Now this is the law of the jungle, as old and as true as the sky,
And the wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the wolf that shall break it must die.
As the creeper that girdles the tree trunk, the law runneth forward and back;
For the strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack.
The Law of the Jungle (Ruyard Kipling)
FIVE HOURS LATER...
During monsoon season, the entire city-state of Noxus had a disturbing predisposition towards flooding. No matter how much High Command prepared for the incoming storms by clearing storm drains, evicting illegal settlers from canals and removing blockages from pipes, at least one Ward would always be up to its collective eyes in water and the entire Basic Infantry School would sink and utterly succumb to the bloated marsh that it was built upon. Whenever that occurred, current candidates and graduates of the School, the infamous Noxian exile Riven among them, would often joke that it was time for the water phase of the program.
In the city, it was always quite easy to tell which Ward would flood horribly- the animals would evacuate first, scurrying out of drain pipes, sewer covers, dark burrows and cracks in the cobbled pavement. Cockroaches and rats would take to the streets en masse; the sound of clicking chitin, flapping wings and flicking tails would fill the air. If there were still people in the streets, they would run from the slithering, skittering black horde, jumping on crates and up walls to avoid the parade of pests. Of course, one could simply stand in the way, because the creatures were fleeing for their lives and had only self-preservation in mind, but in the same way that mankind is afraid of the dark there is also an intrinsic fear of being consumed by creatures regarded as carrion eaters and pests.
In pigment bug farms, the insects would fill the air with their human voices as they crawled out of cracks in dead wood and headed up to the highest branches to escape the black flood that came from the craggy, treeless peaks. It was quite a sight to see if one was relatively new to Noxus: fields of charred and blackened trees, some as wide as three men holding hands and encircling the trunk, and every jagged bough laden not with fruit or leaves but with a million squealing portly bugs as they clamped their jaws onto the wood and sought shelter from what would surely be a devastating and deep flood.
In the countryside, it would seem as if the entire landscape would be bracing itself for the surge. The land around Noxus was naturally barren- trees were either tall and wide or short and stubby. The animals were, like Noxians themselves, robust, resilient, cunning and largely omnivorous. Apex predators like sleek mountain cats, gargantuan bears and black-furred wolves would head for higher ground. Insects, like red-headed centipedes and sinuous earthworms, would dig in deeper.
Coarse haired, ashen long faced hornless deer would scrape their long canines on tree trunks to mark their territory, carving out an 'I'll be back' note into the bark before they too would flee. Shaggy-haired black rats and pug-nosed mountain coati would relocate to temporary burrows or crawl into hollows of trees, only emerging after the deluge to band together in noisy groups and feast on fallen fruit, displaced eggs or on whatever unlucky thing that managed to drown. Regardless of their ferocity and grace, every single creature would flee before the wrath of nature.
Hours before the storm would reach the mainland, an eerie silence would settle over the landscape- crows would cease cawing, insects would stop chirping, bears and wolves would stifle the calls in their throats. At that point, the humans themselves would realize that the storm would be upon them, and it would be humanity's turn to be hectic and loud. Homes would be boarded up, sand bag barricades erected in flood-prone Wards and valuables tucked away into watertight cases. There would be a mad dash towards marketplaces and stores as humans would hoard food and survival supplies by the dozens.
And then the monsoon season would begin in earnest, battering Noxus for months with brief lulls of overcast weather in between tempests. Sheets of freezing rain would fall onto the earth as thunder would arc through the air and leave a metallic taste in one's mouth. Howling gales would topple trees; black tides would descend from the mountainside and fill dry gorges with churning water. Previously hellish and dusty landscapes would turn into deceptively flat planes of sucking black mud and sharp rocks.
In the city, the privileged would sit out the season in relative comfort, throwing logs into massive firepits to keep the cold and dampness away, drinking brandy to soothe frazzled nerves, preparing elaborate banquets, planning gatherings and playing parlor games to pass the time between hurricanes. The poor would huddle in what shelter they managed to procure, ignoring the gnawing of their stomachs and the aching of their bones, stifling sneezes and wiping away dripping mucus, self-medicating with bottles of cheap gin and passing out in drunken hazes. Depending on the person then, monsoon season could either be the peak of the social calendar or the deepest pit of hell.
For his part, Draven had a love-hate relationship with rainy days. When he had been younger, he had watched his parents frantically stockpile wood and supplies. Athenais would be drying fish by the thousands, nigh infusing the smell into their skin. Hystaspes would be gathering logs and bags of sand. Darius would alternate between helping the two of them and keeping him entertained. The storms would finally fall, and because they lived underground, the tunnels would inevitably flood and the water would be knee-deep at the very least, brackish and bubbly, filled with human refuse and whatever things that came from the upper levels.
On the worst days, Darius and Hystaspes would push sandbags up to the door because the water would be lapping at it; Athenais would ask for his help in piling their furniture up- even the beds were stacked one on top of the other. Hystaspes would hang a brazier from the ceiling using a chain, and would sporadically throw logs into it to keep the fire burning. All the fish and whatever else his mother had managed to squirrel away would go into crates lined with precious and expensive oilskin, to be opened only during mealtimes.
Sometimes his father would take a poker and a lantern, and then he would go out into the flooded tunnels and get rid of blockages. In the evening, the four of them would huddle underneath the dampened covers and do their best to sleep through the putrid smells and gushing waters outside. The only source of light would be from the brazier, and the only warmth would come from his father- who somehow always managed to radiate heat even through the coldest and wettest of nights.
When the Blood Brothers had stayed with Matron, Draven would watch Darius make the same controlled but frantic preparations, somehow managing to echo both his mother and his father in the way that he squirreled away food in watertight crates, stocked wooden logs and kept the fire burning in the little furnace they had in their room. There was always a leak somewhere, even if Darius had done his best to patch the roof, and so for every night of the monsoon the two of them would listen to the water dropping into a large basin that also served as a bathtub for the smaller children in the crèche- plink, plink, plink.
Sometimes they did not even have wood for the furnace. On those nights, Darius would push their beds together and the two of them would sleep, back to back. Draven envied him, not only because his older brother always seemed to know what to do, but also because his brother also stayed warm like his father while he gradually grew colder if he wasn't covered by a suitable blanket.
Since his brother had gone to Boram's Point, however, Draven had found himself well and truly alone for the first time in his life because he was not allowed to see his brother at all, and he could not even send mail because, as the snooty-faced officials had told him, 'Boram's Point prides itself on being able to give its officer-candidates a superior, combat-centered curriculum. Therefore the administrative staff cannot allow any disruptions to divert the candidates' attentions from their academic goals while inside the Academy.'
Darius had lectured him for two months before he had left, and his teachings had been diverse and detailed: his advice ranged from a step-by-step guide on how to start a fire and how to cook his own food to tips on how to wash his own clothes and to sew up holes in his shirt. Darius had given his all in teaching Draven, even taking the eleven year old with him on a trip through the markets every Sunday and Wednesday, pointing out what was good to eat, how to cook it and then how to reuse it again if there were any leftovers. Certainly, if it was an actual award, the Older Brother of the Year medal would go to Darius.
But Draven was young, rather reckless and eleven years old: left alone to his own devices with a constant supply of money, he inevitably had spent most of his stipend on sweetmeats. If anyone bothered to ask him, he would say that it all started with the bags of candied walnuts he had seen in a store's display. He had bought one on a whim, and by the end of the day he had eaten through the whole bag and had discovered that he had a rather insatiable sweet tooth.
In the year since Darius had left, Draven had just about sampled every single kind of sweet available in the Noxian market, even taking a trip to the infamous Ivory Ward to purchase a dozen marzipan candies molded in the shape of fruits. Indeed, the floor was often littered with empty paper bags and crumpled waxed white paper candy wrappers, and the pantry doors remained open on a semi-permanent basis. In Draven's mind it was all money well-spent. If Darius had been there, the older Blood Brother probably would have beaten him within an inch of his life.
The three-roomed apartment that Draven now called home had been simple enough when Darius had bought it, and the older brother had considered it money well spent: the roof did not leak because the landlord was attentive; the warm red wallpaper was not peeling and the floorboards were made of a smooth and sturdy oak; the fully furnished rooms were lit up with runestone lanterns, and there was even a little black circular furnace next to the wall for heating; there was a flush toilet, which was a blessing considering that they had to make do with a bucket or a hole in the ground before; the boardinghouse itself was in Garnet Ward, a residential zone for those with middling incomes and a concern for entertainment in the form of the nearby Fleshing Arena.
Draven loved the Fleshing Arena- the money that didn't go into purchasing sweets and paying rent went into tickets for the bloodiest gladiatorial shows in all of Runeterra. He didn't know why he went there exactly. Watching people be torn apart by starved black panthers and desperate prisoners had lost its charm by the fifth repetition, and as a person whose parents had been executed he did not revel in the blood and in the gore.
No, what Draven liked to do was to sit in his seat, close his eyes and imagine. With the crowds' deafening voices reverberating in his chest every time a gladiator managed to survive another wave of creatures, it was not at all hard to imagine them cheering for him, clapping their rough hands together, slamming their feet on the stone floor and chanting his name madly.
Was he being delusional? Certainly not, it was a healthy exercise for eleven year olds to daydream. Was he being narcissistic? Yes, and it would only get worse with time. Why was Draven so? Why did he have such a deep-seated urge to be noticed and to be known?
Having the most perfect older brother had its drawbacks after all- his parents had trusted Darius immensely. They had always taken him aside and had always excluded Draven from their plans. He knew he was still a child but he had always felt resentful, had always wanted to be so important to them too.
In the way of youngest children who wanted nothing more than their parents' complete attention, Draven had always been the family fool. He loved it whenever his mother would take the time off her chores to interact with him, even if it was just to scold him. To catch his father's attention was a greater achievement, because Hystaspes was a calm reticent man who could have faced down a catapulted rock and not bat an eyelash if it just barely missed him by a few hairs.
Of course, since Darius was his father's favorite, his older brother only had to call the man's name and he would automatically turn his head, but Draven had to work significantly harder- at one point in time he had spent one hour pulling on the man's beard before the great lumberjack even glanced at him.
Every time his parents would pull their eyes away from their chores to notice him and every time Darius would react to his little pranks and his annoying noises and clichéd puns, Draven felt very much loved. Whenever they seemed to ignore him by talking to Darius or taking Darius out to learn more about the world, Draven felt very sad and alone.
The cruel irony in all of this, and Draven would realize it only later in his life, is that his parents had loved him so much so as to practically drill into Darius the importance of being an older brother. Much of the elder Blood Brother's life from his fourth birthday up until their execution was filled with nothing but endless lectures on how he had to be an example for the new baby, on how so-and-so was being sold off so that they would have more money to feed the two of them, on how he had to protect his brother because Draven was the youngest and Noxus was not kind at all.
His parents had their favorites- Hystaspes had seen much of himself in Darius and Athenais had doted on Draven because he was creative and was the last she had given birth to that had been born alive- but neither one of their children realized it. Darius felt that both parents had loved Draven more, and Draven had felt that Darius was the only one that his parents had thought worthy to even talk to when it came to serious matters. It was a giant misunderstanding that would eventually culminate in a massive fight, but that would be in the future.
As of now, Draven was watching the dark clouds rumbling ominously from his bed by the windowsill. A grey veil seemed to have settled over Garnet Ward- the distant Fleshing Arena's silhouette was partially obscured from his eyes. There was a heavy metallic scent in the air that reached into his mouth- this first storm of the monsoon season would be a massive one for certain.
Draven found himself pulling a heavy blanket over his head and clutched it close to his chest as the first fork of lightning ran across the black skies like one of those dancers he had seen in between fights in the Fleshing Arena. Those street performers were the other reason why he went to the Fleshing Arena. In between fights, various troupes would dash out into the bloody sands and amuse the crowd. His favorite was a troupe of stateless gypsies who would dance on top of prancing horses and juggle flaming batons. He would always be on the edge of his seat as he counted the flaming sticks, following the progression hungrily: one, three, five, seven, twelve-!
He wanted, more than anything, to be like them- to hear nothing but cheers and the words 'more, more, more'-!
Thunder boomed in the distance, making such a heavy noise so as to fill his lungs with vibrations and shake dust from the rafters. Draven imagined each and every boom to be a massive, immeasurable crowd stomping their feet on the ground all at once, hollering a single word in monosyllabic tones that was absolutely awe-inspiring in its unanimity: Draven, Draven, Draven.
With a colossal, incessant roar, heavy rain fell from the skies and blanketed everyone in cold. Draven closed his eyes and rocked himself back and forth; weaving his head from side to side like a virtuoso piano player would while playing a difficult but rewarding piece. The sound of drops hitting the slate roofs he imagined to be the impatient patter of footsteps as they rushed to greet him; the gurgle of water pouring through drainpipes he interpreted to be the throaty cheers of his admirers.
When he opened his eyes, Draven did not see Garnet Ward under the grip of the worst monsoon to hit in three years. He saw a sea of nondescript faces, calling for him, screaming his name.
Like any good performer, he stood up, throwing off his blanket and giving off his best smile as he flexed nonexistent muscles and jumped out of bed. The temperature in the room had plummeted, and his breath was coming out in wisps. Stuck in his fantasy world, Draven pulled a log from a nearby pile, juggling it in the air as he had seen his idols do in the Fleshing Arena. One, two, three- and he threw those into the open doors of the furnace. He splashed it a bit with lamp oil and set it on fire, jumping from heel to heel all the while, and then slammed the door of the furnace shut.
Draven did a cartwheel, failing miserably because he was not at all flexible, but he was in a land filled with admirers and every single crack of thunder that reverberated through his chest and his skull he interpreted as an encouraging cheer. He pulled candles from the monsoon survival kit that Darius had so meticulously packed for him, juggling them in the air: one, three, five-!
And then he slipped on his blanket and fell on the floor. All five candles plummeted down and hit him on the head. Thus pulled from his fantasy world, the eleven year old made a pained noise as he rubbed ruefully at the top of his head and stared out at the window. The rain had gotten thick enough to obscure his view of the Fleshing Arena completely- monsoon season was upon them all.
Draven wondered then, if his brother was seeing the rain too.
Certainly, Darius was seeing the rain. In fact, he was feeling it too. The heavy freezing shower was beating an asymmetric rhythm into his skin. His breath came out in clouds and every movement made his muscles scream from exhaustion but he did not want to rest- not yet at least.
"Of course, let's not work hard." Di Castellamonte croaked sarcastically over the pouring rain and distant thunder. "Let's not expend any effort, really. There is no point to giving your best, especially after a year and five hours of preparing for this very moment, isn't there?"
Has it already been five hours? His exhausted mind asked blearily.
Their day had started out at an already hectic, almost feverish pace. When Chief di Castellamonte had informed them that the Crucible would begin today, Varinius had been silently transferred out. They had been herded like cattle into the bathroom, soaked through by instructors using buckets and then forced outside. Hounded by Strongbow and the rest of the instructors, Dominance joined all the other companies on a massive trail that wound around the grounds of Boram's Point.
They must have been quite a sight to see then- hundreds of men and a smattering of women jogging in their nightclothes, ignoring the choking dust of the road and the complaints of stomachs still empty. Somehow, the instructors had managed to acquire horses, and the screams in the back column only added to every candidate's motivation to run faster than the person next to them: evidently, those that could not run any longer fell to the earth and were trampled by iron-clad hooves.
After completing one circuit, the companies had been split up again. Dominance had been herded through a narrow trail and into a valley where a sluggish brown river was making its way into the earth. Delicate mist rose from the chasm, and it was quite a beautiful sight. There, at the very edge of the churning ravine, the instructors pushed them into pre-determined positions and let them stand for ten minutes in the welcome spray.
Chief di Castellamonte had walked in front of them after their little breather, bending the riding crop in her hands as she shouted above the noise of the waterfall behind her. "Eons ago, the first Noxian warriors fought for leadership at this place. Those who wished to be chief would find the strongest person in their clan, and then they would challenge that man or woman in single combat, without weapons and without magic, grappling until their foe was cold and dead beneath their fingers."
And then the dark clouds overhead had decided to let loose their watery burden, soaking them through again in an aching chill that seemed to reach into their very bones. Chief di Castellamonte had been unfazed as she continued over the booming thunder, her features highlighted by the lightning that raced overhead and struck a nearby tree, setting it on fire. "Warrior-children, the person to your right is your strongest foe. If you wish to see the light of the sun on the morrow, you must kill him in single combat, without the use of weapons and magic. No quarter must be given, not even to our fellow men, and if you do not kill them by the end of this day, we will kill you."
Darius had stared at Hawklight then, his mouth slightly slack in shock. Hawklight was one of the best hand-to-hand fighters in the entire company, and the older man had sent his face into the sand of the Pit more than once. Fear had taken a hold of his heart then, because he honestly did not know if he could have taken Hawklight on. He would have stood frozen for a second longer, but Senior Instructor Krieg-Windsor's fist suddenly collided with his chest, and Darius had keeled over with a grunt, swallowing to hold back the bile that was running up his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Assistant Instructor Strongbow knock Hawklight off his feet.
"Fight, you maggots!" Krieg-Windsor had boomed at them as Darius straightened up just in time to dodge Hawklight's fist. "Fight or I will crush your skulls together!"
All that had been five hours ago. There had been as many as fifty pairs next to the gorge, but now it had whittled down to a pitiful three. The survivors of the melee were standing at attention off to the side, unable to move on without the last three victors. The bodies of the dead candidates were still on the field, and the remaining fighters had tripped over the corpses more than once. In all actuality, there would be more bodies on the ground if the instructors had not thrown three pairs over the edge of the gorge because the candidates had given up.
Darius didn't know how many blows they had exchanged, didn't care if Hawklight seemed to always come out on top- all he knew was that he could not afford to give up, could not afford to stop. No matter how many times the man hit him; Darius had always gotten back up, compartmentalizing his hunger, pain and exhaustion with dogged tenacity. He could tell that the pouring rain, long run and lack of breakfast were taking its toll on the older man.
Hawklight staggered towards him like a drunken zombie, his front and sides caked with clumps of dirt. The rain had turned the earth underneath their feet into sucking mud, and everyone but the Chief Instructor herself had fallen victim to it- one of the other fighters had been flipped into the muck so many times that only the whites of his eyes and his teeth stood out from the black that covered him, and even Strongbow's water resistant poncho was flecked with it, but she was absolutely clean.
Her oilskin coat was zipped up to her neck and her peaked cap resisted the rain like an umbrella as she howled insults at a candidate who was lying face-down in the mud, her mysteriously clean boot digging the man's head further into the viscous earth. The man flailed and panicked underneath her, and she kicked at his chest constantly until he managed to physically lift himself from the ground and crawl towards his chosen opponent with an enviable persistence.
For the nth time that day, the wind was blown out of his lungs as Hawklight slammed into him bodily, sending the both of them tumbling to the earth. The mud cushioned their fall somewhat, but then Hawklight was on top of him and the rain was pounding into his skull. Time seemed to slow down. Sounds seemed to be coming from far away. Blinded by flying flecks of earth, Darius punched and kicked wildly. There was a sudden pain by his side and it was with difficulty that he realized the Chief had moved on to better targets- like the son of her former lover.
"You're a big man, candidate." And he suppressed the urge to lash at her when she slammed her heel onto his calf- he had Hawklight to worry about. "Why don't you stop being kind and just snap Hawlight's neck? You have it in you."
Hawklight was pawing at his throat madly, trying to choke him, trying to end him. Desperately, Darius took a hold of the candidate's shirt in one hand and used the other to push himself off the earth. Despite the blows that Hawklight dealt him, Darius found himself giving a primal roar as he lifted the other man clear off the ground.
A sharp trail of pain flared along his side- the Chief was whipping him with her riding crop, goading him on. Still roaring, he threw Hawklight down on the ground and fell on top of him, closing his hands about the man's throat, feeling the frantic pulse underneath his palms. Hawklight stared up at him with the desperation of a man who knew that he was about to die, slapping feebly at his forearms and his face, kicking with his legs and making subdued noises in his throat. As the rain poured down his back, Darius pushed his weight forward and clenched his hands tightly, holding on until Hawklight's eyes rolled into his head and his struggles finally ceased.
"Go," Chief di Castellamonte's voice said to him. Darius stood up mechanically, breathing heavily and shivering as he moved off to join the rest of the victors. Time seemed to resume its normal pace. Sounds normalized in his ears. As he stood at attention with the rest, he saw the Chief place two fingers on Hawklight's neck, feeling for a pulse. Evidently, she had discovered a weak throb, because she pulled out a knife and slit his throat. He couldn't see the blood that bubbled up like spring water- the mud and the pouring rain took care of that.
Chief di Castellamonte flicked her blade and let the rain wash it clean before she slipped it back into its sheathe. As the last two exhausted fighters fell into ranks, she strode in front of them again and regarded them all with a pleased expression on her face.
"Well done, warrior-children," She said to them, as if all they had done was clean their rooms or make her something nice to eat. As if they had not just fought a person they had practically lived with for the past year, as if they had not just snuffed out a life. "Now, you may partake of your morning meal. I will expect you all to be battle ready by two o'clock this afternoon."
After a year of being conditioned to fight to the very end, to dominate others without mercy, to overcome trials without regret, Darius found that he felt nothing after the man's death, and he remembered nothing except for the feel of Hawklight's throat under his hands, his pulse quickening like a rabbit's shortly before he had died.
As they filed into the mess hall, he could see the other companies also, and when the rafters would have been echoing back their excited chatter, there was only the sound of silverware scraping against ceramic plates, of mugs being lifted to dry mouths and dull faces. He counted every missing seat, and as he received his morning meal, he realized that more than a quarter of the candidates had perished.
They returned to their longhouse like clockwork machines, halfheartedly shrugging into clothes that seemed to no longer fit. Darius could see Keiran biting his lip as Darkwill's youngest buttoned up his own uniform, a large bruise forming about his eye. Seamus was not any better- the veteran seemed to be favoring one side as he leaned down and tied his boots. Lazare de Richelieu somehow managed to remain, and he was passed out in his bunk, his uniform half-done. For Darius' part, every movement pained him. Like the rest of Dominance Company, as soon as he had finished fixing his uniform, he crawled pitifully into his bunk and tried to sleep.
When Darius came to, it was still raining heavily outside, and the sky had grown so dark that he initially thought that he had overslept for the next phase of the Crucible. As it was, he realized it was almost two o'clock from the watch that another candidate had hung on their bunk. Darius swung his legs over, grimacing as his muscles screamed at him to stop. He held his breath as he pushed himself out of his small bed, and then struggled to stand at attention as the doors burst open yet again.
"Outside, now." Krieg-Windsor's tone brooked no argument. The exhausted candidates slung on rucksacks filled with supplies, picked up their personal weapons and rushed outside, automatically forming ranks as they did so. Chief di Castellamonte was standing next to Instructor Strongbow, waiting for them. She was still so spotless and vigorous, whereas Strongbow was somewhat covered in mud and looked to be fighting back a yawn.
There was another man next to her, dressed in green robes trimmed with yellow embroidery, armor plates on his front and on his shoulders. He had a sullen look to him, as if he did not like to be outside. The rain seemed to curve around him and he remained dry where everyone else was being pelted by freezing rain- a barrier of some sort?
"Warrior-children," She greeted them all with a nod of her head- she seemed pleased that all of them had obeyed her orders to be battle ready. "Welcome to the second phase of your first day in the Crucible. This is Summoner Gareth, of no particular House."
Darius stared at him blankly, wondering what sort of trial the instructors had in store for them all this time, bracing himself for whatever challenge she would give them, all the while privately fearing whatever magic the man would bring to bear against him.
"Summoner Gareth is an expert in the creation of constructs, that is, creatures bought to life by magic that thrive off sacrifices of human blood." And Chief di Castellamonte's mouth was set in a thin, humorless smile. "We all fear what we do not know. It is human nature to do so, and there is nothing more mysterious and more perplexing than magic. An infantryman's worst fear is the sting of a spell, and a mage's worst fear is to see the silver of a blade. In order to strike fear into your foes, you must first overcome fear personified. Summoner Gareth's constructs will feed off your terrors, producing monsters straight from your very soul."
Darius stiffened imperceptibly, but he knew that the Chief was watching him. He was one of many in the Company who did not deal in magic, and because of his trauma he did not even want to see or feel magic. He could survive five hours of nonstop hand-to-hand combat, but to be hunted by some magical creature created from his own deepest fears? He was torn then, between giving in to his phobia and his determination to survive and to succeed. If he did give in to his cowardice, it would invalidate everything his parents had done for him, would be spitting in Chief di Castellamonte's eye. If he faced the construct- he only hoped that he had the strength inside him to overcome his dread.
"You have your packs. You have your weapons. Work alone. I will give you three days." And she held up her gloved hand, showing them her three raised fingers. "Three days to hunt down your constructs before they find you. Find them, destroy them, and bring back their magical cores. If you do not come back, we will consider you as dead. If you come to me without a core, I will slit your throat. Let this be a lesson to you all: return successful or do not return at all."
Author's Note: Okay, I lied. It's not that awkward. Maybe in two chapters. Anyway. I thought the use of constructs was thoroughly appropriate here- prior to the formation of the League, we are told that magic was wrecking havoc on Runeterra and that there really were no rules.
Noxus being Noxus, I wouldn't put it past them to use magic against their own people to make them tougher- in this case, utilizing constructs to whittle down officer-candidates to those who know how to face their fears. And come on, Sion and Urgot. Necromancy. Making scary illusions is absolutely nothing compared to that.
That would certainly explain why Noxians seem to be range from pragmatic and ruthless to outright berserk and reckless- once you've had the shit scared out of you, everything else seems to pale in comparison.