actually growled, like the beasts they partly were—but backed down, recognition of hierarchy overriding bloodlust.
For now.
"Thank you, Shang Tsung," Shao Kahn said, then looked at the door. "Ah, my scout."
A Tarkatan scout entered—hunched, nervous, terrified—and immediately bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the floor. Smart. Self-preservation was a valuable trait.
"Tell me," Shao Kahn commanded, voice smooth as poisoned honey, "what news have you brought me?"
The scout's voice shook. "My lord... it seems our world has been teleported to a new world."
Silence.
The kind of silence that precedes earthquakes. Avalanches. War.
Then everyone spoke at once—voices overlapping, questions flying, panic spreading like wildfire through dry grass.
But Shao Kahn remained calm.
Calm.
Because he'd expected something like this. Because impossibility had become his new normal. Because a steel mill laborer who'd become a conqueror-king had learned to adapt or die.
"I see." He stood, rising from his throne like a titan emerging from the earth. Every eye turned to him. Every voice stopped. "So our world has been teleported."
Power. He could feel it, radiating from him, commanding silence and obedience.
"What lies outside of our borders, scout?"
"We are surrounded by mountains, my lord. Although..." The scout hesitated, fear warring with duty. "We have received reports that some of the other kingdoms have been separated from us. The Tarkatan tribe. The Shokan Kingdom. The Centaurian Kingdom—none are within Outworld's borders."
"WHAT?!"
Baraka's roar shook the walls. "WHERE ARE OUR PEOPLE, SOLDIER?!"
Goro's four fists clenched simultaneously, knuckles cracking like gunshots. "Whoever dares to take my kingdom and my people WILL DIE!"
"Gentlemen." Quan Chi glided forward, voice a soothing whisper, a lullaby before assassination. "Now is not the time to panic." He gestured gracefully, hypnotically. "I will use my magic to find our lost allies. But we must stay calm."
Calm. Right. Easy for the necromancer to say.
Shao Kahn thought for a moment—mind racing through possibilities, strategies, contingencies—then spoke: "First, we must strengthen our defenses. Then we will find our people." He looked at Skarlet, meeting her crimson eyes. "What ideas do you have to strengthen our defenses, Skarlet?"
She stepped forward, moving like blood flowing downhill. "We already have a strong army ready to fight, my lord. But we can use the mountains to our advantage." Her smile was sharp, predatory. "Set up traps that can trigger avalanches. Place watchtowers on the peaks. Turn our prison into our fortress."
Clever. Always so clever.
"Good. Begin work immediately, Skarlet. I leave that task to you."
She bowed, already planning, already calculating.
He turned to his sorcerers. "Quan Chi. Shang Tsung. I want you to begin searching for the other kingdoms immediately." Both bowed their heads—synchronized, practiced, perfect. "As for everyone else: await further orders and prepare the army in case we are attacked."
Prepare for war.
Always prepare for war.
Everyone began to leave—boots on stone, robes swishing, the sounds of a court in motion—but Shao Kahn raised his hand.
"Mileena. Jade. Kitana." His voice softened, just a fraction, just enough. "Wait a moment. I wish to speak with you three."
The sisters obeyed, staying behind as the doors closed, sealing them in with their father.
The Father's Fear
Shao Kahn walked up to his daughters—his daughters, his children, his responsibility.
"I want all of you to be careful," he said, looking at each in turn. "We are no longer in our world. We don't know what's out there. We don't know the dangers."
Then he did something he never thought he'd do.
He hugged them.
All three. At once. Arms—massive, powerful, capable of crushing skulls—wrapped around them with impossible gentleness.
"I don't want to lose you three," he whispered, and his voice—Shao Kahn's thunderous voice—cracked. "I just found you. I just... I just realized you're real. I can't lose you. Not now. Not ever."
The sisters smiled beneath their masks—he couldn't see it, but he could feel it—and hugged him back.
"We will be fine, Father," Kitana said, voice warm, certain.
"We are strong, Daddy," Mileena added, using the more intimate term, "and we can handle anything."
"We will always be by your side," Jade promised, and it sounded like an oath, like a vow.
Shao Kahn smiled—really smiled, not the conquering grin but something genuine—and slowly released them. "Okay, my daughters. Just be careful. That's all I ask."
They walked toward the door, moving together, unified despite their programmed rivalries.
When they left—when the doors closed behind them with a final, echoing boom—he walked back to his throne.
Sat down.
Slumped.
And let the evil smile spread across his face like darkness across the sky at dusk.
I'm in the game now. Really, truly in the game. And if I'm going to be here—if this is my life now—then maybe it's time to live up to my title.
Time to be what I was always meant to be.
Not a steel mill laborer grinding through double shifts.
Not a lonely man playing video games to escape.
But a conqueror.
A king.
An emperor.
His laughter started low—dark, delicious, dangerous—then grew, echoing through the throne room, through the castle, through Outworld itself:
"Watch out, world... because Shao Kahn, the Conqueror, has come."
"AND I BOW TO NO ONE."
To be continued...