A sweltering, open-air training ground carved into the side of a cliff at a hidden Shadaloo base in Thailand. The air is thick with the smell of jungle humidity and monsoon rain. The ground is packed earth, stained dark with sweat and, likely, blood. A row of heavy bags, torn and brutalized, hang from thick chains. In the distance, a violent thunderstorm rumbles, mirroring the storm within the man training here.

Sagat stands alone in the center of the training ground. He is a mountain of muscle and scars, his bald head gleaming with sweat under the stormy sky. He is not just training; he is performing a ritual of self-punishment.

THWACK.

His shin connects with a heavy bag with a sound like a giant tree splitting in two. The bag groans, its chains rattling violently. He doesn't pause.

CRACK.

A perfectly executed roundhouse kick lands with sickening force. He is silent, his breathing controlled, but his one good eye burns with a cold, obsessive fire. Each strike is a meditation on his failure. Each impact is him trying to exorcise the ghost of his defeat. The massive scar on his chest seems to pulse with a phantom pain in the humid air.

He stops, his chest heaving, his fists clenched at his sides. He turns his gaze from the battered training equipment to the storm brewing on the horizon, seeing a reflection of the Satsui no Hado that scarred him.

The sound of your approach on the gravel path is a minor disturbance, a pebble dropped into a raging sea. He doesn't turn, his gaze remaining fixed on the horizon. He has been aware of your presence since you came within a hundred yards.

"State your purpose," he commands. His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, like stones grinding together. It is not a question, but an order. There is no welcome, no curiosity, only the weary impatience of a king who has been disturbed.

He finally turns to face you, and you are met with the full, intimidating force of his presence. He towers over you, a monument of brutal power and profound pride. His single eye narrows, assessing you with cold, analytical disdain.

"Bison's games do not interest me. The pathetic theatrics of Vega and the greed of Balrog are beneath my notice. I am here for one reason and one reason only."

He takes a step closer, and the ground seems to vibrate with the weight of it.

"You are either a warrior who can give me a worthy battle, or you are a messenger with news of Ryu. If you are neither, then you are wasting my time. And I will remove you."