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Chapter 23

Slayer

She had my back, and I had hers. Cerina wouldn't take up arms against another living being, but that worked out just fine. It was more practice for me. While I handled things on the frontlines, she would use her talents to heal me from safety. Anyone who tried to reach her with the slightest thought of malice would find themselves overwhelmed with pain and instant regret. That never stopped them from trying again and again, however… Not by a longshot.

Polero looked at me from across the room with an angered contempt that only grew over time. Our instructor was just about finishing up, bringing his lecture to an end with some closing remarks about a bloody battle during the Rune Wars.

"You have heard the phrase that there is strength in numbers…but a mind sharper than a sword can cut swarms of enemies down where their battalions become nothing more than body counts."

I don't know if he heard those words, as if he hadn't already studied them long in advance, but his glare remained fixed. We were dismissed, and I picked up my supplies before leaving. As usual, Polero remained behind, as a 'prim and proper' model student would. Such was the guise that allowed him to get away with many dishonorable deeds. Of course, his parents' money played its part, too.

Arriving early to grab a seat next to the door paid off, as it allowed me to slip out before I would be held up. More often than not, an Ionian half-blood would be chosen to stay behind and clean; a grim task with an old bucket of slightly-soapy water and something of a slightly larger-than-normal toothbrush. Scrubbing the sparring chamber was supposed to "build character," as the instructors would say… It was a six-hour character-building lesson someone would have to learn every night. I've since lost count how many times I was "randomly chosen" for that task. It was the longest school year of my life…of our lives.

Cerina was supposed to meet me at the fountain in the courtyard after each lesson. I would always walk her to the next class, not allowing her to become prey to those that may do her harm. It was my job to protect her—my duty. Father always stressed the importance of his little girl, most probably a protective instinct as he knew she was a sheep among wolves. While she remained primarily in the benevolent care and guidance of our mother, I would train under the strict guidance of our father, essentially working double to make up for Cerina's pacifism. I didn't resent him for it, though. He was right; she had to be protected in a city-state where many half-bloods would just happen to vanish without a trace every so often. However, I never pushed myself for the sake of my training, nor for the promise to Mother. I always did it for Cerina, the one friend I had in the world, growing up. It's not as if we never talked with other half-Ionians…but rather, none of them understood the true strife behind such prejudice. It was our parents that started the whole movement, after all…and our birth that set it aflame. The very oppression and prejudice that followed was our birthright.

It was the end of the school day, and I waited for my sister for approximately ten minutes. She was always extremely punctual, and anything over seven minutes was highly unusual. Naturally, I felt something was wrong. So, I did what I would usually do in that scenario… I went to a secluded area where I knew they would be waiting for me, and stood out in the open. That year's particular "playground" was the mess hall. It was under construction after a Zaunite exchange student had a chemical mishap that combusted a third of the building. No one dared enter under the unstable roofing and fractured holdings of the place, making it perfect for a get-together away from prying eyes.

"Always eager to walk straight into a slaughter. You're a glutton for punishment, Ephrial," a voice called from above, drenched in arrogance.

"Where is she, Polero?!"

"You know, today's lesson had me thinking…maybe I have been going about this the wrong way. If a Noxian general could defeat the odds by dividing an army more than twice as large as his own by forcing them to split, why not apply that here? Maybe, instead of luring you here with your sister, only to have you two work in tandem together, I could isolate you two…making you suffer individually. I'm sure you have that 'twin connection' where you can tell the other is in pain, correct? That only sweetens the pot…"

We were 10th year students, only age fifteen, and he already possessed the sadistic mind of a serpent. Twisting a lesson about defeating overwhelming odds into some method of torture, while he already possesses the upper-hand, only spoke volumes of his developing cruelty. While he would target others of mixed descent, his ploys always grew increasingly dark towards me. Cerina was the perfect tool to bait me out right where he wanted me, and I would willingly oblige every time. That same look gleams in his eyes each confrontation. He didn't want to kill me…he wanted to break me. To dismantle my spirit and eclipse me under his triumphant shadow. He would not be satisfied with anything less.

"Enough tricks! Leave Cerina out of this!"

"Ah, but that's just it! We let your sweet sister off this time, merely detouring her away from your little meeting spot. She's probably home now, worried about her dear brother. Her imagination must be running wild at what's happening…at what is about to happen."

He stepped out of the shadows of what used to be the rafters of the cafeteria, that signature grin of his strewn across his face. A dozen others revealed themselves from the dark surroundings, cracking their knuckles and stretching their shoulders in anticipation. Polero had a charisma about him—a certain flair that attracted those of like minds to his cause. Pride is a dangerous thing to one's self…and dangerous to others when they have power to act on it.

"So, that's your game…"

I was as tense as the air around me, but inside, I was put at ease with the thought of Cerina being safe for now. Polero was too full of himself to lie, as there was more value to his ego to be found in boasts of truth and openness about his ruses. Still…there was no way to tell what that could turn into one day.

"Very well then," I said calmly. "Let's get this over with."

I took a stance, ready to give it my all. Thirteen on one, surrounded, and without a weapon, left me with little chance, if any, to overcome the odds. It was nothing new… He would always have me outnumbered. Eventually, I would start to shift the fights into my favor, and so he would gradually increase his assaulting posse. This, however, was not him picking a fight… It was exactly as how he had called it: a slaughter.

They began to close in, slow steps savoring the anxiousness before the bloodshed, but with a certain sense of caution. I'd taken at least half of them down before, and on more than one occasion. Had I been full Noxian like them, they might have left me alone altogether. However, the shame of being bested by a half-Ionian didn't sit well with them, and their eyes beamed at me, ravenous for revenge.

Running wasn't an option. They never left us alone, no matter how many times we fought, and running away would only ensure the stereotype placed on us. Such an act could have only produced a drastic backlash upon our parents' reputations, and shattered any hopes of sundering the prejudice that followed us in our very shadows. Running was never a choice.

Before they could make the first move, I grabbed a chair as I hopped and rolled over a table, bringing it along with me. The four-legged piece of furniture broke over one of my assailants, clearing a path for me to leap past him and break out of being surrounded. Naturally, the others chased me as I attempted to find higher ground. Names were called out, mostly slurs directed at my heritage, of course. I paid them no mind, and kept my eyes sharp for some sort of vantage point where I could turn things in my favor. Fortunately for me, the counter where food was served lied just ahead. The explosion hadn't caused too much of that area to collapse, so I slid over the counter, and landed myself on the other side.

This was Noxus, after all, so all of my pursuers were physically fit, and didn't find it very difficult to follow me over. Three of them leapt in behind me, and I quickly unlatched the shutters, letting them fall shut before locking the lever in place. The rest were cut off by the wire mesh that barred their entry, and I quickly put my training to use. This was about the time it was becoming more apparent to me that Noxus only possesses half of the lesson on fighting.

It was always about the offensive; no room for any kind of intentional defense other than armor. Perhaps it sounds bland and careless, but that's exactly what Noxus has always been like when it comes to battle. You'll never really see any noteworthy Noxian hiding behind a shield. Such was considered a coward's tool, and virtually banished from the city-state altogether. It would always come down to the all-in charge, and these guys were no exception.

Blinded with the desire to get blood on their hands, they launched their fists at me with their full might. One by one, I redirected their assaults, and created openings that I used to temporarily cripple their motion A knee kicked out here, an arm majorly twisted there, and a good old-fashioned back-fist to the cerebellum for a round of severe disorientation.

The others wasted no time, and were already barging down the door from the back entrance. A few remained on the other side of the counter, making sure I could not escape the way I came. I looked around hastily for a way out, and spotted a hole in the ceiling above my head. It was too high for me to reach without some extra altitude, so I turned to the door and braced for wave two. My plan was to let them charge me, and use the tallest one to provide me with a height boost out of a death pit. If it had only been that easy.

Unfortunately for me, the lead battering ram happened to be an upperclassman, aspiring to join the Slayer team. The sport is one of Noxus' most deadly and primal of all exhibitions, where a man or woman, using absolutely nothing but their bare hands and raw strength, take on fierce monsters in a battle to the death. It is explicitly for those of physical prowess, as magic-users have their own equivalent event.

He was big, and had to have been at least three years older than the rest. Arms, outstretched to the sides for an inescapable grapple, burst forward, and tackled me straight through the locked shutters. The very hinges tore out of the walls alongside us, noisily scattering as they skipped and bounced along the cracked floor. Blood poured down his scalp from the reckless bombardment, but he didn't seem to pay it any notice. A powerful fist collided with my face, and everything turned into a haze of double-vision.

In a split moment, the others formed a ring, finding entertainment in spectating rather than participating. They didn't want to get in the way of a senior slayer the same way no one wants to get in between a lion and its meal. Hit after hit, it made it hard to collect myself. All I was able to do was raise my arms and try to lessen the blows. Even though I could feel my body starting to give into the savagery, all I was able to hear was a voice that urged me on. There's a way…there's always a way to win. My father would not tolerate any other way or thinking. "The only impossibility is impossibility itself." Clearly, he never saw the paradox in that, but nonetheless, they were words to live by.

Somewhere between the pain and the daze, I began contemplating the situation. The slayer's pace didn't slow, backed by stamina gained through vigorous training. Each strike was evenly paced, and I began calculating how much time I would have to land a counter. About three quarters of a second, barely enough time to do anything. In order to make a worthwhile attempt, I had to extend that time somehow. Yet, with a burly athlete pinning me down with his weight, and a vice firmly clamped on my collar, there was only so much I could do. Like the hammer that kept bruising my face, the idea hit me. It took him three quarters of a second to wind his arm up and lash out another punch, and while that was not enough time for me to throw one of my own, it would take less than that amount of time to knock his elbow out of its lock.

So, I did the only reasonable thing. I let him take another direct hit at my face, and received blistering pain along my cheekbone. A minor sacrifice to extend the time for me to pull off a retaliation. With my eyes locked on his, I struck at his joint that held me pinned, and his elbow gave in to its natural bend. That's when I grabbed his collar back, and pulled him down towards me. With a bloody impact, I smashed my skull into his face, which sent the senior into a whirlwind of unexpected pain. His recoil gave me the opportunity to kick him off, and I forced myself to get up.

To others, this brute was a peer, a stalwart athlete, and a future general to be feared. In my eyes, he was nothing more than a threat to my sister's security. Such could not be allowed, and while the ring of Polero's goons remained stagnant for the time being, I decided to make a clear statement for them to witness.

I put all pain aside; made it irrelevant to the task at hand. All that mattered was taking this slayer down, at the very least, to make sure his business with me was not done, thus keeping his enmity with myself, and not Cerina. My knuckles cracked as I clenched them into fists, leveling my breathing off with a forced measure of Ionian practice. The daze I was in was forced to stay still, and my focus was regained from a dizzy blur. With a heavily wound up fist, and a long one-step lunge toward my adversary, I began my own flurry of attacks.

A direct hit to the stomach brought him down closer to my level, and I seized the moment by planting my knee into his face. His nose was severely damaged, and blood spewed all over his visage, coating my fist in the process as I finished off with an uppercut. There was no holding back—no mercy. It was a committed assault that could be described as no less than brutal to a fault. That's just how it was in Noxus. Only the strongest survive…and there are those that receive that motto as a message to take it upon themselves to cull out the weak.

I was surrounded by those that were in accordance with that way of thinking. My own message was well-received, in one way or another. I wouldn't give up. Yet, neither would they… Shocked as they were to see the damage done to the head of their barrage, they still closed in. There would be no honor given to a half-blood. Word of any such victory against a Noxian, especially one of renown or worth, was never allowed to exist, much less believed. Just as laws in the city-state protect the upper class, so did society trample on the half-Ionian "disgraces" in favor of even the lowest of the Noxian purebloods.

After a short-lived victory against a severe disadvantage, I found myself in the overwhelming fray of furious students. Strength in numbers, I suppose. It wasn't exactly a display of proud Noxian honor, but whenever it concerned someone of Ionian descent, anything was fair game.

A sudden burst of commotion entered the mess hall, and the frenzy died down under a heavy, commanding voice. The crowd I was buried in slowly dispersed enough for me to see Headmaster Ronin approach, accompanied by four physical instructors. He examined the scene with a cold, scrutinizing gaze behind those round spectacles of his.

"Who started this?" he said, a frigid, stoic demeanor.

Everyone held their tongues, and an understood silence washed over the room. Ronin's eyes met mine, as I laid on the floor spotted with pools of fresh crimson. All I could taste was blood, and even harsher times ahead. It only lasted a moment, but it was sharp—an intensity of knowing what happens when a Noxian-Ionian is caught in a situation easily manipulated to a crime of sorts. He was a hard man to read, but his eyes screamed of hatred, almost as if it were personal.

"I expect to see you all at my quarters at dawn. Lateness will not be tolerated."

With that, he turned around and left. There was no immediate punishment, and no names called out. The lack of such, combined with his known level of strictness, caused a wave of uneasiness. Everyone disbanded, but the tension seemed to remain. It was then that I realized Polero was not in the room. He must have known this would be the outcome, and left long before as to clear his name of any suspicion. If the others came to that realization at some point, it probably didn't matter too much to them. Better to be of some use to a powerful figure than to make him into a powerful enemy.

As the last of the others left the cafeteria, I felt a faint wisp of rejuvenation swirl through me, then surge into a major relief. Cerina then approached me from the shadows, and the green glow of magic around me dissipated. She had hidden herself, perhaps having arrived at the same time as Ronin, considering she would not have hesitated to start a healing spell for me had she arrived sooner.

"Cerina… Thank you," I said, still worse for wear as I slowly rose to my feet.

"Are you okay…?" the sweet voice of innocence asked.

"It may be too soon to answer that," Ronin's pending punishment on my mind. "Did you lead the headmaster here?"

"N-no! I was chased away from our usual rendezvous, and when I found out what they had planned for you, I ran straight here."

"I see. Then Polero himself planned that, too. Clever."

"What are you going to do now…?"

"Well, I have a meeting at dawn."

"I'll speak to father! Maybe he can—"

"No. His status is already on edge from a variety of affairs. I'll have to deal with this myself."

"Are you sure?"

"I've no alternative. Ever since we stepped foot in this academy, we've been playing their game by their rules."

Tears began to swell in her eyes. I already knew what she was thinking…we've had that conversation many times before. She wanted to be able to hold her own, and arm herself with the principals of combat. However, it just was not in her nature to bring harm to a living being, even for her own sake. If her benevolence allowed her to hate anything in this world, it was being responsible for any harm inflicted upon me. I knew that feeling well, which is why I would never let any come to her.

As twins, we were the same in so many ways, but also bound to each other by what made us opposites. Only one of us was able to fight, and only one could be allowed to shed tears.

`*~\-~vVv~-/~*`

Ephrial runs against the wind, the Winter chill biting at his armor with buildup of frost and ice. The air howls alongside the hungry cries of a pack of whitefangs, and the draft carries the scent of their quarry to their noses, further fueling their hunger. The mercenary-knight presses against the forces of nature, aiming to find some way of evening the odds against a pack of hunters on their home turf.

Whitefangs are the largest known breed of wolves in Runeterra, getting their name from the pure white fur that makes them difficult to spot in the frozen tundra where they dwell. Their prowess in a land where food is scarce makes them a formidable rival to the many tribes that inhabit the Freljord. Often times, hunting down one of these feral beasts, and claiming a fang as proof, is the task given to those seeking a rite of passage. Their senses alone are far keener than their distant cousins across Valoran, and the lack of plentiful food makes them twice as vicious.

The icy air stings his throat as he breathes, carving his way through the heavy, vision-reducing flurry of snow beating down on him. Hungry howls and snarling draw closer, and the half-blood spots a small opening in the side of the mountain. Snow-covered boots continue to ascend the treacherous summit, and a blazing sword sizzles out of its sheathe. With razor teeth now practically at his heels, he lunges for the crack in the rock and ice, just big enough for him to dash through. Ephrial plants the sword down behind him, blocking the hole off with a door of unquenchable flame.

He huffs heavily, sending visible plumes of his breath rising through the air. The resourceful swordsman has bought a short respite, collecting himself from a restless journey up the mountain so far. Ravenous barks and snapping teeth keep calling out to him from beyond the wall of flame, refusing to give up a chance at the fresh meat that walked right into their territory.

A deep growl echoes around him, coming from inside the small cavern. Ephrial turns at the sound, clashing gazes with a large beast; its body riddled in scars. There can be no doubt that this is the alpha wolf. Knowing every square foot of this mountain better than he does, Ephrial surmises that the clever predator took a detour while he sent his pack to chase him forward, attempting to cut him off for a clean kill.

Drawing his sword from the crevice he came through will only spell out death for him. The only way out of the situation is to demand passage from the very beast that controls this domain. Slowly, the half-blood bends his knees and clenches his fists, preparing for the inevitable do-or-die moment.

Claws scratch at the ice surrounding the burning obstacle, attempting to dig through the frozen wall, and bypass the scorching flames. Incessant snarls and howls call past the barrier from the outside, eager to sink their teeth into their hunt. Ears twitch toward the commotion taking place just beyond their reach, and with further excitement, they begin pacing back and forth along the snow, trying to get a good peek through the dancing fire.

A blast of melting snow causes them to leap back in surprise, and the fiery wall disappears from sight. Thick layers of fur shake off the excess snow, teeth baring and paws holding their ground. A distinct and ugly crack rings out from underneath the resulting mound. Ephrial rises amidst the surrounding predators, sword burning brightly, and a stream of dark crimson running down his arm.

The scent of their leaders' blood weighs heavily on their noses, and the remaining wolves take a reluctant pause from their vocalization. Sight of their fallen alpha further presses their aggression down, falling to their pack mentality as they submit in acknowledgement to the presence of their new master.

Ephrial's cerulean gaze ignores them, and turns back toward the ascending path that leads to the top. Fresh scratches from feral claws and teeth bleed from his arms and neck, quickly going numb from the unforgiving chill of the Freljordian atmosphere. Slaying a giant wolf with his bare hands is far more than he had expected from climbing a mountain already known for being extremely arduous to journey. Nevertheless, the wintery land itself has initiated him as one of its own.

Unwavering steps push on once again, fighting through the cold exhaustion brought upon by an unrelenting test of perseverance. The whitefangs, driven by an instinctual form of honor, put their ferociousness to rest, and let him pass uncontested. They do not follow him, knowing a lone wolf when they see one.

The relentless wind of the frozen tundra continues to pierce through the battle-tested armor; a red shadow in the face of the pale storm. Determination gleams in his pelagic eyes. With each step he takes, he defies all those that would have him dead, the past, and fate itself. Every move he makes rewrites a portion of history still in his power to change.

His sword remains steady with a free-willed loyalty of a mercenary, lit aflame by the oathbound promises of a knight.