Ezreal opened his eyes to see the world around him, very similar to how it was left, but that time it was in broad daylight. Ezreal heaved a heavy sigh and proceeded to enter the Institute of war. He fled down the hallways, ignoring the confused looks of the summoners and champions gathered about. Obviously there was a mass deal of confusion created when Ezreal disappeared from the face of the planet, but it did not matter; he had a mission to fulfill. He knew that he needed to get to the book that kept all of the records of champions to be summoned. There were not any matches going on at the moment which would allow Ezreal to get inside of the summoning room and go to the book without interrupting a summoner in the middle of focusing on his or her job: such a disturbance could lead to potential fatality of a champion.
After a few moments of fleeting through the corridors, he came across a room with a needlessly large doorway, decorated ornately and carrying a soft magical glow about it. He looked at the guards to the room and grinned before using the arcane magic of his glove to shift past the guarded doors and enter the room. The room was much smaller than he expected given the massive entrance, but that fact made his task more simplistic. Scanning the area, he found what he needed: the large book in the back. He ran to the paper binding containing all of the spells used by summoners to cast magics during a match or, more importantly, summon them to the Fields of Justice. When a champion was called upon, they were taken up from wherever it was that they may be, put on the Fields for the duration of the fight, and finally they were placed into specific rooms inside of the Institute when the match was over. If they were replaced from where they were taken, it could lead to penitential harm of the champion, especially if something else were to happen in their previous location during the match.
Keeping those facts in mind, Ezreal flicked through the pages of the book until he came across the specific one where the Garen's summoning spell was written. He examined it carefully as he pulled out his small translation book from his pocket among the other junk he carried around on his person. He flicked through the pages until he found the correct one, and matched it up to the spell held inside of the book. Ezreal did his best with the limited translations and any prior knowledge he had acquired from examining texts written in the language. Most of it seemed to make sense, but a few characters seemed vastly out of place: this relieved Ezreal. His hunch was most likely accurate; Garen replaced one lines of the summoning spell to insure that it was subtle enough to not be noticed, while being different enough to guarantee that he did not get summoned himself. Ezreal quickly scratched out the replacement Garen had made and reinserted the correct line. The easy part was over. Ezreal racked his brains, contemplating his options.
"Do I run for a summoner? How much time do I have? Are those guards going to realize I entered this room just moments ago? If none of the summoners noticed the difference, do they truly know what the words mean? Are they something that I could read off myself?" The flood of thoughts flowing in Ezreal's brain like a broken dam was overwhelming. He looked at his feet. Perhaps he had gone in way over his head. Perhaps he had just wasted his time, literally; sacrificing the time it took for him to get here, just to fail. When he was about to lose hope, he noticed a glow to his glove. Another idea exploded in his mind as he looked into its translucent gem. He was bound to the League by the power withheld in the glove. He was added to its roster without a judgment by the High Summoners – unlike every other champion who exists in the League – as soon as he had taken the amulet in hand, and buckled the straps around his wrists to pursue the secrets locked within.
"Perhaps… Perhaps it is able to summon someone other than me," he thought. He looked down at the page in front of him and focused. He read the words aloud slowly, being sure to pronounce every syllable of the ancient language correctly; just as he had practiced in all of his years of studying the hidden knowledge of his world. As he spoke, his glove began to glow brighter and brighter to the point of illuminating the entire room with its magical essence. Ezreal came to the end of the incantation and the glowing faded out quickly, sparking a little as if its power had just been used in a quantity that it had not experienced in a long time. Behind him, the doors busted open as the intense amount of light had clearly caught the attention of the aloof guards. Ezreal lowered his head and grinned. He knew he had just succeeded. Whatever may happen next was irrelevant. Garen had a job to do, and Ezreal had just ensured that he had time to do it.