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Chapter 22
A Future's Past
"It's about that time again… If they haven't jumped me by now, then it only means they want to put Cerina back into the equation. Cowards…!"
A young Ephrial dashed through the highly-decorated halls of a school that bred generations of the most brutal generals in Noxian history. It was regarded as a prestigious institute, and that made it only more dangerous for those of mixed descent. To add insult to injury, the wealthy would always get extra incentives if they gave rather generous donations, especially if it granted their children an advantage over the others. Such is the corruption with any business, even in Noxus.
The only arguable reason nothing was ever done about this is the excuse that it encourages a competitive spirit within the students, creating a mindset that strength must fill the remaining gap to prevail amongst peers. It is that mentality that translates into the military, where no advantage is given, other than one's own strength and cunning. Unfairness is the true lesson of Noxian education. The half-blood twins knew that more than anyone.
Deft steps sprinted over the marble flooring, and weaved between crowds of the other students in the same uniform. Feet 'accidently' found their way in front of his path, as they just so happened to always do, alongside the occasional run-in at bludgeoning force by 'mistake'. Plenty of practice made it quite easy for the cerulean-eyed youth to nimbly navigate around such obstacles. That was exactly what most people around him had turned into…obstacles.
"Hey, Greenblood! Where ya goin' in such a hurry?" a sneering voice jeered from ahead, and three menacing students stepped out from an intersecting hallway.
Racing boots came to a stop "I don't have time for your games today, Polero. Let me pass!"
The two locked eyes, and Polero's lackeys took an assertive position by his side, barring the passage. He was a tough kid, even for his age, most likely due to his father being a voluntary participant in the Fleshing arena. Perhaps he inherited his vicious mindset, too, as willingly subjecting one's self to such punishment was the thought of a madman…or someone with high ambitions to climb into power.
There were many that didn't take kindly to the Noxian-Ionian kind, but Polero seemed to hold a special enmity for Ephrial. It wouldn't be until years later that the reason would come to light. Time and time again, he would lure the half-blood into a corner, often using his sister as bait.
"Looking for your beloved sis?"
"Where is she…!?" Ephrial growled.
The seventh-year student gave a wide, heckling smile, and took a glance at an imaginary timepiece on his wrist. "Oh, I don't know…by now, probably running into our friends at the sparring guild."
Of course… It was a popular building where many tested their mettle against each other, and practiced their brutal techniques in a less…lethal environment. Seeing people gathering there to fight, especially figures of a particularly aggressive nature, was a perfectly normal sight. It's a superb place to hide one's sinister intentions, as injuries were far from uncommon there. Additionally, considering the location, it's an ideal place to prey on someone on their way home from their studies.
"Well, seeing as you're not going anywhere…why don't we have a little chat, old friend?"
A burning cerulean gaze stared, "Get out of the way."
"Aw, c'mon. This is how you treat your superior? We have a special lesson to deal with dogs that don't heel to their masters…" Polero approached with his like-minded followers.
The quick-thinker waited for them to approach close enough. One last step, and the minion on the right felt a knee rocket into his gut. Ephrial used the limp student to keep a gap between himself and the other two. As the ruffians stepped around, the half-blooded boy swiftly rolled over the hunched back of his first target, and evaded the grappling hands reaching to restrain him. With a simple block and twist, a right-hook landed the second aggressor at Ephrial's mercy, his arm locked behind his back. As Polero stepped forward, the Noxian-Ionian tossed his peer head-first into his stomach. The malefic student bent forward with the impact, and allowed the blue-eyed youth to leap onto his shoulder. With a hard kick-off, using the Noxian's back, the half-blood continued his sprint to his sister's aid.
"Get…get back here, you filthy greenblood!" Polero coughed out, winded from the sudden impact.
Ephrial ignored his comment with a certain sense of disdain toward such derision, and kept his eyes forward while on an unstoppable track toward the guild.
'Greenblood' is one of a handful of derogatory terms for the Noxian-Ionian mix. It was formerly a slur for Zaunites, in reference to their gruesome and careless ways that resulted in peculiar, and often grotesque, products. Such experiments, especially those conducted on human subjects, would result in odd changes in pigmentation, even in their very blood, though such a case was quite seldom. As Noxus and Zaun gradually began tolerating each other, even to the point of opening trade routes, such insults found a new purpose against Ionians; the 'green' being targeted at the Ionian closeness to nature, and being seen as primitive in the Noxian perspective.
"Hang in there, Cerina…I'll be there soon…!"
Ephrial ran down a flight of stairs, hopping over the railing to cut down on time. His backpack weighed heavily on his shoulder. As the lockers of those that share his heritage were often targets of severe vandalism, he was forced to carry all of his belongings at once. Noxus may have a one-track mind set on battles and war, but they do not lack in diverse education, with many individual studies. However, each study is still connected to combat down the line, one way or another, from history to engineering. The thick books of the prominent school felt like logs as he followed the path that lead through a portion of the expansive Ivory Ward Marketplace.
The young student's destination came into sight, and his eyes darted around the scene. With plenty of daylight left, the building was still active, and crowds surrounded the outside as people went about their daily lives.
"There are too many people around… Where could they—" keen vision spotted a very narrow, seldom-used alley that stood between the back of the sparring guild and a wall. "There!"
If someone planned on mugging or murdering someone, that was the place to do it. The view from the entrance to the alley was obscured by a wooden fence and a pile of crates. No one could see what was going on unless they were passing right by the opening at the correct angle. The wall behind the guild was left undeveloped, as it is technically a part of the castle belonging to High Command. Much of the mountain that the city-state is carved in belongs to them, unseen chambers buried beneath layers of stone. To own a building so close to the castle is an honor and a privilege, and it was quite literally where one could find themselves caught between a rock and a hard place.
"Cerina!" he cried out to his twin as he raced over the fence and past the crates.
There she was, a youthful girl with long, dark blue hair and cerulean eyes. The standard-issue shoes of her uniform backed up slowly against a wall, stepping past a newly-dried blood stain, born from the previous night, amidst many old ones. Two of Polero's cronies blocked her only escape as they slowly crept up on her, savoring the taste of fear.
Before they could take another step, a hard-leather pack slammed into the back of one of their heads. The weight behind the force was enough to knock him flat on the ground, face planted on the stone floor. Ephrial took the other target by surprise as he was still figuring out just what happened to his classmate. A brutal fist to the jaw sent him spinning over his staggering self, and slammed into the wall of stone.
"Ephrial!" worriedly calling back to her brother, as he positioned himself protectively in front of her.
"Two against one, huh? That's some real 'Noxian honor' you have there."
"Heh…surrounding the enemy is a legitimate strategy," the first of the two picked himself back up, wiping red from his lip.
"Outnumbering a single girl, herding her into a corner, and knowing she would never offer a fight… It's nice to see Noxus' most prominent school's lessons are being practiced on the most docile of targets. Your parents must be proud of the fortunes they've spent."
A familiar voice entered the alleyway. "Just as the hawk preys on that which cannot fight back, we carry on the tradition of the food chain. In life, the weak are culled out by the strong. That's nature for you. You should know all about philosophical stuff like that, Greenblood. The weak must be stamped out…and as Noxians, it's our duty to deal with scum like your kind."
Polero joined in with five more behind him, each delinquent with a proud, arrogant smile pasted on their faces. Their shadows darkened the already-dim surroundings.
"Ever the scholar. If only you were as confident in your own strength as you are your tongue."
The irate peer drew closer, eager to get blood on his fists. A figure stopped within view of the alley's opening, and peered through the broken boards of the fence. It was Ronin, their headmaster. His cold stare met with Ephrial's, and the school official merely adjusted his glasses before moving on; his stoic face unchanged. He knew very well the plight of the Noxian-Ionian students, yet never did anything about it. Why would he? After all, he lived in a nation where violence is the very keystone of daily routine, and received many generous donations from the nobles that sent their children to his institute.
The half-blooded pacifist spoke with the speed of anxiety at their present situation. "Ephrial, I'm so sorry! I know you told me to take the long route home, but—"
"It's okay, Sister," a matching pair of oceanic eyes looked back at her with a warm smile. "I know."
Ephrial turned his gaze back to the approaching gang, a hardened visage that stared the inevitable in the face without blinking. He was outnumbered eight-to-one, with no back-up, and no escape route. With a readied stance, the misfit braced himself for a fight of overwhelming defeat, but not without the intention of making it difficult for them. Going down without taking at least a couple with him was just not his style.
`*~\-~vVv~-/~*`
Snow gently falls from the sky, a calm break from the strong, piercing winds of the Freljordian wilderness. The two travelers approach a large mountain that towers the sky beyond the crisp clouds above.
"Thanks again for helping me retrieve Avarosa's Eye."
"It was not problem, Ephrial. Thank you for not turning my rabbit friend into 'shish kebab'," Braum chuckles, trying out the new words in his mouth.
"This is the peak, huh? Are you sure Anivia would be willing to help me, much less travel that far? The last interaction we had was on the Rift, and it wasn't pleasant…"
"Do not worry, my friend. Anivia is ally, and very wise beyond our lifetime. She will help you."
"I hope you're right. She's the only means of getting back in time…"
None of the rune-engraved tablets from the Institute are marked with a location that would be close enough to travel back to Kalamanda on time by foot. His only option is to reach Anivia's nest at the top of one of Freljord's tallest mountains, and beseech her aid in flying him to a straight path there.
"How long do you have left?"
"Four days. Three, if I include how long it should take me to get to Kalamanda by flight."
"It takes about four days to reach the top!"
"Then I'll do it in two," glacial eyes of determination rise to the peak, hidden behind a thick layer of cotton floating overhead.
A large mustache grins with admiration for the fiery resolve. "Heheh! Then allow me to give you head start!" stepping ahead and priming his shield.
"One last lift for the road, I take it? Very well. Thank you," preparing for a short sprint through the snow.
"No, thank you, my fiery friend. I have learned much from you, and I shall take those lessons with me to battle against the Watchers!"
Ephrial nods, and snow kicks up around him as he dashes forward to the near-unbreakable ramp. With a spring of muscle pushing the shield upward, the swordsman leaps off, ascending a forty-foot tall ledge. He doesn't look back, keeping himself focused on the task at hand, and knowing that each step and every second bears the weight of importance. The half-blood begins his summit, reaching at ice-cold handholds and slippery, unstable footing. It is man versus nature; a tale as old as time itself. An unflinching spirit presses forward through his unabating trial, further pushing his limits. The stinging bitterness of the frigid air penetrates through his armor. A small, subtle warmth of the crystal in his possession reminds him of the hope that still remains. The curse of fate has not yet won…and he'll make sure it never will.
Never again.