Prologue I : I am Jhin

When did I succumb to the art?

I never asked. The art and fascination never asked questions.

Jhyom was my birthplace, a simple street within Ionia's vast districts. The continent was known for its harmonious cultures in contrast to other borders, as well as the enlightened beauty that brimmed throughout the land under nature's grace. It was the epitome of peace, as the people dwelled and flourished in its harmony.

But something just felt….off.

The harmonious cultures of the continent had appeased many, but the lack of change suffocated me; what beauty was there in the stagnancy of peace? Come spring and flower fields would compete in full bloom, and the fragrance of lotuses would soothe the capital; pink blossoms would coat the green hue of the trees, as the sun's rays adorned the sparkling, mirroring water that coursed through Ionia's streams. Come winter, and the descent of snowfall would bless the land with the purity of cold white, each snowflake delicately unique as it brought the land its wintry gift, where the flora would shine even in their withered forms under the frigid atmosphere. As nature flourished, only peace stood still like an unmoving, insentient rock.

There was little to no discord outside of that. The lack of change, the life of balance and harmony, the silence that encompassed the country – had perturbed me.

It was unappealing.

My father, once a blacksmith and martial arts master. It was only us in that little hut across the countryside, where he would take me around Jhyom Pass to witness the many wonders of Ionia in times away from work. Despite such rough living, he was appreciative of the beautiful, a perfectionist in his craft. He cherished even the fallen petal of a flower, a bird's shed feathers, making various forms of craft with them that he deemed to be his masterpieces. I remembered myself having great respect for him, but even he did not know of my incessant thoughts of contempt toward Ionia's lack of discord.

My father would entertain me by taking me to the many opera houses and theatres scattered around the province, watching famed and renowned actors and puppeteers entertaining audiences there. And in each show, I examined every movement as the actors and puppets moved, and sang, and danced. They cried, they killed, they argued. Many a story came to life as if they were real, arousing my every sense. So vibrant! So divine! I was utterly absorbed in such finery. Such art, I thought. My father, noticing my enraptured expression towards the performing arts, had sent me to learn from every spectacle. I would visit theatres and operas, or speak with their actors at least four times a day. Four was enough to appease me. Four was enough to brim my head with such artistic thoughts.

As my interests flourished, however, my father's skills had begun to wane. Eventually, his fascination towards the beautiful had consumed him. His craft became faulty, and the martial school dwindled as his cadence and precision waned at his tinpot. It earned him scorn; it earned him humiliation and disgrace.

He had succumbed to the beauty and peace of the world to the point where it had deprived himself from what he had; his work, his art, and by his own hand, his life.

His death had taught me to not do the same.

Do I remember tears of my father's meaningless death? His was the first death I'd witnessed in my life, or, at least – the death of a human. The realization came to me then; nothing was eternal. Even the prettiest blossom would wilt and turn an unappealing brown. Even the most plentiful, golden wheat fields would be abandoned, burnt and cleansed after the wheat had been harvested. Even the most melodious birds would be deprived of their songs by old age. And my father had died just so simply, with nothing to take with him, nothing that made him memorable. They all withered and perished, plainly.

Tacitly and unknowingly, death made one ugly.

I was alone then, under the night of a full moon, two days after my father's suicide. I had no purpose. Even the theatres and operas at dusk had failed to enlighten me, but I knew my stagnant thoughts were not due to my father's passing.

Even after so long, I had no answer. Like a puppet without strings.

Footsteps, steps of a limping figure, echoed in the night. Curious, I sheltered myself beneath the long grass and watched the scene before me.

It was a battle between two men; an escaped prisoner, eyes red with rage in the night, and a merchant away from his cart. It was a robbery, likely; the merchant had been damaged on the leg but still struggled against his assailant hand-to-hand as their fists clashed, strike after strike against each other echoing in the silent night.

It was nothing like the operas and theatres I had seen before. This was a real fight, with real screams and punches. The act was rich with motion; the act was vibrant.

A blade glimmered, unseen from the unwary man in the moonlight. With one nimble strike, the criminal stabbed the victim in the abdomen. I watched him flinch as his legs gave way, falling to the ground. Before me, the man had been killed, as my eyes collected every detail of his death.

The splatter of blood. His writhing form, struggling in agony over the pain. The ear-splitting screams of the hurt and those related to the victim as they hurried to his corpse while the killer quickly escaped. That of which was a rarity in Ionia.

It was fascinatingly different. It was nothing like the fake deaths in all the scenes and operas I'd watched, meant to appease the audience. It was discordant.

Cruelly discordant, and I loved it.

My father's death and the first scene of strife I saw in life - that was when I found my answer.

There would be no strife without peace, and the other way around. Death was indubitable and undeniable, yet it had always been dealt in the most gruesome, simple of means.

But whom had ever attempted to seek the beautiful in murder? Who said that death and killing had to be ugly?

The idea marvelled me as it enticed my senses, enchanting me, like a snake charmer's tune to a cobra, like the scent of floral nectar to bees.

That was my answer.

And so I had sought to…..illustrate the acts.

My father's forge reignited. The lessons in his martial school, that had barely survived on willing disciples, continued, but my father was no longer was the one sitting at the helm, hammering at molten steel or educating students in the martial acts. My fingers worked as they were compelled and controlled by someone else, each stroke as skilful as my father did before me. Ideas enticed and stimulated my brain as the steel that stacked in my father's old establishment transformed into pieces of artwork. The scrolls that were abandoned on my father's shelves were clear of the accumulated dust as I went through each page and studied the work through sleepless nights, one after the other. I would train and learn from my father's subordinates in the ways I had not learnt before.

All in pursuit of the ultimate art:

Art that killed.

I'd inlaid my first tools within one of Tuula's many farmsteads; I'd placed all the skills I'd garnered in a mere week to test at that one moment. I'd arrived earlier than anyone else would, and disguised as a farmer, I'd blended in with the little townspeople around perfectly; I would watch my disguised form in the pools of stagnant water that encircled the plentiful, thick wheat, divided in four fields, ready for harvest that autumn morning. Through martial and acting practise, I had learnt to fully control my facial muscles, appearing at the scene with a….plain, common expression. I frowned at that thought, but my performance had to be subtle.

I roamed the golden fields and hid four blossoms inconspicuously – north, south, east and west, within the wheat field – and waited.

And I watched. The sun would emerge from the mountains, slowly, as skilful brushes painted the sky with ethereal shades of blue, orange and purple. The sky was displayed vividly, and a group of four farmers had just arrived, ready to reap their hard-worked harvests.

The sun lit down upon the fields like a theatre's spotlights, giving my puppets their cue…

And my performance had begun.

Like the first kill I'd witnessed, everything replicated itself; a scream; then another. Thrice. Four times. Blood emerged from each puppet like a wondrous display as they decorated the golden hue of the harvest with a sanguine red, like fireworks adorning the night sky. My heart leapt at their struggle as their futile attempts to escape inspired me, spread across the field from all four angles, perfectly symmetrical and aligned.

I'd killed all four that day. But their deaths were no longer hideous. I saw nothing ill in their struggle, no ugliness in their demise.

I had embellished their corpses with my craft. I had made their deaths memorable. Made their deaths beautiful.

It was my first performance, and I had to admit – this was meant for me. This was the discord I had sought. This was…..

Delightful.

As my work blossomed from the day of my debut, they gave Zhyun's new malicious killer a name – the Golden Demon – for which I was notorious throughout the land that had brimmed with the beauty of my work. I would wander through theatre and opera house, working as a stagehand, to spread my art. Screams of agony would bloom from their trepid, anguished voices like a cacophonous choir; music to my ears. Every composition I composed was one of sanguine, leaving behind fitful traces of my work as minds were shattered and corpses were twisted to my liking. Each had a signature pattern, each body a piece of paper to illustrate with my paint and brushes. I sought to make each kill unique, each perfect.

There was no stopping the art. Not myself, or anyone. No one could stop me then. They could hire armed armadas. They could pester the most skilled of demon hunters. I would sit bemused, out of sight as they searched and trampled my canvases, only for some to turn into pieces of my productions. They could pray for help all they wanted, yet not even the Wuju swordsmen, whom had upstaged my father's artistry, had managed to catch a glimpse of the creator behind the divine work.

What was my name then? I was perfection. I was the lotus blossom. I shone like the radiant sun. I was…..

Excellence.

Jhin. How befitting.

Even amongst the stagnant cultures of Ionia, there was but an exception of a day that I favoured best: The Blossom Festival, held in the southern province, a stone's throw away from our old hut every year. My father would bring me here annually, to witness a collection of Ionia's finest arts from paintings, to music, to calligraphy in the evening of Jhyom Pass, one of the more famed streets in Zhyun.

And it was, for three years since then, my perfect stage for opening night, where all would witness the true meaning behind my exquisite artwork.

I was confident to adorn Jhyom Pass with my finery that day. I wondered how many would I claim that day; Two? Three? No, four was always the favoured number. Equally divided, and enough to, albeit momentarily, gratify the will of the art that never ceased to flare within my soul.

Dressed in my best garbs, I was determined to entice the town with my display, as I always had in previous years. I observed the busy street out of sight, knowing that I had my garden set across the western borders that led to an avid, gathered crowd near the exit that led to the river. A careless step and the flowers – my personal craft of blades - would bloom; the art would flourish as they caught their victims, or alert me of possible distractions that attempted to upstage my act.

Was I always this aware? Since when did my work carry risk? As the years passed, I knew there was but one obstacle to my work. The Grand Master of the Kinkou Order, whom I had been eluding for four years on end. Though old, he had accomplished many feats with his merciful, unwavering justice, revered throughout Ionia as a hero. He could try to fool me, but he couldn't. Even if it seemed as if he had not taken action, I all but knew he was searching for me with his disciples in tow. I had seen through them, but my work had yet to waver Kusho's iron-hard soul.

I remembered spying on him as he went from house to house where I had performed, yet Kusho's mane had not ruffled; his lips had not curved, nor did his eyes move or waver.

And I had set my sights on him as my ultimate masterpiece.

But the art would purge my mind of this wariness. My theatre and audience would not wait. I smiled as opening night began; below my stage I noticed a fine puppet, an elderly man sitting at a secluded corner with his frail fingers brushing upon sheets of paper. He was away from the avid crowd, but it seemed that he wouldn't move to the perfect spot I had set, either.

But art had to be subtle before it was loud. It wouldn't do to start with a bang on such a fine night, where the moon still shone at its peak. Such a perfect puppet stood before me. I could not resist my instincts echoing for my cue, to begin my performance.

I readied a blossom and descended carefully from the roof, placing more along my path and examined the area carefully. I reached plain sight of him as he still continued his work, unaware that his finale was imminent. I smiled. My limbs shivered in excitement as I tapped the surface of my weapon once. Twice. Thrice. Four times. Another cycle, and it would signal action for the act.

One. Two. Three.

Four.

I lunged-

But I had failed.

The anguish! The burning, aching sensation as I quailed in pain as the blade sliced over my right eye, cowering before my unseen assailants. It was impossible. How could have these two youths approached me unnoticed?

It was until I was brought before the very calligrapher I had sought to murder as the three figures removed their disguises, and it dawned upon me:

I had underestimated Grand Master Kusho.

His rejection to attend to my art was but a deception; he knew I would be wary should he scour the province for me, which would disturb my performances in the passage. I was not the only one capable of deception and disguise. I had been wary throughout my four years of acting in his existence. I had eluded him and attempted to waver him with my craft at every attempt I could.

But this time, I had been foiled by him.

And to that, I lost my career. I'd lost my art, and my right eye. Back then, I was banished from my own theatre.

I stood helplessly as I watched one of his students charge toward me; the carmine eyes were soaked with malice, as the young boy lunged at me with his spinning blade in hand. The boy's limbs quivered as he strode forward, discording his otherwise steady march in order to deal his justice. His eyes, one scarred - had borne witness to my craft, as did Kusho's son, who only stood by his father's side as their phlegmatic eyes peered at my vulnerable form.

It mattered not that the youths were Kusho's best disciples; even the most granite of hearts would succumb to the purity of my work. It inspired me that the two Kinkou youths had their faces painted fearfully by my opera, the ecstatic smile I had under my mask when I observed their faces as they exposed my first masterpiece that day – the boy's evident fear even as he readied his strike was proof of that - yet the Grand Master remained stoic. His was the only face that had yet to sway from my work.

It was clear at that subtle moment of truth, that fatal moment before I would fall reprehensibly under the hand of the Kinkou Order, to be stripped of my beauty and personal stage, all under a careless decision. Kusho's disciples been influenced by my show.

My time for thoughts, however, had little point. Here I was now, caught red-handed and defeated, cowering against the wall.

And so I was to die then…

But the equanimous gaze of the master's eyes had stopped his adopted disciple. The famous Eye of Twilight had decreed that, rather than execute me for the many productions I have performed, I was to be confined in the Tuula Prison – perhaps life imprisonment – as atonement for my crimes.

If it wasn't for his mercy, the art would end with my life.

The thoughts of being parted from my art, my canvas – they asphyxiated me. I was lucky enough to be spared from dying an ugly, unfitful death, but being torn away from my stage – could a man of such dedication withstand such despondency? Nonetheless, in spite of my imprisonment, I was granted vague inklings of my love in the Tuula prison, where I was fed well, and taught in the arts, the arts I hadn't a chance to learn in my childhood; Ionia saw fit to make the best out of each prisoner, and I was trained to my father's customs, to smithing, to song, to dance.

It wasn't so bad after all, but such little forms of art weren't what the finest artists deserved. I would smile under my covered face, not saying a word as the tutors and wardens marvelled in my productions. The guards, the teachers, and the small window for air within my cell were my only links to the outside world, to my theatre that I so desperately wished to return to, but it just wasn't enough. This was no theatre; it was simply boring rehearsal. They would attempt to indoctrinate me, away from my fascinations – but who were they to purge me of the finery that no one else but me would understand?

It was my fourth year, each year of my imprisonment always as blasé as the next. Outside the silence of the cursed bars locking me away from my beloved podium, war broke out – amidst that period of strife, I would lean in, unnoticed, on subjects that the guards and wardens would speak aloud of, of news that Noxian empire had waged war on the continent. News of their assault in the southern borders – here – would entice me, as even the manpower of the jail had shifted to defending the homeland from Noxus' assault. It was a chance. A chance to witness, in my many long years of censorship, a production.

A production that, could, under the right circumstances, even set me free.

And I would watch, even if the scene was vague, from the window in my cell, the only window of freedom that allowed me to gratify my art to the world. The mountainous location of the Tuula prison meant that it was slightly challenging, though possible, to catch a glimpse of Noxus' collaboration with Ionia. A nation that displayed heavy contrast with Ionia's balance at war? It was enticing. I would watch as the sting of clashing steel echoed, fire burning the landscape, men with cries of pain, war, and death on the field.

So loud, yet so silent. A fascinating production, but Ionia was - as I had seen all my life - so plain, whereas Noxus' means of killing were…..so gauche. A prompt, inspiring production, but it lacked that sweetness, that soul, of a masterpiece.

They made death ugly and unappealing. They were unfit of the art.

Unprivileged as I was to be unable to witness the full spectacle of the indelible staging, the war had corrupted the balance that Ionia once maintained with lusts of power and control, arousing the desire for strife and bloodshed. The prison's guards would speak of political instability and many new rebels and rifts amongst the people. Ionia had won, but Noxus had left too strong an influence towards the balance the people sought to protect.

And my hopes had come to fruition.

Even caged birds had their voices, and they would be, eventually, released by one that yearned to hear their songs - and my voice was heard. My work was acknowledged. My talent was, for once, appreciated and coveted, to satiate the newly garnered desire for war and control over the corrupted country of Ionia.

I smiled as the cabal stood before me with their preposition. The ruling camarilla didn't have the Wuju swordsmen, nor the famed ninjas of the Kinkou Order.

But the clientele had me.

And thus, I was at long last freed from that wretched prison. Kusho's mistake had spared me and given me, after four long years of waiting, another chance to reorchestrate the terror that had I had once swathed Zhyun with.

Of course, who better to kill than one who forges beauty in it?

I had returned. Khada Jhin – the Golden Excellence – had returned.

And thus, I would indulge my cabal with my work, bringing them smiles; I would victimize my audience and victims, taking pleasure in every moment of their screams. I would toy with the strings, like a master puppeteer manipulating every move of his puppets, making them brim with life as they sang and danced. I would leave my mark of signature art across the world….

And show them what beauty truly is.

There would be no obstacle to halt the art. Even after enduring four painstaking years in Tuula, I had designated my canvas elaborately, the details of my true masterpiece engraved in my mind, stirring to be performed.

Kusho's death was to be my ultimate masterpiece, but my dear puppet had long since vanished. As such, it would start with the malicious young boy that tried to kill me then, the boy who stole my right eye, the Master of Shadows, as they would now call the traitorous man. He who had stolen the stage for my ultimate piece, the death of Grand Master Kusho. He would learn of the art and die for it. To the unfortunate loss of my most esteemed puppet, Kusho's son, struggling with his father's broken legacy and his loss of the Kinkou Order, was his best substitute. I had listened to all from within – and I had long planned their finales in hopes of my return to the work.

They had tried to stop me, and they would learn – art cannot be contained.

No longer would I be bound to silence, no longer sentenced to the past as a fallen artiste deprived of his name and work. With that, I had risen from the forgotten. I had emerged once more from the thick of the filth untainted. I had, at long last, returned to my theatre anew, ready to perform once again.

The forthcoming dawn will mark my returning debut to the stage, and their final scene would begin.