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Ch. 1

Scars of the Past

It was a scene all too familiar. Men of malicious intent, armed to the teeth, razing a village of innocent people with little to no means of defense. Rainfall hissed on the flames that protruded from the burning buildings that brightly illuminated the night air. Clashing and grinding of metal rang out amidst the shouting of commands and bloodthirsty battle-cries. A picture far more common in Valoran than it should be, only this time, it was different for him. This wasn't just another quiet village he stumbled upon during his travels. Though he never considered it a home, it meant almost more than that. It was a sanctuary; a temporary place eked out from violent oppression for the sole purpose of remaining hidden for safety, now being torn apart by the very storm it sought shelter from. Once more, he found himself contending an outnumbered battle, only now, in the last place he wanted, much less expected, to fight in.

"Go!" he shouted to his comrades. "Caesar, take the right!" a quick-thinking mind played his tactics. He was a large guy with an even larger axe—crushing the clustered flank should be no problem for him.

"Layla, Ken, the left!" Swift, dual short swords, and a trickster with a knack for throwing knives, should deal with the spaced-out flank quickly, while providing ample cover for each other.

"Garner, you're with me." His charge took him down the middle, longsword in-hand and a skilled lance at his side. Weapons clashed, armor cracked, and blood stained the once-tranquil grass of a hamlet that refugees called 'home'.

"Faster," he thought to himself, cutting one enemy down after another in a series of lethal flashes of his blade. "More commotion." He had to make their foes call for the rest of their forces to meet them in battle, in order to steer them away from their chase of those fleeing for their lives. He and his 'mercenary-knights', as many called them, could take the fight…all of it. They had to. It was all or nothing.

Noxian brands on the helmets and crests of the invaders' armor sundered at the experienced blade's heft, thinning out their lines. Questions hared his mind, further fueling his will to fight. How could they have found this place? Why would they go so far as to hunt us all down after we left Noxus? Am I too late…?

The small band of intrepid mercenaries pushed through the Noxian soldiers, forcing them to have grouped up on the edge of the town. Their ranks began to fold together, more organized in order to counter the unexpected threat they had underestimated. The mercenary-knights stood side-by-side, their weapons and armor coated in the dark crimson vitality of their enemies. Blades poised, eyes fixed, hearts steeled; they braced for the heaviest part of the night's battle that would decide the victors. An unnerving silence griped the air, dense with the tension of staring death in the face, knowing the question of who would live to see the daybreak would soon be answered by one's own blade…or another's.

They charged, mud-slathered boots on both sides grinding forward along the battle-torn ground. Neither side held back. Strength above all: that was the code he once had to live by, but not the only one. For long, he struggled to find the balance between that, and the contradicting method of peace his mother had instilled in him. Peace didn't exist in Noxus…not by a long shot. You couldn't walk a stone's throw without seeing some sort of fighting or exercising of one's superiority on the street, whether it was for survival, or just plain dominance. Needless to say, it was the very last place you would expect Ionians to live in. However, one fateful expedition for trade between the two nations set the gears in motion for what would eventually become an invasion of unimaginable horror and bloodshed.

'Strength above all'… That was all these pure-blooded Noxians lived by. Veterans experienced in primal combat, and zealots anxious to obtain the scars of their first real battle, stood in front of them. However, the mercenaries, as hard as their own lives have been, and despite the many battles they have fought together in just one year, have yet to genuinely comprehend what that phrase truly means… They weren't like him; they didn't grow up in Noxus. One can only train a hand and teach a mind to understand so much. The brutal city-state knew that well, and would force each citizen into its militant uniform at the coming of age. To be sent into battle was a privilege—an honor…a rite of passage. The leader of the knights looked to his sides, at his friends that had become his family, fighting with all their might against the forces of a nation literally bred for war. This was their rite of passage.

Steel hammered on steel. Bones broke, and blood and sinew clashed as brotherhood struggled against prejudice. Their battalion was small, but when fighting on the side outnumbered by at least five to one, a skirmish can feel like eternity. Bated breath huffed in between strikes on both sides, the mercenary-knights holding their line as not to get surrounded. Covering strikes countered would-be lethal blows from Noxian weapons, the strength of bonds under a common ideal shining against the rampaging flurry of merciless brutality.

Gashes and bruises gave a forceful push against the invading soldiers, giving them a small respite at the cost of their enemies regrouping for a final wave. He rose to his feet once more, the panting quickly ceased by years of training and experience, refusing to let the enemy see him as the path of least resistance. Semi-long dark brown hair soaked in rainwater, a shining longsword in his hand, and cerulean eyes fixed in a steel gaze caught the attention of his comrades and the opposing forces. His mercenaries followed his example and picked themselves up, their weapons readied once more.

The Noxian soldiers exchanged questioned looks of uncertainty and exhaustion. Knowing what was expected of them, they rose, beating their weapons on their shields and armor, ready for the final skirmish. Again, the bloodthirsty soldiers charged. Instead of rushing head-on, the mercenary-knights held their ground, and waited for the engage.

A shriek pierced the clamor, coming from a voice he had known his whole life. The only voice that could distract him for even a moment. He snapped his head over his shoulder, toward the origin of the distress, somewhere in the blazing hamlet.

"Cerina!" he called out, senses trying to fix on a location.

The company of iron-blooded misfits looked at each other, very well-acquainted with the name from his stories.

"Go get her. We've got this," Garner insisted. The others followed with reassuring nods before turning back to the charging men, and loosened up their wrists with flourishing twirls of their respective weapons.

The half-blooded Noxian gave once last glance at his mercenary-knights, aware that the turn of circumstance could shift the result of battle. There was no hesitation in his steps. He couldn't stand the thought of leaving his friends alone in combat, but this was for his sister. This was for the person he had protected his whole life through almost non-stop fighting. Mud and rain splashed as he sprinted across fallen beams of ignited wood, and betwixt humble houses as they collapsed under the flames of oppression. Two Noxians that ran wide of the defending line attempted to cut him off by flanking him on both sides. It was the last mistake they would ever make.

A spear lurched for his head, and a sword sweeps for his torso. Reflexes and instinct kicked in. The spear was easy to dodge, an unwise hand guiding it toward a narrow target. Razor edges collided as he parried the sword upwards, into the spear, bringing both weapons high to leave their wielders wide open. Without having sacrificed velocity, a fluid motion tucked his sword underneath his elevated left arm, bringing it far back behind him, before unwinding it in a full circular strike in mid-step, passing between his enemies without a shift in his gaze. A glint of steel, equal in both finesse and brutality, sealed their fate with a fervorous strike.

A blood-curdling scream rung out again, much closer than the previous. A deep, almost manic laughter followed; a sure sign that time was running out. The swordsman further pushed his limits, running faster than he had ever before, and smashed through a large piece of fallen roofing that barred him from his goal. Embers flared up around him as he found himself standing in between a narrow alley, lit up by the roaring flames that engulfed the surrounding houses.

An unexpected sight unfolded itself before him—an image that would be seared into his mind forever. His motionless, blood-matted twin sister hung limp over the arm of a wolf-like monstrosity. Dark blue fur, soaked from the downpour, glistened around a hulking beast with fangs and red eyes of animalistic fury. It stared back at him, with what could be taken as a grin, as far as wolves can smile. What is that thing? How could this happen? His sister, his blood, his last remaining family, his best friend…in the clutches of a demon-eyed creature.

His heart pounded, and the iron grip on the hilt of his blade tightened, enough to vice all the rainwater out from between his fingers and the leather wrapping. The swordsman dashed in, but with a complexity of emotions and divided focus. He had to watch his strikes as not to accidentally cut his sister. The fight was decisive and swift. Clearly, this beast had seen battle before, swiping away the sword with strength beyond average human capacity. Despite the prowess, the mercenary-knight could detect the tell-tale sign of clunky form in its movements, almost as if it was not even used to using its own body. It didn't matter anymore, however. A savage blow from a clawed hand sent the swordsman to the ground. The strike was mostly from the palm, sparing him from a messy, fatal blow. With a fuzzy head and blurred vision, he began blacking out at the distorted sight of the monster as he tried lifting his head. He heard a grainy, unnatural voice mutter words barely audibly to him, only discerning the words "specimen" and "singed."

The world dissolved into a void, and everything went dark.