I have a question... why are there no Lei fics?

Disclaimer: I don't own Tekken. Namco does.

"The art of Kung Fu is not one to be taken lightly. It is not just a hobby... rather more of a way of living. Kung Fu, my boy, is more than life itself. It is a means to an end, an answer to the questions that fall like stray rocks from a mountain onto our path. It is vast and even I, who have lived so long, cannot comprehend the depth to which it reaches... yet I still strive onwards. One day, I shall win my battle against mortality and ascend to the realm of the deities. You can laugh all you like but I'm only a few steps closer... with every passing day, I am but a little closer..."

It had been around forty odd years since Lei had last seen the man, an acquaintance of his former master. He did remember the man's starched black traditional suit and long grey beard, the way he'd cackled in amusement when his peers had laughed off his dreams of attaining immortality through the martial arts, not to mention the fact that he'd gifted him a sweet dumpling snuck in whilst avoiding his master's sharp unrelenting eye. Senile the old man may have been, forgettable he most definitely wasn't. Although Lei remained doubtful about whether the old timer had actually achieved his divine goal, there had never been a time when the latter's words had not caused him to pause occasionally in his daily routines and ponder upon his own earthly existence.

The crowded streets of Hong Kong were littered with similar faces, ancient and weather-worn, traversing through life, each at a pace which suited how they saw fit. Now that he was an outsider to the ongoings of daily life, he was able to view such a commonplace scene through a pair of fresh eyes. It seemed that not too long ago, he'd been a boy rushing through these same crowds, jostling past vendors and illegal hawkers on his way to run an errand. He could smell frying oil in skillets, sickly sweet scents of dumpling fillings, smoke from expensive cigars that the rich businessman preferred over their cheap knockoffs and clucking chickens awaiting their imminent doom in cramped wire cages. Different shapes of endless colors and sizes emitting languages in different accents, pitches and tones all passed by him in a whirl as he squirmed through errant elbows and knees to get back home.

Fu Liang Zhen was the name of his master. To address him by that was considered a cardinal sign of disrespect in the archaic world of Kung Fu and its disciples. For the years following his father's abandonment, Lei had dared to think of the older man as somewhat of a substitute figure in that area. The pale malnourished young lad who'd been brought in at the tender age of five had obviously warranted no place in a family literally living from hand to mouth. Sometimes, Lei did think of them... if he tried hard, he'd recall that he had an older brother whose name escaped his memory and a mother who never remained sober for an hour at a stretch. Since they'd been turned down by every single orphanage in the vicinity, his father had resorted to packing off the boy to a Kung Fu school wherein he was expected to last a few months, if not weeks.

Of course, he'd survived. Perhaps the Spartan regimen of hours of training and meditation had worked its wonders. He remembered that the meals comprised of three bowls of rice a day with some vegetable and a piece of dried fish if they were lucky on the side. Having come from a background of nothing but abject poverty, he'd gobbled the whole thing down without a word of complaint. He'd had to share a floor and sometimes a blanket with a couple of other students during sleeping hours. Not the most comfortable of 'beds' but it still was better than taking refuge beneath a roof of corrugated metal boards on rainy nights.

"The superior man is quiet and calm, waiting for the appointments of Heaven..."

Apparently, his master was no great admirer of Confucianism but he liked to quote him from time to time. That one in particular had struck no sentimental chord within Lei. He was only there to live and learn before cutting his own path through destiny in the future. He would simply remain quiet and seemingly contemplative as expected of a devoted disciple when he really held no special ideal of a remarkable character nor did he have any preconceived notion of a Heaven of any kind.

The harsh vigorous training that had come with the new life thrown upon him gave him little time to reflect on such confusing matters anyway. Out of fifteen boarders and twenty part-time students, he had been the smallest of the group when it came to size. However, puny or not, his master suffered no fools and the class clowns were immediately silenced on the first day itself. Unlike the students at normal schools which permitted leisure on weekends and certain holidays, they were expected to train at all times, come storm or shine, until they'd literally drop down exhausted, too spent to move themselves from the dusty ground of the courtyard. Master never allowed them to stop until they'd got everything down exactly right. One wrong move and you could be at the mercy of your opponent.

The training helped the years go by faster. The endless strings of forms soon engraved themselves into every sinew of his muscles in his limbs. Movements which had started off as stiff and awkward in stance developed into defined patterns of smooth flow akin to water. His first official sparring session had gone on into a rain-storm but he'd stood his ground and dodged, parried, blocked, lunged, flew, leaped, attacked, and fought on to the very end. By that time, the rain had mixed into the sweat streaming from the pores in his skin making him and the water one formless being. He and his chosen brother both lay panting like thirsty dogs outside, sipping in threads of water to quench themselves. Thus, did the flame ignite within him...

He stopped replaying these past events as he reached the peak of the cliff. It had been here that his master had brought both elite and beginners to meditate on the fate that they had been thrust upon. Looking down now, he could see the city skyline lit up by neon lights and advertisement boards. These days, the moon lay hidden behind layers of polluted clouds and smog. This had not been so during his childhood nights. Back then, he'd relied on nothing save for a lantern and moonlight to guide his way through the dark when he had to cross this peak after a few hours of late training.

The scarlet banners for the New Year's celebrations were still being hung up. Red was considered lucky here, for long life, prosperity, wealth and love. For him, red signified war, blood spilt over innocent bodies, the eyes of a devil incarnate. It meant nothing festive or remotely lucky. He was one of the few who believed luck was what you made out of life. Fate and time were two of those things which remained undefined at best and steeped in confusion at worst. So when the revelers rejoiced beneath the glow of fire-works and cooed over the paper and cloth dragons prancing about on display, he'd be on duty as always, watching and waiting for signs of trouble.

For someone who'd practically lived on the teachings and solemn dictate of a dying form of martial art, it wouldn't have surprised anyone had he described himself as one who was indeed shaped by his upbringing. On one hand was the serious solemn policemen who placed his work above himself, making no compromises regarding his strict ideals of honor. On the other was the jovial laidback Kung Fu practitioner who enjoyed the simple pleasures of a good movie and a refreshing nap. Master himself hadn't been too sure of his decision to enter law enforcement, the domain of corrupt officials and immense legions of bureaucrats armed with rolls of red tape. He himself had found that entering the outside world had seemed like reaching the end of a peaceful silence. Outside, there was no place for the quiet and calm... therefore, should that mean that the superior man was outlawed in such a place where money and power could buy exactly the same and more?

He pondered more on this.

How odd that he, a man who was content in the company of nothing but the trees in the wind, had been named after the thunder. As his master had put it, thunder could never be contained in one place. When calm, it slept quietly. When angered, it struck without haste or remorse. That being said, it was fitting that a student of his caliber should be named so. At his coming-of-age ceremony, he'd abandoned his family name to take one which would offset the brutal nature of his first name: Wulong. Wu, the valiant one who'd stand upright for justice for the weak and oppressed. Long, the dragon, a mythical beast worthy of all the fables heaped on it in regards to its strength and wisdom. Yes, it did take a while to explain... especially to foreigners with a fetish for anything exotic and Asian...

"It must be difficult to live up to, with a name like that."

It was. That's how he'd always answered Jun Kazama, as honestly as possible because she could always detect a lie, concealed or not. He'd once asked her how she did, if it was by clever observance or just a gift she had. She would only shrug her shoulders and reply, "Whichever you think."

Lei had entered very few close friendships but cherished them dearly. Jun had been one of these precious few friends. A hardworking dedicated WWWC officer and a simple innocent country girl at heart. He'd found that they had plenty in common and she'd never rolled her eyes at his jokes, instead smiling politely if not always genuinely sometimes. The world as it was then and even now was not made for a woman of her virtue. She was too pure for the earth they stood on, neither was she divine enough for the Heavens to claim her as of yet at such an early age. And no matter what, purity came at a price... light could never exist alone without its darkness to balance it... that would be like yang without yin which would never occur for as long as the forces behind them allowed it...

That was how he'd always remember Jun. A series of smiles, happy and sad, never to reveal the truth behind her actions, let alone the darkness of her own thoughts and premonitions about her eventual fate. When her light had gone out, he had never really been the same again either. Perhaps it was because she had also become the shui to his tu... the water to his earth. She had been extinguished by the huo... the burning fire.

The results of the imbalance had grown horrific beyond comprehension. The seeds of destruction she'd inadvertently helped to sow had strangled the remaining goodness to death in her son, his father's son, the progenitor of what was to come...

Time and again, Lei had failed. If he was the thunder, the Mishimas were the force of a hundred hurricanes which sucked in the life of the land which had once given them life and spat out fiery meteors of rampant disaster and decay. No matter how much the lightning warned them, the storm would arrive to shred apart vicissitudes of humanity, scattering shards of strife to pierce the lives of others, thus recreating the same cycle from which they had festered. The years bore lines into his skin and painted strands of his hair grey but it still couldn't grasp the dormant steady flow that comprised the strength that he had been perfecting for decades on end.

On the cliff beyond the city of echoes and lights, he'd set out to do just that. With no light to guide him, he performed his feats of power and dexterity to no one except for the gods watching over him. No moon or stars to shine on the brilliance of a true master of his art, only darkness for him to battle. Within seconds, he was transformed to the warrior he'd been born to be, sword and staff at the ready, honor held high and intact. Let the rain come, he was prepared to fight any battle, even if it had to be a lost cause. Because he lived for nothing if not for this.

In turns, a tiger pounces on his surprised prey and rips it to shreds with claws sharp as steel. As it leaps away, the cat transforms into a snake in the grass, biding its time while it waits for the exact opportunity to strike. Patience comes easily to a veteran of many battles and he'd accumulated enough scars to narrate legends worthy of five of the greatest beings to stand the test of time. The chance arises and the snake slithers in quick as a whip, draws blood instantly, then withdraws until... it lashes again and doesn't cease, his strikes blurring to waves of outstretched forearms and clenched fists, never resisting so that the enemy doubles over in hellish pain.

With a swift change of stance, he becomes the crane, gracefully parrying flimsy counter-attacks and dodges against the repetitive incoming strikes. He retreats out of reach so that he can take on the agility of the monkey, further causing his opponent dismay at the unpredictability of his move-set. A jab here, a prod there, everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The stance of the praying mantis also proves its worth with the speed and effectiveness of its accuracy, no matter the distance or size. The staff blocks the incoming blows, the sword stabs at the heart of the beast...

And thus does the illusion shatter... he is only here alone, drenched in sweat and fire, muscles throbbing for another round.

That round may come sooner than he thought. The world lay at his feet, trembling and pleading for a savior. Sooner or later, he would have to prove his true worth to an audience larger than ever before and he would have to defeat opponents just as determined as he was if he had to cleanse the earth of the sins being reaped on it and bring the light back. He steadied himself and let the chi flow back to his veins until his emotions lay cool, controlled and ready to be unleashed in the heat of a fight. He began to descend past the rocks and trees, the last few remnants of a past he had grown up amidst and returned to the jungle of concrete and metal where he'd lie in wait for that moment to arrive.

For when the storm would hit, the thunder would crackle and the dragon would rise...