Feint lights penetrated the cracks in between the worn, wooden ceiling of an underground tavern. It warped and split as boots scurried back and forth across the rooms above. The wooden planks creaked, as if they were only seconds away from snapping. Occasionally, one or two would. And then the happy drunkards which filled the lively space would all buy another round as they laughed at the poor fool who fell through, as well as whoever might have broken their fall.

This was the day-to-day at The Bloody Pike, an underground restaurant and bar which represented everything that a true Noxian stood for. Fatty meals, pointless fistfights, scarred up drunks, and of course; betting on Draven's arenas.

That's right, the fights in this bar were no more than scuffles. The real battles took place just outside, day to day in one of the many arenas owned and run by Draven, brother of one of the three pillars of strength ruling over the now thriving scraps of the Noxii tribe. Known as Noxus, the war-based military nation had quickly risen to a world superpower status painted in red and black, and at its heart were places like this, where blood and money ruthlessly intertwined.

"Did ya' watch the fights today? That skinny bastard with the knives was rakin' it in! What was his name? Khriston or somethin'?"

Three slams on the table came from the meaty fist of a scarred man, who was still feeling the rush of the day's earlier matches. He took another sloppy swig of ale, wiping the excess from his thick beard. Across from him was a more lean, hooded boy sipping from a glass of cheap wine.

"Chryton, actually. And he was an ionian spy before they captured him supposedly, so it's no surprise that he hasn't lost to the majority of the brutes he's been pitted against."

"Aye! He'll be a safe bet from today onward then, eh? Who's in the pit with 'em tomorrow?"

"Seems it's a young mage who goes by the name of Alderon. He was taken in by authorities for defending a thief at the market. Just a goody bumpkin from who-knows-where; likely thinking he could make it big in the city with a "righteous heart"."

"Ah, easy pickings then? Ain't a smidge 'ah fun in that, is there?"

"No kidding. I don't know what they're thinking, pitting him against a current champion. Maybe they just wanna show the audience some mindless slaughter before he hits the big leagues; you know, show them just how desperate that ionian trash really is."

"So, bet's on the spy then?"

"No, he's as good as dead."

A third spectator, who had been listening in on their conversation, hobbled up to a free chair and jumped into it. He pulled his bright, feathered cap over his eyes, and joined in on the speculation. The two others at the table blinked at the short, scrawny kid bundled up in a mess of robes and accessories that didn't quite seem to fit his demeanor. And yet, he talked so confidently while still refusing eye-contact. It took a moment for them to accept the situation, but they continued, nonetheless.

"No, that's just not possible. Have you never watched a match before? You get handfuls of those kinds of outsiders that land in the pit for one reason or another every year, and they're always just used as slaughter fodder for the audiences. Sometimes if Draven is present, he'll even kill the other pit fighter himself, if they don't do 'em in an entertaining way."

"Childish. This Draven fellow sounds utterly childish! That's not how an arena ought to be run! What's the point if nobody's given a fair chance!?"

SLAM!

The bulkier man slammed the table again, but it wasn't playful in the slightest this time around. His drink was knocked over in the process, spilling all over the table, as well as onto the kid in front of him.

"Listen ya lil' midget bastard, where do ya get off talkin' about the arenas like that in a place like this!?"

"No, he's right actually. Draven is childish."

SLAM!

"Gah, you too!?"

"That said, the way the arenas are run is just fine. It's all about the entertainment and the profit at the end of the day, and that childish attitude is what makes things worth watching. But that said, let's keep that talk to a minimum. It's not the kind of discussion to be had at the betting pool."

"You're just cowards. I'll speak about whatever the bloody hell I please!"

"Did yer parents never teach ya respect, ya twerp?"

The feather-hat kid was violently lifted off of his feet, along with a flipped table and heaps of toppled food and ale. The bearded hulk was a proud Noxian patriot, and he could no longer stand to hear his nation and its prized people be slandered by a scrawny sack of bones with a big hat.

"Hey, this is new steel! Can't you control your temper a bit you big ogre?"

The skinnier hooded man pointed to his food-dunked clothing, which was speckled with chain and plate.

"I don't give a damn about your dress! I'm fit to teach this sorry brat some damn manners!"

A large, bloody spitwad landed square on the buff man's nose, dealt by the one choked up in his meaty hand.

"You little…!"

He reached his other hand out to crush the boy tighter, but instead, suddenly let go of him altogether. His big, flat-knuckled fist opened as if forcefully pried, and by the next second, he was on his knees in pain.

"GAAAAAHHHH!"

The bearded man let out an unsightly roar of agony as his limbs began to twist into angles that surely were on course to snap his joints. Meanwhile, the kid who was now on the floor was still; yet he had an unsightly grin from cheek to cheek. It wasn't long before the whole bar had eyes on the two of them, aching for a bloody fight. But the hooded man interrupted their fun; his daggers curved around the kid's neck.

"Let him go. This fight isn't worth it, mage."

The boy looked around to the onlookers—weapons out—that now surrounded him in the closed space, ready to fight for their drinking mate. He stopped playing dead, and stood up to brush himself off before addressing the crowd with a shocking temper.

"You fools! You INSOLENT, PEA-BRAINED MAMMALS! I could crush you all like bugs this very instant if I wanted to! Step forward if you don't value your pitiable existence!"

His words held little weight, and several moved in to lunge. But they were stopped by a single voice.

"S-STOP!"

The bearded hulk, still in agony, broke through the tension in the room with a fiery yell. The little mage paused his torture, curious what the he had to say.

"Tell me, brat. Why would ya' put yer coin on that hopeless bumkin?"

His tone changed entirely, to the bony mage's surprise. Where a plea for help, or cry for mercy should have been, was instead a curious question. It was as if he had suddenly come to some sort of realization. The boy laughed in his face with a refreshing vigor, as if he had never even been hurt at all.

"HEHAHA! What an itiotic question! Because it'd be interesting, of course!"

It was a gurgly, high pitched laugh from the throat. But strangely, it had become accompanied by another, deeper voice. Specifically, one belonging to the man who had just attacked him.

With everybody else thrown into utter confusion at this sudden sync between cackling enemies, they decided to forget their cause and return to their drunken stupors.

Just another day at The Bloody Pike.

That's what they all thought, as they lost interest in what was now no more than a petty scuffle between two drunkards. Because of course, nobody had your back in Noxus. No, the bar goers were just looking for a fight, because they thought that it might be fun. They thought that they, who were either too cowardly or too smart for the arenas, might get to flex their strength in a different way.

And that's what the new Noxus was all about. Live strong enough to solve any problem with blood and brute force, or live smart enough to stay out of any real trouble. But either way, you live how you choose.

Or at the very least, your death will be your own.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMENNNNNN! LET ME HEAR YOU ROAR FOR SOME FRESHLY SPILLED BLOOD!"

A deep, croaky voice roared across the stadium which seemed to have an endless wave of spectators. Lavishly constructed walls held over fifty thousand visitors from all across Runeterra, who had come to bear witness to the one-on-one slaughter consisting of both Noxian criminals and international fighters. Some came from faraway lands just to try their hand at fame and glory; while others were born into the scene. Fighting was all they had. And lastly, Noxus' criminals were hand-picked to compete for their freedom. It was a sick and twisted tournament royale of blood and untold fortune, as well as Noxus' biggest tourist attraction and source of foreign income.

As there were many such arenas across Noxus run by the prideful warmonger Draven, not often were they actually visited or hosted by him. But today and many times before this he was here, as this particular fighting ground had been recently constructed, and was the largest and most popular to date.

"BE GRATEFUL, YOU DRUNKARDS AND BOTTOM-FEEDERS, AS YOUR HOST AND COMMENTATOR TODAY IS NONE OTHER THAN I, DRAAAAAVEN!"

There was a deafening roar from the crowd in response to the proud man's voice. Love him or hate him, he was a sure sign that their expensive seats wouldn't be for naught. Because as long as Draven was around, a symphony of slaughter would ensue.

And today, more than any other day, their prediction would be spot on.

"Now, as today's warm up, yesterday's reigning champion will be cutting up some fresh prison fodder. But if he can't make things interesting, well… that'll be up for you folks to decide! THROW YOUR HANDS UP IN THE AIR FOR THE SKITTERY IONIAN RAT, CHRYTON!"

More roars of anticipation and excitement drowned out the rumbling of massive stone gates being pulled open. Out from behind them came a man who stiffly walked into the spotlight. His expression was cold and despairing; as if all traces of emotion he had left had been lost somewhere amongst his past skirmishes.

"And, this next guy… Well, he's not really worth naming anyway. Just food for the sharks! BRING EM OUT!"

Silence. Identical stone gates rumbled from the far end of the open arena, revealing nothing but an empty hallway that slowly faded to shadow.

"Hey. Where's our fresh meat!? Get him out here!"

Draven stood up from his carved throne high above the stadium, smacking the guard nearest to him hard on the back of his platemail, making it rattle uncomfortably. It certainly caught his attention.

"You want the disappointment of fifty-thousand bloodthirsty idiots on your hands? Well what're you waiting for! FIND HIM!"

The man, far larger and far more built than the scar-faced showrunner, cowered in fear and left the scene to do as he was told. Size was nothing in comparison to the sheer intimidation that came with Draven's presence. With all of his stories of rash and reckless warmongering on his back, he was the embodiment of confidence, not to mention bloodlust. Down the stairs on the quickest path to the arena's entrance, the soldier was so quick on his feet that he had to keep a tight hold on his helmet as he sprinted.

But the unfortunate, or maybe lucky, man left just in time to miss the start of the real show.

A figure emerged from the shadows. But it wasn't a young mage, sent for slaughter.

It wasn't a yordle either. Though, good guess.

No, it was much more horrible than that. Far up in the crowd sitting at the highest rows, nobody could quite tell what they were looking at. But if and only if you had spent an extra pretty gold piece on your deluxe front row seat, you would have seen a sight that would change your mind about blood for entertainment. Cruel, but there was nothing fun or cheery about it. A mangled, broken body which had long since perished, walking on two legs as if it was desperate to walk; as if it had somewhere that it needed to be, despite its glazed eyes. A sick joke from somebody who didn't understand humor.

"A… A necromancer?! Surprised? I sure am! What a trick this little brat had up his sleeve! Will Chryton come out okay, folks!?"

"SHUT UP!"

Suddenly, the sunlight of the morning had faded out. Clouds surged down from the heavens, swirling around the arena, as if closing its inhabitants in.

"SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!"

A roaring voice, much more laughable, and yet many times more sinister than the host's, came to steal the attention of those watching.

"You want a show? Really? To watch these two spill worthless blood? Is that really all it takes to satisfy you worthless idiots?"

Chryton, from seemingly nowhere in particular, had been pulled from his guarded state. He lost control over his body as it swung forward and clashed with the lone lifeless puppet that shared the arena space. He drove out his blades to attack with; no, it wasn't him at all. It was some unknown force that controlled him. Not only him, but the corpse as well, he could tell. It was that of a child. No more than ten or twelve. The face, though partially caved in, was no doubt that of the mage he was made to fight. He always did his research.

Then whose was the deafening voice?

They began to fight like puppets on strings. The crowd, not really understanding the situation, wasn't pleased with the sloppy display of battle. Their ace in the hole; their shining bet, was barely fighting so much as just swinging his blades around aimlessly. And the puppeted corpse too. But what kept their attention where the half-assed battle couldn't was the mysterious voice, which nobody could quite discern the location of.

"Look! Look at them flail their pathetic little arms around! Which one is going to win? Wouldn't you all love to know? Aren't your wallets just begging to find out?"

Nobody was entertained. In fact, they were angry and showing it. They didn't understand what was going on, but if somebody was going to make a mockery of the arena, this was a poor way to do it. Their boos and tossed concessions weighed heavily on the mastermind's patience. He was perplexed with his audience's lack of excitement, and wouldn't stand for it.

And then Chryton's neck twisted and snapped.

He fell over lifeless, alongside the young corpse beside him.

"FINE! NOBODY WINS!"

Silence again.

"But who cares! That's all they are, just toys! That's all any of you weak-willed creatures are! Wouldn't you agree?"

Draven was furious, of course. There was nothing more infuriating than somebody else stealing the spotlight which belonged to him; which he had worked so hard to garner. But he left all of the dirty work of looking for the culprit to his staff. Meanwhile, he was still in his chair, watching the whole ordeal play out. It was painfully bad to watch, but maybe he could find an opening to work with.

"Do you want to watch another one? I wonder who's next on the roster? HAHA, JUST KIDDING! SCREW THE ROSTER! How about you, and you and you and you!"

Four audience members, seemingly picked at random, all found themselves in the middle of the arena with weapons in their hands. They looked up at the mostly covered sky at a clear, cloudless path all the way up to the glistening stars; as if in the eye of a storm. It took them a few moments to realize that they had landed in the center of the bloodshed themselves, and suddenly ran in opposite directions.

"NO, NO! Fight! I said fight! Don't disappoint your fellow audience!"

They kept running, no longer listening to the booming overhead voice which lead the unnerving terror.

"FAILURES!"

One by one, their heads imploded on themselves, before expanding again with heavy splatters of blood and brains. The once again lifeless arena center was becoming a painting of unsightly gore. This time, the crowd wasn't watching. No, they wanted out. But out they would not find, as each and every member of the peanut gallery had been confined to their seats. All part of some game played out by a sick twisted being, they were forced to continue attendance.

The only one free to move was Draven, who had finally stood up as his arena's customers and good name were mercilessly mocked. But the voice paid no mind and went on with the show.

"That wasn't any fun. Was it? Let's see a real slaughter. Get down here, human named Draven."

So this was his plan all along. The arena's host wasn't much of a thinker, but even he figured that he had some part to play in all of this. He grabbed the anti-magic needles that were set beside him in case of an emergency along with his signature spinning blades, and jumped from his high viewing point down onto the main stage below.

He stuck his landing perfectly. The audience was captivated now.

"You're an idiot if you think you can run my show with such a sloppy, shitty setup like this. Get out here and die already, huh!?"

A cloud of smoke and dust kicked up, then faded to reveal the puppet-master's presence. Short and stubby garbed in another mage's robes, Veigar emerged.

"Alderon. That's you, right? It's the first and last time you'll hear me utter your worthless name, so be grateful. You cheap, filthy dead-raising bastard; I'm going to slaughter you twelve times over for making a mockery of my show."

"Alderon? ALDERON?"

Veigar stopped, completely forgetting about setting a grand entrance for himself.

"DO YOU MOCK ME? DO I LOOK LIKE SOME FILTHY, TEET SUCKLING HUMAN INFANT TO YOU!?"

"You… uh… you're not? Then who are you?"

"AGHHHH! YOU DUMB INBREEDING MORTALS INFURIATE ME SO! I AM VEIGAR! Alderon is that long-dead pile of rotten flesh and bones I just puppeteered!"

Veigar pointed with his right hand, freshly replaced with some other poor yordle's own arm. His mind was almost entirely blank, full of steam and rage from the stupidity of the famous human from this era who was supposed to be a stepping stone to his fame in the modern era.

"Look at his corpse! Was that not obvious? It was so impressive too! I practiced that act for ages to get the-"

An oversized needle flew right through the center of Veigar's pointing hand, halting in the middle of it and pulling him onto his back foot.

"You…! You impatient monkey!"

"I don't really care who you are. You're gonna be about as dead as that other bag 'o bones over there in a minute. Too bad for you, I hate mages."

Veigar binded the man in front of him. Or at least, he attempted to, but his magic wouldn't listen to him. In fact, his mana was draining from his body rapidly into the needle that had been thrown into his right hand. But he couldn't pull it out, either.

"No more magic tricks, huh kid? End of the line for you."

Draven threw his blade with blazing speed, but Veigar quickly dodged it. He wasn't talking anymore. Not with his magic being drained, he didn't have the leisure to keep monologuing. He immediately began calculating his options, first opting to run in the opposite direction from his opponent.

"What's wrong kid? I wanted to hear more of that shrill, sissy voice of yours act all high and mighty!"

As he ran, Draven caught up to him fast, smashing the yordle into the ground before kicking him across the dusty arena floor. He flew tens of meters before tumbling to a halt. The Noxian then went to reclaim his blade, which had stuck into the far stone wall of the arena.

The audience suddenly had regained their interest, watching the showstopper himself turn out to be none-other than a little magic-using brat who was nothing in the face of their bloodthirsty idol.

Veigar, however, was pleased. He was in a pinch. The bruises from the cracked dirt beneath him; the dust and blood in his mouth that grit between his grinding teeth; it was all so nostalgic. That old devilish smile curled up on his face, and he began to enjoy himself for the first time that day.

Working to pull the white needle out of his hand which was clearly the cause of his mana decline, he began to stand only to take another blow by draven's steel boot. He had never seen the material before, but it felt of wood, and clearly had unbelievable magic absorbing properties. For a magical being such as a yordle, it could nearly kill him to leave it in for a long period of time.

"Ladies and gentlemen, look at this sad sack! He's no better than a pile of shit without his tricks! Barely worth your time! But since he's gone and set all this up for us, I'll rough 'em up a bit before I kill him outright."

He threw his blade again, just missing Veigar by a hair.

"So let's have some fun, kid!"

The black-furred yordle stood up with little pep in his step, and took a deep breath.

"If you beg for your life, I might even leave a limb or two on ya."

The black mass of fur began to twitch and chuckle under his breath, as he tried to pull the needle out again. It wasn't budging. Not only did he have little strength, but it seemed to be vining out into his flesh, as if spreading to further reach the magic nodes in his body. It was painful. Horribly painful.

"...Have you felt it before? The joy of such pain."

Draven lost his enthusiasm, seeing his fodder grin and chuckle and laugh at his own misfortune. It wasn't any fun for him at all. He walked up to the creature, who obviously wasn't human, and kicked him over again, watching him powerlessly squirm around. He leaned in real close, and stepped on the creature's thick skull. A whisper entered Veigar's large ears.

"Hey, look alive. What's so funny? This isn't very exciting for me, when you seem to be having so much fun on your own, so let me in on the joke, will ya?"

Veigar spit blood, then laughed some more.

"Heheheh. HAHAHAHA! You're nothing. Nobody! Your life begins and ends in the blink of an eye, and in fifty years not a single being will remember your name. Isn't that just hilarious?"

Veigar stabbed the needle, now binded to his hand, into Draven, causing his leg to heat with a purplish black glow, before beginning to bubble and disfigure. He jumped back with a cry of agony, feeling a writhing pain all the way up to his knee. But it didn't come with him, disintegrating into a muddy, fiery goop in front of the two.

"I wasn't laughing at that, though. I was simply taking pleasure in the joy of an arrogant mortal who thinks he's worth any more than a simple blip in time."

Veigar got up and readjusted himself, using one of Draven's felled blades, too heavy for the tiny woodland creature to even lift himself, to sever his own right hand. The one he had just replaced.

"Die knowing you lived for nothing, you walking trash heap."

Draven, not bothering to get back up, just barely spewed out what he was well aware would be his final utterance.

"You're a real… hypocrite bastard. Typical mage."

And with that, he fell dead to the disturbed mana that had entered his body before Veigar could even reach him for a final blow. But he went for one anyway, grabbing a nearby large rock and caving the man's sharp skull in with a few heaves and throws while drowning in a pool of his own cackling. The mage, with his powers back, looked to the crowd again, no longer in a mood for any kind of grand exit.

"I am Veigar!"

He paused for a moment to settle on a proper title, then continued.

"Lord Veigar!"

And then he made a casual escape through the wide stone entrance which the arena's victors usually headed through, joined on the outside by the coated man from the Black Rose.

"You're reckless. Reckless and stupid."

"I didn't ask for your worthless opinion."

"I don't really understand this act you're trying to put on, but I promise you you're going to regret it in the future. All those lives you're taking like they mean nothing. All this destruction you think is necessary just to get your name in peoples' heads."

"They do mean nothing. Their lifespans are so short, those humans don't even know whose sacrifice built this itiotic state. You hold power as well, I can tell. You're no mere mortal like the rest of them. You should understand."

"I don't, not do I want to."

"Then keep your mouth shut and silent. I didn't ask for a surveyor, let alone some blathering life mentor."

The little warlock hobbled on ahead, long sick of this mouthy follower of his. Meanwhile, his name began to spread like wildfire around the nation of Noxus, just as he had intended.

Lord Veigar.

It had a nice ring to it.