Blood and Water
by Ryan Wong

Blood

The smell is everywhere. Its thick, musky stench saturates the very fabric of his clothes. It's crimson hue highlights every strand of his long hair like an unnatural dye that never washes off. Sometimes it is on his hands glowing fiendishly from the purple flames around his finger tips. Though his hands appear clean through the naked eye, they are stained with the lives of those he has taken, lives that are meant to be lived, not extinguished. It is blood that has sealed his fate ever since he has entered this god-forsaken sphere of existence. It is the Orochi blood in him that tolls for his death like unearthly distant church bells. It beckons him to entice the screams out of his victims. Life will have been tolerable if it is just the blood of the deceased that stains his hands. But it stains everything. It stains his thoughts with the screams of their vessels. It haunts his dreams and bathes him with its deathly sweet caress. Sometimes, he will bolt from his bed at night and thought that he is all covered with blood like in his dreams. During the day, he wonders whether the screams he hears in his head are really his own. It is the drops of life in all living things, yet it means only certain death to him every since he is born. Blood, it is his to take.

Tossing his bed covers aside, Iori Yagami sits upright on his single bed in his one bedroom apartment in one of the biggest islands in the world. He winces slightly as a cold wind wraps around the throbbing wound on his side from a recent fight. How long have I slept? Time, like blood, is his enemy and it continues to elude him like an opponent that he can never defeat. Yet, only time can tell who will be the victor. Brushing his hair aside, the young man looks out of his window and sees the red sun setting upon a sea of crimson. The waters seem to churn violently under the bloodied sky like the spilt blood of his fallen foes as his gaze rests upon its waves searching for solace in its murky depths. The red sea calls to him even now and the weight of the fate he carries upon his tired shoulders causes him to stagger out of bed and upon his sore feet. Dazed by the angry glare of the red sun, Iori shields his eyes as its red light bathes naked body with shades of scarlet and crimson. Cold despite the presence of the sun, Iori finds his center of his being dying with each passing second. It is as if his body is no longer alive. Yet, something is drawing him to the ocean; his blood is trying to tell him that another battle awaits him.

Now awake by the demands of his birthright, Iori lunges for the handle of his closet and throws its doors wide open. Ironed and washed, a row of his trademark clothing hangs ready and crisp for wear and possible tear. Smiling to himself, Iori snatches a random one from its individual hanger and puts it on as if it is a second skin to him. Everybody, whether fan or foe alike, can spot him a mile away in the clothes that is his style alone. It is not as if he is too lazy to go shopping for himself; he has better things to dwell upon rather then the latest fashion trends in Paris. Snapping the waistband of his pants over his rock-hard waist, Iori mechanically dresses himself to look prepared for an upcoming rock performance rather than a life and death battle. All of his identical clothes are custom made to fit every ridge and curve of his body to give him the maximum flexibility during battle while stylish and bold enough to drive hordes of raving girls mad with lust. After all, it is their enthusiasm to fork up cash to see his concerts that paid for his flame retardant and water proof clothing. Smoothing the lapels of his tight fitting black shirt, Iori feels each individual piece of clothing wrapping firmly around each of his well-define muscles causing his entire body to stiffen momentarily as it gets used to the sharp creases of the suffocating suit. He finally looks to kill.

Unimpressed by how good he looks, Iori takes one final glance at the stranger staring back at him from the mirror before turning away in self-disgust. He can not recall how he allowed himself to become who he is now. Everything is a blur. Iori does not know when he lost himself to the endless procession of battles and concerts. It is as if he himself no longer exists, only a fighting and singing machine in his stead. Blood and battles seem to race past him in his mind like scared steeds stampeding from the threat of annihilation. Sometimes, he wonders whether it is better this way that he does not remember how many times he has seen the look of abject terror in the eyes of those he is about to murder. Now, he avoids looking into his opponent's eyes before deliver the finishing strike; he does not wish to see the reflection of the stark horror of his own eyes within them. For days, their eyes and the scent of their blood upon his stained hands haunt him wherever he goes and whatever he does. There is no relief for the way worn King of Fighters in this life and it is only natural that he resigns himself totally to his bloodied fate. Though he abhors violence of any sort, he can never escape from the dreaded destiny that awaits him. There is no longer Iori, just the Orochi blood in him.

In a few powerful strides of his agile legs, Iori stalks his way into his kitchen and opens the fridge. He has not eaten for days and yet, he is not hungry. Knowing that he needs his strength for later, the young man searches for something to fill his empty stomach. It used to be that his eyes would brighten up at the sight of tender, juicy meat before him. Now, the dull, dejected expression on his face is as hard and cold as the frozen steaks hiding in the corner of his fridge. Unable to smack his lips for the lack of enthusiasm, Iori reaches for a half-eaten whole chicken and tosses it plate and all onto the kitchen counter. It will have to do. Leaning one elbow against the hard surface of the counter, the Orochi descendent lightly strokes his dinner as a cat would languidly play with his mouse. Eating cold chicken did not bother Iori as he tears a piece of meaty flesh from the breast and brings it to his mouth with one fluid stroke. Chewing soundlessly, his eyes stare off into the distance as he contemplates solemnly about the next battle. Something told him that it will not be as easy as his previous battles and for once, looked forward to its coming. It has been a long time since he feels anxious about fighting. With a little of his appetite rekindled, Iori chews down several more strips of chicken before tossing the rest back into the confines of the fridge. Washing his hands under a stream of cold water, Iori once again pictures the blood of another victim staining his strong hands. Whenever he enters into a fight, he seems to lose control of his sense of reality and plunges into battle without any hesitation. He did not know whether it is his years of training and conditioning or his fear of death that causes him to block his feelings of guilt and compassion during a fierce fight. However, one thing is for certain. Everything returns to him, or rather, comes to an end, when he stands over the corpse of his enemy with his opponent's blood dripping hot from his enflamed fingertips. He does not remember when it was when he can finally turn his face from blackened battlefield without feeling the urge to drop to his knees and weep. He did not know when he managed to convince himself that the death of another makes one less mouth for the world to feed. He does not want to care anymore.

Feeling his strength returning to him, Iori turns off the tap with one sharp twist and looks out of window once again into the sunset. The pull is still there. The young man then sighs and leaves his apartment. Hurrying down the stairs, he no longer worries about young fans coming up to him asking for his autograph. It has been ages since he has visited his apartment ever since he became a rock star and full fledged fighter. Anyways, any normal human would have to pay extremely close attention to hear his feet lighting from the stony steps of the stairwell. Rounding off a corner, the Orochi descendent steps into the outside world and is immediately surrounded by the roving crowds of pedestrians on the streets of Japan. Nobody seems to notice the young man as he silently heads towards his destination a few blocks away. He discovered some time ago that if he were to maintain a gloomy demeanor and was light on his feet, he will be able to blend in with the herds of common folk rushing off to do whatever common folk do. Passing windows decorated with the latest fashion trends, alluring movie ads and trendy furniture, Iori refuses to be distracted by such petty indulgences as he makes his way through the sea of people like a red shark's fin. Once, he wondered whether he should envy those who lack the legacy of the Orochi bloodline. After all, they are free to live their lives however they wish to and are not fated to die as young as he is. To live a normal life, to have a normal girlfriend, to work at a normal job, these are vain dreams that he used to have when he was younger. Then he realized that he is fated to be different from the rest and it is no use to wish upon stars for things that will never come to pass. Iori used to believe that being a normal human is one of the most liberating positions in the world. It took him a while to figure out that everybody has their own problems to deal with though they may pale in comparison to his own. Truly, nobody is free from themselves.

Indifferent and unaffected by his surroundings, Iori stealthily passes a couple kissing under a street light. He did not bat an eyelash as he walks past a couple holding hands over a candle lit dinner table through the window of a nice, cozy Italian restaurant. Not once did he pause to stare longingly at the couples holding each other tightly while they head in the opposite direction. The sunset is a thing of romance and beauty, it is just another ruthless face in his life that he has to deal with. Iori convinced himself that love is not for him. It will just complicate matters and causes him to lose his concentration during battle. Who needs love anyways? He certainly does not need a girl to nag at him to eat his vegetables or clean up after him when he already has his inner critic to deal with. A girlfriend is just another one of those petty indulgences that he has no time for. With his demanding work schedule and the threat of death always looming above his head, it is amazing that he can keep himself together all this time and perform the acts of killing and being a rockstar. It is better that if he keeps to himself and not have anybody worry about him when he gets hurt. She will just become another one of his weaknesses. Focussing his thoughts onto the path ahead of him, Iori simply shuts all external sources of distraction from his mind's eye before resuming a blank expression on his face. Some people are not meant to be loved by another.

Before long, Iori's feet leads to the center of a great bridge overlooking the red sea below. The wind howls madly in his ears as it whips around in the air lifting his red hair away from his line of sight. The Orochi descendent did not seem to shiver as the cold wind wraps its icy fingers around his tightly and thinly cladded body; he is used to every sort of coldness whether it is the blizzard of a thousand winters or the emptiness of life in his shell of a body. In fact, Iori finds it perfectly fitting to be situated between the two extremes of being blinded by the glaring red sun before him and buffeted by the icy winds around him simultaneously. Turning his eyes away from the busy two lanes of traffic, Iori finds himself alone on the bridge. Disturbed that his instincts might have failed him for the first time, the young man leans upon the railings and looks below for any signs of life. The only movement he can see are the sea gulls crying out angrily at the frothing mad sea below. It irritates, yet relieves him to find nothing out of the ordinary. He has been hoping for a good fight, but the idea of returning home without new blood on his hands comforts his troubled soul slightly. The sound of the waves crashing only more than a hundred meters from his feet relaxes his shoulders while he watches the red sun set into the black horizon. Closing his eyes for a moment, the salty tang of the ocean fills his nostrils as he inhales deeply the toxic exhaust fumes of the cars speeding past him at the speed limit.

There is something about being suspended meters from certain death that makes him yearn for an end to extremes. Some say that fighting is all truth. Your fists or blade do not lie when you plunge them into an enemy's stomach and his guts spill out like curbed milk from a dirty pitcher. Others say that performing in a rock band is all image. You are just pretending to be somebody you do not want to be to impress the screaming young fans struggling to get a piece of the persona you wear, not the person beneath the mask. Yet like most things in life, there is truth in illusions. When he fights, he is not really himself. He is just withdrawing into himself and away from the battlefield while letting the product of years of training and experience usurp control. Being a rockstar is no different. All of his hidden frustration and pent up tension are released when he goes on stage and though he does not wish to admit it, he never feels more like himself when he performs in front of a large crowd. After all, he would not have continued working in the music business if he did not secretly enjoy the attention he receives from his adoring fans as much as he despises them for their shallowness. Everytime he performs both of these totally different, yet the same roles in life, a part of himself loses his weakening grasp on his identity. Now, Iori finds it increasingly hard to distinguish fantasy from reality. Somehow along the way, he has mixed them both up so much that there is no possible way he can separate them. The bloody scenes in his dreams are no different from the ones he experiences when he is awake. As he looks at the waves rolling enticingly beneath him, Iori wonders whether life is all, but an endless nightmare of mindless slaughter and superficial presentations. Like any nightmare, all he needs is to wake up and everything will be fine. Gripping hard upon the railings, the young man finds it so easy to just end the shadow of the life he has been leading up to now. His entire existence is employed for one sole purpose alone, to defeat his rival clan. It does not make it easier to know that he is the last of his clan and that upon his shoulders rests the legacy of the Orochi bloodline. The screams of the seagulls seem to rise to a new pitch as they cry out in the wind like tortured souls. Iori just looks on into the depths of the sea below ignoring their warnings overhead. How easy it would be to just fall off and plunge into the sea below. No more fighting, no more acting, no more nightmares, and no more responsibilities. All these will disappear in just a few moments once he feels the arms of the oceans below embrace him. There, at the bottom, he can sleep forever without dreams or nightmares. There, he can be safe from himself.

Suddenly, the hairs on his neck stiffens upright at the sound of someone approaching him fast. Spinning around to meet his enemy, Iori finds himself face to face with a young woman with a great big smile on her ecstatic face. "Its you! Its you! I can't believe its really you!" she screams as she jumps up and down before him with every cell in her body overflowing with sheer excitement, "I know you do not know me, but my name is Lara Yokoshima and I am your biggest fan!" Fishing out his portrait on a clipboard and a nice black marker from her campus backpack, the young woman offers it to the dazed rockstar as stars glitter in her bright eyes. Sighing, Iori smiles and graciously takes the portrait and marker from her shaking hands. The last thing he expects to find is a fan way out here standing with him in the middle of the bridge. Is there no place in Japan where he can escape to without being recognized for a day? Yet, seeing her in the sun with that bright smile on her face makes him feel good about himself and melts the frost around his heart. On any other given day, he would have just shrugged her off and walk off in the opposite direction. But for some reason he can not fathom, Iori sees something special in the girl's strange manner and takes an immediately liking to her. If only all my fans make me feel this way, the young man thinks quietly to himself as he pauses his pen tip over his splitting self-image.

"How shall I address this Lara?" Iori asks politely in his most alluring and captivating voice he can master knowing full well how it can send any true fan over the edge.

"Eeeek!" Lara screams once again as her smile stretches from ear to ear unable to control herself, "You said my name! Oh, you have just made this the best birthday of my life Mr Yagami! Thank you so much!"

Smiling despite himself, Iori turns his eyes towards his portrait and speaks as he writes, "To my dearest Lara, I hope that you will many more happy birthdays such as this one. Yours Truly, Iori Yagami." With the last stroke, the young rockstar ends off with a flourish of the marker and presents the autographed and marker back to its flighty owner. He then toss his hair aside and flashes his best smile for the young fan as she stares both at the autograph and at Iori as if she can not make her mind which to do. Finally giving up, Lara then hugs the rockstar fervently and decides to give him a couple of quick squeezes before bouncing back; she did not want to scare him off like all of his other fans. With the scent of his cologne and the feeling of her face buried in his chest ingrained into her memory, Lara then blushes and shyly apologizes to Iori for her brash behaviour.

"I am sorry Mr Yagami, I did not know what came over me." she looks up with her beautiful eyes into the understanding gaze of the rockstar, "Whenever I get down at school, I think about you and your music always perk me right up. You have always inspired me to draw great pictures. Thank you for always being my hero!"

Startled by the young lady's sincere compliment, it is Iori's turn to blush. It has never occurred to him that he is somebody's hero. All of his life, he has never heard somebody say that to him before and it is strange to feel a certain warmth welling up in his insides. He has been so self absorbed into his own problems that he did not realize that there are some who truly benefit from his so called acting. Yes, he has had several encounters with overzealous fans who throw themselves against him when he makes a grand exit out of a hotel or while he is walking on the streets. However, he has never met a fan who truly believes in him and it softens his heart just thinking about it. Realizing that Lara is still standing before him still unrecovered from her impulsive actions, Iori wonders how he is going to show his appreciation in return for the compliment she has so kindly paid him. Smiling, the young rockstar lifts up the head of the young maiden and kisses her tenderly upon her soft lips. At first, Lara stiffens upon contact, but as Iori holds her captive with a kiss, she relaxes her shoulders and closes her eyes. She does not wish for this moment to ever end. As Iori's lips withdraw from hers, Lara is too dazed and surprised to open her eyes from her dream come true. She thought that this kind of stuff only happens in the most beautiful of dreams, and yet, she has just received a kiss from the legendary Iori Yagami. Now her life is complete.

"Thank you Lara," Iori brushes the tears of joy streaming down from Lara's eyes, "I shall never forget you."

Summoned back into reality by the voice of her hero, Lara opens her eyes and gazes towards Iori only to have an expression of sheer shock replace the look of mutual love in her face present moments before. Shaken, she once again looks behind Iori once again and turns his eyes to meet his confused expression for the last time before smiling weakly and asking for his leave. Iori, sensing something is amiss, takes a step towards Lara to see what is wrong, but before he can move, the young fan packs up her stuff and runs in the opposite direction in one fluid movement. He has never seen a girl move so fast before with a backpack in one hand and the clipboard in the other. It is as if she too can sense the strange energy that drew him to the center of the bridge in the first place.

Turning around, the Orochi descendent finally sees the reason behind his fan's hasty departure. A rather young, but middle aged man is standing against the railings several feet away from staring at the ocean. She must be embarrassed to find a totally stranger listening into their intimate conversation and it must have scared her off, he reasons as he approaches the still figure standing silently in his own thoughts. Oh well, I guess this is the best. I can't be involved with a fan, the tabloids will have a hayday with this if they ever find out. Turning his thoughts from the young fan who almost stole his heart, Iori focuses his complete attention upon the stranger before him. Immediately, he senses something different in him that does not seem to match his calm, gentle appearance. Approaching closer to get a better look at his target, the young man sizes up his potential opponent. Unlike what his instincts are telling him, Iori sees nothing of an experienced karate master underneath the man's unremarkable appearance. His shoulder length hair moves accordingly to the gentle sea breezes as several stray strands of black hair falls over the contemplative expression on his face. The stranger has a medium built and appears to be quite lean despite his tall height. He looks so casual and relaxed as he leans upon the bridge's railing staring out into the open sea like a man who enjoys the simple pleasures in life. If it is not for his intuition that there is more than meets the eye, Iori will have just ignored him like every other ordinary person he sees on the streets of Japan. Yet, there is something about him that makes the rockstar drawn to him. Maybe it is not his overall appearance that troubles him most, but it is the little details. His hands, though smooth and flawless, exuberates a hidden strength within them that can bend bars of iron as easily as snapping the neck of the unfortunate foe who dares to cross his path. Even the way he leans his body forward gives Iori the impression that he is waiting for something as if he is ready to pounce at any given moment. Though the stranger is wearing a pink light shirt and a pair of nondescript trousers, the Orochi descendent distinctively detects traces of suppressed energy resonating from his large muscles underneath. Shifting his gaze from the stranger's casual stance, Iori takes a better look at his facial features for the second time. The stranger still had the same calm and solemn expression on his face, but it did not take long before the young man to perceive what can not be seen by the naked eye.

Making himself appear inconspicious, Iori continues to absorb all the information he can from the stranger's appearance alone as he watches him from a safe distance. There is something about the soft yielding curves and moist colour of his sensuous lips that suggest that they are meant to keep more than secrets. The young rockstar can not place his finger on it, but there is also something about the way his facial muscles do not seem to contract whenever a cold wind brushes against them that makes him wonder whether he knows the martial arts as well as he does. Yet, it is his eyes that captivated him so. Though they are kind and gentle, they appear sharp and seem to be hiding something beneath their innocent guise. While his cheeks seem to be made of flesh and blood, they seem slightly etched as if they had seen their share of hard times and reality. For a moment as one of the sea gulls dives into the crashing waves below, a cloud of pain passes briefly over his eyes as if he too is suffering from inescapable fate. It is not like Iori to be suspicious of somebody who appears as normal as this stranger, but he can no longer deny the power emanating from this figure of a man more than he can deny the glare of the red sun. It is strange to find himself more than naturally interested in the person who stands casually over the railings before him. It is as if he is attracted to him.

Finally making up his mind to approach the raven-haired stranger, Iori cautiously makes his way towards his position with his guard up. Seeing that the stranger did not seem to acknowledge his presence, the young man settles himself against the same railing a few inches from the stranger's arms. Pretending to be looking at the waves below, the Orochi descendent waits for a response from the one who has captivated him so. It is uncommon to meet someone like this on the middle of the bridge, but he has fought opponents in unusual places before. A good fighter can fight anywhere at any given time.

As Iori continues to watch the waves crash against the jagged rocks beneath him, he senses the muscles of the stranger beside him gradually relax. Blinking rapidly a couple of times, the stranger rouses himself from his daydream and turns his eyes to meet Iori's. "Oh, I am sorry. How rude I am." a warm smile brightens up the stranger's smooth face as he extends his hand towards Iori, "I did not expect company. There is usually nobody on the bridge at this time of the day. Hi, my name is Mamoru."

Looking at the outstretched hand before him, Iori hesitantly extends his own and shake's the man's hands. As he touches them, he feels a strange warm sensation springing from his palms and seeping into his body. The man's strong, but gentle grip further confuses him as he feels his long fingers wrap around him own as if his bloodied hands are the size of a little child's. Self-conscious about his unexpected reaction to Mamoru's firm handshake, Iori quickly withdraws his hands and smiles uneasily, "So do you come here often?"

The same shadow of faded grief briefly sweeps over the man's gentle eyes as if he is remembering a painful memory lodged deep in his mind. Turning his gaze from Iori's piercing eyes, Mamoru once again looks at the sea with a forlorn expression on his face. As the wind calmed down as if desiring to eavesdrop on their conversation, Mamoru speaks in a softer voice, "Its been a long time since I visited this place. Yet, it remains the same as ever." Iori simply stands there distracted by the nostalgic tone of his words. There is something about the way he said them that made him feel sympathetic towards the man before him. It is as though he can hear the distance of thought and place in his words. As Mamoru speaks in hushed tones, Iori senses a tinge of regret and loss in his voice and finds it quite similar to his own when he looks upon the corpses of his enemies. "Everything is the same. The sea gulls, the ocean breeze and the ocean beneath us. It is as if I have never left... " Mamoru's words trial off as he closes his eyes and breathes in the sharp sea air. Sighing with the winds above him and the sea below his feet, the man turns towards Iori again this time with a resigned expression on his placid face. Startled slightly by the man's sudden change of attitude, Iori rouses himself from his trance and stares firmly into Mamoru's face head on. The way the other person is looking at him already tells him all he needs to know.

"I know why you came here," Mamoru eyes stiffen making them appear hard and cold, yet sad and understanding as he begins to speak his thoughts, "I know this because I did the same thing many years ago. I knew that you will come, but I did not expect a rockstar."

"Nor did I expect to find somebody like you." Iori answers without a trace of emotion. He is already slipping into his battle persona. The two stand there motionlessly in the middle of the bridge staring at each other like stone statues of an age long faded into the pages of history books. A cold wind cautiously stirs the hair and clothes of both fighters as if afraid to incur their wrath against it. Even the cries and shrieks of the sea gulls do not pierce the little distance between them while each stand prepared to receive the first blow from the other.

Turning his back on Iori without any warning, Mamoru rests his right hand upon the bridge's railings. "This is not the place where we should hold our battle. Innocent people may get hurt." He then starts walking in the opposite direction and gestures the Orochi descendent to follow him, "I know a place where we can be alone."

Putting his guard down, Iori watches his opponent walk away from him. He has no choice, but to nod his head and follow the older man's footsteps. In any other circumstance, he would have declined and opted to fight where they stood. However, there are many cars speeding past them and he did not want the death of an innocent to weigh down on his shoulders after the battle has ended. He does not wish to see anyone of them burst into a blaze of purple flames by a deflected darkness sweep. In any case, he trusts Mamoru and believes that he will not be walking into a trap. Focussed on the figure in front of him, Iori then picks up his pace and finds himself being led to the empty docks less than a mile away from the bridge.

Surveying the foreign surroundings, Iori sees a rusty crane towering hundreds of feet over him like a silent sentinel. The black, gaping windows of the abandoned warehouses along the waterfront stare coldly at the two intruders while their old boards creak and moan against the cold, hard winds. Brown iron barrels, long rusted beyond use, now sit quietly facing the two fighters; they are the first signs of life ever since the pier closed down due to structural violations. The fence, meant to keep intruders out, now lay twisted and down trodden upon the cold, cracked cement ground of the empty pier. Tiny pairs of red eyes peer at Iori and Mamoru from the corners of the pier where sunlight can never reach as they finally stop on an empty patch of ground. It used to be that at this time of the day, workers and trucks alike will be busily carrying giant loads off ships and onto freighters, but now, only the smell of rotting wood greets the two men. Even hardy weeds struggle to survive in the little patches of ground sprinkled all over the long abandoned shipping dock. With the sun setting in the horizon, long, black shadows emerge from behind scattered refuse, left to rot in the summer heat, waiting keenly to see some action and activity for a change. The entire atmosphere, reeking with death and ruin, is now filled with anticipation. All know that one must fall.

Turning sharply to meet his opponent, Mamoru faces Iori and stands calmly upon his ground, "I am ready, make your first move."

Iori knows full well by now that this is no ordinary opponent. The enemies that he is used to fighting usually taunts him or falls into a battle stance before an attack, but this man just stands there like with his hair wavering in the wind like the branches of a willow tree. Nothing seems to move him as his hands lay quietly by his side making no sign or effort to protect himself. The contours of his eyes now appear as sharp as knives as they seem to pierce into Iori's soul and see through the persona he has erected within himself for the battle. Mamoru's clothes are thin and flimsy enough to be scorched into ashes by just one of his dream bullets, yet like their owner, stand firm and ready to protect their master. Unlike some of his previous opponents, Mamoru is not standing strangely still to mock Iori's abilities or to show off his pride in the face of a fighter who is younger than him, but to graciously give him the first attack like a true martial artist. This is not going to be an easy fight.

Lifting both his hands up like the paws of a white tiger, Iori meets the older man's gaze with fiery intensity. He then slowly rocks his weight on the soles as feet causing his body to move forward and backwards like that of a savage black panther. With his feet set firmly upon the cracked concrete, Iori prepares to lunch himself into a furious volley of punches and kicks against the man standing cooly in front of him. His hands begin to glow an eerie purple as the madness of battle finally takes total control over his aching body. "I will quickly end your pain." he whispers coldly once the last dregs of sanity leaves his quivering body. It is too late to turn back now. Suddenly, Iori leaps into the air without warning and performs one of his infamous air combo attacks. Seeing that Mamuro has not yet moved to defend himself, the Orochi descendent takes the opportunity to follow through his attacks. Landing upon his feet like a deadly feline, Iori then sends a darkness sweep towards his opponent in less than a blink of an eye. "How's this?" the young man yells as he watches the ground before him decimated by the onslaught of his attack. Being at such close proximity to the incoming attack, it will take nothing more than a miracle for Mamoru not to get hit by Iori's specialty attack. Yet, with the ease of an afternoon stroll in the park, the older man sharply pivots his waist and gets out of the way just in time for darkness sweep to rip past him. As the dust settles upon the decimated ground, Iori smiles despite himself. He has to give the old coot credit for being able to dodge that combo attack, but he is too slow to counterattack. Taking the opportunity to unleash another attack, Iori crotches and charges towards the passive figure of Mamoru with his hands engulfed in purple flames. The older man just looks at him with an unmovable face and stands his ground as Iori's lips develops a sinister curl. Stopping only few inches from his body, Iori instantly aims a devastating dragon punch towards his opponent's center of gravity. With eyes and arms like an alloy of quicksilver and steel, Mamoru simply deflects with just one block from his arms leaving him open for Iori's finishing blow. Swinging his left hand forward in arc of purple flames, Iori propels himself off the ground to perform a demon scorcher on his vulnerable foe. As he pivots in midair, a circle of deadly flames surround him causing the air itself to cackle and pop from their intense heat. The brute force of the move alone will have killed a normal man and with the added heat of hellfire, very few have survived this move to tell about it. However, with the grace of a lady drinking her afternoon tea, Mamoru simply performs a more elaborate block technique and dissipates by the sheer force and purple flames of Iori's deadly attack. He then gathers up the remaining energy and throws it towards Iori's open chest with the force of a thousand gales. Shocked to see that his own attack is used against him, Iori makes a recovery roll away from the ball of purple flames just in time for it to barely scorch the fabric of clothes. Even the flame retardant material of his shirt can not protect him from such a lethal counterattack. Grimacing from his close brush with defeat, Iori finds his skillful opponent unshaken and unscratched. "Its useless!" he cries as he once again takes the initiative to attack his opponent. Leaping into the air, Iori sends a powerful kick towards the awaiting Mamoru who just hops backwards when his approaching foot is merely inches away from connecting with his nose. Iori expected this and decides to end this battle before he exhausts anymore of his dwindling energy supply. "Play time is over!" the young man screams as he raises both is hands into the air and performs his super combo attack, the Forbidden 1201 Style: Eight Maidens. Bringing his hands sharply down like a thunder bolt from the heavens, Iori puts enough weight on his knees to perform a flurry of punches at an unnatural speed. Aiming his first two punches at his opponent's midsection, the young man finds Mamoru's quicker hands deflecting his blows as if he is fighting a child. Angered by this insult, Iori follows through with his ultimate attack by unleashing a powerful uppercut with his left hand following with a low jab on his right hand in one fluid motion. However, despite of Iori's agility and strength, the older man continues to stand there as he once again blocks both of his attacks with successive motions of his arms. Seeing his secret move is blocked for the very first time, his mind is driven in a furious frenzy. Nobody can be that strong. Who are you? Iori mouths the words as he continues dishing out with his attacks. Bring both of his hands to his sides, the young fighter then makes a swing with his right arm followed his left, but each arc misses their elusive target as Mamoru dodges his hands with perfect ease. Unable to contain himself any longer, Iori spreads both of his hands apart. You will not be able to block this one, he muses as he summons all of his power into his throbbing hands. Tossing his head high into the air, the young fighter laughs madly as he brings his hands together in one fluid motion in front of his opponent. His hands, now like blazing purple torches, collide with each other resulting in a horrific explosion of dark negative energies. The force of the hellish blast itself consumes both men as it rips up the ground between them sending charred pieces of concrete and wisps of purple flames into the boundaries of the battlefield. Shaken by the dramatic conclusion of Ioriâs last attack, sections of the surrounding warehouses crumble into the ground as their windows shatter into a million pieces.

Staggering from the debris around him, Iori emerges from the cloud of dust in the middle of the battlefield panting for the want of breath. "Die." He mutters between breaths as the young fighter observes the carnage around him. It is not often that he brings the entire structures down with just one fight. With his back slouched forward, Iori can hardly stand as he watches for any signs of life within the dust cloud. The last attack almost drained all of his lifeforce and he knows that it will take some time before he can fight his next battle. Satisfied that his opponent is dead, Iori turns away. It is a shame that he did not survive. He was a worthy opponent. Iori chuckles to himself softly as the words echo in his head. As he is about to take another step, the hairs on his neck suddenly stand on their ends. Spinning swiftly around, Iori gasps as he watches the dust settle around a standing figure. Though his clothes are ripped, Mamoru does not have a single scratch or bruise on his lean body as he stands there with a frown on his face. His eyes are focussed on the little ball of purple light spinning rapidly in the palm of one of his hands as it floated in midair waiting to be released. "I think this belongs to you." Mamoru looks up and putting his full weight into the ball, throws it towards the exhausted Iori. Completely caught offguard, the young fighter manages to hop away just in time as the purple ball screams past him. Flying with a force more deadly than a thousand missiles, the ball of energy explodes upon its impact upon the unfortunate crane behind Iori. Engulfed by flames, its steel legs begin to creak and groan as the tower of metal leans precariously forward. Thrown off balance by the explosion, Iori falls to his knees unable to move. That last jump consumed the last of his energy and he is now too weak to stand. "How·" Before Iori can finish his question, the groans on the crane suddenly grow to a high pitch and like the fighter helpless before it, the hunk of metal falls foward seeking to crush everything in its path. Iori immediately freezes as his eyes grow wide with terror at the metal monster approaching him. No! It canât end like this! His mind yells at him to move away and save himself, but his body refuses to respond. Releasing a desperate plea for help, Iori tries to crawl away, but he is not fast enough as the falling crane falls upon him like a pack of savage wolves. "No!"

As he falls to ground with the air knocked out of his burning body, Iori finds the light around him turning into a deadly darkness. Before Death can claim his fallen soul, the last thing he saw is Mamoru running towards him with fear in his eyes and the words "Please, not again" upon his trembling lips.