And in the distance, lightning struck the Elder God’s fortress four times. Each strike was a warning. Each was ignored.

“This realm,” he whispered, watching a lone Shaolin monk train in the rain, “will be my new Netherrealm.”

“Kill him,” Shinnok commanded.

“There is no chosen one,” Shinnok whispered, kneeling beside him. “Only tools.”

He touched Liu Kang’s forehead. The monk rose—eyes empty, hands now dripping with black ice.

The monk was Liu Kang. He didn’t sense the horror coiling behind the pagoda—only the familiar sting of wind and duty. Shinnok raised a skeletal hand. The earth split. From the fissure rose Jarek , a Black Dragon thug with a cybernetic snarl, and Reiko , a general whose hunger for power had eaten his humanity.

The screen goes dark. Then, in green pixelated letters:

From his palm, a beam of sickly green light struck the Shaolin’s own Fire God medallion. Liu Kang screamed—not in pain, but in confusion. His chi inverted. His fire turned to frost. He fell to his knees, skin cracking like cooled lava.

Liu Kang spun, fists aflame. The first fireball met Jarek’s chest, sending him skidding into a stone lion. Reiko came next, wielding a crescent-bladed staff, his movements too fluid, too ancient. They traded blows until the courtyard became a mosaic of blood and shattered cobblestone.