The Capital of Turkgur
When Ryan dragged the dying dragon from the sky, the city had already fallen under the control of the Trifarian Legion.
The once-mighty walls of the capital lay in ruins, reduced to scattered rubble across the bloodstained earth.
Destruction and death stretched as far as the eye could see.
The streets were littered with corpses—twisted, mangled, and reeking of decay.
In front of a noble's mansion, a finely dressed, pale-skinned old man and woman were shoved into the square.
The common folk, long burdened with hatred, now dragged them forward.
Shouting. Cursing. The crowd roared, the noise flooding the square like a wave.
Then Ryan descended—and everything shifted.
The crowd fell into a hushed murmur.
The nobles looked up in stunned awe, thinking this fearsome figure must be a divine punishment sent to smite the unruly mob.
But before that illusion could settle, a column of heavily armored cavalry burst forth from the palace.
Weidlin led them, his voice loud and firm as he dismounted and dropped to one knee.
"Congratulations on your triumph, General."
"Just Ryan. We've known each other too long for that," Ryan replied with a faint smile.
"How's Darius?"
As he spoke, he waved a hand. The colossal dragon, still bound by chains, crashed to the ground behind him, sending up a cloud of dust.
Shyvana, silent and unreadable, stood behind him in her draconic form.
"This…"
Weidlin's gaze flicked between Ryan and the massive creature, a flicker of realization crossing his face.
Remembering Darius's behavior on the campaign, he seemed to grasp the unspoken truth.
He nodded solemnly, though still addressed Ryan with official respect:
"President! Please allow us to present our battle report!"
"Have that dragon watched. Then send it back to the Immortal Bastion," Ryan said flatly, already walking toward the city gates.
He didn't look back.
The dragon wouldn't awaken without his consent, wounded or not.
"Yes, sir! Right away, President!"
Weidlin quickly organized a detachment to guard the dragon, then caught up with Ryan and Shyvana.
As they walked, Ryan asked casually, "What do you think of him, Weidlin?"
"General Darius…" Weidlin hesitated beneath his helmet.
"With all due respect, he's not at your level—or Lord Swain's."
Ryan chuckled.
"Still the same as ever. If Grote knew you hadn't changed, he'd try to pull himself out of that chair and come back into the ranks."
Around these old comrades, Ryan felt a rare ease.
They had always worked toward the same vision, each in their own way.
"Hah. I'm just a foot soldier from the chapter. Grote can't even walk straight on that bad leg," Weidlin laughed, slapping his armored thigh.
Ryan turned serious. "Come on. I need to know if I'm leaving things in good hands."
Weidlin's tone sobered.
"He's not you. Not Swain. But… he's strong. Steady. He has what it takes to lead."
Ryan smiled faintly.
"Then he's not strong enough yet."
"You seem to have a lot of faith in him," Weidlin said, a trace of unease in his voice.
Like many others, he couldn't imagine anyone surpassing Ryan or Swain.
"He has something we don't. That's why he can represent the might of the Empire."
Ryan stopped, eyes fixed on the distant square.
"We're here. Let's watch."
"If it were the President or the Commander," Weidlin muttered, "no one would dare breathe too loud."
He stood one pace behind Ryan, eyes scanning the crowd beside Shyvana.
He'd marched with Ryan and Swain, seeing them break kingdoms with strategy and strength.
Darius wasn't as fearsome as Ryan, nor as ruthless as Swain.
But people followed him.
Not out of fear, but because he lit something inside them—something that made them believe Noxus could be more than conquest.
'Maybe that's what His Excellency meant…' Weidlin thought.
A massive crowd had gathered on the high platform, buzzing with emotion.
Clang!
Darius slammed his axe into the stone, the steel blade burying itself deep in the square.
He stood tall, his brow low, eyes sweeping across the assembly crushingly.
Silence fell.
Darius's voice rang out, steady and deep:
"Many call Noxus a demon. A butcher. I know some of you think the same."
"You didn't welcome us because you thought life would be easier. You followed us because our presence gave you the strength to fight back."
His gaze moved across the crowd. Most avoided his eyes.
A few stood tall and met his stare, chins lifted in defiance or belief.
The rest looked mad with fear. To them, Noxus meant death, whether noble or peasant.
Without a word, Darius turned and approached a kneeling old man.
The man wore a golden crown—his identity beyond question.
Darius reached out, tore the crown from his head, and held it up casually, like a toy snatched from a child.
At the sight before them, gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by the faint sound of feet shuffling backward.
Darius ignored the fear and hesitation.
His expression remained cold as he raised the crown for all to see.
"Listen well," he declared, his voice cutting through the silence.
"I don't care what you think of us. But we are here now—and we bring a choice."
"The kings forced you to kneel with bloodlines and lies. But Noxus—Noxus wants you to stand."
"To be reborn in glory. To show the world who you are."
His voice rose with each word, heavy with conviction.
The golden crown—once the symbol of supreme power—began to bend in his hand, crushed easily by his grip.
It was like watching the idea of royal authority being dismantled, one crumple at a time.
"New citizens of Noxus!" Darius bellowed.
"Take up your weapons. Remember your suffering. Cast off your cowardice."
"Stand! Stand before me!"
As his final words rang out, he crushed the crown into a twisted ball of gold—its brilliance and pride gone, reduced to scrap in his palm.
Then, without ceremony, he hurled it into the nearby forge.
Goooo—
The molten iron hissed and bubbled.
The deformed crown sank and vanished, swallowed by the flames as if it had never existed.
Eyes widened across the square.
They had witnessed something no one thought possible.
The crown—the untouchable, the divine symbol of rule—was gone.
It shattered everything they believed about power.
For generations, the monarchy had been sacred.
Many in the crowd had never even seen the crown, only heard whispers of its opulence.
To them, it was a myth. Untouchable. Eternal.
And yet, this man-this general-had crushed it like clay and tossed it aside.
What a desecration. What a revelation.
The imperial authority that once loomed over them, aloof and untouchable, had just been destroyed—openly, deliberately, without consequence.
The rules they had lived by, feared, and bowed to their whole lives—turned to ash before their eyes.
Some laughed in disbelief. Others broke down in tears.
And some stood frozen, the sound of their illusions shattering ringing in their ears like breaking glass.
Because something had broken.
The kingship was dead.
In its place, something new was being born.
And in that moment, the people of Turkgul began to feel it.
The desire to rise. To live—not as servants—but as Noxians.
This day would mark the beginning of a new era.
Darius turned and unfurled the Noxian banner as the forge sizzled behind him.
It caught the wind and billowed behind him, proud, fierce, and unrelenting.
With fire in his voice, he roared:
"Noxus!!"
A single word—just four letters—but it hit like thunder.
It sparked something deep, something primal.
The crowd erupted.
"Noxus!!"
"Noxus!!"
"Noxus!!"
The chants rolled in like crashing waves. Layer upon layer, louder and louder.
Decades of pain, fear, and submission gave way to a surge of courage.
And then—
A young man broke free from the crowd.
He rushed the stage and slammed his fists into the nearest noble, a man still kneeling in stunned silence.
The people followed, like a dam had burst.
The old world was collapsing—and something fierce and free was rising.
His action was like a spark thrown into dry grass.
In an instant, the crowd ignited.
Civilians surged forward, fists raised, storming the platform and dragging the nobles down one by one.
Those who had once ruled from gilded balconies were now groveling in the dust, powerless.
There was no hesitation—only fury, long buried and finally released.
They struck with everything they had, unleashing years of humiliation, pain, and helplessness.
The square echoed with the roar of justice and revenge.
"Noxus!"
The cry tore through the air.
Shyvana, standing behind Ryan, couldn't hold it in any longer.
Her voice joined the chorus.
Then she caught herself.
She glanced sideways at Ryan, who remained still, hands calmly clasped behind his back, expression unreadable.
Shyvana bit her lip, forcing herself to remain composed.
But if she were alone, without him here, she might've joined the mob—if only to land one satisfying blow.
Darius' words still echoed in her mind, stirring something deep within her—a long-buried memory.
Faces. Voices.
Those who used to mock her, spit at her, and curse her as a half-blood—the whispers behind her back, the pointed fingers, the hatred disguised as civility.
She remembered walking home alone, fists clenched, tears she refused to shed.
She remembered biting her tongue instead of striking back.
She remembered what it was like to endure.
And then she remembered him.
The boy with arrows in his back—the one she buried with her own hands not long ago.
His body, small and frail, was riddled with Demacian arrows.
His crime? Being different. Being born with magic.
Demacia...
Her fists tightened.
Never again.
This time, she wouldn't stay silent. She wouldn't bow.
Beside her, Weidlin's face softened with emotion.
He looked out at the square, voice low with something like awe.
"Your Majesty… he truly is a different kind of general."
Ryan nodded quietly.
"Darius was born from the bottom. He knows what it means to suffer. That's why he understands what these people need. Neither I… nor Swain… ever could."
Ryan's voice was calm, but tinged with something heavier—regret, maybe. Reflection.
He wasn't of noble blood, but his power as a mage had always distanced him from the common folk.
He had traveled, seen poverty, witnessed injustice—but from the outside. He had never lived it.
He had never felt it the way Darius had.
On the high platform, the scene reached its climax.
The nobles had been reduced to broken, bloodied husks.
Some were already dead; others barely clung to life, wheezing on cracked stones.
Among them, only the king remained untouched.
The old monarch stood trembling, barely upright. His eyes, once proud and piercing, were now dull with fear.
The crown was gone. His dukes and ministers lay scattered, groaning or dead.
And in the bloodied reflection of the stone square, he saw the future—the end.
Darius lowered the Noxian standard and took a step forward. Satisfaction flickered across his face—not of cruelty, but of finality.
"From today," he declared, his voice ringing through the square, "no one will force you to kneel."
"From today, your fate will not be written by birth, but by strength."
"From today, if you dare to rise, you can rule."
He lifted his battleaxe from the stone with one arm, holding it high.
"Noxus lives in the heart of every soul with courage!"
Then, without pause, he turned and brought the axe down.
Steel met flesh.
Blood sprayed across the stone as the old king crumpled with a final gasp.
The crowd froze—not in fear, but in awe.
The symbol of monarchy, of inherited rule, of divine right—it was over.
The axe had spoken louder than any crown ever could.
There is no eternal kingship—only greater power.
That thought—raw and unsettling—began to bloom in every heart.
"Noxus!"
Darius raised the bloodstained axe overhead, the fire of revolution in his eyes.
His face was cold, but his stance brimmed with fierce anticipation.
He wasn't just killing a king.
He was building an empire.
Ryan watched from the edge of the square, silent.
His gaze lingered for a moment longer, then dropped.
Something heavy, invisible, seemed to lift from his shoulders.
He turned to Weidlin.
"Keep things in order. Let them burn the old world down—but guide them to something better after."
"Yes, sir."
And then Ryan was gone.
A pulse of runes shimmered beneath his feet, and his figure vanished with a flash of light from the magic circle.
He had done what he came to do.
Now, it was time to begin the next chapter.
The one that truly mattered.
-------------
Mageseeker Headquarters – Dungeon.
In the deepest, darkest chamber, lit only by flickering candlelight, silence reigned.
"Are there any more books about this man?" Silas asked, setting aside the latest volume—The First Solution of Rune Magic.
His voice was low, almost reverent.
"Even though I've never seen him... I can feel his greatness through these pages."
Across the bars, Luxanna said nothing.
She simply tossed another book to him.
Silas caught it eagerly, eyes gleaming with hunger—not for food, but for knowledge.
Watching this, Luxanna felt a strange tug in her heart.
"Teacher," she asked quietly, addressing the voice in her mind, "do books really have such power?"
A calm, steady voice replied inside her:
[Books are humanity's bridge to truth. Through them, you glimpse the soul of their creator. So tell me—what kind of person do you think he is?]
She knew who the teacher meant.
"...A great man," she whispered after a long pause.
The words felt small, almost inadequate.
But they were true.
She understood Silas's obsession.
Thanks to the Crownguard name, she'd had early access to many Noxian texts—though few in Demacia knew of it.
Among all the military chronicles and political documents, one name appeared again and again:
Ryan Meredith.
That name carried weight.
A flicker of childhood memory came back to her.
Her first spellbook, a Noxian one, snuck into Demacia and into her hands.
She remembered the strange thrill of reading it—the sense of seeing the world from a completely different sky.
She still remembered the conviction in its writing. The clarity. The brilliance.
This man had changed magic itself.
He didn't just wield it—he systematized it.
He broke it down into techniques any mage could learn.
And even though rune magic was scarce in Demacia, any real mage who touched its theories knew.This was the real future.
Even Luxanna—Loyal Crownguard, noble-blooded and raised on Demacian values—felt the pull.
The desire to leave it all behind.
To go to Noxus.
To learn real magic.
To understand.
But it wasn't just about magic.
Ryan's influence had reshaped Noxus from the ground up.
—A functional merit-based military.
—Rational and enforceable systems of reward and punishment.
—An emerging economy.
—Fast-developing industry.
And each reform—every last one—was detailed in his books.
Each one capable of propelling a nation forward.
And none of them usable in Demacia.
The kingdom she served stood still.
Held back by its nobility. Chained by its obsession with purity. Afraid of anything—anyone—that didn't fit the mold.
Beside such a storm of progress, Demacia was stagnant. Isolated. Decaying.
She saw no hope of victory.
That's why she had to move faster.
About half an hour later, Silas slowly looked up from his book, eyes distant.
"You're still here," he murmured, surprised.
"I've fed you this many books," Luxanna replied, arms crossed as she stepped into the cell without fear,
"Of course I want to hear what you think of Demacia."
Silas gave a soft chuckle, resting his head against the wall. His expression was unreadable.
"I'm just a prisoner. A fighter. What opinions am I allowed?"
"But the Lightshield family still holds the reins, don't they?"
Luxanna studied him, her voice quiet.
"You don't want to go back to eating raw mice again... do you?"
Her words were pointed.
She nodded toward the empty lunch box near his side, a small gesture of sympathy flickering in her eyes.
Silas's expression froze.
He remembered.
Before Luxanna started visiting, life in this cell had been hell.
Torture. Neglect. Filth.
The guards didn't care about his well-being—only that he didn't die.
And when starvation struck, he survived however he could: insects, rats, snakes.
When there was no water, he licked damp soil.
If not for the soft, loamy floor that allowed ant nests to form, he might have lost his mind.
Compared to that, his life now was almost a dream.
Luxanna came regularly. She brought real food—warm, fragrant, nourishing.
She left behind water barrels. Candles that burned for days.
Books that filled the silence.
And in those tiny, flickering lights…Silas began to feel something he hadn't in years.
Warmth.
Someone had broken through the dark.
Just a little.
Luxanna studied Silas's expression—startled, quiet—and sighed inwardly.
Maybe she'd made a mistake.
Her teacher's method was gentler: slow kindness.
Controlled empathy. Not so much that the heart clings.
But when she learned about how Silas had been living, how inhumanely he'd been treated…
She couldn't hold back.
"I'm going," she said softly, turning toward the cell door.
"I'll come again next time."
But just as her foot crossed the threshold—
"Wait!"
Silas's voice rang out, sharp and clear.
She turned, surprised.
"I need to know more," he said, serious now.
"About Demacia. I don't know enough."
Luxanna tilted her head, meeting his gaze.
After a pause, she nodded.
"Alright. What do you want to know?"
Silas hesitated.
"…Tell me about the Crownguards. Your family's history."
A flicker of something passed across Luxanna's face—surprise, maybe—but then she smiled.
She stepped forward, settling into a stool beside the bars.
The candlelight danced across her features as she began to speak.
And slowly, gently, the tales of the past began to fill the dungeon.