“Next time,” he mouthed.

Her fists glowed with a golden, ancient light—not Devil Gene. Something older. Something the first Christians carved into the stone of Svetitskhoveli.

The announcer screamed: “GURIELAI! GURIELAI! CHAKHVIAT!” (Hit him again!)

The King of Iron Fist Tournament had come to the Caucasus for the first time. Heihachi Mishima, in his endless hunger for power, had heard the legends of the Svaneti Strikers —mountain warriors who could shatter stone with their palms. So he sent his Zaibatsu jets, built a stage over the old Soviet market, and invited the best killers from every kutkhi of Georgia.

“Let him go,” Tamar shouted in Georgian. “Ga usheni!”

Tamar didn't dodge.

And somewhere in the mountains, an old woman lit a candle in a stone church, smiled, and poured a glass of amber wine for the wolf who had come home.

He didn't speak Georgian. He didn't need to. He simply raised a hand, and a black orb of satanic energy crackled to life.

Tamar spat blood. Then she laughed. And she spoke the old words her grandmother taught her:

Kazuya’s Devil eye went dark. He flew backward, through the VIP box, through the glass cage, and landed in a heap beside a stunned, trembling Lasha.

Three months ago, a Mishima bio-engineer had kidnapped her brother, Lasha—a gifted fighter with the rare “Gelati Pulse,” a neural rhythm that could amplify Devil Gene energy. Heihachi wanted to dissect it. Lasha had screamed her name once over a scrambled satellite phone, then silence.

“Chemi guli aris shavi mtavi. Chemi k'elebi aris nakhrebi.” (My heart is a black mountain. My hands are fire.)

The bell clanged.