Fall, 994 AN
"By the gods…"
I held my breath under my makeshift mask, torn from my undershirt, shivering. The night had a chilly breeze. Thatch roof houses creaked softly in an otherwise eerie quiet. Beyond our uneasy company of soldiers, a thick green mist fluttered in the wind, encompassing the village.
Corpses sprawled out everywhere.
"This was the largest village south of the Tian Trail. There must be hundreds of them," Grigorn whispered, horrified.
Before the army, bodies laid contorted in the road, while some keeled on their front porches. Gaunt, sickly faces permanently twisted into a grimace by horribly painful deaths. Green lesions spread out across the skin, sores and blisters bursting with pus. Lips dribbled with discolored blood. The gas that engulfed the village stretched seemingly for miles.
A soldier puked nearby. An uneasy tension set in among the Noxians. Men who wore heavy armor pulled shirts and collars tight against their necks, covering any exposed skin. Those who didn't have heavy armor stayed well away from the gas.
Father's lessons came to mind. "Cover your body, leave no skin bare. Seek fresh air as quickly as possible, poison gas can kill you in minutes. Once out, wash any part of the body exposed, such as the eyes, with clean water. Drink water or milk if the gas was ingested. Remove any contaminated clothing."
If only these people had that option, Father. Sulfuride is a nasty beast.
Tywin shook his head solemnly. "What a shame. I wouldn't wish that grisly fate on my worst enemy," he said.
I glanced at the friend by my side. Tywin Montague towered among his peers, his muscular frame encased in pewter armor and burgundy uniform, the colors of Noxus. Messy red hair fell to his shoulders, slick with sweat. A red goatee covered his strong jaw, with bags under tired green eyes. A look rarely seen on the proud man known as the Red Basilisk.
Grigorn bristled beside him. Blue eyes filled with horror and disgust. Sweat ran down his face, tracing the scar on his cheek. "Couldn't agree more, big guy," he added, brushing the back of his blond hair with a hand, a nervous tick.
"Why?" I said quietly, a subtle vitriol in my voice. "The whole point of this war was to expand our borders and colonize, wasn't it? Then why must we burn and poison the land our people will inherit?"
Tywin clutched my shoulder with a firm grip. "Don't let the others hear you say that," he said warningly. "You've already attracted too much attention lately."
I rubbed the red marks around my wrists, reminders of being chained. My jaw trembled. These people were farmers, not soldiers. Noxus took their lives and their land for the empire. But this…this was senseless overkill. No one deserved to die such a horrible death.
I shrugged Tywin off. "I don't care. Damn the man who would defend this," I pointed with an outstretched hand at the gruesome sight in front of us.
"That's not the point," he replied harshly, "You are an officer and a noble. You set an example for the rest of the troops. I don't like this either, Lu, but we can't have dissent and doubt among our ranks, especially after this."
My gaze turned toward the man standing at the front of the army. Darius, the Hand of Noxus, stood solemnly, his hands on the hilt of his axe, axe-head in the dirt. Not even thirty years old, yet had the bearing of a grizzled veteran, and a reputation well beyond his years. He had a chiseled frame and incredible strength that would make Tywin proud. In a few short weeks, Darius had already cut through the entire southwestern coastline of Ionia and secured beachheads for allied ships to land. Given a few more months, the army could very well secure the Tian Trail and arrive at the Misty Mountains, floating landmasses where Ionia's famed ninjas reside. His ambition, as well as his conquests, embodied Noxus' imperialistic vision. To his peers, he wasn't just the ideal soldier. Darius was the Noxian ideal.
I nodded toward the commander. "What about him? Do you think your 'hero' would defend what happened here?"
Tywin stood silently for a moment. "I don't know," he finally said.
A woman stood next to the Hand. Thin but fit, she wore leather armor and held a short sword. Blond hair fell to her shoulders. Quilleta, Darius' second-in-command and rumored lover, looked troubled.
"At least she has a conscious," I scoffed, turning away. Poor woman, I thought. A kind soul like her will crumple if she sticks with a ruthless man like Darius.
"How arrogant. You played a part in this too," said Grig.
"How?! I didn't sign up for this!" I growled, gritting my teeth. "I enlisted to help the sick and the wounded, not play accomplice to such atrocities!" I spat, whipping back around to face Grig. Once I did, my blood ran cold.
Every soldier in the army stared back at me with pale, dead eyes. Blood ran down sickly green skin from their mouths and dripped from their chins. I turned to my friend, who stood stiff, eyes bloodshot with blisters pocking his cheeks. A green mist had set in on our position.
"You're a soldier, just like the rest of us," Grigorn said in a raspy, congested voice, like his lungs were filled with fluid. "You were there when the village burned. You did nothing to help those people. You did nothing to help us. You're a goddamn medic, yet you ran."
"No, I didn't run…" I started, my eyes suddenly catching something bright behind me. I turned around to the sight of Bellaluna, engulfed in flames.
She pointed at me with a charred, bony finger. "You are a hypocrite, Lucius Rimgar."
"No!" I shook my head in protest, but the soldiers surrounded me, grasping at my clothes. Cries for help and wails of deaths filled the night air.
"You self-righteous bastard!" Grigorn snarled, half of his face melting down to his skull, "You're a Noxian too. You deserved to die with us! To die like this! You are a hypocrite and a coward, Lucius!"
"No! I didn't abandon you!"
An object appeared in front of me. A theater mask, cracked at the corner with black ink flowing around the eyes, through the temples, and down the cheeks. It had a wicked smile with blood-red eyes.
"It's only a matter of time, now Lucius," it said in a melodic, demented voice. "Live like a noble, die like a dog. Only then, will you be mine!"
"NO!"
My eyes shot open, screams reverberating through the room. I sat up, peering wildly at my surroundings. I was in my bedroom. My house in Riverpost. It took me a moment to realize the screams were my own. I rubbed my throat, hoarse.
The nightmares were becoming more frequent now. Those horrible memories from Ionia. Suddenly, I felt ashamed, worried I might have woken Elaria up.
"There's nothing I could have done," I reassured myself.
But was that true? Or was I lying to myself to ease my nerves? I shook my head. "There was nothing I could do," I said again.
As much as I hated to admit it, though, Grig was right. I am a hypocrite.
My foot hit cobblestone. I pinched my nose. So, this place does stink, I thought.
Zaun certainly isn't a place where one would vacation. The Underground City, built inside a deep chasm, is a decrepit place compared to its sister city, Piltover, which laid above the canyon. Though the city bustles in its massive bazaars and industrial districts, Zaun is rife with poverty and crime. The wealthy who live in their glass bubble mansions are few and far between, while most struggle to find two meals a day. Murder and robbery are common in Zaun, which was why I wasn't conspicuous in the crowd by wearing a sword at my hip. With the beaked metal raven mask on my face, the sign of a doctor, most passerby wouldn't bat an eye.
If you truly wanted to help people, you would have moved here, a voice in my head said.I ignored it.
I looked up from where I came: the Great Bridge. One of the Wonders of Valoran, the massive yellow bridge connected Piltover to Zaun, acting as a massive highway between the two cities. Merchants in their wagons rode toward the iron gates where the elevators laid. Some commoners rode horses, while those who couldn't afford one walked. It was the only way anyone from the surface could reach Zaun, and vice versa.
If anything happened to the bridge, the sister cities would be crippled, I thought absently.
I strode forward into the crowd. Stalls lined the streets in front of interconnected two-story gothic buildings that seemed more like giant walls with separate windows. Some merchants chirped at me as I passed by, pointing at their foods, their meats all too likely to be spoiled and their fruits overripe and bruised.
A family walked past, a mother and father holding hands with their daughter. The father was covered in soot, likely a factory worker, while his wife looked to be a maid or cook. Despite the hard life I assumed they've had to endure; the daughter was bubbling with innocent joy. A life opposite of my own.
It was a good idea to leave Elaria behind, I told myself. She'd be in good care with the granny who ran the department store while I was gone. However, I was cautious and paid a visit to the post office before I left Riverpost. If anything happened to me here or in the future, Elaria would be safe with Tywin and the Montagues.
I peeked at the blood-caked paper in my hands: the map the dead soldier on my operating table had in his pocket. I turned left down another street, past a fountain with a statue of Octavian Zindelo at its center, the creator of the Incognium Runeterra and founder of Piltover and Zaun. The statue had a pointed goatee and slicked back hair, wearing simple vest and trousers, holding a device up into the air.
Even this high up in the city, a thin layer of the Grey hung in the air. The nightmare of sulfuride flashed in my mind, before I shut it out.
Zaun's layout is split into three layers. The top layer, the Financial District, is where the wealthiest citizens live and do business, along with its bazaars and largest laboratories. It's also where most of the crime families' activities are. The middle layer, the Industrial District, is where the factories are located, and where the majority of the city's residents live. The bottom layer, the Dredge, is where the poorest slums lay beside polluted rivers, littered with debris from the factories above. It's also called the Junkyard District, as mountains of trash and miscellaneous metals pile up at the bottom of the chasm.
A pair of men with raven masks in white cloaks and matching hats walked down the steps of a bank in front of me. I nodded at them, who returned the gesture as I walked past.
Father had told me about the Viral Wardens before, but this was my first time seeing them. Because the Grey grows with each passing year, a medical crisis in Zaun, the local government hired the Viral Wardens, a team of specialized doctors who fight back against the poison mist. From what I heard during my travels, their headquarters is in the Financial District, while most of their work is done in the lower layers, where most of the Grey lingers.
Doctors are in high demand in Zaun, and many that live here are paid handsomely. However, with the Viral Wardens presence comes a heavy price from the city government, which causes an increase in taxes in the city and in turn further accentuates its poverty. Not like they had done much to combat the Grey, anyway. Even with the help of the brightest minds in science and medicine from across Valoran, progress has been slow for decades.
Turning down another street, the crowd became less sparse. Walking through a residential area, I passed small family shops who had enough money to make it to the top layer. The stone streets were dimly lit by spark fly street lamps, a myriad of bridges crisscrossing above me into other districts. As night set in, the spark fly's green lights shown brighter. Few people were out at night; those who were kept their hoods up and likely clutched their coin pouches under their coats.
As I rounded a block, I came to a quiet city square, where townhouses and local shops surrounded a graveyard. Lone ash trees, the first trees I had seen since entering Zaun, watched over the cemetery and its circular headstones. Even burial was a privilege of the rich; coffins are expensive, so most of Zaun's dead are cremated.
Rivelt Avenue, the place marked on the map. I walked toward the other corner of the graveyard. What awaited me was a shop with a wooden sign above its doorpost, a picture of a syringe and leaves carved into the wood. An apothecary. I glanced around cautiously in the empty street, before heading inside.
The apothecary was small. On one wall, rows of glass jars filled with foreign flora lined the shelves. On the other, medicine books gathered dust on bookshelves. Ahead of me, a man sat behind a stained wooden counter that sectioned off the main shop from the back room, its entrance covered with red curtains. The Ionian man was bald, with small eyes, wearing sleeveless red robes with a collar that rose above his neck. He appeared to be a monk.
Removing my hood and my mask, I took a step forward, the floorboards creaking under my weight. The door was crooked, as if recently broken from the hinges. Though the floorboards and shelves seemed inconspicuous at first, I spotted cut marks along the wood, likely made by swords. The map was right. The damage might have been mostly covered up, but the Trifarians were here.
The monk smiled, his eyes slits. "How may I help you, doctor?"
I strode up to the counter, tapping my knuckles against its surface. "I'm looking for a form of anesthesia. Bale root, if you have it."
Bale root's a rare herb found in Shurima. A small shop like this having inventory of the herb would be very surprising. When I passed by the shelves of flora, it appears I was correct.
"Bale root?" the monk clarified, tapping his chin. "Hard to come by. It's unlikely to currently be in stock. If you wish, I could recommend alternative forms of anesthetic?"
A fresh bandage was wrapped around the monk's hand. He had certainly encountered the Trifarians. "Just humor me, would you?" I insisted with a disarming grin. "I've been searching all day and no other shop is carrying it."
That's it, keep it simple. Don't fabricate a complicated story. Simple lies are always the most believable.
The monk nodded. "Let me see if I have anything in the back," he said, turning around and disappearing behind the curtains. After a few moments, I silently followed behind.
The lowly lit back room looked like the monk's personal study, with a desk at the back, the walls lined with more dusty bookshelves. As the monk examined rows of jars with his back to me, I quietly came up behind him.
As I rose my hands to strike, a foot collided with my sternum, throwing me to the other side of the room, crashing into the bookshelves. The monk sighed, lowering his leg.
"Damn Noxians. Always so nosy," he said absently, finally opening his eyes, glaring daggers at me. I groaned softly, pulling myself up from the ground. Cracking my neck, I rose my fists into a fighting position. A sword would be too awkward to use in such a small space.
The monk scoffed snidely, before snapping his foot toward my chin. I pulled my head back, narrowly dodging the attack, then moved to sweep his standing leg, his center of balance. To my surprise, he hopped off his foot, spinning around. Rising his leg into an axe kick, he dropped it onto my kneeling form.
I blocked the attack with the meaty part of my forearm, which groaned from the force of the blow. I grinned, reminded of Tywin's complaining years ago on fighting dirty. Clutching onto the monk's raised shin, I pulled back, the motion pulling his body forward. I punched upward, right into his groin.
The monk croaked, keeling toward me. He reacted just in time to catch my right hook, but not enough time to see my left uppercut to his chin. His head snapped to the ceiling, stumbling backward. As he was off balance, I kicked with all my strength at the side of his knee.
The monk's knee bent awkwardly with a sickening crack, who howled in pain. I stepped forward, dodging the man's attacks as he swung desperately. I locked my arm around his, then dislocated his shoulder with an open palm. The monk gasped, giving me enough time to get around him, wrapping my arms around his neck in a headlock. He grunted in protest, attacking wildly at my exposed body. I ignored the pain, tightening my grip around his windpipe.
Eventually, the monk's movements slowed, before dropping his arms to the floor. I tossed the limp body to my side, taking deep breaths. I felt at my chest, still sore from the kick, and laughed. Thankfully, my body still remembered the War Master's hand-to-hand combat training in the army.
As I stood up, my eyes were drawn to the monk's neck. His lowered collar revealed a tattoo of a black rose. The Black Rose Blooms, I cited from the letter found on the dead Trifarian. I was on the right track.
However, finding the monk's secrets wasn't an easy task. The open books I found in the back room were just home remedies and advanced medicine texts. To be safe, I stashed the monk's body behind some garbage in the alleyway behind the shop, just in case he had any friends who would pay a visit and discover what had happened. But the shop owner was definitely hiding something.
I felt around the bookshelves, before my hand rested on a book set against the shelf's wall. As I pulled it on it, there was an audible click, and the bookshelf drifted lazily away from the wall.
I chuckled in surprise. For an evil organization, this Black Rose sure was cliché. Pulling back the bookshelf, a doorway revealed itself, spark fly lamps lighting a descending stone staircase.
Before I took my first step, the smell hit me. The pungent odor of chemicals and blood. I donned my raven mask and breathed fresh air, then closed the bookshelf behind me and made my way down the steps, anxious for what awaited me at the bottom.
The winding staircase was deep, with cracked, eroded walls. Slime and unknown liquids made the walls slick. At one point, I almost stepped on a rat, who hissed threateningly before skittering into a hole in the wall. As disgusting as this place was, I chuckled to myself. Bellaluna would hate this place. I could picture her now, her proud figure with hair like the sun turned into shivering mess at the uncleanliness of Zaun. Apparently, it had taken years for the famed Huntress to even skin a fresh kill. The Jewel of Feywind. I laughed at her for days.
My heart suddenly ached. If only you could see me now, Bell. So far from our tiny house in the forest, outside Feywind. I may be walking to my death right now, but I won't allow those nightmares from nine years ago to repeat themselves in Ionia. Even if it kills me.
A steel door awaited me at the bottom. I unsheathed my sword. "Watch over me, Bell," I said quietly. With a tight grip on my sword, I slowly opened the door and walked inside. I almost dropped my sword in horror.
I was in a massive room with a low ceiling. There were rows and rows of pods filled with green liquid, bodies floating inside, connected to a myriad of tubes. I stepped forward and examined one of the pods, a deathly thin and gaunt man asleep inside. Or dead, a voice said in my head. I shook away the thought.
I cautiously walked the line of pods, peering around the room for signs of guards. Everything was quiet aside from the hum of machines and liquid flowing through tubes. Men and women of all ages floated in the stasis chambers, from young children to decrepit old folk. Some of the pods' glass were horribly scratched, probably from the previous Trifarians attempting to get the people out.
There must be hundreds of them, I thought. Suddenly, a thought occurred to me. With how dangerous and impoverished Zaun was, it wouldn't be too hard to pluck someone from the lower layers off the street and throw them into one of these pods. In fact, people disappearing in this city wasn't all that uncommon. But why? What was the point of this experimentation, especially on this vast a scale?
A cold hatred burrowed a hole in my stomach. After all the atrocities the Grand General committed during the Ionian invasion, it wasn't that much of a stretch that he'd do this either. I wonder what his Trifarians would think if they found out one of the Trifarix, their grand commander-in-chief, was behind the lab they died to try to shut down.
As I rounded another row, I found a gruesome sight. People were laid out on operating tables, attached to more tubes, blue liquid flowing through them to the ceiling. Some were corpses, and some were on their death bad, breathing raggedly, their consciousness severed. One woman's chest was opened up and spiked with needles and tubes into her vital organs. It took all of my restraint not to throw up into my mask.
That would explain the smell from earlier, I thought. It also explained why they set up outside a graveyard. No need for coffins when you can dig a mass burial pit and cover up the evidence.
As I walked past the human experiments, I discovered an office on the other side of the room. Steading my sword hand, I slowly opened the door. Thankfully, no one was inside. A large rectangular window faced the stasis chambers, while the other wall was lined with bookshelves, and a desk with papers haphazardly scattered across its top. A tackboard hung above the desk, where drawings of the experimentations hung. Next to the tackboard were rows of rungs that keys dangled from, each rung numbered. I dug in my pocket and snatched the letter the dead Trifarian had on him.
The alchemical formula for the Key has finally been cracked, it read. Was this the Mausoleum Project? Did it have something to do with the experiments here in the lab? I shuffled through the papers on the desk, scanning quickly through each one. One read:
First readings of Grey exposure show early signs of mana degradation. One interesting find discovered is that the patient's blood depends on both oxygen and mana in order to function. Levels of mana in a subject could also determine how healthy its condition is. Depending on the amount of mana in cells, it could also determine its innate strength or magic ability. This theory could explain the longevity of the Elves in Ionia and/or the resilience of apex predators such as basilisks. Further study required.
I tossed the paper and grabbed one on top of a stack of books that looked important.
Reverse engineering of the Grey is a success. Instead of mana draining in subject resulting from Grey exposure, the new compound enhances mana growth. The subject, who previously suffered from tuberculosis prior to clinical trials, has no trace left of the disease in its body. By enhancing mana pools in each subject, siphoning for the Key formula will become more efficient and increase speed.
My stomach churned. I wasn't experienced in mana medicine, but never had I experienced anything so horrific. The Viral Wardens have specialists who replenish mana to infected patients. What if they have a hand in this? It's possible, but I couldn't know for certain.
My eyes drifted to the tackboard, toward the two papers in the center. One of them was a drawing of a mask that looked familiar. Underneath the drawing, a name was outlined:
The Vessel.
My gaze shifted to the second paper. On it was an illustration of a circular device with multiple layers of gears rounding a cylindrical indentation in its center. I paused for a second, recognizing the design. Then, I realized that the illustration was of the Incognium Runeterra. Suddenly, everything made sense, from the experiments in this lab, to 'the Key' that the letter mentioned.
"Holy shit, they're trying to unlock the Incognium Runeterra," I whispered, stupefied. The device in Piltover was rumored to locate any living thing on Runeterra. However, with answers came more questions. Octavian Zindelo's creation is little more than a monument in the Golden City, a relic of a bygone age. It hasn't been powered for millennia, since Zindelo's daughter Valentina took the secret of powering it to the grave.
Now I understood what the letter kept saying about 'the device', but it also said something about the Grey Warden and whatever Urbe Mortuos is. If the Black Rose revived this ancient tech, why those two things specifically? Who or what is the Grey Warden? What about Urbe Mortuos? And what did this have to do with Ionia? I scoured the papers on the desk, but found nothing.
"I can't let this continue," I thought aloud. I gathered all the papers on the desk and ripped off the papers on the tackboard, shuffling them into a stack. After setting them on the ground, I spoke an incantation, a small flame sparking to life above my index finger. I lit the research ablaze, then left the office. It wasn't much, but I'd set them back considerably.
I stopped walking, peering at the stasis chambers around me, weighed down by a heavy conscious. I can't save all these people, I thought. It didn't ease my guilt. I scanned my surroundings again. But I can do something.
Sheathing my sword, I rushed to the operating tables. I shook my head. Everyone on the tables were either corpses or soon to be one, nothing I could do there. I ran down the rows of pods, looking frantically. Pick someone, anyone, it doesn't matter. I chose a random aisle, and strode swiftly, glancing back and forth between the pods before my eyes set on a particular chamber.
Inside the pod, a small girl floated. She looked younger than Elaria, maybe six years old, with blonde hair. I grit my teeth, examining the pod. It was locked behind a thick seal. If the Trifarians couldn't get through it, there was no way I could. I spotted a sign above the pod, which was numbered '101'. With no other sign of opening the pod on its surface, I ran down the aisle, looking for anything to open the pod.
Then, I spotted it. A control panel at the end of the aisle. I clutched onto it, reading the rows of numbers that listed each pod. There was no knob or switch below the numbers. However, there were keyholes.
The office!
I sprinted back to the office, quickly scanning through the keys. "101, 101, 101," I muttered, tracing the rows with my finger until I found it. "There!"
Snatching the key, I ran back to the control panel. I jammed it into the keyhole and turned, peering back at the pod anxiously. I heard an audible hiss, and the seal began to open. I went back to the pod, the green liquid flushing down drains inside. Door opening, the naked child dangled in the air, held up only by the test tubes. I grabbed hold of her and carefully removed the tubes, then removed her breathing mask.
Her eyes groggily opened. "Who…?" the girl asked weakly.
"Shh, save your strength. I'm getting you out of here," I said in my best paternal voice, removing my cloak and wrapping it around her bare form. Picking her up in my arms, I moved swiftly toward the exit.
Suddenly, I heard a door slam open further down the room, near the staircase. I ducked behind a pod, hearing the heavy sound of boots.
"The monk was in the back alley! Stay on guard, we have an intruder!" A voice said.
"Dammit, do you think the Trifarians are back?" Another asked.
"Doesn't matter. If the Alchemist finds out the lab was breached again, we'll be next on the tables!" A voice chimed in.
The girl moaned faintly. I put a finger to my lips, setting her down against one of the stasis chambers. "I'll be back shortly," I reassured quietly, "Don't make a sound."
Grabbing my sword, I ducked around the pods and crouched, moving swiftly through the rows toward our new company. Under cover, I spotted five figures in black robes. They hadn't spotted me yet, likely Black Rose. I have to be cautious, who knows if any of them are mages or skilled assassins, especially if all of the Trifarians died. Standing behind a pod, I waited as each one past me, undetected, until the fifth one came. Once behind him, I ran the figure through the back with my sword. He gurgled blood, dropping to the floor as his companions whipped around.
"Wait, a Warden?!" One of them said, as the four of them pulled out swords, knives, and a great axe. They must be mistaken by my raven mask, I noted. I swiped the blood off my sword, then fell into Stone Stance, as my father had taught me.
The cold hatred burrowed deeper into my stomach. I'm in luck today, though, I thought. I have scum to release it on.
The man in front charged, a sword in each hand, attacking down in an overhead swing. I stepped to the side, raising my hand and pointing my sword down, blocking both swords as metal scraped against metal. I then swiped diagonally down his back. The man grunted, but stayed on his feet, turning back to face me.
I whipped around just in time as the second dashed at me in a frenzied rush with daggers. I switched to Wind Stance. It would be too difficult to block smaller weapons at such close range. As he whiffed one of his strikes, my hand shot forward and grabbed his cloak, then tugged him hard. I lifted my head back and cracked it against the man's skull, before throwing him over my shoulder, colliding with the other assailant.
Now that I had two on each side of me, I sprinted forward, switching to Water Stance. I would have to take down one side before I confronted the other. One figure, a woman, raised her hands, which crystallized. Then, icicles shot from her palms. I ducked and weaved, constantly moving my sword to deflect any projectiles. When I reached her, my sword descended on her terrified form, my face twisted with malice. Before my strike landed, however, she thrusted her fists down toward the ground, and a wall of ice shot up between us, my sword clanging off the ice. As I stumbled backward, the fourth figure, a towering, burly man swung an axe horizontally toward my neck.
I quickly ducked, feeling a few hairs on my head slice off as the axe cut through. My foot collided with the side of his knee, which didn't bend like the monk's did but still buckled. Now with the advantage, I grabbed the back of his bald head as he bent down and smashed it against the ice wall. Blood burst from his broken nose. I was about to deal the finishing blow when the man with the daggers bull-rushed me again.
Switching back to Wind Stance, it was difficult dealing with his swift attacks. A few times, his daggers nicked my chest, drawing blood. He was an experienced killer, fast and tenacious. However, he was also reckless. I waited patiently, parrying strikes until the moment he became careless. Eventually, he growled in frustration, and swiped downward in a big arc.
I sidestepped, then cut his left hand clean off. He howled for a split second before I sliced, separating his head from his neck. As the body began to drop, the woman rose her hands again. I grabbed the corpse's cloak and lifted the body as ice flew, bombarding its back and shredding through flesh. She moved her hands in a flowing motion. A wave of ice snaked through the ceiling, then descended toward my head with a jagged tip.
Tossing the corpse at the woman, I slid across the ground, just barely avoiding getting skewered. The woman yelped, dazed for a second. Out of her view, I came to a crouch and slashed at her legs. She dropped to her knees as I spun and cut through her chest. I took a deep breath, turning to the last assailants: the lean swordsman and the massive axe-wielder.
Two left.
Both rushed me at once. I parried a sword, then ducked under the axe. The swordsman stepped forward and thrusted his sword at my chest. My own sword at my side, I swung upward, clashing against his and sending it skyward. When we went to block it with his second sword, I feinted, and slowed mine in mid-air, his parry whiffing. As he was off balance, terrified, I slashed down through his chest.
One left.
I pivoted to the muscular, bald man. He attacked in a rage, swinging his axe wildly. I moved into Water Stance. In between strikes, I countered and cut his chest and arms. And yet, he didn't drop, and continued his suffocating assault.
Wanting to finish the fight quickly, I dodged a downward strike and stabbed at his chest. To my surprise, he stepped aside, the blow slipping under his armpit, then clocked me with a left hook.
My vision rocked. Dazed, I stumbled back. As the enemy moved to end me, I swiped at his arm. Tendons on his wrist sliced, and the great-axe fell limp to the man's side. As I did, he headbutted me, my vision blurring again.
The axe-man kicked my sword out of my hand, then clutched my neck in a crushing grip, lifting me into the air. I struggled in vain, trying to pull his fingers off my throat. He was strong, too strong. He scowled with bloodthirsty eyes.
Is this how I die?
Suddenly, Elaria flashed in my mind. Then Brother Devlun, then Uncle. People depend on me! I can't die like this!
Gritting my teeth, I let go of his hand on my throat. Then, with all my strength, I cupped my hands and slammed them onto the axe-man's ears. He howled as his eardrums burst, releasing his grip on me. I dropped to the floor, gasping for air.
I didn't have time to catch my breath, though. I rushed at him, and crushed his groin under my knee. He croaked and keeled over, right as I nailed him with a punch to the chin. He dropped to the ground.
Digging my fingers into the back of his head, I lifted it on top of the axe head, then pushed his face on top of the blade. His face split with a wet splurch, but I repeatedly lifted his head and thrusted it into the axe-head, again and again. With my last bit of strength, I split the man's skull halfway through, then collapsed backward, sweating. I tore off my mask, breathing heavily.
I'm glad Tywin couldn't see me now. After this, he'd really want me back in the Legion.
Rising shakily to my feet, I vainly wiped off the blood that stained my clothes. I snatched one of my assailant's black robes and threw it over my shoulders, then went back to the girl.
I knelt down, picking her up in my arms. She was breathing faintly. I had to get her to a hospital immediately. Her mana was likely dangerously low. Who knows what else these psychos did to her, I thought gravely.
My ears perked up as more movement came from the stairwell. Cursing, I searched for another exit. In front of me, a large pipe system extended into darkness. This must have been an old water treatment plant, I realized. As my pursuers burst through the entrance, I sprinted down the pipe and into the darkness, water splashing under my boots. I heard hollers a ways behind me, then ran after me.
I took off faster, taking quick breaths as the girl in my arms breathed weakly. Pale white light shown ahead through a sewer grate on the roof of the pipe, splitting the pipes into a T. As I came closer, still being chased, light glinted off armor in the water.
The corpse of a Trifarian.
I glanced at it only for a moment, but the body looked like it had been torn apart, threadbare flesh dangling from bone. Almost as if it had been eaten. I didn't waste another second on it, turned right and didn't look back.
After a few minutes, I no longer heard my pursuers. I took a chance and stopped, gasping for breath, and looked back, another grate shining light onto the water behind us. Silence. I peered at the girl, whose condition hadn't changed.
"Thank goodness," I said, holding her tight. The girl whispered something. I leaned in so I could hear her better.
"Thank you…mister…" she said softly. I smiled.
"Not much longer now. We're getting out of here."
I took a step forward, and a loud crash sounded on top of us, outside the pipe. I froze, holding my breath. Metal scraped against metal like nails on a chalkboard, and then another sound, I couldn't tell what it was at first. When I realized what it was, my blood ran cold.
The sound of sniffing.
I stood there, deathly quiet. Then, a bone-chilling roar echoed outside the pipe. I sprinted down the pipe as the sewer grate split open, and something landed in the water behind us.
I didn't dare look back. But whatever it was that was chasing us, was much faster than the men at the lab. I turned another corner, a loud crash reverberating behind us as something hit the wall of the pipe.
Keep moving, keep moving! I told myself as my lungs groaned. The sound of scratching metal shook inside my ears, as well as heavy, guttural breathing, as if it was an animal that was chasing us. Eventually, a faint yellow glow shined at the end of the tunnel. I pushed myself faster as my legs and lungs protested. Once I reached the end of the tunnel, I found myself at a chemical plant, barrels stacked against furnaces, pipes snaking through the ceiling into open air. Moonlight shone down from the top of the chasm.
I turned sharply left as I exited the pipe, and something barreled forward right behind me, slicing through the black robes and just barely missing my back. It crashed into a cold furnace with a loud boom, barrels falling on top of it. Whatever it was, it had black fur and green pumps in its back, with claws the size of daggers, and it was either hungry, or really angry.
I didn't bother to stop and ask which.
Grates rattled below as I ran past, steam from the pipes throwing me off balance. I ran and ran, but I couldn't shake the beast. Ducking into alleys and chemical dumpways, somehow it stayed on my trail. As I ran, I looked down at the girl, who had her eyes closed and shivered weakly with fear. I also caught a glimpse of my clothes. A thought occurred to me.
Wait, can it smell the blood on me?
I dashed through a doorway and slammed the wooden door behind me. Quickly, I placed the girl down and tore off all of my bloody clothing, and tossed it in the other direction. Wearing only my pants, sword at my hip, the torn black robe on my back and the mask in my pocket, I snatched the girl off the ground and advanced.
Another howl split the night air. I passed a pipe system and hope appeared before me. In a block, up the stairs, was a gondola. I hit my second wind, and bolted to it.
The beast's roars echoed across the pipes, as if it could be anywhere. Finally, I made it to the staircase and stumbled up, before collapsing into the gondola. With my last bit of strength, I shut the door behind me and spun the wheel, locking it tight, then pulled the lever. I sat down next to the girl, gasping in ragged breaths as the gondola began to rise toward an upper layer. Finally, we had reached safety.
My hope was snuffed out like a candle.
I saw the beast drop from above onto the staircase through the peephole on the gondola door, growling. My breath caught in my throat, the gondola a quarter way up the line. The beast sniffed the air for a moment, then snapped its head toward me. I grabbed my sword as the beast stepped backwards on all fours. Gondola almost halfway up the line.
Then, it bounded forward and jumped.
"SHIT!"
The beast flew through the air, clawed hand raised, poised to slice through the gondola and us like butter. I braced for impact, clutching the girl to my chest.
Death screeched against the steel door, rattling my ears. Then, nothing. I opened an eye, and the beast began to fall. Just barely missing the gondola. It howled as it dropped, before disappearing into the grey mist below.
I let out a sigh of relief, laying against the wall of the tiny metal box. We were safe.
A heavy pouch dropped to the desk, gold coins clinking inside. The doctor stared at it with bulging eyes.
"Make sure she is taken care of. I'll find out if you don't," I warned menacingly through my raven mask.
The doctor nodded fervently. Taking one last look at the girl, whose color had returned to her skin, I walked out of the clinic.
I felt exhausted. Part of me thought I should get a room at an inn. Then again, I needed to leave town before I'd be discovered by the Black Rose. Or whatever that beast was. I stepped onto the huge elevator, then rose toward the Great Bridge.
You did good today, Lucius, I thought. You saved that girl from certain death.
Yet, I couldn't help feeling guilty. Hundreds of men, women, and children still floated in that basement. People I couldn't save.
There was nothing you could have done, I thought. It's not like I could go to the police either. Who knows how entrenched the Black Rose is in Zaun? The last thing I needed was to walk into their trap like a moth to a flame.
Bella flashed in my mind. Golden hair loose at her shoulders, shining that intoxicating smile. "You were amazing, Lu," she said in my mind, a memory hugging me from behind.
"It was nothing," I said quietly, the crowd on the elevator bustling, horses pulling wagons and carriages snorting softly.
"Don't be modest, you did good today!" I could hear her say. "And I know you, Mr. Rimgar. You won't leave those people behind."
I shook my head. Would it be worth it to return? Putting myself and Elaria in danger for the sake of those people? The Grey would've killed them soon out on the streets anyway. I had no way of knowing if that little blonde girl would even survive to be Elaria's age on Zaun's streets.
The elevator dinged, iron gates shuddering open. Stepping onto the golden bridge, I pushed through the crowd. I could see the memory of Bellaluna rolling her eyes. "Always playing devil's advocate, as humans would say. Sure, you can be cynical, pessimistic, and even a violent brute at times," she said as I passed a merchant wagon. "But you are first a doctor. A man who treats the sick and the wounded, ally and enemy alike. It didn't matter if they were human or not, and it didn't matter if you were about to collapse from exhaustion. You still worked diligently and served my people for years. He is the man I admired, the one I married."
The memory drifted away. I stopped at the center of the bridge, leaning my arms against the ledge. Zaun may be filthy, diseased, and cutthroat. But from up here, seeing this view, there was a certain charm about the steampunk city, with all its winding bridges and gothic architecture. Iron spires rising above archways and keeps, the wealthiest mansions contained within reinforced glass bubbles to protect against the Grey.
Could I really risk my family's safety for these people? Father's lessons suddenly came to me, the stern and stoic nobleman with combed, greying hair and a pointed goatee.
"It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. Remember that, son," he had said to me as a kid.
My fingers felt at the stained Trifarian's letter in my pocket. I pulled it out and spoke an incantation. A flame sparked on my finger, and lit a corner of the parchment. Dropping the paper over the ledge, it drifted lazily as the fire curled and charred the paper, before dissolving to ash. I'd have to think more on it, coming back here. I turned my back on Zaun and strode down the bridge.
Little did I know, a tiny spider rode on my black robes as I returned home.
Fall, 1004 AN
Darius hated war meetings. Sure, they were necessary, but oftentimes there was too much infighting over tactics and logistics. Too many egos. The Hand of Noxus couldn't count how many times an argument broke out between generals over miscommunication between the supply lines and the lack of replenishing troops in the Legion's warhosts to replace the dead. The war councils lasted too long, and after a while, became dreadfully boring.
Still, as a member of the Trifarix, he needed to be there.
Everything unraveled after the failed meeting with Sylas in the Freljord. Darius and his men had barely escaped through the frostbitten mountains with their lives. To his relief, he had saved the life of the boy from the stables. A year later, Sylas succeeded in his Mage Rebellion, slaying or imprisoning every Mageseeker in Demacia City. For almost a decade, no news has arrived regarding the fates of the Crownguard family, or King Jarvan IV. It is assumed they were killed in the uprising.
For the first five years of the war, the fighting was back and forth, both armies given the difficult task of fully conquering the harsh Argent Mountain range and the plains, which was the first step for launching an assault on either capital. With support from Shurimans outside the colonies and the Freljordian barbarians, Noxus almost lost the Argent. As highways were destroyed, shipments going to and from Noxus were strangled, plummeting the economy for two years. However, Darius took a chance, and personally cut his way through the Argent mines and behind the enemy armies, right on top of their supply lines. Such a risky gamble of traveling through the unstable mines had paid off handsomely for Noxus, and with one decision, the Hand of Noxus had conquered over three quarters of the Argent.
However, one thing had bugged Darius for nearly a decade. After such a tumultuous and bloody rebellion, how had Demacia bounced back so quickly? It should've been near impossible for Demacia's armies to be at near full strength when they sieged Khepolis in a surprise attack nine years ago, the largest Noxian city on the Argent coastline, south of the mountains. Not after the Mage Rebellion should've fractured the country.
It's possible there was a military coup, but Darius knew Sylas. He would've never toppled a monarch just to seat a new one. He wanted freedom. Regardless, The Hand agreed with the Grand General: The Black Rose had something to do with the unusual events in Demacia.
Darius' boots thudded heavily against the floor, his armor replaced with a burgundy and pewter uniform. An insignia of the Trifarix, a gold and silver great axe with two black eyes at its head, was sewn on the uniform's breast. Seren walked beside him, wearing a matching uniform except for the silver wings over her right breast. Her black hair was done in a braided crown.
Darius glanced at her. His second-in-command had grown to be even more beautiful over the decade. Captain Seren had become a competent and respected member of the Trifarian Legion, despite some sneering that she lived in Darius' shadow.
The Hand felt a pang. Quilleta would've liked her.
Seren yawned, stretching her arms to the sky. "I don't understand you old folk sometimes," she said groggily, rubbing her eyes. "Why must you frontload everything important into the mornings?"
"Old folk? I'm only ten years your senior," Darius chuckled. "I've seen you pull night-watch plenty. This should be no problem either."
Seren sighed. "At least we had fun sometimes during watch. I wanted to get my caffeine this morning, but nooo, we didn't have enough time for it," she grumbled.
Darius wouldn't exactly call night ambushes 'fun'.
The pair rounded a corner. The interior of the Immortal Bastion was fancy, scarlet rugs laid out across the floors with marble pillars and towering ceilings. Burgundy banners with embroidered Trifarix symbols hung from the walls alongside archaic paintings of famous Noxian warriors from years past. Swain had made sure to remove the paintings of Noxus' previous kings, for their vision and actions had "led Noxus astray". Although Darius knew most of the floors like the back of his hand, much of the Immortal Bastion still remained left to be explored, secret passages and rooms not used since the Iron Revenant, Mordekaiser, called this place home over a millennia ago.
"You know, most women don't have the opportunity to attend these," Darius said. "Most women your age would already be married and bearing children."
Seren rolled her eyes. "Oh please, don't pretend you like these meetings either," she retorted. "Besides, I haven't yet found a man who satisfies my needs," she added, winking jokingly.
Ahead, a man rested against a pillar outside the war room, arms crossed. Shorter than Darius, but still tall, he had black hair and narrow eyes, with a thin face. He was fit, wearing slippers instead of shoes. According to regulation, foreign Noxian immigrants were allowed to modify their uniform to be closer to their cultural heritage, under Swain's command. On his uniform, the crossing symbol of a sword, lance and axe was sewn on the breast. A War Master.
The Ionian man looked up as Darius and Seren approached. "Good morning, sir," he said politely.
"Good morning, Lon Qu," Darius replied. "I trust you slept well?"
The foreigner shrugged. "Well enough. Looks like she sure didn't," he said, gesturing to the grumpy Seren.
"Shut it," she snapped, which got a sly grin out of the man.
"Let's go, it's about to start," Darius said as two guards opened the doors for him and saluted, walking inside with his retainers behind him.
The war room was a massive hall, rugs laid out across the floor. Torches flickered on the walls, wooden chandeliers with elk horns and basilisk tusks hanging from the ceiling. Rows of marble pillars stood parallel to the large circular wooden table in the center. Sunken into the floor, it was surrounded by a short flight of steps that rounded the table, as well as plush leather chairs. Steps split the table in intervals so you could walk up to its center: a painted map of Valoran that spanned several meters long and wide.
Many generals were already seated, making small talk, shadowed by their personal guard. At the head of the table were three tall wooden chairs covered in furs. The one in the middle was occupied by the Grand General Jericho Swain, who swirled a wine glass in his hand. The chair on the left typically remained empty. The Faceless never attended these meetings, Darius thought. He/she had more important tasks to attend to. Besides, managing the war was Darius and Swain's job.
Darius sat in his chair to the right of Swain, Seren and Lon Qu seating behind him. The man grinned, gesturing toward the glass in Swain's hand.
"Little early to be drinking, isn't it?" Darius grinned. Swain waved a hand.
"After almost fifteen years of rule, you find that vice is one of the only things keeping you going," he said gruffly, gazing at the glass with brown eyes. "That, and ambition," he added. Even after all these years, Darius thought Swain hadn't aged a day. Sure, his hair had been greying long before Darius joined the army, but no new wrinkles set in on his face. Even his limp from before he became the Grand General, a reminder of Noxus' expulsion from Ionia, had disappeared. The Hand was curious, but held his tongue. Swain kept to his secrets, and it was his right whether or not he would inform Darius of them.
The generals settled in, everyone present save for an empty seat near the opposite end of the table, reserved for General Crigen. Swain and Darius exchanged looks, before Swain cleared his throat, standing up and raising his arms in welcome, silencing the room.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Noxus Prime," his gruff voice boomed, echoing across the room. "I know many of you have been absent from your homes for years, longing for the embrace of your husbands, wives, and children. You have commanded your warhosts diligently and tirelessly for the good of Noxus, and secured many victories in this long and tired war.
"The time you will once again see your families every day, enjoying the pleasures of our capital city, is almost at hand," he continued, stepping up onto the table's map, black coattails dragging behind him. "After nine arduous years in this war, we have finally reached Demacia's doorstep," he pulled a dagger out of his cloak and threw it downward at Nockmirch Plains, straight east of Demacia's mountainous border, sinking into the table with a loud thunk.
"Our armies have conquered Nockmirch. We split the Gates of Mourning," he threw another dagger, this time landing on a city in the Argent Mountain Range, southeast of Demacia. "Southern Shuriman resistance has been crushed. The Freljordians have fled back to their backwater hovels and caves. Our allied Bilgewater mercenaries have given the Demacian Navy fits. After nine long years of fighting through the plains and in the Tokogol and Argent mountains, we are finally poised to attack at Demacia's heart, and do what the Noxian kings of old never could. Ladies and gentlemen, we are at the precipice of a united Valoran, under a Noxian flag. Under the Trifarix."
Swain returned to his seat, sipping at his wine. "So then, my trusted generals, tell me how Noxus may prevail."
There was a moment of silence. Then, General Leto, the famed hero of the Siege of Fenrath, spoke. "Breaching the Greenfang Mountains to get to the capital city may prove too costly, and take far too long," he explained, pushing forward a wooden warhost piece with a plotting rod, a pronged stick. Then, he dragged three fleet pieces into the sea west of Demacia. "Distract the Demacians at their eastern gates, while all of our main forces secure the Conqueror's Sea. Attack Dawnhold at the cape, then use it as a jump-off point to secure the gulf and siege Demacia City."
He grinned, pleased at his own cunning, but Swain was rather interested pouring more wine.
"An admirable strategy. However, the Demacian Navy isn't the only predator in the Conqueror's Sea. Is the massive risk of journeying across such treacherous waters, filled with sea monsters, worth the small chance of annihilating the famed Demacian Navy at port? I don't think so. Even the Bilgewater pirates hesitate to cross it," he said, sipping on his drink. "Putting all our eggs in one basket is the reason why we were repelled from Ionia twenty years ago."
"Say we do focus on the Greenfang Mountains," said Dula, the matriarch of one of the Grand Noble Houses. "It took years to take Nockmirch. Why not use it? The Cyrilean River would make our supply lines move faster than they ever have before. With the amount of saltpeter we have now, we can hit Dewforge hard and blow its defenses sky-high."
Swain nodded. "A possibility. However, it would be the obvious play. No amount of explosives can completely obliterate the eastern front. Break through Dewforge, a wall of reinforcements pours in on the warhost's position. That's also not to mention how cautious we must be with our munitions. Go overboard, and you'll bring the Greenfang and its rubble down on top of your men's heads."
The others were hesitant to speak up. The Grand General sighed. "Either way, it seems the only way for us to prevail against Demacia is through attrition."
Suddenly, Lon Qu came to the side of the table, standing at attention. "Permission to speak, Grand General?"
Swain raised an eyebrow. "Go ahead, War Master."
Lon Qu stepped onto the map, gesturing for a plotting rod, which a guard handed him. The Ionian pushed the fleet pieces back east, almost to the Gates of Mourning. He stopped in front of a small mountain settlement: Needlebrook.
"We take Needlebrook, we have a path to the capital," he said simply.
The other generals were incredulous. "The city is atop a cliff! You would have our ships smashed against the rocks, Ionian?" said Burm, the leader of the warhost at the northern fortress of Delverhold. Darius' eyes narrowed at the man. Though all races and cultures were welcome in the empire on the surface, racism still persisted, especially against Ionians, whose people were responsible for one of Noxus' greatest military disgraces in history.
Swain raised a hand, silencing Burm. "Continue."
Lon Qu pushed a warhost piece on top of Needlebrook. "At low tide, we infiltrate the city. Noxus boasts some of the best climbers in Valoran, from the Argent, to the Ironspike Mountains. Rely on the Trifarians and the climbers, and Needlebrook won't know what hit them."
"And if you're discovered? Demacia's falcons will notify the capital of your 'surprise attack' within a week," spat Maela. "You can't even get basilisks up there. You'll be run off the cliffside."
Lon Qu shook his head. "Not if we kill the falconmasters and burn down their post first," he retorted. "It's only taken a single squad of Trifarians to topple cities in the past. With no way of calling for help, the Legion takes the city, then uses pulleys to gather supplies and troops. Make Needlebrook Noxus' main hub on the coastline."
He pushed the warhost pieces further west, along the mountain. "From there, we take Evenmoor. While the Demacians are busy in the Conqueror's Sea and the Eastern Front, our forces at Needlebrook and Evenmoor will have prepared an army to assault Demacia City, right under their noses."
"Easier said than done," Leto said, "The Salinc Mountains are even more dangerous than the Argent. Running supply lines alone would be a logistical nightmare. The risks are too high."
Lon Qu frowned. "You forget, General, that our current position in the war was built on risks. A few years ago, we almost lost the Argent. If General Darius hadn't taken a gamble and pushed through the mines, it is very likely the Demacians would be marching on the Immortal Bastion right now."
Leto sputtered, red-faced, and looked to say something until a look from Swain silenced him. Lon Qu turned to the Grand General.
"Noxus' greatest victories always had a gamble involved. Some of them utterly insane. Yet, those risks built the empire that exists today," Lon Qu exclaimed. "Even in defeat, lessons are learned. In the beginning of the Ionian invasion, General Darius tore through Ionia because of his focus on the coastline. Had our warhosts not gotten greedy and impatient, the Placidium of Navori would currently be flying Noxian flags."
Swain soured; his expression just barely visible. He was the one in charge of the Placidium assault under King Darkwill. Darius considered it a strange sight for an Ionian to speak of the invasion of his homeland in such ways. Then again, the man willingly chose to be a Noxian.
"Grand General, I implore you to consider," Lon Qu said. "Another war of attrition will only exhaust both our supplies and our citizens. We can't afford another Demacian-Noxian war that lasts two centuries. You are the First of the Trifarix, Vision. And your vision is a unified Valoran. Such a lofty ambition isn't achieved without taking lofty risks."
The older man sat quietly for a moment, sipping his wine. "Who would you suggest lead such a gamble?" he said finally, eyes narrow.
Lon Qu glanced at Darius and grinned. "Why, the luckiest man in Noxus, of course," he said, gesturing toward the Second of the Trifarix, Might.
Swain sat thoughtfully. "Interesting. I will consider this plan of yours, War Master."
Smiling confidently, Lon Qu stepped down from the table, and took up his position behind Darius once again.
"Anyone else have any suggestions?" asked the Grand General. Before he could say another word, the door burst open. Looks of confusion whipped toward the entrance, where a young man in uniform stood nervously.
"S-sir…I bring dire news," he stuttered, terrified of the amount of rank in the room. "General Crigen is dead."
"Where?" Swain asked.
"The hills close to the C-Cyrilean, eighty kilometers south of Rockburrow," the messenger replied.
"That's one of the warhosts on the Greenfang Offensive," Dula added, writing on parchment with furrowed brow.
Burm shook his bald, tattooed head. "Poor bastard. Man could act like scum sometimes, but he was a damn good soldier. We lost one of the good ones. Who's taken command?"
The messenger bristled. "Well? Speak up, boy!" Burm ordered, agitated now.
"T-That's the thing…the entire warhost was slaughtered."
Everyone's eyes bulged. "The entire warhost?!" Maela exclaimed. "How did the Demacians get the jump on them? You can see for kilometers out on the plains!"
The messenger nodded, shifting his feet. "That's the other thing…a-according to the report, the warhost had just defeated Demacian forces. The survivors retreated. It wasn't them."
The room went deathly quiet. "Who gave the report?" Darius inquired.
"A private named Witten. Soldiers found him on the side of the road, half-dead. Apparently, he had been walking for days across the plains."
"An almost certain death sentence. Anything else?"
The messenger nodded. "A message only for the Trifarix' ears."
Darius and Swain exchanged looks. Leto leapt out of his chair.
"The hell do you mean?! Too confidential even for his war council?!" he barked angrily. Swain glared at him. Leto sat back in his chair, grumbling.
"Stand by, soldier," Darius ordered. "Thank you for the report."
Swain scanned the room. "Does anyone else have any suggestions regarding the Demacia City Offensive?"
No one piped up. The room's mood had darkened considerably. "Then, this war council is adjourned."
The war room cleared out, a few generals muttering to themselves. Having an Ionian stand them up in front of the Grand General could pose problems. Fortunately, Darius was Swain's equal, and he would stifle those problems.
He had dismissed Seren and Lon Qu, who returned to their rooms. Though Seren had sat behind him, Darius thought he saw her smirk out of the corner of his eye while Lon Qu spoke. Though the pair drove each other crazy, his retainers were close and some of the finest warriors he had ever laid eyes on. He needn't worry in battle when those two were at his side.
Darius turned as the guards closed the door to the war room. Swain slowly rose from his chair, rounding the table before stopping in front of the Hand of Noxus.
"What are your thoughts on your retainer's plan for Needlebrook?" he asked simply.
"You heard him," Darius replied. "He makes good points. Nothing ventured, nothing gained."
"What of him as a person? As a Noxian?"
Darius smiled, suppressing his worry. "Lon Qu has been persecuted ever since he immigrated here, but he is a fine Noxian, finer than most. He hopes to one day end the enmity Noxians hold toward his people."
Swain nodded, walking past. "A lofty goal indeed," he noted, absently thumbing a plotting rod. "But I would expect nothing less from one who made such a grandiose statement during the council, especially before the generals who detest him so."
He rolled the rod in his palm for a moment, before lightly tossing it across the table. "I like him," Swain said finally. "He is right. We won't achieve our dream of a unified Valoran if we play it safe." He eyed Darius ominously. "After all, our enemy is ruthless."
The Black Rose.
"What are the chances one of their agents heard what was said in this room?" Darius inquired.
Swain sneered. "Oh, they were eavesdropping, alright. If not as a fly on the wall, then as one of my 'trusted' generals."
"You think one of them could be a traitor?"
"Why not?" Swain shrugged. "You remember the Black Powder Plot. Granth nearly blew everyone in this room toward the realm of the gods. That, or whatever vile hellscape awaits us in the afterlife," he added with disdain in his voice.
"Any suspicions?" Darius pressed.
"Yes, but only suspicions. Dula is the matriarch of House Sassen. Given the Trifarix' relationship with the Grand Houses, it wouldn't be surprising that one, if not all, of their families were plotting against us. Maela is a cutthroat, and power-hungry. Burm is easily swayed by coin. Leto, famed hero of the Siege of Fenrath and beloved patriot, is getting up in years. He could seek further aspirations, selfish ones," the Grand General clarified. "In fact, the only one I truly trust, ironically, is Jonat the Shuriman. The immigrant."
Swain stepped closer to Darius, who Swain held his full attention. "These concerns are why I rely on you, Hand of Noxus. Only in you have I ever seen vision and an unwavering love of country as deep as my own." He gripped Darius' shoulder, the Hand staring into Swain's brown eyes. "The Black Rose is the biggest threat to Valoran, a threat as old as the Iron Revenant himself. That cursed witch's schemes have poisoned Noxus for over a thousand years, and won't be satisfied with destroying us.
"I know you've had your doubts over the years, regarding my…questionable actions. But truly believe me when I say that I do it all for the good of Noxus. The Trifarix are the only ones I really trust. I ask that you trust in me, too."
Darius hesitated, before nodding. "I believe you."
The Grand General smiled, a rare sight. "Excellent. Now, it seems a visitor is waiting on us," he said, gesturing toward the messenger at the door, who bristled at Swain's attention.
The pair approached the young man. "Report," Darius said.
He shuffled anxiously. "The Demacians weren't involved. Witten was at times incoherent, but he said it was all done by the hand of one person."
Both men were taken aback. "One man killed an entire warhost," Darius repeated flatly, trying to conceal his shock.
The messenger nodded. "A figure dressed like a Zaunite doctor. That's not all, either," the young man added. "When they found General Crigen…oh gods…" he suddenly turned visibly sick.
"What? What did they find?" Swain pressed.
"He…he…," the messenger began, grimacing. "They found him…torn to shreds. They couldn't tell it was the general at first. There was nothing left of his face. We only identified him by his family's sword at his side. It wasn't just General Crigen, either. Our warhost found bodies all across the hills, torn to bits."
"One man did all that?" Swain asked in a troubled voice.
"N-No…" the messenger held his arms, shivering. "T-There was a p-pile of Legionnaires around the general. From the way they laid and the way they held his corpse, it was as if they ate him."
Swain and Darius couldn't conceal their shock. "Ate him?!" Darius clarified.
The young man nodded fervently. "That's all I know, sirs."
"Why didn't you say this to the rest of the war room?" Swain inquired.
"Because my sergeants told me if word got out, panic would spread like wildfire through the Legion. Only the Trifarix would know how to respond."
The two men exchanged looks. Darius stepped forward. "Where can I find this Witten?"
"Our company brought him back to Noxus Prime. Last I heard, he was at the Legion hospital in Red Glades, near the church."
Darius nodded, clapping the messenger on the shoulder. "Good work, soldier. Your sergeants are wise men. You're dismissed." After that, the young man swiftly exited the room.
"Bad news grows worse," the Hand chuckled grimly. Swain nodded.
"If this report is true and one man destroyed an entire warhost, he could undo the nine years of work we've put into this war. Gods forbid he's associated with the Black Rose."
"Nothing we can do now," Darius replied. "Right now, we focus on taking the capital city." He turned and walked toward the exit.
"One more thing, Darius," Swain called out.
"Yes?"
"I will think more on what your retainer has said. If we do go through with it, I want you in charge of the mission."
Darius raised an eyebrow. "After the news we just heard, are you sure? I lead our armies. If we were to come across that Zaunite…"
Swain stepped to him. "You'll handle it. If there's one thing the gods blessed you with, it's that you are damned hard to kill. If we're to take this gamble, I want the luckiest man in Noxus in charge." He walked past Darius toward the exit.
The Hand wasn't convinced. "Be wary, Jericho. With all the gambles Noxus has taken, eventually we'll be given a losing hand."
Swain scoffed. "I'm always wary, my friend." With that, he left.
As Darius walked into the hallway, a familiar face was waiting for him, leaning against a pillar. "Best greetings, General," Draven said sardonically. Darius' brother wore a green vest that covered only his chest, exposing his ribs, with animal furs draped over his back. His brown hair was spiked, with long brown whiskers spanning from the corners of his mouth and off his chin. Two scimitars with circular hilts hung at the belt on his waist. The man showed off mischievous eyes, often flashing a sly grin.
"War Master," Darius nodded to him. "How long have you been waiting?"
"Too long!" Draven complained, cracking his neck. "Why must you always take your time in those meetings and make your brother wait?"
"I'm the leader of the country," Darius said flatly. "You should start attending the war councils. You're an important part of the Legion."
Draven rolled his eyes. "Thanks, but no thanks, bro. Sounds dreadfully boring. No fun at all."
"And you would rather gloat inside the Fleshing pits?" Darius raised an eyebrow.
Draven flashed a sinister grin, waving his arms out theatrically. "The people love me! Gotta show off some of my talent, gods know some of the fighters in that arena desperately need some. Gotta give the crowd what they want, don't I? I'd be a terrible, terrible host otherwise."
Darius ignored his brother's boasting and proceeded down the hallway. Draven popped off the pillar, dashing after him. "And where are you off to?"
"To Red Glades," Darius said. "There's a private I'm going to meet, and I want answers."