In the desolate wasteland lay the body of a nameless warrior. His rusted, ancient armor clung to a frame of bare bones. Around him lay countless other corpses, eerily similar in their lifelessness. In the distance, a faint blue light flickered, cutting through the oppressive darkness. The light drew closer, and for a brief moment, the hollow sockets of one of the dead glimmered with life, only to dim once more. It was a soul, unable to accept death, desperately searching for its body.
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Time passed—decades slipped away like whispers in the wind. The name of the legendary warrior of that age, his deeds, and the legacy of his clan faded into obscurity. What remained was a scattering of desperate people, too afraid to leave their shelters, slowly succumbing to hunger and despair.
The warrior's son, Asur, became a disciple of Lissandra, growing into a truly formidable mage, steeped in the hidden secrets of the world. Lissandra's plan worked with ruthless efficiency—Freljord's tribes began to forget their ancient gods. More and more clans turned away from their faith, seeking a new path, a new purpose.
Asur once dreamed of traveling the world, just as his father had. But his years within the citadel changed him, reshaping him into a different man. In all things, he revered his adoptive mother above all.
Meanwhile, the world marched on. Captain Buck rose to fame as a legendary explorer, traversing the world and recounting countless tales of wonder. One fateful day, he encountered a mythical kraken that nearly destroyed his ship. But fate smiled upon him, and he survived the ordeal.
However, all adventures must come to an end. As he grew old, Buck could no longer roam the seas. He settled in Piltover, a thriving city of progress and commerce nestled along the prosperous coastlines. There, he established a trading clan and managed it with great success. Yet, one regret haunted him—the search for his lost friend. Year after year, he poured his wealth into chasing any rumor, any clue about his whereabouts, but all efforts were in vain.
Syndra, meanwhile, delved ever deeper into her dark powers—a choice that proved her greatest folly. Arrogance consumed her, silencing the voices of reason around her. She acted on her whims, heedless of consequence. Her defiance brought her into conflict with the Kinkou Order, and in time, they were forced to imprison her within an eternal dungeon. Too much destruction had followed in her wake, and too many spirits had fallen to her unrelenting ambition.
In the suffocating darkness of her prison, her hatred and fury simmered, festering into something far more dangerous.
402 years after the founding of Noxus.
The Noxian Empire began its conquest, an unstoppable force sweeping across the land. No army could stand against their relentless advance. Their iron discipline and the unparalleled tactics of their generals bent nations to their will. The empire's borders expanded with alarming speed, swallowing vast territories in its wake.
Their conquests reached in all directions: north toward the Freljord, west toward Demacia, and south to the coastal lands. To the east, they ruled the seas with an iron grip, deploying vast warships to dominate the waters. Where once pirates roamed freely, Noxian patrols now reigned supreme. The sight of a pirate flag was met with swift and merciless destruction, the ships sunk with all hands aboard.
As the years passed, the Noxian Empire only grew stronger. The Immortal Bastion became the beating heart of their power. This fortress, impervious to time and catastrophe, safeguarded all that mattered. Within its walls, industry thrived, producing the weapons and machinery that fueled the unstoppable Noxian army.
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Vast districts were consumed by sprawling workshops, their air thick with the acrid smoke of roaring furnaces. In one such forge, a young boy labored tirelessly. He worked at the anvil, hammering away at a raw steel blank. Born into the era of Noxian conquests, he was a true patriot of his empire, believing wholeheartedly that his nation would bring prosperity to all. Under its guidance, he was certain, the entire world could flourish. Though the relentless grind of daily labor had tempered his youthful zeal, his faith in Noxus remained steadfast.
The boy had just turned fifteen. His talent for blacksmithing had caught the attention of a master smith, who had taken him on as an apprentice. For the past two years, he had honed his craft in the workshop. Their forge specialized in producing raw steel for the manufacture of weapons.
Today, however, the boy was working on something he believed could transform the workshop forever. Steel alone brought in modest profits, but finished products—swords, axes, shields, and armor—were far more lucrative.
He had only been able to watch from afar as the master smiths forged weapons, marveling at their skill. To him, the steel seemed almost alive, bending and shaping itself to the master's will. Each strike of the hammer painted the contours of a future masterpiece as though it were a brushstroke. When the steel cooled slightly, the boy carefully lifted the blank and carried it back to the forge. The intense heat scorched his face, and the ever-present soot and smoke blackened his skin and clothes.
Once the metal was glowing red-hot again, he pulled it from the flames and resumed hammering. The process repeated for hours, and at last, the vague outline of a sword began to take shape. He plunged the blank into water, quenching the metal with a sharp hiss. Though he didn't know the precise techniques of the masters and his skills were still developing, even his careful observation of their work had taught him much about the craft.
When the metal had cooled completely, he sat at the grinding wheel to refine its form. Slowly, the surface of the blade became polished, glinting as light caught its surface. In its reflection, the boy could see his own face, smiling with satisfaction as he brought his creation closer to completion.
So engrossed was he in his work that he failed to notice the approach of a looming figure—a burly man with a thick black beard and an imposing frame. The man's massive hands, rough and powerful, resembled the paws of a bear. He placed one of them firmly on the boy's shoulder, startling him.
"What are you doing, Han?" the man asked sternly.
"Master, I've forged a sword," the boy replied excitedly, holding up the blade.
"That's not a sword—it's scrap. Our job is to process ore. That's our purpose. Stop playing games. Did you finish the 20 kilograms of iron I asked for?" the man demanded sharply.
"But, Master," Han protested, "if we make finished products, we could increase our profits instead of just selling raw steel."
"We're earning more than enough turning ore into iron," the master interrupted. "Now, did you complete my task?"
Seeing the futility of arguing, Han's shoulders slumped. He respected his master deeply, but he often struggled to understand why the man refused to innovate, clinging instead to the methods passed down from his father.
"No," Han replied.
"You disappoint me, boy. There's still time before evening—get to work," the master said and turned back to stoke the furnace for the next smelting cycle.
Han glanced at the sword he had worked on and ran his fingers along its edge. It had turned out well; all it needed was a hilt, and it would be complete. With a heavy heart, he tossed the blade aside, abandoning the creation he had poured days of effort into. Resigned, he returned to the monotonous task of separating ore from slag. It was a tedious and unpleasant process, one he had done countless times before. He knew he wouldn't leave for home today—it would be a late night.
Their forge had strict production quotas to meet, ensuring the army's steady supply of materials. Noxus left no room for failure; those who dared fall short would face dire consequences. Still, the quotas were carefully calibrated to avoid pushing the workers beyond their limits.
Hours passed, and Han, now exhausted, took a moment to sit down and rest. The assignment was nearly finished, with only a little more to go.
"That's enough for today—you can leave," the master finally said. Han was about to step out when the man grabbed his arm.
"Listen, boy. We do our work and get paid for it. Sometimes, you need to understand—it's not worth sticking your neck into places where others will tear you apart," the master said.
Han nodded silently and hurried away.
Once Han was gone, the master retrieved the discarded blade from the scrap pile. Examining its edge closely, he muttered, "Light." Then, striking the blade against the anvil, he noticed a slight cut it left on the metal. "Strong," he added with a note of approval.
The master wanted the best for his apprentice, knowing full well that Han wouldn't stay in the forge forever. As he gazed at the sword, he realized it was only a matter of time before the boy moved on. Setting the blade aside, he decided to take it to a fellow smith later. For now, he turned back to the state order, stoking the furnace to burn hotter.
By the time Han arrived home, twilight had settled over the city. His house was in one of the poorest districts, yet it was built from sturdy stone—a testament to Noxus's commitment to providing its citizens with warm and durable shelters.
Entering, Han headed straight to the washroom, where only cold water awaited him.
His father was a soldier in the Noxian army. By law, most boys were conscripted into military service at sixteen. Some stayed for life, others returned home, and many gave their lives for lands far from their own. Han's mother had passed away years ago, succumbing to an illness after a long and futile battle. He also had a younger brother, Ju, who had recently turned twelve. Ju was already training in the ways of war, attending a military camp.
After washing up, Han went to the kitchen, where a meal was waiting. Ju must have returned earlier and prepared dinner. The brothers relied on each other to get by.
"I'm starving," Han said as he began to eat.
The noise drew Ju into the kitchen. Seeing his brother, he sat down beside him.
"I was worried something had happened to you. You're late," Ju said.
"Had to stay behind to finish an order," Han replied.
"Did you finish your sword?" Ju asked, knowing how much Han dreamed of forging a legendary weapon.
"No. The master said it's junk," Han answered glumly.
"Come on, you'll get it next time. Just keep trying," Ju encouraged.
"Thanks. I'll give it another shot," Han said, though he felt his spirit had drained away.
He ruffled Ju's hair affectionately before heading to bed. Collapsing onto the mattress, Han closed his eyes and fell into an exhausted sleep almost instantly.
In his dream, Han stood before a blazing forge, his expression serious as he worked tirelessly on crafting a sword. The blade absorbed the fire, growing hotter and more radiant with each strike. As he shaped the weapon, intricate wave-like patterns emerged along its edge. When the blade was complete, Han gazed at his reflection in its polished surface. The sword was sharp and light, a perfect creation.
Attaching the hilt, he set the guard in place and wrapped the grip with cord. Finally, the weapon was complete. Han struck a piece of wood with the blade, and it cleaved effortlessly in two. The sword met no resistance, its edge impossibly sharp.
The sweet dream was abruptly broken by the morning clamor of the city. Han shot up in bed, disoriented, struggling to grasp what had happened.
"It was just a dream," he muttered to himself. "Forget these fantasies, Han. Live in the real world."
He went about his simple morning routine: washing up, eating a modest breakfast, and preparing for the day ahead. Ready for another grueling day at the forge, he stepped outside.
His home was close to the workshop, situated in one of the cheapest districts, constantly filled with the din of industry from dawn until late at night.
The streets were already crowded, as people bustled about their daily tasks. Navigating through the throng, Han made his way to the industrial quarter, where the density of workers increased even more.
At last, he arrived at the workshop, where his master was already stoking the forge's flames.
"Master," Han called out in greeting.
"Standard orders today, nothing extra," the master replied, barely looking up. "I'll need to step out later to take care of some business. I trust you won't waste time trying to forge another sword?"
"Yes, I understand my mistake," Han said, bowing his head slightly.
"Good. Get started."
Han got to work, stoking the forge and gradually feeding it ore and reagents. The repetitive process was second nature to him now, ingrained through endless repetition.
By noon, the master announced his departure, grabbing a satchel before heading out. The moment he left, Han felt a powerful urge to try forging a sword again. Something inside him pushed him toward the forge, a voice whispering that he must create. But he quelled the impulse, resigning himself to routine. Childhood dreams fade when faced with the stark realities of life, left to wither without a chance to bloom.
As the workday wound down, Han finished pouring molten iron into molds and left the pieces to cool. By then, the master had returned, his demeanor unusually grim. He sat heavily on a stool and motioned for Han to sit across from him.
"I need to talk to you," the master said. He set his satchel down and pulled out a sword with a hilt wrapped in leather. It was Han's sword, but it looked completely transformed.
"I showed this to a weaponsmith," the master began. "He said it was absolute garbage. But when I told him who made it, he was astonished. At my request, he made it functional. Here, take it." He handed the sword to Han.
Han stared at the weapon in shock. It looked nothing like the crude blade he had forged—it was now refined, gleaming, and formidable. He could hardly believe it was his creation.
"You've got talent, no question about it," the master continued. "You've outgrown this workshop, boy. It's time for you to move on. This sword proves it. I've spoken to some people, and one of them is looking for an apprentice. You'll make a fine smith—better than me, that's for sure."
Han sat in stunned silence, his mind reeling. Slowly, the pieces clicked into place, and an overwhelming joy surged through him. With a jubilant cry, he threw his arms around his master.
"Cut it out, you brat! Get off me, blast you!" the master yelled, trying to shove Han away.
Han finally let go, but his grin stretched from ear to ear, tears of gratitude glistening in his eyes. The master grumbled but couldn't fully hide the pride in his expression as he watched his apprentice prepare for a new chapter.
"Thank you, Master, thank you! This is the dream of my life!" exclaimed Han, unable to contain his excitement.
"Alright, alright, that's enough!" the master chuckled. "Did you finish the order?"
"Almost, I just need to stack it and clean up," Han replied.
"Then wrap it up, and we'll head to meet my acquaintance," the master said.
With renewed energy, Han set to work, pulling the iron ingots from their molds and stacking them neatly in the workshop's corner. Once that was done, he tidied up the mess left from his work, his heart racing with anticipation.
"I see you're done. Let's go," the master said.
The industrial district was divided into several sectors. The workshop where Han worked was located in the preparation sector. Here, everything necessary for complete production was handled: smelting ore, producing thin metal sheets for carts, and forging nails, anvils, hammers, and other tools. The largest and most prominent sector was the forge district, where finished armor, swords, and shields were made, along with various siege weapons. Many nations built fortresses that had to be stormed, and relying solely on ladders led to heavy losses.
As they passed through the forge sector and neared the edge of the industrial district, they entered the sector of individual workshops. Unlike mass production, this area focused on custom work: army commanders selected personalized armor and swords, and one could find various ornaments and clothing here. Han was puzzled as to why they had come to this place.
Before long, the master stopped in front of a small forge, where an elderly man sat with his eyes closed, his hands gliding over a blade.
"Saburo, this is the young man I told you about," the master said.
"This clumsy one? Hmph, I didn't expect much from him," Saburo replied, raising the blade in his hands. It was a masterpiece: the edge rippled with a wave-like pattern, the blade was razor-sharp, and the hilt and balance were flawless — it looked like a sword straight out of Han's dreams. With practiced ease, Saburo sheathed the blade.
Han felt a sting of offense at the old man's words.
"So, will you take him as an apprentice?" the master asked.
"Hmm, we'll see. Have him come tomorrow, and I'll see what he's capable of," Saburo replied.
"Did you hear that, Han?" the master asked.
"Yes," Han nodded.
Han could barely contain his excitement: he was being offered an apprenticeship with a blacksmith who created such extraordinary weapons, though he knew little about him.
"Master, who is this Saburo? I've never heard of him," Han asked.
"Heh, he's not from around here. They say he came from distant shores. No one knows exactly where, but he's settled here. He only makes one sword every two months, but those blades are worth hundreds of others. They don't rust, don't break, and their edges almost never dull. And he's a skilled swordsman himself," the master explained.
This information impressed Han even more. He realized that this opportunity would be a new challenge, but it only strengthened his resolve to become the best blacksmith he could be.
Turning around, Han took a closer look at Saburo's workshop. It was crafted in a style unlike anything he was used to. While practicality was the priority in Noxian architecture, here intricate carvings adorned the wood, blending harmoniously into the structure. The fire blazing in the forge and the unusual roof design gave the place a unique aura.
Saburo's workshop was surrounded by a garden filled with trees and flowers unfamiliar to Han. He felt a special energy radiating from the place. Every detail, from the small carved figures on the walls to the neatly trimmed bushes, spoke of care and meticulous attention to detail. This was not just a workshop — it was a true temple of the blacksmith's craft.
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