The growing conflict.

The throne room did not murmur. It barked.
A guttural growl tore from Baraka’s throat as he slammed one his arm blade against the ground for emphasis. Across the chamber, Motaro’s iron-shod hoof struck marble with a crack that echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling. Rain’s scoff cut cleanly through the noise; silken, disdainful, theatrical.

Steel shifted, Voices overlapped in rising waves of outrage and counsel.

The generals and advisors of the fallen emperor had gathered exactly as expected, drawn not by unity, but by uncertainty. Some had already chosen their stance before the tournament sands had settled. Pride alone would not allow them to kneel to an Earthrealmer… and for others, their ambitions and future of their people had always been intertwined with Shao Kahn’s endless conquest.

Now, without him, those ambitions drifted unanchored and dangerous.

The throne room itself reflected the fracture. Outworld’s banners hung heavy above a wide circular formation of warlords and emissaries. Within that ring stood the empire’s military spine; beyond it lingered Netherrealm observers and lesser allies, watching with predatory patience.

At the heart of it all stood Kitana.

She positioned herself a few steps below the throne yet above the circle of generals, a deliberate balance between authority and diplomacy. Many respected her prowess, her decades of discipline under Shao Kahn’s rule, and the composure she carried like a blade concealed in silk. Few knew the truth she now bore, that the emperor she had served as a daughter was nothing more than a fabrication, a tyrant who had stolen her lineage and rewritten her life.

The revelation had not broken her. It had sharpened her; it made her stronger.
And so, she stood poised, every inch the stateswoman, concealing the storm beneath.

Upon the throne lounged Mileena. Not seated, claiming it.

One leg draped over the armrest in deliberate provocation, the other planted lazily below. She watched the discord with predatory amusement, fingers tapping idly against the hilt of her sai.
Where Kitana radiated measured restraint, Mileena radiated appetite.

Leaning against the left pillar stood Jade, silent and observant. Her posture was relaxed, but her gaze missed nothing. Her thoughts lingered on the arena, on revelations, on the fragile future now unfolding. Unlike the others, she did not seek the throne. Yet it had chosen her, for reasons she couldn’t begin to understand. Her fate was now bound to it and perhaps to the strange warrior who is now the emperor as well.

The three women, now empresses in title if not yet in consensus, stood as a triad of power and beautiful elegance.

Their attire reflected both war and regality.
Each wore a battle-forged bodysuit that blended elegance with lethality, revealing yet armoured in strategic lines. Designed not merely to allure but to move, to strike, to survive. Half-masks concealed the lower halves of their faces, thin and sculpted, tailored to each wearer.

High-cut silhouettes were reinforced with interlaced bindings and subtle plating in their forearms and legs/calf. Long, flowing sashes drifted from their waists like banners of personal heraldry, an elegant loincloth.

Over-the-knee boots, heeled and precise, completed their stance.

Kitana’s ensemble shimmered in cerulean blue accented with silver filigree, the tones cool and regal like a calm sea before a storm. The deep V of her bustier was bound by dark lacing, restrained elegance framing disciplined strength.

Mileena’s mirrored the structure, but where Kitana’s design flowed, Mileena’s gripped. Leather textures, tighter straps, sharper edges. Her palette of violet and fuchsia clung like bruised royalty, vibrant and unapologetic.

Jade’s attire differed subtly, she wore a green fabric that crisscrossed over her chest in a draped style, leaving her midriff and upper torso largely exposed if it wasn’t secured by black strings, emerald and black woven together like forest shadow. Less ornamental, More fluid. Built for motion and silent execution. The only details that Jade’s attire carried with her were a golden bracelet in her left hand, her main hand, and for her legs a long, flowing piece of green cloth covering her back and connected at her waist, which was held in place by golden chains on both thighs.

She might not see herself as an empress but she dressed like a desert queen. Her looks alone could rival Kitana’s, and she alone could drove any men insane with her beauty alone.

Together, they did not merely adorn the throne room.

They dominated it.

And yet…Despite their presence, the room did not quiet.

Because Outworld did not kneel to beauty.
It bowed only to power.

(Image for reference taken from the game, I know it's not 101 exact but the idea was to recreate that scene.)

A main circle had formed in the room, mostly conformed of generals and main advisors from outworld and, specifically, Shao Kahn’s inner circle.
Closest to the centre stood the Shokan.

Goro’s massive frame seemed carved from stone and scar tissue. His upper arms were folded tightly across his chest while his lower hands flexed open and shut, claws scraping faint lines into the marble beneath him. His nostrils flared every time the word Earthrealmer surfaced in the chamber. He had been defeated, twice, and the humiliation burned hotter than any wound. To him, Fenrir was not a victor.

He was an insult to outworld’s and Shao Kahn legacy of conquest and power.

Goro would never bow.

Beside him stood Sheeva, posture straighter, gaze sharper. Unlike the prince, she did not allow her emotions to rule her expression. Her lower arms rested calmly behind her back, though her jaw tightened whenever Shao Kahn’s legacy was invoked. She had served the emperor.

She had also endured him.

Part of her knew Outworld could not evolve beneath endless conquest, grow maybe but at one point a wall would be hit. Another part refused to trust an outsider with its future. Her eyes occasionally drifted toward Kitana, not in defiance, but in calculation.

She would follow strength, but only strength proven.

Not far from them stood Baraka, His tarkatan blades were partially extended, not in threat, but in habit. The metal edges caught the torchlight as he tilted his head slightly, listening. He did not snarl now. He assessed; his people had bled in countless wars that did not serve them as they should. His yellowed eyes narrowed at the memory. If Kitana could provide a better living quality for the Tarkatan race then he might accept her as his empress.

Beside him stood Kotal, broad-shouldered and unmoving as a temple statue. His sun-light markings seemed almost luminous beneath the throne room’s firelight. Unlike Baraka, he did not reveal irritation. His silence was deliberate, calculated. He observed the shifting loyalties the way a general studies terrain before committing troops. He was willing to be the Khan if the situation arises, yet he knew that Kitana would be a better leader in this situation. He couldn’t afford a civil war without the certainty of victory.

In the end both warriors were weary of conquest without purpose. There must be a way for all races of outworld to benefit from the conquering… either way neither was convinced an Earthrealmer deserved to command them.

Across the circle stood Reiko.

Still and composed. Hands clasped behind his back like a disciplined officer awaiting orders. His face betrayed nothing, but his eyes were sharp with disdain. Loyalty to Shao Kahn had not been born of fear, it had been forged in ideology. Power conquers, mercy is weakness.

In his mind, Earthrealm was weak.

Champion or not.

Near him, Motaro’s tail lashed once against the floor, the heavy impact reverberating through the chamber. His equine half shifted restlessly, hooves grinding against marble. The Centaur’s eyes flicked between Goro and Sheeva with ancestral resentment simmering beneath the surface.

He did not care who wore the crown.

He only cared who would give him war and the benefits
that came from it.

If the new emperor promised dominance over the Shokan… over all rivals… he would kneel.

For now.

Two cyber-ninjas Lin-kuei were present, Sektor and Cyrax.

Sektor stood unnaturally rigid, crimson armor pristine, visor glowing steadily. No breath, no wasted motion. His calculations were internal, mechanical and relentless. Regime change was irrelevant to the Li -Kuei Only the advancement of the Cyber Initiative mattered.

Behind him stood Cyrax.

Motionless, Silent.

Yellow plating gleaming beneath the torchlight, but where Sektor radiated cold ambition, Cyrax radiated absence and sorrow inside his metal cage. A warrior imprisoned inside programming. His head turned only when commanded, his will shackled.

Sektor did not look at the throne.

He looked at opportunity. His ambitions were ones of cyber-conversions for the Lin-Kuei’s that still refuse their transformations... Like Smoke or Sub-Zero.

Not far from them, draped in violet and arrogance, stood Rain.

The water-bending purple ninja son of Argos served Shao Kahn to the hopes of one day rule edenian for his own.

One gloved hand rested loosely at his hip, the other adjusting the fabric at his wrist as if bored by the proceedings. His posture was elegant, almost theatrical. Chin slightly raised; eyes half-lidded in disdain.

Unlike Kitana, who accepted the Edenian throne, Rain craved it.

He did not wish to lead his people.

He wished to be worshipped by them.

And if aligning with the new regime placed him closer to that destiny, then he would smile… and wait. And when the time came… then his ambition will grow for more than just the throne of Edenia.
Rounding out the circle, the advisor and right hand of Shao Kahn stood tall and conniving. The sorcerer Shang Tsung stood with his arms crossed, recently rejuvenated as a final gift from his emperor at the start of the tournament.

His expression mild, eyes calculating for potential...The one you can get by scheming your way upwards. His new youth restored his features and power; returning him to his apex, yet what made him dangerous was not strength.

It was patience.

He listened more than he spoke, measured the fractures. But when he raised his voice, venom spilled from it. One that could linger and poison one’s mind in seconds if listened for too long. And doubt… was fertile soil for this viper.

Shang Tsung was a wildcard in this situation. He knew that I didn’t trust him… but I wasn’t Liu Kang, maybe I could be swayed to listen, allowing him to continue his schemes/experiments on the flesh pits or worst… for him to gain more time to dethrone me and take the throne…His ultimate goal.

On the periphery lingered two figures bound more by circumstance and a lost servitude.

Ermac stood slightly apart from the others, robes swaying faintly though no wind moved through the chamber. Multiple voices murmured beneath his silence, a fractured consciousness seeking direction. The souls within him had lost their master.

Without Shao Kahn, they drifted.

Conflicted and uncertain.

They were a weapon without a hand to guide them.
I hold resentment for what he did to jax yet… I believe he’s misguided rather than pure evil.
Raiden once spoke that Ermac at the end of the day were 10000 souls screaming inside one resurrected body. And his master only cared for him as a weapon. Perhaps he could be reasoned with… I know someone who could help me if Ermac allowed me… A blind swordsmen and fellow warrior.

Nearby, partially concealed by shadow and natural camouflage, stood Reptile. His posture was hunched, not submissive, but cautious. His reptilian gaze shifted subtly toward Shang Tsung… then toward the throne… then toward the doors.
He debated survival…He always did.

He wondered if it was time to choose a new master.
He did not yet know that the coming reign might not seek servants at all, especially for a race almost extinct.

Someone else was also part of this group of misfits… Skarlet. The female hemomancer hid in the shadows awaiting me, he knew I was coming from his scouting a few seconds earlier. She was conflicted, but not because of loyalty but from servitude. She was one of Shao Kahn’s creations, made for last resorts only… a weapon. She had been taught that the emperor was invincible… now she was doubting, hard.

Yet he had fallen. And doubt, once seeded, spreads quickly.

Could she had been tricked this whole time? Could this warrior carry something more than just raw might and dread?

Her gaze sharpened toward the doors.

She wouldn’t interfere, not yet.

She needed answers for herself, ones that could only be gain from listening.

Another group was also present.

Opposite to the Outworld generals stood the emperor’s allies from the Netherrealm.

Quan Chi remained unnervingly composed, pale hand on his chin as he pondered. His blackened eyes reflected torchlight like oil.

Their plan had worked, just not cleanly.

Shao Kahn had fallen as intended. That part had aligned with Shinnok’s grand design. But the aftermath… had deviated. The invasion timeline had shifted. The variables had multiplied.

Still…Chaos breeds openings.

Behind him stood Noob Saibot, darkness given form. He did not breathe; he did not shift. The shadows around him seemed thicker, an extension of his form, clinging to his silhouette like living smoke. He was both sentinel and threat.

Beside them, outwardly neutral yet inwardly divided, stood Tanya. The Edenian’s posture was relaxed, but her eyes were alert, constantly calculating angles, alliances and outcomes. She balanced precariously between Rain’s ambition and Shinnok’s promises.

She would side with whichever future ensured her survival.

The throne room was no longer merely a council chamber, it was a battlefield paused between heartbeats. A battle of wits and words.

The new emperor had not yet entered, but the scent of change was already in the air.

The throne room felt as though it stood upon a fault line.

Sheeva did not yield an inch as she faced the assembly, her massive frame rigid, her four arms folded behind her back in disciplined restraint.

“The emperor,” she declared, voice resonating through marble and gold, “is no more.” Replying to rain’s comments earlier, the discussion undying in the room.

A murmur rippled outward.

“That,” came a smooth correction, “would be an imprecise statement, Shokan.”

Shang Tsung emerged from the outer circle, hands clasped behind his back, robes whispering across the stone as he approached. His smile was slight, measured.

“There is a new Emperor,” he continued, each word deliberate. “By decree of the Elder Gods.”

A low, dangerous hiss answered him.

Goro lifted his upper arms in open indignation, muscles flexing beneath scarred skin. “Only in words,” he snarled. “He is no Emperor of Outworld.” He stated with disdain “An Earthrealmer could never sit upon that throne!”

“Brave words,” replied Reiko calmly, stepping forward just enough to be heard, his tone level as drawn steel. “Yet Earthrealmers have bested you twice, Prince. And against this one, you required the aid of your Tigrar kin… and still you failed.”
The insult struck harder than any blade.

Goro stomped forward, the marble trembling beneath his weight. He loomed over Reiko, four fists clenching.

“I dare you, outworlder,” he growled, breath hot with fury. “Say those words again.”

Reiko did not move. His expression did not flicker.
Silence tightened.

“Generals, enough!”

Kitana’s voice cut cleanly through the chamber.
Kitana stood at the base of the throne steps, chin lifted, fan held closed before her like a symbol of leadership. Authority settled naturally upon her posture, though tension pulled invisibly at her shoulders.

“There has been enough blood spilled in the arena,” she said. “We will not stain this chamber as well.”

For a heartbeat, Goro looked prepared to ignore her.

Then Sheeva’s stern gaze fixed upon him.
Reluctantly, the Shokan prince stepped back.
A soft, amused exhale came from the throne.

Mileena reclined sideways across the seat of power; one leg draped over the armrest in open mockery of decorum. Beneath her mask, her eyes gleamed with predatory delight at the near-brawl.

“Pity,” she murmured. “It was just getting interesting.”

Kitana ignored her.

“Generals,” she continued, addressing the circle.
“We are all shaken by what has transpired. But rash declarations will fracture Outworld beyond repair. We require a transition; measured, deliberate, and united.”

“United?” came a sharp scoff.

Rain stepped forward, violet eyes flashing. “You speak of unity while positioning yourself before the throne. Convenient, princess.”

Kitana’s grip on her fan tightened, the metal ribs pressing into her palm.

“Watch your tongue,” she replied coldly. “Empress or not, I still outrank you.”

Rain held her stare a moment longer than he should have, then inclined his head slightly disrespectfully and stepped back.

“One way or another, Princess,” came a heavier voice.

Motaro shifted forward, hooves scraping across the marble floor. “Rain speaks a truth. You are not Empresses.”

“The three of them,” Sheeva corrected sharply, nodding toward Jade, who stood silent near the pillar, keeping herself silent. She denied herself the chance of making her voice heard, yet her emerald gaze was always watchful and calculating. Ready to defend Kitana and Mileena if the chance arises.

Motaro’s jaw tightened at the correction, ancient animosity flashing in his eyes before discipline smothered it.

“Yes,” he amended stiffly. “The three of you. Regardless, Outworld’s armies require leadership. Immediate leadership.”

“I suppose you volunteer, Centaur?” Goro shot back, eager for another target.

Motaro’s lips curled. “I have not failed Shao Kahn in battle.”

That did it.

Goro roared and surged forward.

A flash of pink steel split the space between them.
One of Mileena’s sai embedded into the marble at their feet with surgical precision.

The weapon shimmered, then dissolved into mist, reappearing in her hand.

“The next one,” Mileena said lightly, twirling it between her fingers playfully threatening, “goes through someone’s eye.”

The chamber stilled.

Kitana exhaled slowly.

“If any among you believes they should rule,” she said, scanning the circle, “then state your claim openly. Otherwise, Mileena and I will hold authority jointly until we determine the proper course for Outworld.”

Her words were steady.

Her pulse was not.

None dare to speak; despite their arrogance none were ready to fill the hole Shao Kahn left.

Not Goro.

Not Motaro.

Not even Shang Tsung, the most tempted. He saw it as giving too much of an advantage to his fellow associates.

The absence of Shao Kahn loomed over them all like a missing sun.

At last, a new voice rose. Measured and resonant.
Kotal Kahn stepped into clearer view.

“Forgive my intrusion, Princess,” he began. “But this decision cannot be yours alone. There is an Emperor. Whether chosen by us or not, the Elder Gods have spoken.”

There was no malice in his tone, only truth.

Kitana felt the weight of it.

“I do not believe Princess Kitana denies that fact,” Shang Tsung interjected smoothly, reclaiming the centre of attention. “She merely seeks to avoid… fragmentation.”

His eyes glinted.

“As matters stand, there are two legitimate heirs to Outworld’s throne,” he continued. “Princess Kitana and Princess Mileena.” His gaze slid toward Jade. “A third possibility has now arisen.”

The room listened.

“The Earthrealmer,” he finished softly.

The word felt foreign in that chamber.

“And Jade,” he added, almost idly.

Jade’s posture shifted, barely. Enough to signal awareness.

Shang Tsung spread his hands.

“My esteemed generals… we stand at a crossroads. We must choose who to side with.”

There it was. The spark to burn everything.

Shang Tsung made his firsts moves.

Goro stepped forward again.

“The Shokan will not kneel to an Earthrealmer,” he declared… To Sheeva’s dismay as she shook her head disappointed at his prince soon to be king of her people.

“The Centaur will not either,” Motaro countered immediately.

“And the Tarkatans?” A guttural voice cut in.
Baraka unsheathed one arm blade halfway, making his presence known. “We deserve our
compensation for all the centuries fighting for Shao Kahn!”

Steel whispered free across the chamber.
Jade shifted closer to Kitana. “Kitana, stop this madness before it goes out of hand.” She whispered to her friend sensing a growing storm.

Yet the princess knew this long ago, already taking action trying to moderate and appease at her best abilities. “Generals! Listen to me!”

Mileena leaned forward on the throne slightly, prepping herself in case of the worst.

Rain’s fingers sparked faintly with gathering water.

One wrong word, one wrong movement… And Outworld would split before the throne itself.

Kitana felt it closing in.

Her fingers tightened around her fan until her knuckles whitened beneath silk gloves. She knew that she needed to step in… but not peacefully this time.

Mileena watched everything with unsettling focus.
Shang Tsung had planted the seed.

And it was already growing.

The air thickened, not metaphorically, but physically. Breaths shortened. Muscles tensed. Alliances calculated in glances and half-steps.

Goro’s lower fists clenched.

Motaro lowered his horns slightly.

Baraka’s blade slid fully free.

The time for combat was near.

Quan Chi groaned watching the scene playout. A band of kids they were… yet a small grin played on his lips. Maybe this will be easier than he believed.
Lord Shinnok would be pleased.

It was in that moment of confrontation that the massive doors to the throne room groaned.

Every head turned.

They did not burst open.

They opened slowly, deliberately with presence and a statement to the people on the other side.

The echo of boots carried into the chamber; measured and unhurried. Each step seemed to quiet the rising chaos rather than join it.

An unnatural stillness followed in his wake.
As though the room itself held its breath.
Fenrir Blackmore stepped across the threshold.

Half demon. Half human.

Entirely composed, despite his fears inside.

I stopped at the entrance doors.

My gaze moved once around the chamber, taking in blades drawn, magic simmering, pride wounded and ambitions exposed.

Silence became absolute.

My voice broke it, not loud, not forceful.

Controlled.

“Am I late…” I asked mildly, eyes drifting toward the throne, “…or were you hoping I wouldn’t arrive?”