On nights like these, the deafening roar of the crowd drowns out all other sound, like some atrocious cannibal noise eating up anything else that dared to make a peep. Not the aircraft flying overhead, nor the fervent yell of the announcer into his microphone could pierce the wall of cheering humanity, an audience who thirsted for blood with a zeal deeper than any vampire. Except for one basso drum beat, keeping it's steady rhythm down below in the pit would survive beyond the howls of the droves of men and women filling the arena. It's tempo set in stone, slowly waning and slowing down, suffering the fatique of time-strained effort.

It was a capacity-night at the Bangkok Dome, filled to the brim with violence hungry addicts who longed for nothing more than to receive of their daily fix. And he would give to them. In due time, that is, as the tower-like man mused to himself, standing at the center of attention, cold and unmoving. He is the drum, unphased by the efforts of the drummer, who stood below and in front of him, giving what little he had to offer in pursuit of victory. The massive arena was like a giant tornado of chaos, the entropic crowd cheering and going on loudly, reduced to their basest instincts. And in the middle was Sagat, the Emperor of Muay Thai. On this night, it would be he who was the eye of the storm.

Staring down the out-of-league competitor beneath him through that one remaining eye, Sagat could only manage to narrow it, not in disgust, but in some justified form of disdain. Pathetic, he thought, watching his so-called 'opponent' drift back like a one-winged butterfly, bobbing up and down on his bandage-wrapped feet. Arching around with the depth of the effort etched on his face, the childfighter brought his fist forward, the extremity wrapped in white bandage, just as Sagat's was.

And for a moment, everything changed. From Sagat's mind's eye, buried deep in his memory, the wrapped fist changed in half the blink of an eye. The cavernous arena replaced by an open setting, the blinding, artificial light of the fluorescent's falling back as their luminous shine was replaced by the golden sun. And, breaking all this relative peace, came a muscled arm, protected within a red glove as it streamed towards his body.*BAM*

In his first movement of the entire bout, Sagat's oversized right hand drifts up mindlessly, as if on automatic pilot, to catch his opponent's attack like it was nothing more than a ball thrown liltingly towards him. Everything had become normal within the blink of his lone eye - The primitive wail of the sea of spectators resuming it's own obnoxious rumble, the cold lightning cast down on his exposed back and shoulders once again. Shutting his eye and opening it once more, as if to reinitialize his perception of the environment, Sagat briefly and casually takes note of the impassioned kick arcing up towards his neck, the white, time-tattered gi wrapped around it fluttering in the air resistance as it drove a path up towards him.

*SMACK*

Without moving his head, Sagat's singular ocular darts to the left, the catch sight of the bare leg of his opponent, halted a safe distance from landing a direct blow by his forearm, shooting up like a bullet in time to parry what may have been a mediocre strike. Once more, Sagat reiterating to his own inner self. Pathetic. Why is he even here? Without having moved any muscle other than his arms through the course of the entire bout, Sagat opts simply to scowl down at his foe. The amusement hidden within this had ceased. Drifting backwards, Sagat narrowly evades the large, flat-foot of his opponent as it sails straight up and over it's intended target, the plain karate gi it was dressed in following begrudgingly.

*WHIFF*

The crowd would have let out an impressed gasp, perhaps, if not for the fact that they were otherwise busy wooting and hollering in a typical, unsophisticated manner. They were, after all, reduecd to nothing but their basest instincts. Only blood would satisfy them, and the passive defenses of the renowned 'Emperor of Muay Thai' was an impressive show of skill, yes. But it was not blood. And only that would satiate their carnal hunger, and only that. Sagat was no longer playing for the crowds whims; No, now the bear-man was simply allowing his foe to defeat himself. This was not worth his own effort.

The frenetic pace of the blows of Sagat's opponent resounded throughout the massive dome, ignorant of the louder, thicker sound of it's crowd and slicing through the soundwaves like a red-hot poker through butter. The noise of each and every passion-driven strike against the body of the massive Emperor was heard clear as day by every single spectator, as though they were all right in the ring with the two. And yet, Sagat remained like stone, unaffected by the futile actions of his foe. If he could be called that. A noble effort, boy, but you should not challenge that which is beyond you. Try again next time. The tone of his mind's voice was biting, critical. Why do people like him even enter a tournament like this? He had far more work to do before this was his level. He would wait a few more moments...Then he would complete this petty act. He was doing nothing more than going through the motion. Only he would be a proper opponent.

Below, Li Mao Bin was not about to give up. The junior kickboxer had the depressing luck of being seeded against none other than Sagat himself, and he knew full well that there was not a single bet placed in his favor within the bowels of the massive arena. He was not naive; He had no disillusions. He would not defeat the famed Emperor of Muay Thai.

But that did not mean he would not try.

Twisting and contorting his wiry frame, the determined, violent take on The Little Kickboxer That Could refused to stop chugging away. He would still beat on his drum, until he lacked the strength to stand any longer. What was he?! He cannot be a man! The one-two punch had slowly droned on and on until it had become the one-fifty-one-fifty-one punch, and his endurance was coming to a close. No matter how many times his knuckles pounded against that scarred, mangled chest - A chest made rock hard through a lifetime of intense training, barely a dent could be made. Li was no 'Street Fighter'. He was simply a man. This was out of his league. Bending back his own spine, Li Mao hefts his own leg up, the narrow shaft of flesh, bone, and muscle which now felt like it weighed a ton reacting sluggishly enough. Extending it with what little grace he could manage, the strike is made. Slicing through the air like a sword, the kick landed squarely against the overgrown bicep of the monstrous Sagat, the force of the drummer beating against the instrument for another time.

And Sagat did not move.

Li could only retract in agony. He had nothing else to give, no more fuel to burn. Wobbling unsteadily on his wrapped feet, Li's bruised, sore hand drifts up to rub at his brow, the abundance of his own sweat wiping off onto it. As his palm dropped, he found himself right where he knew he would be since he learned the name of the foe whose name just happened to be drawn from a hat at the same time.

In one graceful move, Sagat's entire body draws together in his offensive action. Fists dropping forward and clenching into fists, while his back twists down and forward, a sadistic little grin painted on his leathery face. In a way that could only be described as artful, the mammoth knee of the kickboxer swoops up from below, charging straight up like a bat out of hell, it's glide path destined for Li's chin.

The force of the blow consumed the chaotic cacophony of sound, silencing it as one tromps on an insect underfoot. Each and every voice, every single scattered howl and yell came to a sudden halt, replaced simply by an aweful - and perhaps frightened - silence. It had sounded like a sonic boom, a terrible noise of bone crashing into bone. Li's entire body went limp like a rag doll, still standing only through the virtue of the force imbued into it by Sagat's knee strike. With pupils dilated to the size of nickels, Li's head seemed to burst from the pure force, his lower lip exploding with the longed for blood. Jaw driven into jaw with just as much force as the original attack, the blood-curdling sound of teeth being wrenched from their gums, a horrible creaking/crunching sound hits the ears of the defeated fighter from the inside of his head. And slowly, the loser tumbles backwards, landing square on his bum and passing out. As if he were dead, a crimson veil of his own fluid covered his comatose face, concealing his identity. He made no sound, save for the gurgling of air flowing in and out of his blood-drowned lungs. Ironically, the gruesome whining noise was the only sign of life coming from him.

The referee didn't bother counting. They'd rather have the medics come straight in. As the fallen opposition was loaded up onto a gurney and hurried off to relative safety, Sagat remained in the ring, his back turned on the direction of the loser. Victory was his. Again. He had more to settle with him than just bruised ego. This win felt cold, empty...dead. He had taken the one thing he had true passion for. Hmph. He wouldn't have it back until he had his reckoning.

Ignoring the referee, who came over to go through the movements - Declaring his victory in that completely pointless manner. Meanwhile, the audience, having seen the final match on the card, filed out of the arena sadly. Shocked? Possibly. Mayhaps they simply got more than they bargained for. His opponent, on his way to some non-descript hospital, lay prostrate at his massive feet to some extent. One more of many. Walking out of the arena, Sagat made the brief journey through the network of concrete corridors and hallways throughout the arena, sweating to a rather small extent as he retired to his locker room, a bland, white room with a few yellow lockers. He had not cared about his accommodations; Unlike more flamboyant competitors, he didn't devote any of his time to something so trivial as that. He took only what he needed.

Sitting on the plain, wooden bench beneath him, the megalith casually began to change, carefully unwrapping his hands and legs. Stowing the bandages away, the sole eye of Sagat briefly went over his hands, his entire body covered in the tiny nicks, scars, and calluses attained as trophies of his success. Only one was a reminder of a different nature...Running over his chest with his left hand, Sagat scowled in pure rage. Soon. Soon he would be finished dealing with this piddling crowd. He could not evade Sagat forever. Their next fight would be...Different. He was prepared, now.

Fastening the red pin-striped tie of his truly out of character suit, Sagat, the foreboding presence of the massive war-machine, seemed somehow contained within the confines of this formal attire. Only for a little while, he reminded himself, would it be necessary. Departing the run-down arena, the victor of the evening entered into the muggy, dark Thailand night. Walking silently across the asphalt and stepping into a limousine made custom for him. That is to say, the roof was a foot higher than the normal Lexus was designed with. Yes, even the roomier ones.

"That was an interesting performance...Sir?" Sitting across from the giant kickboxer, and looking far more in his element than Sagat did, sat a smug looking man in a finely made suited. The cautious tone in his voice indicated that, after the many times this shady conversation had been repeated, he was still somewhat intimidated. Flashing his disturbingly expensive smile as he runs his hand through a thick mane of blonde hair, the presumably Shadowlaw-enlisted agent casually sorted through some miscellaneous papers, as if it would have any bearing on anything whatsoever.

"I want him. Where is he now?"

"Ahh....Well, we aren't quite sure. We believe he was sighted in Mongolia...But he's long gone. You know...If you really wanted him, you could just go after him. ...Couldn't you? It wouldn't be hard to get the drop on him."

Grunting his frustration, Sagat wrapped his mass arms across his chest, twisting his singular eye towards the well-dressed man in resent. "I want him to be ready. I want him to come to me. I know him too well to have it any other way." The bass rumble of Sagat's voice easily filled the cabin of the exquisite vehicle, almost making up for the loss of his presence while chained in his unsuitable garments. "He will be fighting...He always is. Find out where."

"Yes sir. Consider it done."

"Good. Until then...If I must sort out the weaklings from the strong, so be it. I must not allow myself to become lax. Find me SOMEONE suitable...It has been too long. Understood?" The slight Thai accent of the kickboxer's voice flowed heavily into his English, but his mastery of the Western language was more than sufficient enough.

"Crystal clear. Yes, there have been...a few. Interesting, to say the least."

"Show me."

With that, the suit casually passed over a pile of manila folders, the documents grasped within the powerful grip of the fighting man. They were quickly laid out on his lap, as he went through them.

Hmph. These were interesting...