The men of Jarvan the 4th's own handpicked army each woke up simultaneously as they felt a sense of dread befall them. Each of them got out of their tents, their bodies still not fully awake yet and their minds still lingering from the dream world to reality, but this feeling that possessed their bodies was not drowsiness-they were not tired, they were fully rested but an ill omen crept from beneath their skins as they saw a parade of people, all fully robed concealing their identities, the color of their robes was unnatural a color darker than black, as if it were living shadows. Their presence was enough but how they surrounded the camp in a circle formation was the one to terrify them the most, they were unmoving, still-like statues.

Through the fear a single man mustered his power to speak…barely. "Who are…you…what do you…" Before he could finish what he had to say the parade of people who were formed in a circle inched closer, with one foot forward in one swift motion, like they were all being controlled by a single mind.

"How many are you…?" Asked one of the robed men, his voice was raspy, eerie- a kind of voice that could make your bones vibrate from inside your skin. The proud demacians all looked blankly as they heard the voice of the devil himself spoke to them, they could not talk back, they were petrified with fear, they did not want to know what kind of being was beneath those robes. "I said how many are you...answer my question, please, it's rude not to."

They felt their bones being fractured, like the voice itself was magic that caused their bones to shatter, their hearts felt like it was being pumped manually by a ghostly claw, as their heartbeats quickened and at the same time felt like it was being squeezed. One soldier who shook most of all was able to mutter "13…including…the…demacian…prince…" he said stuttering with fear. There is no man stronger than a man wanting to escape torment, for he will be cunning, will cheat, all because of desperation, desperation, that is what motivates-it forces a mouse to become man and the weak to become the strong. And the man who suffered most was not the bravest but the one who wanted to escape his torment more than his fear of the robed men. Fear pales in comparison for a desperate man wiling to do anything.

"12…so…it shall be …" the voice was ominous, but it did not have the same effect it did previously. The man gestured his hand which was covered in a talon like ornament, looking like a man who had living claws, these living talons shone brightly as the man stretched it making each claw hit one another, it scraped and what followed was an unearthly screech that made any living man shiver and cringe. 12 robed men each from the north side of the circle all positioned themselves and kneeled before the man with talons for hands, they had their arms outstretched as if awaiting something, salvation-no, death? Perhaps it is.

The man circled each of the perfectly placed a row of dozen robed men, and each of them he scratched with one finger from his claw, just passing this single pointed claw at their faces nonchalantly, whistling a happy runes as he circled once more from the opposite side and stopped as he made a perfect roundabout. "Now demacians, there are a dozen of you and a dozen of them please mimic their positions…" he said with a voice that heeded for respect. The men obeyed, surprisingly even they were astonished of how much they were willing to obey. They obeyed with hesitation, but obeyed nonetheless, merely puppets-the once proud demacians were not themselves not even they could recognize how much they changed from yesterday to this morning, truly a sudden and shocking change no one would ever expect.

"Now…" he snapped his left hand which was a normal hand that was blistered and burned but normal in a sense of being compared to his other hand. And with that blood sprayed from their throats and into the faces of the unsuspecting demacians which blinded them, they struggled but this was not blood, its much thicker, it burned, it was crawling through their skins.

"I apologize but we needed…younger sacrifices." He said as he un hooded one of the men he positioned earlier, this man was frail and had the face of which was wrinkled and thick as leather his eyes rolled up inside of his head, he was lifeless, not that killing him then and there would make a difference an old man like this would probably die before they reach the summit, then they will be one member short. But this man thought of what was best the eldest needed to be replaced, the old are wise, but the young are more useful and in this world you could be the wisest man but you will only speak words that enlighten, liberate and educate not to motivate like seeing a hard worker diligently doing his work.

"Now do you want to witness true fear…?" he asked the remaining 88 men who all nodded in agreement and simultaneously. "Very well, you see true fear…is being helpless…" he outstretched all the fingers in his clawed hand and presented them to everybody as the demacian soldiers continued to struggle and squirm in the background. "five sense, represented by my five fingers…and…" he clamped his fingers together and the demacians screamed and screamed louder and louder, they were squirming more and more looking more pitiful by every second.

"You see without one of the five senses another sense is heightened, but if all of those five senses are dead then, there is one sense left…the sense of fear, dread and terror." He smirked as he saw the once fearless demacian soldiers scurry and shake. "An amputation, is nothing-you can still fight, being burned its nothing you can always fight, but taking your senses away, all five of them, makes you worthless unable to see, hear, taste, smell or touch-disables you from fighting back, being worthless is true fear at least to this soldiers full of angst and hate for themselves…now, we shall continue with the sacrifice…" he transformed his metal claw of a hand and turned it into the same hands as a human, he clapped and just like that the men all followed in a straight line, including the new sacrifices, the proud demacians. They all walked in a straight line as they entered the great barrier.

...

A gust of wind flew right passed Jarvan, the prince of demacia as it gave him an unnatural sense of dread, he could've sworn that the wind was carrying voices, all pleading for help all wishing for death. But Jarvan quickly shrugged it off, he reasoned that his fatigue was taking its toll on him and continued to walk deeper into the labyrinth like great barrier, this lead Jarvan to recall what his father had said earlier before he decided to go on this journey. He told his young son how there is always a price to pay for power, to achieve power like royalty you must sacrifice for the people, sacrificing your humanity, your everyday life in order to serve your country. Same goes for everything else in order to get something of value something equal must be traded back, that is the law of the alchemist and the law of the universe-the balance that hold this country, this planet, this entire world together.

The words echoed in Jarvan the 4th's head for he knew that what he wanted was something that could potentially be devastating if the law was indeed correct. Jarvan wanted power, the strength of a hundred men. The question is…will he need to kill a hundred men to get their strength? That was the only question however; because he will not hesitate to kill a hundred if it was necessary to get his wish, it was the law after all and law was sacred for royalty like him, he will be willing to kill a hundred men, he will kill a hundred men for power, gladly if it is needed and he would proudly laugh at the faces of the slaughtered if it was written as a requirement.

…Law is sacred for a prince like him…

…Law holds together a broken man who will only live for order…