Somewhere underground in Shadowloo's headquarters, Thailand Seong-Han knew better than to wonder. For years he had served under Bison, and for years he had never questioned anything that happened. Seong-Han knew that this was what kept him alive. But he couldn't help but wonder, just a bit. Bison was dead now, of course. Six months ago, several fighters penetrated Shadowloo's Street Fighter Tournament, and made it all the way to the top. It was said that they were not a team, did not work together, but they took down all of the top players in Shadowloo. Bison was dead. Sagat defeated once more, and fled to who knew where. Vega scarred and forced into seclusion in Spain. Balrog with a permanent limp, was a washed-up drunk in Las Vegas, just like he was before. There would be no returning to the glory days of Shadowloo. In fact, it was only the old Shadowloo people that still referred to it as such at all. The newcomer, Max, had moved into Bison's spot easily enough, but the organization that grew up under him was completely different. Nobody knew his real name, but Max was short and anonymous. Once Seong-Han had met him. It was a dark and shadowy room, and his features were indistinct but Seong-Han would never, as long as he lived, forget that glowing stare. Seong-Han was sure that Max was a "special", like Bison, Sagat, and the warriors who defeated them. Specials were human enough, but they somehow tapped into powers that humans did not have normally. Often specials became different in appearance, and Max's red eyes were surely the mark of a special. Like Bison, Max seemed to want to gather a force of specials around him. An army of specials could challenge the world. Seong-Han definitely understood Max's motive. But what made him wonder were the people gathered before him. A shirt-less blond American found living as a vagabond in a train yard. A Japanese man, hairless and recently scavenged from some shrine where he had been hiding from the world for years. An Englishman dressed like a butler, of all things, with two metal bars that he juggled casually, one in each hand. Another Englishman, large and colorful, dressed like a punk. Seong-Han had never seen such a pathetic group of losers. What could Max want with them anyway? Not that they were to be received in style. The place looked dismal and dreary, more like a cave than anything else. Seong-Han had been sent to watch them with a gun; keeping as much in the background as possible, but nevertheless visible to the "guests." They knew exactly where they stood when the were to meet with Max. There was a bat that flittered about the ceiling, although everyone managed studiously to ignore it. None of the four talked to one another. None of the four moved more than was necessary. None of the four had any emotion whatsoever on their faces. What was going on anyway? The weak lighting seemed to dim even more, so that Seong-Han had to squint to see anything at all. Suddenly Max was there, just out of sight in the darkness. His red eyes glowed like coals, and he seemed to be wrapped in a dark cloak that shrouded all of his features. Seong-Han shivered. Max spoke to the assembled motley band of vagabonds in a voice that was slow, deep and sleepy feeling. No, not sleepy. The sleep in the voice was the sleep of death, and there was a feeling of power behind his voice. The voice rang out in solemn tones, catching the listeners with its hypnotic power. He spoke with an accent that was strange to Seong-Han, but the voice commanded attention anyway. "You have all tasted defeat before," said Max. "You have all bowed to the power of those who destroyed the Shadowloo. You have been brought here so that you may have revenge, and so that my ends will be served as well. I do not seek to rebuild Shadowloo, but my own Empire will I forge, and if you serve me well, I will make places of honor in it for you." One of the gathered bums spoke, for the first time. "What do you mean? I was a flunky for Bison once, but I won't be a flunky again!" This was the English punk. There was a hiss of intaken breath at his words, a long drawn out hiss that sounded like rage, and hate incarnate. The darkness seemed to grow closer, and the Englishman quailed. When Max spoke again, his voice was colder, and more menacing than even before. "You who are called Birdie, once served Bison in Shadowloo. You thought to make yourself one of the great ones, like Vega or Balrog. But long before Bison's downfall, you had your own, and you have been barely living in the London slums for three years now. Do you think you will ever rise on your own? Do you think you have a chance to reach greatness without me? You do not. I also brought you here, because I know you have no other alternatives." The American spoke quietly. "I have given up on revenge. Ryu defeated me long ago, in Sagat's first tournament. What if I have no interest in your offer?" There was a pause before Max spoke again. "You will serve me now or die." All in the crowd gaped and voiced protestations. The other Englishman leaped forward brandishing his bars, as if to attack Max himself. Seong-Han leveled his gun, but didn't know where to point it. All four of them looked very threatening. Suddenly, Max seemed to have moved. It was hard to see what happened in the dark, but Max seemed to have lunged forward and upward with his fist, spinning madly like a top. He caught the clean-cut Englishman in the chest and knocking him backwards. The man fell heavily, screaming and clutching at his chest. The other three losers stopped their advance, shifting their feet nervously. Max was once again shrouded in shadow. When he spoke, his voice was the coldest, the softest and the deadest sound that Seong-Han had ever heard. "You will serve me yet, street fighters. Or you will die. If you choose to die, others will take your place. But to you I now make this offer, so think well on what I have said." When Seong-Han looked again, Max was no longer there. All was silent in the darkness. No one said a word. The only sound was the labored breathing of the frightened, the gasps of the Englishman on the floor, and the chirping of the bat, still flittering above their heads. Temple of Shotokan, Himalaya Mountains Ryu had never been here before. It was amazing, actually, that he had not made the pilgrimage before now. But now that he had won tournament after tournament, it was obvious that this was the next step. He pulled his coat closer around him absently, but he did not really feel the cold. He had long ago mastered the art of making nature obey him, rather than having his body obey the whims of nature. Ahead of him could be seen the temple, graceful and colorful, even through the snow flurries that partially obscured it. Here he would find what he had been seeking for a long, long time. He pulled on the long cord that hung outside the ornamental gate and heard the distant clang of flat bells, the sound falling quietly to muffle in the snow. After waiting for at least ten minutes, a robed and hooded figure came to the gate and opened it just a crack. The figure said not a word, but Ryu knew what was expected. "I am a follower of the Shotokan way. I have traveled far seeking an audience with the Master of this temple. I humbly beg his leave to receive me." Ryu chanted the ritual words. The robed figure nodded and motioned for Ryu to enter. The gate closed quietly behind him, and Ryu followed the figure into the confines of the temple. Here was the great courtyard, matching almost exactly the courtyard of the temple in Japan where Ryu had learned from Master Gouken. Not an exact match, though, in Japan, the courtyard was usually green and vibrant; here all was grey and cold. There was no sign of life other than Ryu and his silent guide. The guide stopped before a familiar structure. Here, made of wood, was the Shouryuken practice piece. It was high, about nine feet off of the ground. There were stacks of wood that were used as practice targets for the students who sought to master the Dragon Punch technique. Ryu had broken many such boards in his days as a student of Gouken. The board here was different. In Gouken's temple, the boards had been plain; after all they were only there to be broken. But here, the board was carved with a lifelike face, looking like an old man, with his eyes closed as if asleep. The guide spoke finally, in an old, thin voice. "Here you will prove your knowledge of Shotokan. If you fail, you will be cast out." Ryu was unconcerned. He had done the Shouryuken many times, and had not failed in years. Quickly gathering the energy of the natural world around him, the storm, the cold earth, the grey clouds, Ryu shouted the word that would release the energy and leaped into a perfect Dragon Punch, striking the board square in the carved face.