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Ch. 2

War has an Institute

He slowly opens his eyes to the cracking campfire. It's still dark outside, not that much longer before the dawn arrives. With a deep breath, he sits upright and shakes off his weariness. When you're a lone swordsman, wandering the land without a heading, there is little time to rest in a world where man and myth alike lie in wait to strike at any moment.

The scar on his right cheekbone, just below his eye, stings with a phantom burn. Barely noticeable at first glance, it's a blemish that can be called minor when compared to most that follow the path of the blade. However, the true mark runs deep within, turned into a force that drives him.

A hand clad in a simple, black glove reaches for a red sheath, lifting it up to his lap. The simple design encases a not-so-simple sword of arcane power. Cerulean eyes close to finish where the dream of that fateful night left off, as it so often does. That moment when he woke up to find himself alone in the ashes of a hidden refuge, South of Noxus, near the mountains that boarder Icathia.

The memories play vividly in his mind; combing the aftermath to find the remains of Noxian soldiers, the Noxian-Ionians they slaughtered, and even his own comrades…but his sister remains missing. Eventually, he comes across the scorched ruins of the house he had thought his sister would be safe in. Nothing but lain waste, until a small glint catches his eye. He reaches over smoldering debris to recover a large, rectangular object, and brushes the soot off. It was the ornate chest their parents had charged them with protecting with their lives, though they were never told what rested inside. Previous attempts to open the strange box were futile, given the lack of a lock or any exposed hinges. As it turned out, the key was fire. It lied there, inside the very flames that took the remainder of his life away, reforging it into something that would intertwine and change the courses of many.

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A wayward journey continues, yet no step anywhere further away from an evocative past. The night air is silent with a minor chill. Crickets chirping and the crunching of grass beneath his feet were the only things that filled the ambience for an hour's time. It makes it easy to pick out the direction of a sudden commotion just ahead, heralding itself with the sharp whinny of a horse, and shouts of conflict. Placid steps approach the scene, surveying the situation with sharp eyes.

A small caravan sits in the middle of surrounding horses that block its path. A short figure struggles in protest against several men who appear to be taking their time, savoring the fear and helplessness they seek to prey on.

"Five against one. Never a dull day in Valoran," the swordsman thinks to himself. "Hey…how about we make this a fair fight?" a calm, measured voice calls out.

The brigands turn around to see the interrupting silhouette approaching from the darkness of a starlit sky. A brief visage of worry turns into a wicked grin once more.

"You must be bad at math, dogmeat. Five is still greater than two," a large man with a devilish axe laughs.

"Well, one and a half," he tilts his head, looking past him, noting their victim's diminutive stature. "Either way, since you seem to like having the advantage of numbers in your favor, you're not going to complain when they start to dwindle, are you?"

"You dare mock Krakor in his own territory?!" a short fuse ignites.

"Anyone who talks in third-person like that mocks himself more than I ever could," he continues walking towards the highwaymen with an easy pace.

A longsword is drawn with a casual motion, flames taking life along the blade as it slips out of its sheathe. The fire illuminates the challenging silhouette, revealing a figure wearing red armor trimmed with gold, worn over the plain clothes of a simple traveler. The tattered ends of a long, light brown cape flutter slightly with each confident step.

Rugged faces of the cruel men change to a mixture of surprise and uncertainty. "It's you… I've heard tales of you."

"This usually goes one of two ways. You come at me directly, I take you down, then at least two of your minions get overzealous and fall alongside you, sending the remainders scurrying. Or, you send all of your men ahead, facing me last with a foolish sense of pride, only to reach the same end. So…which will it be?"

Krakor grits his teeth in the frustration of the unnervingly composed swordsman before him. "Alright boys, go get 'em." The band of brigands turn back to look at him, with questions written on their faces. "Well…? It's just one man! Kill him!" he barks, sending the men on their way.

"The latter it is."

A curved blade belonging to a chipped scimitar rushes his way. It comes in raised up high, a common amateur's mistake. Flames streak through the thug's wolfskin vest with ease, and the man falls over himself. The second comes in with a battered quarterstaff, tipped with a row of violent blades, arching out of each end. A vicious swipe is countered by a swift blade of steel and fire, knocking the assaulter off balance as he raises his staff defensively, stumbling backwards. The arcane blade splits the worn weapon, and pairs the bandit with the ground in a flash.

Unwavering steps keep their pace, approaching the third man. A spiky flail hesitates before winding up and taking a nervous stride forward. In a fight-or-flight response, the chain comes hurdling towards the wayward swordsman. Heated steel sweeps fast, clipping the chain to send the better part of the weapon into a gloved hand. The bandit looks at the relinquished portion of his armament in awe, with his mouth agape, then at the passing mercenary. A follow-up strike sends the man spinning as his collapses, no longer a threat.

The traveler finally stops walking, face-to-face with a trembling man wielding a large dagger. Sharp, discerning eyes scan the foe. Showing his true colors, as cowardly as he is, doesn't change the facts. He's a murderer and a pillager just like the rest. He would continue to delve into his violent ways without hesitation, given the chance.

A chance… Something these men would not present others, but would rather take from them. Opportunity for change…something the mercenary-knight would gladly give…but the catch is that such a sentiment is a choice that people must make for themselves. A choice that men like these have encountered many times before, but always elected the path of destruction.

If they are so inclined to spread death no matter what, then it only seems fair they should suffer the same sentence that they deal unto others. To reap what they sew. That is the brand of justice he deals—a self-inflicted judgment brought to them by their own course of action, sealed by steel and flame. Perhaps it is not the kind of justice all would agree with, but it's one that yields results with a decisive certainty.

Still quaking, the man slowly raises the knife in an aggressive stance. The skilled swordsman continues to stare at him, waiting patiently. Decision time.

A shaky battle cry lets out, only to be cut short. The spiked ball hurls into the brigand's gut with solid impact, knocking the wind out of him with a painful set of sharp prods. An upward strike collides with the borrowed sphere, causing it to soar upward as the blade follows through, scraping the forehead of the enemy. The man reels backwards with the force, and the knight brushes past him, toward his final opponent. A steel orb descends back into the grimacing face of its target, a large smoldering gash glowing a bright orange on the side, finishing him off with a loud thud.

"How is that math holding up?" the fiery bladesman asks plainly.

The brute doesn't reply. Rather, he stares back, fury in his very blood. Scars over his bare chest and built frame tell of reckless battle and bloodshed. He's a rampaging berserker, when the mood strikes him. All it takes is a nudge or two, and right now, he's had more than his fill.

An unfazed swordsman takes his stance, gripping his weapon with both hands, the fire intensifying. He would meet his foe at full-force, as a testament to everything he stands for, and everything he fights against.

The ringleader rushes his towering stature at the lone mercenary-knight, a huge, vicious axe swinging downward over his shoulder. The wanderer does what every person with even minimum combat experience considers to be a fool's death-wish. He slashes forward, meeting the greataxe head-on.

Flames dance passionately in the reflection of the calm waters of his cerulean eyes; a perfect representation of the balance between the contradicting Noxian and Ionian principles he embodies.

Metal grinds audibly as the two push their might into the clashing armaments; rage-endowed strength against relentless willpower.

"I WILL CRUSH YOUR BONES!" the titan bellows in a murderous tone, showing his raw nature.

"Many have tried…let's see who breaks first!" fervor shows itself in his voice, the blade flaring up even further.

With a blaze of force, the flaming sword cleaves through the opposing razor edge, sundering it right through the middle, where the metal becomes thickest. The stroke cuts clean, through the axe-head and its wielder, bringing the conflict to a conclusion.

A quick twirl, and the blade is returned to its sheathe. He turns his sights to the victim, spotting a violet hood taking cover under the coach of his caravan.

"You can come out now."

"Is-Is it over…?" a rough voice quakes out. A purple, troll-like figure emerges from hiding to see the smoldering aftermath. "Wow…I haven't seen destruction like that since I worked at the Institute."

"Institute?"

"The Institute of War. You know…the famous organization that stopped the Rune Wars and settles political scuffles in a controlled manner? Come on—it's known everywhere!" the odd creature shouts.

"Yeah, I've heard of it. Can't say I've looked much into it, however."

"Hm…" the troll thinks, rubbing his chin. "Well, if you want, you can see it for yourself. I happen to be on my way there now for one last shipment," he thumbs over his shoulder, toward the tarped cargo of his vehicle.

"Is that why those men were after you? You have some precious cargo purchased by some big-time clients?"

"Ack—! No! I mean, maybe! Look, I'm going. You wanna ride or not?"

The mercenary-knight crosses his arms and sighs, looking at the orange sky of a rising sun peeking over the horizon. For so long, his search has yielded no results. No direction to take, relying on mere chance to find something that could lead him to the monster that took his sister.

"Sure. I'm running out of places I haven't been to, anyway.

The short merchant waddles back over onto the seat of his wagon, and the swordsman follows.

"So…what's your name, anyway?" the strange, hooded salesman asks.

"Ephrial. Yours?"

"Oh, I'm just a Manbacionian making one last stop before home. Pay me no mind," a nervousness in his voice.

"A…'Manbacionian', you said…?"

"Bob! Just call me Bob," he grumbles.

Ephrial turns his gaze back towards the sunrise, dismissing the oddity as a grumpy, but harmless creature that conceals his kindness beneath a veil of abrasiveness. Discerning a person's character is a trait he has long mastered through a rough career of traveling as a mercenary. A skill developed to the point that unsettles people, should he read them like an open book aloud after just meeting them.

That high-powered perception may prove to be amidst his most valuable assets in the trials yet to come. The tests that are sought by many, but open to few, in a war-ceasing power known as the League of Legends.