A meeting of sorcery

Chapter 17: Brotherhood of Shadows.

Night had draped itself over Shang Tsung’s island like a burial cloth.

No stars dared shine over the Lost Sea. The horizon was swallowed by black water and rolling fog, the air thick with salt, rot, and old sorcery. What had once been a place of spectacle now stood as a decaying scar between realms, a ruined paradise devoured by time and conquest alike. The island no longer welcomed visitors; it judged them.

The old tournament grounds were still there, though little in them remained unbroken. The white marble courtyard that had once echoed with the roar of crowds was cracked through with black veins of mildew and thorny weeds. The banners of Shang Tsung’s two snakes hung in strips from rusted poles, sodden and torn, fluttering weakly in the damp wind like the shreds of a dead empire. Even the air carried memory here. Every stone seemed to remember applause, blood, and the arrogance of men who had believed themselves untouchable.

At the centre of it all, the arena stood in silent ruin. Mummified corpses still occupied the old spectator benches, Shang Tsung’s Masked Guards…or what remained of them that was.

They sat rigid and upright, locked in the same lifeless postures they had held for centuries, as if **** itself had forgotten to relieve them of duty. Their hollow sockets faced the arena floor with blind, eternal vigilance. They had become part of the architecture now. Part of the punishment. Part of the memory.
Shang Tsung had always liked that about this island. It remembered. Not in-kind ways, no. In the cruel, honest manner of graves.

The statues of the champions stood further down the plaza, each one weathered differently by time and malice. Raiden’s likeness was fractured across the face, one arm broken at the shoulder. Johnny Cage’s monument had been defaced with moss and old scorch marks, as though the island itself found his smug grin offensive. Liu Kang’s statue remained the most intolerable of all; still upright, still proud, still staring out with that infuriating calm of his, as if victory had only made him more difficult to hate.

The only one that seemed to still breathe with pride and might was Goro’s. Perhaps it was still taken care of out of respect for the once mightiest of champions…
Even now, it seemed to mock him. Perhaps because it had once been his trophy. Perhaps because it still stood as proof that the island had known strength before it knew decay. Perhaps because it reminded him that even here, in a place built for his glory, he had been **** to kneel before failure.

He continued his stride. Past the courtyard, past the shattered bridge and past the old vaults where the stones had blackened from centuries of fire and soul-energy. With every step, the air grew heavier.

Damp stone gave way to the damp scent of blood. The corridors narrowed. The green glow of soul-fire licked at the walls in flickering braziers, throwing grotesque shadows across the broken masonry. Far below, the Pit yawned in impossible darkness, the spikes at its bottom buried beneath layers of bones, armour fragments, and the remains of warriors who had believed themselves more important than fate.

Descending past the palace vaults, the air grew heavy with the stench of copper and ancient decay. The damp stone steps led directly into Goro’s Lair. The cavernous hall was vast, illuminated only by the flickering, unnatural green glow of soul-fire braziers.

But deep beneath all the ruins, life was still breathing and souls still being taken.

Shang Tsung stood there after his walk, deep in his chamber, about to perform a ritual. His oni servant, that remain deep in the pits of the lair, brought him six captives to be harvested.

Shaolin monks were his favourite treats. They were strong-willed and skilled warriors, which only made them even tastier when absorbing them. They had fought bravely enough.

Bravely, which was to say: predictably.

One of them still tried to spit blood at his feet. Another had already gone pale with fear, though he clung to a prayer he clearly no longer believed would save him. Shang Tsung found the faith of monks especially amusing. They always spoke of serenity while their hearts beat like trapped birds.

“Still defiant?” he murmured, his voice warm with mockery.

One of the monks lifted his head weakly. “You are a monster.”

Shang Tsung’s smile deepened. “Ah. At last, a bit of originality.”

He circled them slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, almost leisurely. He looked less like an executioner than a scholar inspecting specimens. “You Shaolin always insist on moral superiority,” he continued. “It is quite a charming delusion. One wonders whether your order teaches it, or whether you are simply born with it.”

The monk glared at him through blood and swelling. “Liu Kang will stop you.”

Shang Tsung’s eyes sharpened at once, his expression still pleasant, but the air around him changing ever so slightly. Liu Kang, always Liu Kang. Even now, after everything, his name remained lodged beneath Shang Tsung’s skin like a splinter that refused to be cut out.

He stepped closer to the monk and tilted his head. “Will he?”

The monk did not answer. Shang Tsung smiled as if the silence pleased him.

“He is not here,” he said softly. “He was not there for you all when the tarkatan attacked the academy; he was not there when my servants took you and brought you here…perhaps your hero is nothing but a false idol to have.” His tone remained almost conversational, which made the hatred inside it more unsettling. “Yet every one of you speaks his name as though it were a prayer.”

He leaned in, voice lowering. “Tell me something, monk. Does your champion protect you from this?”

The monk swallowed hard. Shang straightened again, satisfied by the fear. “No,” he said lightly. “Of course he does not.”

He made a small gesture with two fingers. The nearby oni servant obeyed immediately, shoving the first monk forward.

Shang Tsung raised a hand, and the ritual began. The soul-fire around him brightened. The monk screamed.

It was a raw, ragged sound that bounced against the cavern walls and was swallowed almost immediately by the hungry green glow in the room. Shang Tsung shut his eyes for a moment as he drew the essence inward, savouring the sensation. Strength flooded back through him in waves. Heat. Vitality. A sharpened pulse of stolen life.

He exhaled slowly as the body in front of him began to grey and wither. Then, he opened his eyes again. “There,” he whispered. “Much better.”

The next monk trembled violently now. “Please—”

Shang Tsung looked at him almost kindly. “Please, what?”

“I don’t— I don’t know anything.”

“Oh, that is disappointing,” Shang replied, as though the confession had genuinely bored him. “I had hoped you would at least lie with more conviction.” He turned his head toward the remaining captives. “Which of you would like to make yourselves useful before I grow impatient?”

One monk began muttering a prayer under his breath. Another tried to spit a curse.

Shang Tsung’s smile became thin and dangerous. “You may call for your gods,” he said. “If they are listening, I assure you, they are not impressed.”

Then the second soul was taken.

And the third.

And the fourth.

Each cry fed the room with a brief flare of life before being snuffed out and devoured. Shang Tsung watched the bodies desiccate and collapse, the colour draining from their skin as though the island itself were drinking them dry. He breathed in the power, feeling his muscles sharpen, his senses return, his pulse steadied by the intimate **** of soul theft.

He loved this part most of all. Not the killing. The proving. To take life from the devout, the disciplined, the noble, those who believed their training made them untouchable, was to remind the world of a truer law. One soul consumed. One more fracture in the illusion of righteousness.

And yet, as another monk convulsed and went still, Shang Tsung felt the familiar hollowness settle in his chest once more.

It was never enough. Never.

He straightened slowly, rolling one shoulder as the last of the stolen energy curled through him. “Liu Kang,” he said to the corpse as if the man himself might answer, “you see? Even your followers know how useless their devotion is.”

He looked toward the arena beyond the chamber, where the old island wind stirred through the broken stones. “You defeated me.” His lips curled. “Yes. You and your precious friends. You and your carefully arranged destiny. You and the Elder Gods’ little theatre of balance.”

His eyes narrowed, the smile sharpening.

“But do not mistake victory for finality.”

He turned away from the dead monks and paced toward the chamber’s edge, his hands clasped behind his back again. The image of Liu Kang would not leave him. Every monk he consumed was a disappointment. Every warrior he harvested was an insult. Every soul that entered his body and failed to be the dragon of Earthrealm only deepened the irritation gnawing at him. The last surviving monk started a prayer, tranced by fear, begging for someone to rescue him from the soul stealer…yet no one would come.

Liu Kang was not just an enemy. He was the wound.

The humiliation.

The recurring failure that poisoned every triumph Shang Tsung could almost claim. And now, as if the universe enjoyed refining his suffering, there was another name circling in his mind too.

Fenrir Blackmore. Another Earthrealmer who defeated him and Quan Chi together, bested Kintaro and finally slew Shao Kahn. An emperor. A warrior who had done what no one should have been allowed to do: upend the old order and survive long enough to make it look inevitable.

Shang Tsung’s eyes gleamed faintly in the green soul-fire light.

He had not expected that one. He had not expected an outsider to rise so quickly. To defeat Shao Kahn. To claim Outworld. To surround himself with queens and allies and the kind of dangerous loyalty that could not be bought, only earned.

It was revolting. It was also… interesting. Shang Tsung smiled as that thought settled. “Yes, you will be worth studying. You may have taken my throne,” he whispered, voice smooth as venom. “But do not mistake that for victory.” His smile returned, slow and dreadful. “This game is not finished.”

It was in that moment that a portal opened ominously, claiming the room with its presence.

Blackness spread first, thick and unnatural, followed by a sickly green glow that bled outward in twisting tendrils. The chamber’s shadows recoiled as if they recognised the intruder before his feet even touched the floor. Quan Chi stepped through with measured, deliberate calm, as though he had not crossed a realm at all but merely entered a room that already belonged to him.

He carried himself with the confidence of one who had long ago stopped asking permission from the dead.

The necromancer’s gaze swept through the chamber, taking in the crumbling stone, the bloodstained altar, the souls still lingering like dim embers in the air. Then let his eyes settle on Shang Tsung, who was standing over the last of the Shaolin monks with one hand raised and the other resting almost lazily at his side.

The monk’s body sagged in slow collapse as the final traces of his soul were drawn away.

Quan Chi’s mouth curled. “Enjoying your meal, sorcerer?” His tone was cool, almost conversational, but the mockery sat under it like a knife hidden in a silk sleeve.
Shang Tsung did not turn at once. He finished inhaling the stolen soul first, savouring the surge of strength that ran through him, and only then allowed himself the luxury of facing the necromancer. The last monk’s body slumped at his feet, grey and empty, while Shang exhaled softly through his nose as though he had just tasted fine wine.

“One must enjoy life’s little luxuries,” he said, smoothing the front of his robe with elegant calm. His smile sharpened. “In my case, those luxuries come screaming.”
Quan Chi’s expression did not change, but the slight tightening around his eyes made his displeasure plain enough. “Your wit remains as tiresome as ever.”

“And your patience is thin.” Shang Tsung moved a step away from the corpse, his posture composed, his voice smooth with poison. “You should be grateful. I am in a generous mood tonight.”

Quan Chi took one slow step forward, then another, each footfall precise. “Generosity,” he said, “is a trait you borrow only when it benefits you.”

Shang Tsung gave a faint, almost affectionate smile at that. “Then we understand one another perfectly.”

For a moment, neither man spoke. The chamber itself seemed to hold its breath.

That drew the smallest trace of a grim smile from Quan Chi. It vanished just as quickly. “You have grown confident.”

“I have survived a great many life-threatening moments,” Shang replied with a grin. “Confidence is a natural consequence.”

Quan Chi’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Then perhaps the tournament taught you nothing.”

Anger stirred, though his face remained perfectly composed. “On the contrary,” Shang said lightly, walking a slow arc around the necromancer as though the room belonged to him and not the other way around, “it taught me exactly who the gods favour when they are feeling sentimental.”

Quan Chi turned only enough to keep him in sight. “And yet here you stand, still defiant.”

“And you still rely on me.” He gave Quan Chi a poisonous grin, silencing him.

Quan Chi disliked that smile. Shang knew it. That alone made it worth wearing. For a moment, the necromancer said nothing, then let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“Do you have it?” The question came at last, direct and fatal.

Shang Tsung stopped beside the broken altar and folded his hands behind his back. “Do I?”

Quan Chi’s stare hardened. “Do not perform for me.”

“Then do not ask in such a disappointing way.” The sorcerer’s voice remained smooth, but the edge beneath it sharpened all the same. He enjoyed needling Quan Chi. It was one of the few pleasures that never dulled.

Quan Chi’s jaw flexed. The necromancer did not like being toyed with. He liked it even less when he could not immediately punish the offender for it. In any other room, under any other circumstances, he would already have reached for his magic. But tonight they were not allies, not truly. They were temporary conspirators with overlapping ambitions and no genuine affection between them.

Shang Tsung tilted his head, studying him with deliberate laziness. “I have your… associate on her way here,” he said after a beat. “She carries what you requested. We are merely waiting for her arrival.”

Quan Chi’s expression did not change, but his aura did. The room’s temperature seemed to dip by a degree. “You enjoy withholding information. I would advise you never to do that again when addressing me.”

Shang saw it and let himself enjoy it. “I enjoy many things.” He leaned against the edge of the altar, elegant as a courtier at a banquet. Shang Tsung went on, almost idly, “Tell me, how fares your empire beneath the earth? Or has the Netherrealm once again become too small for your ambitions?”

Quan Chi’s stare sharpened. The necromancer’s silence was answer enough.

Shang Tsung’s interest, however, had already shifted. He could sense the strain in Quan Chi’s posture now, the way his patience had been worn thin by matters outside this room. That was useful. Very useful.

“Something is wrong in the Netherrealm,” Shang Tsung said, his tone more curious now than mocking. “You would not have come here wearing that expression otherwise.”

At last, Quan Chi answered. “A blood war has been called.”

Shang Tsung’s eyebrow lifted. That, at least, was worth hearing. “A blood war?” he repeated. “How delightfully archaic.” Shang folded his hands together, his expression thoughtful. “Who leads it?”

“Too many to count.” Quan Chi added. “With the imminent return of our lord Shinnok to the throne, many have decided to refuse the call to conquer Earth. Rather enjoying their control over their domain, some are seeing themselves as kings of the Netherrealm since his absence.”

“Then who are they?” Shang Tsung asked once again.

Quan Chi did not dignify that with an answer. Instead, he said, “A demon, one of the highest-ranking in the Netherrealm named Argarath, leader of the black-pyre domain, has become the heart of the opposition.”

The room changed at the mention of the name. Shang Tsung felt it in Quan Chi’s tone. Distaste. Real distaste. Now…this was interesting. “They believe his time has passed, and in the last few years there’s been progress without them?” Shang Tsung asked, intrigued.

“Yes. At least Argarath believes so in his domain; he’s been trying, and succeeding, to unify the different domains under one banner.” Quan Chi stated.

“Needless to say, the brotherhood of shadows is opposed to it.” Shang Tsung added with his grin.

“What do you think?” The necromancer answered with a frown. “We serve lord Shinnok. Argarath is foolish to believe he can rival his power, even more to think that the different demon clans would join him.”

“Yet you wouldn’t be telling me this unless you were concerned.” Shang Tsung answered, planting his venomous, deceitful fangs all over.

Quan Chi muttered under his breath, “No.” He paced around the room, his steps heavy with thoughtful ire, ready to be unleashed anytime soon. “Belokk has started his attacks over the Argarath domain, yet I don’t trust the demon of fury. He’s too proud. Too rash…Too unpredictable.”

“You believe he wants power as well?”

Quan Chi grinned. “As all of us do in the Netherrealm.”

Shang Tsung made a thoughtful noise and let his eyes drift to the amulet-shaped space beneath Quan Chi’s robes, though he could not yet see the object itself.

“Then tell me the true danger,” he said. “Is Argarath resisting Shinnok because he believes he can win? Or because he believes Shinnok cannot?”

Quan Chi stared at him for a long moment.

Then, with visible ****, he answered, “Both. He is not a fool,” Quan Chi said sharply. “He has gathered strength from the fissures left by Shinnok’s absence. He thinks the old order can be replaced.”

Shang Tsung lifted a brow. “Can it?”

Quan Chi’s eyes hardened. “For the Netherrealm to survive, it must be ruled.”

“And you believe only your lord is capable of that.”

“I know it.”

“What about the amulet? Do you have it?” Shang Tsung asked, his tone turning serious

He reached into his robes and, after a moment’s pause, withdrew a round golden amulet. The room seemed to react to it instantly. The candles around the chamber trembled. One of the souls trapped in the corner gave a weak, involuntary whisper. Even Shang Tsung’s eyes widened slightly before he controlled the reaction.
There it was, Shinnok’s amulet inches away from him.

“Stole it a few days ago from Raiden’s temple. Made a small diversion by sending an attack party led by Moloch and Drahmin. Had Noob Saibot stole it while Tanya and I took care of the guards?”

Shang Tsung smirked with joy; another domino had fallen their way. It was all coming to plan. “How long before he’s freed?” he said, making an almost involuntary silent gesture, trying to touch it, to take it for himself. He felt that power seducing him, begging him to take it.

“Not long. But first we need to take care of the earthrealmer, or at least debilitate his forces enough for us to have the best chance possible.” Quan Chi added, slipping the amulet quickly back in his pocket. “There’s a hole in the balance of the realms. One we are going to take hold of soon enough.”

Shang Tsung grimaced; he didn’t fully enjoy hearing that. Outworld was going to be his. And the realms as well, he just needed to play his cards right. “Very well, that’s pleasing to hear.” He said venomously.

“I need that blood,” Quan Chi stated, his voice low and dangerous. “It is vital that I learn whether my theory is correct.”

“She will be here,” Shang Tsung replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Rest assured.”

As if summoned by the words themselves, another portal opened within the chamber. Unlike Quan Chi's gateway, this one was utterly black. No green sorcery. No dramatic flourish. Merely a hole in reality itself.

From it emerged D'Vorah. The Kytinn queen moved with unsettling grace, every step deliberate, measured. Beautiful in the way a venomous creature could be beautiful.

“Speaking of the queen of the Kytinn,” Shang Tsung said smoothly.

D'Vorah immediately bowed, one hand crossed her chest. “My lord Quan Chi,” she said. “This one returns successfully.”

The necromancer's expression softened marginally. “As you always do.” He extended his hand. D'Vorah reached beneath her cloak and produced a small crystal vial.
Inside, sloshed crimson blood. Even Shang Tsung's eyes lingered on it.

Quan Chi carefully took the sample and lifted it toward the torchlight. The liquid shimmered strangely as light passed through it. For a moment, neither sorcerer spoke. Then a grin spread across the necromancer's pale face. “Excellent.”

“Any difficulties acquiring it?” Shang asked casually.

D'Vorah smirked. “None. My children entered unseen and departed unseen.” Then her expression shifted. “However...He grows suspicious. Quite perceptive that one is.”

“Of you?” Shang asked.

“Yes.” D'Vorah folded her arms behind her back. “This one believes he might know more than he’s letting on.”

“Impossible,” Quan Chi replied immediately.

“Perhaps.” D'Vorah's compound eyes narrowed. “Yet he spoke of the Netherrealm. He spoke of sensing this one's presence there. He asked questions.”

“He’s also stronger than you might have picked up on.” Shang Tsung added. “Although I think we all know that by now, after all, not everyone defeats Shao Kahn in single combat.” He smirked at the end.

“Yet he’s still young, foolish and an outsider.” Quan Chi added, lowering the threat but not dismissing his existence. “He’s all alone here.”

“Not so much as you would believe,” D’Vorah stated, getting both of their attention. “This one had seen, listened and peeked. He has adapted and taken control of the situation rather quickly and successfully.” She turned to look at the sorcerer. “He has… charmed the queens. They are loyal to him, as is General Kotal and Baraka.”

“How?” Quan Chi asked.

D'Vorah began counting on her fingers. “Queen Mileena seeks his company constantly.” Shang's eyes narrowed. “Queen Jade publicly supports his decisions.”
Another finger. “Queen Kitana trains him personally and openly advises him before court sessions.” A third. “General Kotal has begun enforcing his policies without hesitation.” A fourth. “Baraka speaks of him favourably among the tribes…his popularity grows amongst warriors and commoners alike.”

Quan Chi kept a sturdy look, yet his face grimaced at this development. Shang Tsung instead was full of ire; his plans were being disarmed one by one. “Damned the elder gods.” He stated. “Damned him!”

He took a deep breath, calming himself, returning to his previous posture and spoke. “Then we must not waste any more time. Prince Goro must be crowned king of the shokans.”

“Then you are a lucky sorcerer,” D’Vorah added with a grin. “He’s meeting with Sheeva soon enough in Kuatan for the coronation. It might be your chance to strike.”
Quan Chi smirked. “I will provide some forces if needed.”

“Don’t.” Shang Tsung said, too proud. “I will tell Reiko, we are going to take care of this matter…Besides, I have been working on my own plan while you two have been thinking about blood.”

Quan Chi raised an eyebrow. “What have you been doing, sorcerer?”

“I've been thinking that maybe the ties that bind a family are weaker than you might believe.” He stated, a grin covering his face from ear to ear.