THE CHRONICLE OF SHAO KAHN Emperor of Outworld, Conqueror of Realms, The Dragon's Wrath Made Flesh THE BEARER OF TWO NAMES
Aleksander Walker—a name whispered in the world of men, soft as morning mist.
Shao Kahn—a name screamed across conquered worlds, sharp as the executioner's blade, heavy as the hammer that splits skulls and shatters spines. A name that echoes. A name that endures.
Race: Half-Dragon—neither fully beast nor wholly man, but something more, something terrible, something the realms were never meant to withstand.
THE FLESH OF CONQUEST
[Here stands a figure forged in fire and fury, waiting to be witnessed...]
THE TWIN PATHS OF ANNIHILATION
Two souls dwell within one vessel. Two philosophies pulse through one heart. Two hands deal death in distinctly devastating ways.
THE BARBARIAN'S BAPTISM
This is his true nature, his first love, his final answer to all questions posed by foolish mortals.
Shao Kahn does not stand at the back. He does not hide behind armies. He does not cower behind conjurations.
He charges.
He crushes.
He conquers.
Into the meat-grinder maelstrom of battle, he throws himself—laughing, roaring, reveling in the symphony of screams and the percussion of breaking bones. His boots wade through blood. His breath reeks of war. His shadow falls across the battlefield like a death sentence written in smoke and ash.
THE SORCERER'S SUPREMACY
Yet when the barbaric will not suffice, when brute force finds its limit, when the enemy hides behind walls or cowardice—then the dragon's other nature awakens.
Black magic—forbidden, foul, magnificent.
Blood magic—ancient, agonizing, absolute.
From his outstretched palms pour powers that make the heavens weep, and the hells applaud:
The Warhammer's Call: No forge fashioned this weapon. No smith shaped its haft. Summoned from the spaces between spaces, it materializes—massive, mythic, murderous—the weight of worlds compressed into war-craft.
Energy Annihilation: Blasts of pure destructive force that don't merely kill but erase, leaving neither corpse nor memory, only silence and smoke.
The Fireball's Fury: Spheres of searing flame that turn armor to ash, flesh to cinder, stone to glass.
The Emerald Spear—His Signature, His Symphony, His Soul's Expression: A lance of luminous green death, crackling with corrupt energies, piercing through platoons, puncturing through pride. This is not merely a spell—it is a statement. A promise. A prophecy fulfilled in the flesh of his foes. They see the green glow gathering. They know. They always know. And knowing changes nothing.
THE EMPIRE OF ETERNAL SHADOW OUTWORLD—WHERE THE STRONG DEVOUR THE WEAK AND THE WEAK FEED THE STRONGTHE FORTRESS OF A THOUSAND SCREAMS
Shao Kahn's castle does not merely stand—it looms, it threatens, it bleeds dominion into the very air around it. Built from the bones of conquered kings and mortared with the ground-down dreams of defeated realms, every stone whispers of warfare, every tower tells of tyranny.
Here, in halls where mercy came to die, the Emperor plots his next conquest. Here, in chambers where compassion was strangled in its cradle, destiny is decided.
THE LEGIONS OF THE DAMNED
Four forces form the fist that strikes at Shao Kahn's command:
The TARKATANS—savage, slavering, starving for slaughter. Arms that end in blades. Mouths that split into nightmares. They are hunger given humanoid form, cannibals clothed in corrupted flesh, creatures who kill not from duty but from desire.
The SHOKANS—titans, terrors, terrible in their majesty. Four arms to deal death from four angles. Skin like stone, strength like storm, pride like poison. They are mountains that move, earthquakes with eyes, the earth's wrath walking.
The CENTAURIANS—swift as sin, deadly as dawn. Half-horse, whole horror. They thunder across battlefields like living lightning, their hooves the drumbeat of doom, the weapons extensions of their will.
The OUTWORLDERS—human, humanoid, humanity's dark reflection. Not weak. Never weak. Forged in Outworld's furnace of endless war, they are what mankind becomes when mercy is murdered, and only mastery remains.
THE EMPEROR'S INSTRUMENTS OF IMMOLATION Power Beyond Measure, Loyalty Beyond Question, Death Beyond Mercy
Each general commands power to rival the legendary Guardians of Nazarick—yes, THOSE Guardians—beings whose very existence rewrites reality's rules.
THE EMPEROR'S DAGGERSMileena • Jade • KitanaThree Blades, One Purpose, Zero Mercy
They are called daggers not for their size but for their function—small, sharp, slipped between ribs before you know they're there. Silent until they strike. Invisible until it's far, far too late.
Three sisters. Three shadows. Three executioners wearing beauty like a mask.
Cross the Emperor? Defy his will? Whisper dissent in darkened corners?
The Daggers will find you.
The Daggers will gut you.
The Daggers will leave your corpse as a message to others.
MILEENA—The Savage Sister, The Flesh-Pit's Finest, The Smile That Slays
Born not in a womb but in a Flesh Pit—that bubbling cauldron of creation and corruption where sorcery violates nature and produces perfection twisted, beauty bleeding.
Her Tarkatan blood runs thick, runs hot, runs hungry.
She doesn't simply kill. That would be mercy. That would be quick.
No—Mileena torments. She toys. She tastes the terror of her victims like a connoisseur sampling fine wine, savoring each scream, rolling each plea around in her mind before dismissing it with laughter sharp as shattered glass.
The Rivalry: With Kitana, she shares blood—but blood alone does not birth love. They are the same yet separate, mirrors that mock each other. Mileena's Tarkatan taint marks her as different, as dangerous, as daddy's dark daughter who crawled from corruption itself.
Once, Kitana recoiled. Once, Kitana was rejected.
But Shao Kahn—Emperor, Father, Manipulator—wove words like spells, whispered wisdom like poison, and convinced his daughters that rivalry need not mean enmity. That competition could coexist with kinship.
Now they are sisters—bound by duty if not always by desire.
Mileena's smile hides teeth that tear. Her beauty masks a beast. She is the id unrestrained, the savage self given permission, the monster men make when they mix magic and malice.
KITANA—The Eager Blade, The Perfect Daughter, The Warrior Who Will Not Wait
Driven. Desperate. Determined to prove—to her father, to her sisters, to herself—that she is strong, that she is strongest, that she deserves the Emperor's favor more than any other.
She does not wait for orders. She does not hesitate at thresholds. When missions manifest, Kitana is already moving, already volunteering, already halfway out the door before briefings begin.
Friendly to Jade—warm, sisterly, genuine in her affection.
Furious with Mileena—cold, competitive, caught in an endless contest where only one can stand supreme in their father's eyes.
They compete. They clash. They circle each other like dueling dragons, each seeking the slightest sign of weakness, the smallest opportunity to strike, to surpass, to win.
Yet when duty demands—when the mission matters more than pride—Kitana is professional. Personal feelings fold away like fans snapping shut. The warrior emerges. The weapon activates. She becomes what she was forged to be: an instrument of the Emperor's will, perfect and precise.
She is discipline disguised as desire, ambition armored in beauty, the daughter who will do anything to hear her father say, just once: "You are enough."
JADE—The Voice of Reason, The Adopted Angel, The Sister Who Sees
Not born of Shao Kahn's blood—but raised as if she were.
Adopted. Taken in. Transformed from outsider to insider, from stranger to sister, from orphan to heir.
The Emperor looked upon this child and declared: "You are mine."
And so she became.
Where Mileena is savage, and Kitana is striving, Jade is steady. Level-headed in a household of hot-blooded hunters. Calm in a castle of chaos. She is the anchor when her sisters threaten to drift into destruction, the voice that speaks sense when fury and ambition fog judgment.
She loves them both—Mileena and Kitana alike. Not despite their flaws but including them. She sees the savage and the striver and loves what lies beneath.
When her sisters fight, Jade intervenes—not with violence but with wisdom. A word here. A gesture there. She untangles their tensions before they snap into something irreparable.
The Strategist: On missions, Jade's mind moves like mercury—quick, adaptable, deadly. She crafts the plans. She sees the patterns. She finds the weaknesses in walls, the gaps in guards, the moments when death can slip through defenses like silk through fingers.
The Emperor's Daggers strike as one because Jade ensures they know where to strike, when to strike, and how to strike for maximum devastation.
She is the conscience they don't deserve and the sister they desperately need. Proof that family is not merely blood but choice—and Shao Kahn chose her just as surely as she chose him.
SHANG TSUNG—The Soul Stealer, The Scheming Sorcerer, The Serpent in the Garden
Loyal? Yes. Absolutely. Unquestionably.
Obedient? Ah... well... that's where things get complicated.
Shang Tsung serves Shao Kahn with a devotion that borders on worship—but even the most faithful dog occasionally hunts without its master's whistle.
He schemes. He plots. He spins webs within webs, plans within plans, conspiracies wrapped in conspiracies like a gift that keeps giving... giving power to his Emperor, yes, but also to himself.
Does Shao Kahn know? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps he knows and allows it, recognizing that ambition properly directed serves the throne even when it serves the ambitious.
Shang Tsung's schemes always—always—revolve around two twin suns: making Shao Kahn stronger and making himself indispensable.
His Gift. His Curse. His Terrible Talent:
SOUL ABSORPTION—the ability to rip the very essence from a victim's flesh, to consume consciousness itself, to devour decades and drink deeply of another's existence.
With each soul stolen, Shang Tsung grows younger. Wounds close. Wrinkles retreat. The ravages of age reverse, fleeing before the fountain of stolen life-force flooding through his veins.
He is a youth without innocence. Beauty without virtue. Life prolonged through death proliferated.
Immortality earned one murder at a time.
He smiles—and behind that smile lurks the laughter of a thousand consumed ghosts.
GORO—Prince of Pain, The Four-Armed Fury, Pride Personified
ROYAL BLOOD pumps through his four-armed frame—not merely a warrior but a PRINCE, heir to the Shokan throne, bearer of noble lineage and lethal legacy.
Yet nobility has not made him humble. Quite the opposite.
Goro believes—no, KNOWS—that he is the mightiest warrior to ever break bones and shatter spines. This is not arrogance. This is a fact. At least, in the cathedral of his own conviction.
Hotheaded. The fuse is short. The explosion is spectacular.
Stubborn. He does not bend. He does not break. He does not listen when others suggest alternatives to violence—because violence is always the alternative he prefers.
When battle beckons, Goro answers—charging forward with four fists flying, each arm a separate engine of annihilation, each punch a thunderclap that echoes across realms.
He doesn't merely fight. He demonstrates. Every bout is a performance, every victory a sermon preached with broken bodies as props. The message is always the same:
"I am Goro. I am superior. Challenge me, and I will prove it upon your pulverized corpse."
Loyalty to Shao Kahn is absolute—not from fear but from respect. The Emperor is the only being Goro acknowledges as stronger, the only warrior worthy of his obedience.
All others? Inferior. Irrelevant. Soon to be deceased.
BARAKA—General of Gnashing Teeth, The Cannibal Commander, Hunger Given Form
Where Goro is deadly, Baraka is VICIOUS.
He doesn't just kill his enemies—such pedestrian practice, such wasteful warfare!
No. No, no, no.
Baraka EATS them.
Or—if his appetite is already sated—he feeds them to his Tarkatan legions, who fall upon corpses with the enthusiasm of starving wolves discovering a wounded deer.
Cannibalism is not depravity to the Tarkatans. It is culture. It is communion. It is how they honor their fallen foes—by ensuring nothing goes to waste, by transforming enemy flesh into Tarkatan strength.
Baraka commands them all—every snarling, slavering, blade-armed Tarkatan bows to him. He is their general, their guide, their alpha predator.
His loyalty to Shao Kahn is carved from the same stone as his savagery—absolute, unyielding, eternal. The Emperor feeds him enemies. Baraka ensures those enemies are fed upon.
A perfect symbiosis of service and slaughter.
He grins—and when Baraka grins, you see why his victims scream even before the eating begins. His smile is a mouthful of nightmares, teeth that don't merely bite but tear, jaws that don't close around food but around futures, ending them mid-chew.
QUAN CHI—The Death-Dealer, Master of the Macabre, He Who Walks With Corpses
A WARLOCK whose specialty makes even other sorcerers shudder—NECROMANCY.
Death is not an ending in Quan Chi's world. It's merely a transition. A change of employment. A new beginning under new management.
He raises the dead not as shambling zombies but as soldiers—disciplined, deadly, disposable. An army that never tires, never retreats, never questions orders, never demands payment beyond the dark energies that animate their decaying forms.
Like Shang Tsung, Quan Chi serves Shao Kahn with loyalty laced with personal ambition. His schemes spiral in shadowed corners, his plans propagate in private places—but they all eventually orbit the same dual purposes:
Making Shao Kahn STRONGER.
Making Shao Kahn's army LARGER.
Why limit yourself to the living when the dead outnumber them a thousand to one?
Every fallen warrior from every conquered realm—all potential recruits. All waiting to rise again at Quan Chi's whispered command.
Dark magic drips from his fingertips like oil from a broken lamp—slick, black, burning with cold fire.
He is death's accountant, calculating the cost of conquest in corpses reanimated. He is the gravedigger who works in reverse, planting bodies that bloom into soldiers.
Where others see cemeteries, Quan Chi sees recruitment centers.
Where others mourn the dead, Quan Chi sees opportunity.
SKARLET—The Blood Mistress, The Crimson Spy, Death Dressed in Scarlet
"THE BLOOD MISTRESS"—a title earned in arterial spray and hemoglobin horror.
She is a master—no, a VIRTUOSO—of blood magic in all its forms. Every spell in her repertoire is written in red, cast in crimson, fueled by the very life-force flowing through her veins.
Yet for all her sorcerous skill, Skarlet does not stand on battlefields hurling hexes like common hedge-witches.
No.
Skarlet is a ROGUE, a SHADOW, an ASSASSIN dressed in the deceptive disguise of a sorceress.
She slips into enemy camps silent as secrets. She moves through shadows like smoke through fingers. She kills quietly, efficiently, artistically—each death a signature, each corpse a calling card left behind in pools of their own blood.
Like the Emperor's Daggers—Mileena, Jade, Kitana—she specializes in surgical strikes. Often she joins them on missions, a fourth blade added to the Emperor's arsenal, a blood-red dagger alongside the three steel ones.
But Skarlet serves a second purpose, a secret function known only to Shao Kahn himself:
She is the spy who spies on the spies.
She is the watcher who watches the watchers.
She is the Emperor's eyes turned inward.
While others plot and plan, Skarlet observes. While they scheme in shadows, she lurks in deeper shadows. She listens at doorways. She notes who whispers to whom. She tracks ambitions and reports them directly—exclusively—to Shao Kahn.
Shang Tsung's side projects? Skarlet knows.
Quan Chi's unsanctioned experiments? Skarlet documents.
Goro's grumbling about strategy? Skarlet files it away.
She is loyal to Shao Kahn in ways the others cannot imagine—because her loyalty is not merely to his throne but to his survival. She ensures no plot grows too large, no scheme spins too far, no ambition threatens to topple the Emperor.
Blood magic in combat. Shadow-work in corridors.
Skarlet is both assassin and accountant, killer and clerk, the crimson hand that strikes and the scarlet eye that sees.
She moves through the castle like a bleeding ghost, beautiful and terrible, leaving red footprints that fade before anyone can follow them back to their source.
THE CHRONICLE CONTINUES...
This is but the first chapter in the Saga of Outworld.
More champions will emerge from the shadows.
More warriors will kneel before the Emperor.
More realms will fall.
The story of Shao Kahn is written in the blood of conquered worlds, in the screams of defeated champions, in the silence that follows annihilation.
AND IT HAS ONLY JUST BEGUN.
The hammer falls. The spear flies. The empire expands.
Outworld devours.
Shao Kahn conquers.
And you... You are merely here to witness.
// More Outworld champions shall be revealed when the realms align, and the story demands their entrance. Until then, the Emperor's Daggers sharpen themselves, Shang Tsung's schemes simmer, Goro's fists hunger, Baraka's teeth gnash, Quan Chi's dead rise, and Skarlet's blood-magic bleeds across reality itself... //
THE CHRONICLE AWAITS ITS CONTINUATION.
THE CONQUEST NEVER ENDS.
OUTWORLD ENDURES.