Onboard – Training Deck
That night, fighters trained in silence. No one wanted to show weakness. Kicks slammed into steel walls, fists danced in the air, and meditation breaths filled the wind.
Genji stood shirtless under the moon, throwing phantom strikes. Each punch called forth heat in his veins—Red Thunder stirring. The dream of the dragon—its voice—lingered.
He remembered Naomi. His mother. Her final stand.
He clenched his fists tighter.
"I won't waste this."
---
Meanwhile – Inside the Owner's Chamber, Ryujin Island
Shin Mishima stood barefoot on polished black stone, watching holograms of every fight. His back was tattooed with a red dragon spiraling around a sword.
Behind him knelt two assistants in ceremonial garb.
"They are worthy," Mishima muttered. "Some of them…"
He stopped on the footage of Genji. Then Chris. Then Blaze.
"That one burns red…" He paused. "And the other bleeds steel."
He turned.
"Prepare the island. Prepare the awakening chambers. And make sure… Ken doesn't interfere too early."
The assistants bowed.
"Yes, Master Mishima."
Mishima looked up.
"Let blood boil."
---
Arrival – Ryujin Island
The next morning, the sea mist parted. The mountain of Ryujin stood tall, crowned with dragon statues and wreathed in crimson clouds. Floating monoliths hovered around the main arena. Energy pulsed through the island like a heartbeat.
The ship docked.
The fighters disembarked, eyes wide. Before them stood a wide stone staircase leading to a massive torii gate. Red banners flapped, each bearing the Ryujin crest—a coiled dragon clutching a human heart.
At the top of the stairs, waiting in silence, were monks in blood-red robes. And behind them—tall, muscular, dressed in white silk with a golden sash—stood the one and only Shin Mishima.
He raised a single hand.
"Welcome," he said. His voice, though soft, carried power.
"You are the chosen 25. The next rounds will not be sport. They will be war. Blood will spill. Bones will break. And in the end, one of you… will unlock your true nature."
Genji met his eyes. Mishima stared back.
"You," Mishima said, pointing.
Genji stepped forward, caught off guard.
"You burn with grief. But you haven't yet understood rage."
Genji's hand clenched.
"If you survive long enough… I'll help you understand it."
The wind howled across the mountain.
And thus, the true tournament began.
Ryujin Island was nothing short of legendary—jagged cliffs framed against roaring waves, towering trees swaying under the breath of ocean winds, and a sprawling combat arena nestled atop the mountain heart of the island. It was here, where myth and muscle would clash.
The 25 fighters had arrived.
Some took in the sea air. Others immediately began training—stretching, shadowboxing, meditating. The weight of what was coming next hung in the air like the scent of rain before a storm.
Genji Takashima stood in the rocky clearing below the cliffs, his shirt off, sweat slicking his torso as he practiced his Red Thunder Kick against the wind. Each blow cracked like distant thunder, splitting boulders and disturbing birds in the distance. His eyes were focused, haunted. Naomi's memory was never far from his fists.
Kazuya stood nearby, arms crossed, watching his nephew closely. The older man looked tense.
"I don't like this," he muttered to himself.
Asumi approached him, wiping her brow after finishing a chi exercise. "You're worried about Genji?"
Kazuya nodded. "He's pushing too hard. That dragon inside him… if it stirs again, he might lose himself."
Asumi's eyes narrowed. "Then I'll be there to stop him again. Like before."
"Can you?" Kazuya asked, solemn. "Because next time, it may not stop with you."
Toem be continued