In Pursuit of Truth
I
The story of a sword is inked in blood. - Yasuo
The wind blew across the field, making the stalks of the tall grass cascade like waves. Clouds drifted lazily in a sea of blue that stretched all the way to the snow-tipped mountain peaks in the distance. A single dirt road cut through the miles of green land, leading to a bamboo thicket. A lone figure moved in the center of the road.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
His movements were graceful. Each step and turn flowed into one another as he practiced, as if he were dancing with the breeze that surrounded him. Even the most minimal motion exhaled a strength that few outside the fields of battle witnessed, and even fewer had achieved.
Swish. Swish. Swish
He was a vagabond. His clothes, consisting of nothing but blue pants and only half of a blue cloak, were worn and ragged. The arm and shin guards on his limbs were scratched and dented, much like the single wing-shaped epaulet he wore on his left shoulder. A makeshift belt crafted out of a yellow silk rope wrapped around his waist and fastened a metal scabbard. A bamboo flask hung from it as well. His feet were bare. Yet despite all this, his clothes breathed and billowed and were given life anew.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Three swift strikes. The sword in his hand sliced the air around him. Its long blade shone in the rays of the sun and cast short gales into the grass that scattered seeds into the air, where they swirled around his body in a calm tornado.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
His hair, long and wild, was tied into a ponytail that ruffled in the wind. His eyes were closed and his face was passive, a scar traveling over the bridge of his nose the only sign of disturbance. Between his deep concentration and the collar of his hood, his face was unreadable. His breathing was controlled and orchestrated his actions, keeping a constant tempo.
Inhale. Turn. Exhale. Swish. Swish. Swish
Inhale. Turn. Exhale. Swish. Swish. Swish.
Inhale. Turn. Exhale. Swish. Swish. Swish.
Almost imperceptibly the vagabond's eyebrow twitched. His sword slowed to a stop in mid-air, the white seeds surrounding him flying away in the wind's embrace. He was alone on the dirt path. His muscles relaxed. He reached behind his back and grabbed the bamboo flask. With one hand the man popped out the plug and brought it to his lips. But just as he was about to sip, he stopped and inhaled deeply. Then he threw his flask high into the air.
Three shadows sprang out of the grass, surrounding him from the sides and behind. The one in the back flung a chain towards their target while the other two charged forward. The shadow on the right leaped at him and aimed a sword at his neck. At the last moment, he ducked underneath it and rammed the hilt of his blade into his enemy's gut, winding them.
The shadow on the left thrust forward, a short spear jutting right for the center of the man. With a step, the wind seemed to carry him back just enough to be out of harm's way. He parried the spear tip with his arm guard, sparks shooting from the screeching metal and earning yet another scratch to its surface. He lightly pushed against it and sent the spear careening off course, where it planted itself in the thigh of the first shadow.
He turned back towards the attacker on the left's exposed flank. Comprehension had just barely dawned on their face when the swordsman brought up his namesake. He exhaled.
Swish.
Blood sprayed into the sky, transforming the elegant blade into a flashing scarlet streak. Not wasting the momentum of his attack , the man turned towards his first foe, who clutched at his pierced thigh. He couldn't even start to wail in pain before the man swung his sword again.
Swish.
The shadow's head spun into the air, a fountain of red erupting after it. The chain from the third shadow had finally reached its target. Without looking, the vagabond tilted his head ever so slightly and dodged. He quickly snatched it out of the air and with a supreme burst of speed yanked his assailant towards him. The black garbed figure flew towards the blade. There was nothing that could be done.
Swish.
Two symmetrical pieces landed on the ground behind the swordsman, followed by the thuds of two more bodies. All was silent. Blood drenched the ground and the black outfits of the man's pursuers. He stayed crouched forward, his blade still in front of him and red from the battle. His arm shot out to the side and caught the falling bamboo flask.
He stood up. A casual flick of the wrist cleaned the sword and sheathed it into the scabbard. Then he took a long sip of his favorite sake from the flask. After he finished drinking, Yasuo looked at the corpses around him.
"Ninjas...I hate those guys."
"Hey, we're here!"
Yasuo scrunched his face, opening his eyes and immediately wishing he hadn't. The sun was bright today, which did nothing for his throbbing hangover. Nor did the constant jostling of the cart he lay in. One would think hay would make a better cushion. He opened his mouth and let out a yawn before stretching his arms as far as they would go. Cracking his neck as he sat up, he turned to look at the owner of the voice.
The cart owner was a short man whose face was long and wrinkled, much like the face of the mule that pulled them. A straw hat adorned his head and obscured his eyes, giving him the appearance of a small, cranky mushroom. A scratching voice emanated from his throat.
"Hey, you! We're here!"
"I heard you," Yasuo replied.
The cart came to a stop, wheels creaking as its passenger stood up and jumped over the side. They were surrounded by large pine trees and bristled shrubbery. The road they were on had clear signs of active use and seemed to continue to a small town further . Outlines of wagon wheels, horse tracks, and footprints covered each other, with the majority heading towards the town. A scant few trailed into the brush, where a much smaller, rocky trail branched off. Yasuo glanced over the area and frowned.
"Where's the Institute?" he asked.
The cart owner pointed a finger to the small trail. "Go that way for a few miles. When ya see the big cave, yer there."
"I thought you were taking me to the entrance?" Yasuo let his hand slide a bit closer to his sword. He really wasn't in the mood for an ambush today.
"Ya gave me five silver and a loaf of bread! Yer lucky I even brought ya this far!" the old farmer hocked a loogie on the ground to punctuate his statement. "'Sides, my cart can't go that way, n' I ain't stickin' around so ya can try an' haggle a ride back home when ya fail!"
With a snap of the reins, the mule started to pull the cart once more, leaving the swordsman standing on the side of the road. Yasuo grimaced at the retreating cart. Hoisting his flask to his mouth, he took a quick chug, and found that there was more air in it than alcohol.
"So it's going to be one of those days," he sighed. With nothing but his sword and headache to keep him company, the wanderer journeyed down the rocky road.
It was not a couple of miles. Even at a brisk pace - considerably hard to do with all the stones, thorn-bushes, and raised tree roots - Yasuo had been travelling for at least two hours.
It was strange. The forest was so quiet and empty for a place so large. He had seen no animals, no signs of life other than his own footsteps and breathing. Normally this would set the seasoned warrior on edge; quiet meant unnatural, unnatural meant trouble, and trouble usually meant that several armed men would charge him at any second. But this was different. He felt no tension, but he didn't feel calm either. It was like the woodland itself had gone silent to observe the stranger walking in its domain, and he wondered if there was some sort of magic at play.
"A man could go crazy here all alone," Yasuo muttered to himself for the sake of hearing something. His hand rested on his sword hilt, his fingers tapping a slow beat while he weaved underneath a knot of branches. The woods got thicker the farther he went, and it was getting harder to navigate the maze of leaves. The idea of cutting a clear path came to mind, but Yasuo discarded it. He wasn't sure what awaited him at his destination and didn't want to run into a fight worn out. Eventually he managed to step out into a small clearing. "Hmm. About time."
In front of him was an enormous cavern guarded by two monumental statues. Yasuo didn't really pay that much attention to League matches but he did recall some things. The statues were the spitting images of the defensive turrets that dotted the Fields of Justice.
"Hopefully they don't blast people to bits like the other ones," Yasuo half-joked. He took a few tentative steps forward, just in case he had to make a hasty retreat, but was relieved when the statues continued to do nothing. He made his way to the entrance.
A set of stone stairs, carved right into the ground, wound down into darkness. Small torches dotted the walls in infrequent places. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, and Yasuo couldn't help but imagine that he was walking into the gullet of some great beast. He cast one last look over his shoulder to ensure he was alone and descended into the cavern.
The torches give little light, but it was enough to keep him from tripping down the steps. The air was dank. Water droplets fell from the ceiling, filling the cave with small echoes that blocked out anything else. The swordsman didn't mind; compared to the unnerving silence of the forest, the eerie dripping was a welcome sound.
Truthfully? Yasuo hated the silence.
His travels had taught him to appreciate quietude, but if he had a choice, he would always prefer the hustle and bustle of a town. When he was younger he could barely sit through meditation sessions at his school. The only time he actively looked for a quiet place was when he wanted to find a spot to sneak in a nap, and even then he preferred to rest near the old sake house. Yasuo closed his eyes and could picture it perfectly: a fine wooden building with sliding doors and a saggy roof, but the grandest of patios at the front. The smell of sake, meat buns, and other delights wafted in the air around the structure, luring the townsfolk and travelers in for a drink or meal. Old Man Satoru would play his shamisen in the front when there were few customers, which was an excellent accompaniment to a nap in the heat of the day. Many a time, he would climb up the branches of the tree overlooking the sake house and just let the shamisen lull him into a peaceful slumber in the shade. What he wouldn't give for some peaceful sleep now...
Enter...
Yasuo snapped out of his memories. In an instant his hand gripped his sword hilt and he had fallen into a fighting stance. Something - a voice - had spoken to him in almost a whisper. He did a quick look around to find the source and did a double take.
He stood atop a great flight of marble stairs, lines of blue energy stretching from a grand crystal that floated behind him, giving off a low hum. A massive building loomed before him. Colonnades lined the sides, holding up an enormous roof that pulsed with magical power. Runes from the oldest generations of Runeterra, long forgotten by most, were etched into the marble pediment at the top, pulsing with ancient power that made the hairs on the back of Yasuo's neck stand up. Two impressive golden doors encompassed the entire front of the building, depictions of people from every culture carved into them. Demacian soldiers. Noxian warriors. Ionian scholars and more. Overlooking them all was a giant robed figure, arms spread out wide like a priest giving a sermon.
He had found the Institute of War.
"How?" Yasuo asked himself. He looked back and could see a minuscule speck of daylight in the darkest part of the cavern behind him. Had he really been so trapped in his thoughts that he failed to notice how far he had been walking?
Enter...
The voice rung out again. A second later the floor beneath him shook with movement, sending small pebbles from the cavern falling to the floor. The great golden doors creaked and slowly open, white mist pouring out from the blackness and rolling around Yasuo's feet. He couldn't see anything inside.
"Well...that's inviting," Yasuo remarked. Still keeping one hand on his scabbard the wanderer stood up. He stared into the shadows, before giving a short smirk. He walked through the doorway, ready to face whatever may greet him on the other side. The doors shut behind him.
A/N: Hey there all! Hope you enjoyed this first chapter. This is my first fanfic, so feedback is appreciated!
As for an updating schedule, I am going to shoot for one chapter a month guaranteed (or Garen-teed, if you prefer), but if my creative muse is nice and graces me with literary blessings, I may upload more chapters per month. She can be a fickle bitch though, so no promises beyond one-a-month.
