"There are no shortcuts to magic."
Syndra's voice was steady, devoid of emotion.
When Ryan heard Seraphine's question, he glanced at her frustration and offered a small, knowing smile.
"Magic grows through accumulation," he said.
"You're a mentor at the Academy. It may be a little early, but you need first to understand what kind of mentor you want to be."
"What kind of mentor?" Seraphine echoed, puzzled.
She'd always wanted to help people, but never seriously thought about what that meant.
Just helping and teaching others... it felt vague. Unfocused.
Ryan gestured toward the table, calmly.
"At a grand banquet, you'll find an array of exquisite dishes. Without any sense of order, it overwhelms the guests. If there's no distinction in priority, it dulls their interest."
Seraphine blinked. "So... you're saying I need to find a direction I'm good at?"
"You're just a side dish at the banquet," Syndra said bluntly.
Her words hit hard.
Seraphine stared at her in disbelief, unsure if she'd heard her right.
"Before doing anything, think about your identity," Ryan added.
"Identity..."
Seraphine paused, mulling over the word. Her teacher wasn't being harsh—just honest.
When it came down to it, she didn't have much of an identity right now—she was Ryan's apprentice, nothing more.
Was he suggesting she reach out to someone else? That seemed presumptuous. She had just wanted her first practical class to go well...
Then it clicked.
Aside from being Ryan's apprentice, she was a mentor at the academy. That meant something.
Her eyes widened in realization.
A mentor wasn't the top authority in the department.
There were others better suited for administrative responsibilities.
"But... will she help?" Seraphine asked hesitantly.
"You're a mentor, so you can solidify your knowledge by teaching. She's a professor in the Department of Magic—it's her responsibility to help students grow."
Ryan's tone was light.
"She's just a clever pretender," Syndra added as she poked at her now-cold food, a trace of contempt in her eyes.
Seraphine exhaled, a smile creeping back.
"Looks like I'll need to let the professor take the lead for once."
She finally understood. She wasn't even older than Rell—it made more sense for the professor to handle things.
It was foolish of her to be misled by that line:
"The professor position is the one your teacher left for the future."
That line made her question her worth and think she had to prove herself. But she was still growing.
She didn't need to carry everything just yet.
Letting go of her worries, Seraphine brightened again.
She laughed softly, enjoying the food, her large, expressive eyes darting between her two teachers.
She noticed for the first time that Syndra had a preference for chilled food, while Ryan's taste was incredibly plain and very Ionian.
Not far from the Immortal Bastion, thousands of black-and-red armored cavalry thundered across the plains, kicking up dust and roaring through the wind.
Behind them, a smaller but elite force of a hundred silver-armored cavalry pursued with relentless determination, led by a commander clad in golden armor.
The mounts of both forces were extraordinary. The vanguard riders mounted massive black panthers, clad in matching black-and-red armor.
Several intricately embroidered war banners flew overhead, billowing with solemn force.
The pursuers rode silver-armored warhorses, each with twin horns rising from their brows.
The steeds were tall, proud, and unshakable.
Many of the riders bore the crest of Demacia, their banners fluttering in the wind like blades.
Above them, the cries of sky-beasts echoed through the open air.
A griffon soared at the head of the charge, wings slicing through the sky with blistering speed.
Trailing it, four majestic Demacian Silverwings—rare dragon-like birds used only by elite sky cavalry—flew in formation.
Each bore a rider clad in silver armor, gripping long thorn-tipped lances, guarding the formation from all angles with flawless precision.
"Your Highness! The Immortal Bastion is just ahead!"
The voice of General Laurent rang clearly from within the helmet of the leading silver-armored knight.
The rear army was the elite Royal Legion of Demacia, a force that typically moved only under the direct command of King Jarvan III.
Jarvan IV furrowed his brow slightly as the looming shadow of the black fortress drew nearer.
Though he had seen it once before, the floating castle hovering over the horizon still managed to steal his breath for a moment.
He forced his mind back into focus—war had made it prone to drifting—and asked quietly:
"How long have we been riding?"
"Two days and fourteen hours," came the weary reply from General Laurent, his voice muffled behind his helmet.
"From the Demacian border straight to the Immortal Bastion. We haven't stopped once."
Jarvan could feel the exhaustion settling in his bones, but he kept his eyes fixed ahead.
"The Trifarian Legion... we never caught them."
He said it not in frustration, but in quiet reflection.
The Lightshield Bulwark, his Royal Legion, was second to none in Demacia—equal even to the Dauntless Vanguard.
Its soldiers were masters of both bow and blade, and their mounts—Silverhorn Scaled Horses—were bred for speed and endurance.
Even so, they had chased the enemy for over two days without rest, and still, the Trifarian Warband had remained out of reach.
"Formation!"
Xin Zhao's voice rang out like thunder from above.
In an instant, the front lines reined in their mounts and stopped outside the Immortal Bastion.
The black-armored soldiers of the Trifarian Legion snapped into formation, creating three ranks on either side of a wide central path, ten meters across.
Thousands stood in tight, silent rows, stretching across the field in solemn discipline.
A griffon descended from the sky, and Xin Zhao dismounted at the head of the path, spear in hand, standing tall and still.
Moments passed. Silence fell over the field.
Even the massive black tigers, seated beneath their riders, were quiet and still, heads held high, as if awaiting a signal.
Jarvan led the Lightshield Bulwark forward until he reached the edge of the Trifarian formation.
Seeing the sheer precision and power of their arrangement, he hesitated.
His soldiers, cloaked in silver armor, drew their reins and halted behind him.
Beneath their helms, their expressions were grim. The tension was palpable.
Then, Xin Zhao's voice cut through the silence once more.
He raised his spear high.
"Noxus!"
The Trifarian soldiers responded in unison, lifting their weapons in salute.
At the same moment, the black tigers unleashed a collective roar—deep and thunderous.
The ground itself seemed to tremble beneath the power of their unified voice.
Jarvan's expression darkened. This was his first time standing face to face with a Noxian war host, and despite everything, the sight stirred something complex in him.
Pride. Resentment. Caution.
"Your Highness," General Laurent reminded gently.
Jarvan gave a faint nod. He understood.
He raised his right hand, signaling his troops to remain where they were.
Then he spurred his steed forward alone.
As he passed between the ranks of the Trifarian Legion, the silence around him became almost oppressive.
No soldier turned to look at him.
No one spoke. It was like walking through a corridor of statues, each radiating quiet intensity.
The pressure was immense—an invisible weight that bore down on his chest.
Eventually, he reached the end of the path, where Xin Zhao stood waiting.
Jarvan dismounted, his boots hitting the ground with a firm thud.
He straightened, drew a breath, and declared with solemn strength:
"Demacia is here. Jarvan Lightshield."
"Lieutenant General of the Noxian Trifarian Legion, Xin Zhao!"
Xin Zhao and Jarvan's eyes locked, silent but intense. In that brief moment, they could see what had forged the other's resolve, experience, and a warrior's pride.
"This way, please."
Xin Zhao's tone was calm, unreadable, as he gestured toward the towering gates of the Immortal Bastion.
"Lightshield Bulwark! Form ranks—advance!"
Jarvan shouted as he mounted his horse and rode forward steadily.
Beside him, Xin Zhao climbed atop his griffon, letting the majestic beast walk slowly alongside Jarvan's procession, its wings folded at its sides.
At Jarvan's command, the Lightshield Bulwark moved in unison.
Old General Laurent led from the front, four cavalry abreast in a clean, disciplined column.
The Silverhorn Scaled Horses moved with near-mechanical synchronicity.
The knights lifted their lances skyward, backs straight, exuding the proud discipline of Demacia.
Above them, the dragonbirds descended.
Two took positions at the front of the formation, and two circled to the rear, forming a protective air perimeter.
With the Trifarian Legion flanking the road, the Demacian army marched forward through the narrow corridor of black-armored soldiers.
No one spoke.
Only the sounds of armor, hooves, and wings filled the air for a moment.
The eyes of soldiers from both sides occasionally met—quick glances, immediately withdrawn—but the mutual recognition was clear.
Not disdain. Not hostility.
Respect.
Once the Demacians passed, the Trifarian Legion fell in step behind them, closing the formation without a sound.
Their precision was almost eerie—this was not the chaos-driven Noxian stereotype Jarvan had expected.
They looked more like an honor guard than an invading army.
As the army entered the outer district of the Immortal Bastion, they began to draw attention from the nearby Noxians.
"Demacia? Not bad at all."
"Elite cavalry—built like our best."
"Think they could hold up in the arena?"
"Tight formation. No wonder they've stood against us so long."
"Our Trifarian troops aren't too shabby either."
"Hah! The Trifarian Legion is unstoppable!"
"Noxus!!"
Jarvan rode on, expression hardening. He listened to the voices—boasts, challenges, praise—and noted something strange.
This wasn't the mocking or scorn he had prepared for.
These people... respected Demacia's strength.
But not because it impressed them. No, because it was worthy of being compared to their own.
They didn't celebrate their victory over Demacia.
They respected their enemy because they believed they were strong enough to deserve a worthy opponent.
Fearless people.
Confident, even proud.
Their soldiers were elite, their culture ambitious, and their leaders capable.
Jarvan looked around as they rode deeper into Noxus's heart, taking it in—the fortress, the people, the feeling in the air.
"Noxus is... not what I imagined," he said, voice low.
"Stay a few more days," Xin Zhao replied evenly.
"You'll see more than you expect."
"I intend to."
Jarvan's voice carried a weight of curiosity—and perhaps something more.
As he scanned the towering walls and bustling avenues, a thought lingered in the back of his mind:
What if Demacia lacks something? Is it here?
Passing through the outlying districts with their distinct national styles, the Lightshield Bulwark settled into the designated quarters prepared for them.
Meanwhile, Jarvan IV and General Laurent continued forward, following Xin Zhao deeper into the Immortal Bastion.
"You're the first delegation from another nation to visit Noxus in decades," Xin Zhao remarked as they walked.
"Not even once before?" Jarvan frowned slightly.
He knew that many duchies and kingdoms across Valoran had fallen to Noxus.
Some still existed—barely—but their influence had waned.
"The Empire does not entertain the pleas of the weak," Xin Zhao said, his voice calm but absolute.
"We conquer. There are only two outcomes: surrender... or destruction."
"Perhaps there's a third option," Jarvan said evenly.
He didn't refute Xin Zhao's point—he couldn't.
Noxus had the strength to make such claims, and the discipline and ambition to back them up.
With the power he'd seen, they weren't just fighting on all fronts—they could potentially unify the entire continent.
But Jarvan had not come only to measure power. He saw a different kind of opportunity now—an opening, however narrow, for diplomacy. For time.
Time that Demacia could use to resolve its internal fractures.
Even so, he held firm. There were values Demacia would never compromise.
He remembered his father's words before their departure.
"Better to fall with honor than live without conviction."
As they approached the wide expanse of White Stone Square, Jarvan's thoughts were interrupted.
He froze for a moment upon seeing the massive hilt of the Sword of Justice, thrust deep into the ground like a monument.
Both he and General Laurent visibly tensed.
"The General says one day this square will be filled with the weapons of gods," Xin Zhao said casually, noting their expressions.
"Filled...?" Jarvan glanced around the open square, feeling its vastness.
He couldn't help but be impressed by the scale and the ambition.
"Was that Darius who said it?" he asked, knowing Darius led the Trifarian Legion. Xin Zhao, he assumed, was his second-in-command.
But Xin Zhao's expression hardened. His tone turned solemn.
"I have only one general. His Majesty, the President—the head of the Trifarian Council."
Jarvan's eyes narrowed slightly.
"The President…"
He remembered that night vividly—the storm of magic erupting skyward, the immense power wielded with perfect control.
And the final blow.
Demacia's Winged Protector was slain with a single thrust through the heart by that same man.
"The strength of your rulers is too weak," Xin Zhao said firmly.
"Each seat-holder of the Trifarian Council could defeat your legions alone."
"The Trifarian Council..." Jarvan murmured, his voice steady.
"Impressive."
He didn't argue. The Lightshields had never relied solely on brute force.
Their strength came from a different kind of legacy—one he still believed in.
Now, standing before the towering doors of the Noxian Council Hall, Jarvan's gaze sharpened.
His expression was difficult to read—equal parts wary and resolute.
He had witnessed Noxus's power. But there was more to understand.
If Demacia was to endure—and evolve—he needed to see beyond the battlefield.
Crrrk...
With a heavy groan of stone and iron, the great doors began to open inward, revealing the shadowed interior of the chamber where Noxus's most powerful rulers awaited.