A New Dawn
"It has been a millennia since the Rune Wars. But they were not mere wars."
A old man’s voice, heavy with the weight of history, reverberated through the dim-lit library. His eyes, distant as they stared into the flickering flames, seemed to be lost in a time far removed from the present. “Civilizations fell. Whole cities were erased from the face of Runeterra. Magic, wild and unrestrained, tore through the world, leaving nothing but chaos. The world itself was scarred.”
Jericho Swain, only twelve years old, sat silently across from his grandfather, listening intently. His mind was sharp, his hunger for knowledge far exceeding that of most boys his age. But he felt the truth in the elder's words. The Rune Wars, legends of devastation passed down in hushed tones, held an inescapable reality.
"But many did not survive, Jericho," the old man continued, the weight of his voice pressing down. "Thousands perished. The Arcane—unstable and uncontrollable—was wielded by those who dared to reach for too much. But when the war ended, when the smoke cleared… Noxus was born."
Jericho’s gaze sharpened. "Noxus was born!" he repeated, more to himself than to his grandfather. It was more than just a city to him; it was his inheritance. The city-state built on strength, where only the fittest could thrive.
"Yes," the old man said, his tone turning grim. "Noxus rose from the ashes of the Rune Wars. It was founded on the belief that survival, true survival, comes from strength. Not just the strength to fight, but the strength to endure, to rise again when all seems lost. The Rune Wars were just the first cycle, Jericho. A cycle that will continue as long as the world remains. Only the strongest will remain in the end."
Jericho’s eyes, wide with intensity, met his grandfather’s gaze. “The strongest... and who decides who is strongest?”
The old man smiled softly, though it was a knowing smile. "The strong decide. Always have. Always will."
The boy leaned forward, his voice low but determined. "Then how does one become stronger? To be the one who chooses?"
The old man paused, his fingers tapping the edge of a well-worn book on the table. "By wielding the weapons of the gods."
Jericho’s heart quickened. "Weapons of the gods?"
“Yes,” the old man said, his voice filled with reverence. “Relics of immense power. These were the true sources of strength during the Rune Wars. And those who held them could shape the world around them, bending the very fabric of reality.”
Jericho’s mind raced. "And where can I find these weapons?"
The old man closed the book slowly, his eyes narrowing. "You won’t find them by searching blindly, Jericho. You will need to earn the right to wield such power. The gods did not make it easy. It takes more than strength—"
"Then what?" Jericho interrupted, his voice laced with impatience.
The old man looked at him, a strange, almost proud gleam in his eyes. "It takes sacrifice. Sacrifice beyond what you can imagine. To wield such power, you must be willing to give up everything."
Jericho met his gaze, unflinching. “I will give whatever it takes.”
The old man studied him for a long moment, the weight of his years evident in his eyes. Finally, he spoke, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “The world has a cruel way of testing its people, Jericho. Times of peace are but moments of stillness before the next storm.”
Jericho’s brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing.
“Men forget too easily,” the old man continued. “We build, we flourish, we grow complacent. But ruin…” He exhaled deeply, his hand resting on the cover of the book. “Ruin has always found its way back to us. And it will again.”
Jericho’s young mind clung to every word. The flicker of firelight cast shadows across his grandfather’s face, making him look older, almost spectral, as though he had seen the ruin he spoke of.
“Then how do we stop it?” Jericho pressed, his voice low but fierce. “How do we keep Noxus safe?”
The old man smiled faintly, but it was a tired, knowing smile. “We do not stop storms, Jericho. We survive them.” He reached for the book and pushed it toward the boy. “And those who survive… those who endure… are the ones who learn to wield the power left behind when the storm passes.”
Jericho’s hands moved instinctively, grasping the old leather tome. Its weight was heavy in his lap, as though the knowledge within carried a gravity of its own. His fingers brushed the edge of its yellowed pages, and the old man’s voice fell softer still.
“Strength is more than muscle or might, Jericho. Strength is the will to outlast ruin. To endure what others cannot.”
Jericho opened the book slowly, reverently, as though he were touching something sacred. The pages rustled faintly, each one marked with careful, handwritten script. Then, almost by chance, his eyes caught on an illustration.
The image stopped him.
It was a woman—no, something more. Her figure was graceful yet otherworldly, draped in flowing silks that seemed to shift on the page. Her face was striking, serene, but her eyes were sharp, as though they could pierce through the reader’s soul. Behind her, nine long tails unfurled like tendrils of smoke, curling with a life of their own. There was no name written beneath her image, but something about her captivated Jericho’s gaze.
The old man’s voice pulled him back to the room. “The world holds such mysteries, Jericho. Figures of power, forgotten by most, yet they persist. Waiting.”
Jericho tore his gaze from the page, his curiosity burning in his chest. “And where are they now?”
The old man’s smile returned, thin and cryptic. “Perhaps where no one dares to look. Or perhaps closer than you think.”
Jericho closed the book slowly, the rustle of its pages echoing in the silence. His grandfather’s words hung heavy in the air, but he said nothing more. The young boy sat straighter now, his grip firm on the tome.
The old man rose, his cane tapping softly against the stone floor as he moved toward the hearth. “There will come a time, Jericho,” he said, staring into the flames, “when you must decide what you are willing to sacrifice. For strength. For Noxus. For yourself.”
Jericho looked down at the book in his hands, its surface worn but solid. In that moment, he understood: the world was not something to be trusted. It was something to be conquered.
The flames crackled louder as if punctuating the thought, and Jericho Swain sat still, the shadows of the fire dancing across his face.
The Present (3 Months after the fight between Swain, Jinx, Ekko & Warwick)
The library had not changed, though Jericho Swain had. He sat now in his grandfather’s seat, his posture rigid, his face carved from stone. Across the desk, an old photograph of his grandfather watched him, a silent reminder of words spoken long ago.
Swain leaned back in the chair, his gloved fingers tracing the edge of the very book that had sparked his obsession. His left hand, gnarled and unnatural beneath its dark leather glove, twitched faintly—an ever-present reminder of the price he had paid. The firelight cast shadows over the arm, hinting at its true form: a twisted, demonic appendage, its power thrumming just beneath the surface.
His lips curled into a faint smile, sharp and humorless.
“Ruin comes for all, Grandfather,” he said softly, his voice carrying a dark certainty. “But I will not be the one left in its wake. I will wield its power. I will shape it.”
As if responding to his words, the cursed hand seemed to tighten, the veins beneath the glove briefly pulsing with crimson light. Swain’s gaze remained locked on the photograph, unshaken, his eyes glinting in the firelight—cold and unyielding.
“I will decide who survives.”
Ravenhurst – A small town in Kalstead
Jinx—no, Powder, as she now called herself—stood at the edge of the arena, her electric-blue hair swaying as though caught in an unseen breeze. She still dressed the same: a chaotic patchwork of straps, belts, and mismatched clothing that clung to her like a second skin. The Powder of old was a ghost in her heart, but here—laughing, shouting, living—she was finally finding room for both selves.
The crowd—a teeming, restless sea of small voices—held its breath as two final warriors faced each other in the grand arena. Dust swirled around them, kicked up by the fury of their movements. For the fallen, silence reigned. For the remaining champions, the weight of glory lay heavy.
Powder’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding, cutting through the rising tension.
“Two warriors remain! Their strength tested, their foes crushed! But only one will stand victorious!”
She crouched at the edge of the arena, her grin wide—infectious—and her voice carried the weight of a storyteller who’d spun thousands of tales.
“The legendary Buzzsaw Blitzkrieg!” she cried, pointing dramatically to the jittery green figure that scuttled forward, its movements quick and aggressive.
“Versus… the Titan of Tenacity—Shellshock the Mighty!”
A heavy beetle, legs stiff and slow, braced itself for the final charge.
The crowd erupted. Cheers rose, small fists pumped into the air, as Powder swept her hand above the battlefield like a conductor directing the crescendo of an orchestra.
“This is it, folks! The battle to decide the fate of kingdoms! The clash that will go down in history!”
The two combatants met at the center of the arena.
For a moment, they stared each other down—motionless. Then, as though spurred by an unseen signal, they lunged.
Buzzsaw darted to the left, a blur of green legs. Shellshock shifted its weight, pincers snapping, trying to catch its nimble foe. The crowd gasped as the smaller figure slipped past with expert precision, circling the lumbering beetle like a predator stalking its prey.
“Shellshock swings wide!” Powder howled, crouching lower to the battlefield, her excitement palpable. “But Buzzsaw is too fast—too clever!”
The beetle lunged again, slower this time, and Buzzsaw struck—ramming its tiny body against its foe’s shell. Shellshock wobbled dangerously near the edge.
The crowd screamed. Powder's voice rose in a breathless crescendo.
“Is this it? IS THIS IT?!”
Shellshock steadied itself. Cheers turned into anxious murmurs. Buzzsaw retreated, as though preparing for one final blow.
Time seemed to freeze.
Then—Buzzsaw darted forward once more, a blur of green. It collided with Shellshock, driving its bulk backward.
The crowd went wild.
“HE’S DONE IT!” Powder shrieked. “BUZZSAW BLITZKRIEG WINS!”
The heavy beetle teetered… and finally fell.
There was a long, exaggerated silence. All eyes tracked its descent, the tension hanging like a final heartbeat. Then the beetle landed with a soft, barely audible plop—on the cobbled ground no more than two feet below.
The arena, as it turned out, was nothing more than a battered wooden table.
The crowd, no larger than a gaggle of wide-eyed children, erupted into jubilant cheers. Powder hopped onto the table, her hands thrown in the air like she’d just announced the victor of a grand championship.
“BUZZSAW BLITZKRIEG!” she called, sweeping up the wiry green beetle. “The champion belongs to… Kenny!”
A freckle-faced boy jumped up and down, his hands shooting skyward in triumph. Powder hoisted his tiny hand and the beetle high into the air, grinning ear to ear.
Around her, the “audience” clapped and whooped as though they’d just witnessed a true epic. Near the front of the crowd, a little girl frowned down at her beetle, her expression heavy with disappointment.
“Tali, the runner-up,” Powder announced, crouching beside her and offering an exaggerated look of sympathy. “Hey, second place? That’s practically royal status.”
Tali scuffed her shoe against the ground but cracked a smile at Powder’s wink.
Around them, life in Ravenhurst’s town square was going as usual. A group of laborers passed, smiling as they watched Powder hand Kenny his prized bug back. People waved to her, calling her name as they went.
“Good one today, Powder!” a baker called.
She gave a two-fingered salute, her grin never faltering.
Meanwhile, Ekko stood silently in the shadow of a stone wall, his arms loosely crossed, his gaze fixed on Powder. She was on the table again, spinning in an exaggerated circle, the “champion” beetle raised triumphantly in one hand as the children cheered around her. The sunlight caught her wild blue hair, her laughter ringing through the square like music.
For a moment, Ekko didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The corner of his lips curled into a faint, unguarded smile as he watched her. She looked free—a far cry from the chaos they’d all survived.
“You love her, don’t you?”
Ekko startled. His head snapped to the side, finding Maya standing beside him. He hadn’t even noticed her approach. She leaned casually against the wall, her arms folded, her gaze soft but knowing.
“I—what?” Ekko stammered, too quickly.
Maya raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a knowing smirk. “You heard me.”
Ekko turned back toward the square, suddenly very interested in watching Powder, though a faint flush crept to his cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh,” Maya said dryly, unimpressed.
Ekko shifted uncomfortably, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s not—she’s just… different here.”
Maya’s smirk softened, her gaze following his. Powder had climbed down from the table now, crouching to ruffle a child’s hair while she inspected another beetle. A baker passed by, chuckling as he called her name—Powder—and she shot him a playful salute. She seemed untouchable in this moment, a force of light and energy.
“She’s happy,” Maya said softly. “And you like seeing her this way.”
Ekko’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression conflicted. “She deserves to be happy,” he said after a long pause, the words quiet but firm.
Maya glanced at him, studying his face carefully. “And you care about her.”
Ekko sighed, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of the truth had finally caught up to him. He didn’t answer right away, his gaze still fixed on Powder as she raised the champion beetle’s hand—er, legs—once more to the cheers of her tiny audience.
Finally, he said, almost reluctantly, “Yeah. I do.”
Maya nodded, satisfied. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”
Ekko shot her a sideways glance, suspicion flickering in his eyes. “It’s not a secret.”
“Sure,” Maya said, clearly not believing him. “Whatever you say.”
Ekko huffed, but his protest died on his lips as he turned back toward Powder. She was laughing again, carefree and full of life, as though nothing in the world could touch her.
Ekko’s expression softened, the shadow behind his eyes momentarily lifting. For now, he let himself watch her—just watch—content to stand quietly at the edge of the moment.
The crowd of children had begun to disperse, their laughter and cheers still lingering in the air. Powder crouched near the table, her hands on her knees as she grinned down at the champion beetle and its proud owner.
Then, a commotion. The sharp sound of footsteps pounding against cobblestone.
A boy came barreling through the crowd, his face flushed, his breathing heavy. Powder straightened, her smile faltering as the urgency in his steps hit her. The children turned to look, their excitement shifting to confusion.
“Whoa, whoa, slow down!” Powder called, holding up her hands as the boy skidded to a halt just in front of her. His chest heaved, sweat beading on his forehead. “What’s the rush, kid?”
She placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. “Tomas,” she said, her tone softening. “What happened?”
The boy blinked up at her, his eyes wide with something between awe and fear. “Come with me, Powder,” he panted, tugging at her wrist. “You have to come. I—I saw it!”
Powder’s brows knitted, her lips parting as she exchanged a glance with the other children. A hush had fallen over the square now, curiosity heavy in the air.