The training of young Han began with difficulty; the new craft did not come easily to him. Every step had to be practiced down to the finest details under Saburo's watchful eye. The master insisted that only attention to the smallest things would lead to mastery. If Han merely wanted to be a common blacksmith, he was free to leave. Despite his frustration, Han kept forging. The furnace blazed fiercely, heating the steel, while the hammer descended onto the blade hundreds—if not thousands—of times. His hands trembled with pain, his face burned, and parts of his skin went numb from the heat. His palms were long covered in calluses, but he continued to strike under the master's piercing gaze.
Four grueling months passed in relentless labor. Han had made significant progress, and his blades had reached a commendable level of quality. At last, he forged a sword—a culmination of his skills and dedication. It was meant to be his examination piece for Saburo. Han approached his teacher and presented the weapon.
"Hmm, not bad," Saburo said. As a smile began to spread across Han's face, the blade was tossed aside. "For a six-year-old child who's never held a hammer."
"But, master…" Han protested with frustration.
"Are you questioning my judgment?" Saburo asked, his gaze heavy.
"No, master," Han replied, his voice subdued.
"Good. Starting tomorrow, you'll do it all again," Saburo declared.
Han approached the discarded sword, the one his master had thrown away. The blade was indeed excellent for someone of his age and skill. But Han realized how far he still had to go to reach the level of mastery. He had seen Saburo's blades and knew what they were capable of. Setting aside his anger, he resolved to continue his training. He disliked his teacher's stern demeanor and the lack of praise, but he remained determined to learn from him.
Exhausted and drenched in sweat, Han made his way back home. As he passed through the streets, a large crowd caught his attention. They had gathered around the announcement wall, where a town crier was delivering news. Curious, Han pushed his way to the front.
"Citizens of Noxus, our empire has reached great heights! Our army is stronger than ever and now prepares for the decisive battle against our enemies. Only you can determine the outcome! All young men of conscription age are to report for enlistment. Everyone must present themselves at the military camp for registration and assignment to our valiant forces," the crier proclaimed. He went on to emphasize the importance of arriving on time.
Han's heart sank. His younger brother, who attended a training camp, was sure to be drafted. A short while ago, Han might have welcomed the news, but everything had changed since they learned that their father had fallen in battle at Snake Canyon. His unit had been ambushed and suffered catastrophic losses. Their father had fought fiercely and sacrificed his life. Although Noxus claimed victory in that battle, it came at a devastating cost. It was a hollow triumph.
Han could not bear the thought of losing his brother as well. His sibling was still so young, and even if their father had perished as a hero, the odds of survival in war were slim.
Breaking into a sprint, Han rushed home. By his calculations, Ju should have returned by now. Bursting into the house, he began searching for his brother. He found him in the bathroom, washing away the day's exhaustion.
"Ju," Han called.
"Brother, what's with the dramatic entrance?" Ju asked, startled. Clad only in pants, he was rinsing himself with warm water.
"I heard about the draft," Han said.
"Yes, we've already been informed. I was going to tell you today—they're sending me in two months," Ju replied.
"You can't go. You're still too young," Han said bitterly.
"It is my duty to Noxus. I cannot sit idly by while the fate of our nation is being decided," Ju said with enthusiasm.
"You'll die," Han replied, his voice heavy with worry.
"But for the good of the empire," Ju added.
"I don't want to lose you," Han said, stepping closer to his brother and pulling him into a tight hug.
"I love you too, brother, but I can't just stay behind while all my friends leave," Ju replied.
"Why are you so stubborn? Refuse to go, I'm begging you," Han tried once more to dissuade him.
"I can't. I have to go," Ju said firmly. Realizing he couldn't change his brother's mind, Han made a decision of his own.
"Then I'll go with you," Han declared. He wasn't required to join the war—after all, he was a blacksmith, and Noxus needed craftsmen to ensure the army was well-supplied with weapons and armor.
"But what about your dream of becoming a great blacksmith?" Ju asked.
"It will be meaningless if I lose you too. Mother left us when we were young, leaving the three of us. Now father has died as well. I don't know what I'd do without you, brother," Han said.
"You don't even know how to fight," Ju countered. It was true—Han had never trained in combat. While he forged swords, he didn't know how to wield them.
"I don't care. You don't need much skill to use a spear," Han replied.
"Then I'll be glad to have you by my side," Ju said with a smile. At last, the brothers reached an agreement.
That evening, they discussed how best to prepare and what they would need for the journey ahead. They talked at length about their future and made a promise to protect each other no matter what.
The next morning, Han ran to Master Saburo. He had watched his master's movements countless times and now sought to learn from him. He knew convincing Saburo would be a challenge—the man was pragmatic to a fault. If Han failed to grasp a skill, Saburo wouldn't teach it to him until he fully understood what was required. Only when Han achieved satisfactory results would the master share the next lesson.
Saburo was immersed in his morning routine, seated at a small table and sketching the outline of a pipe on paper. Breathless, Han approached, but the master didn't even glance up, continuing with his work.
"Master, I have a request," Han said.
Saburo remained silent.
"Master, please teach me the art of the sword," Han pleaded. Saburo slowly set down his brush and raised his gaze to meet Han's.
"Why?" he asked.
"I really need this. I've realized that learning this skill will improve my blacksmithing," Han said.
"Doubtful. These are two entirely different crafts, with little overlap," Saburo replied.
"But you're an exceptional swordsman, and to become an equally great blacksmith, I need to know how to wield a sword," Han argued, trying to frame it as a valid reason.
"There's a grain of truth in your words, but now tell me the real reason," Saburo said, fixing Han with a cold, penetrating gaze.
"The Noxian army is drafting soldiers, and my brother has to go to war. I can't let him go alone," Han admitted.
"Ah, now that's the true reason. You insult me by lying—that's your first mistake. You've disregarded my teachings and decided to run off to war—that's your second mistake. Why would I waste my knowledge on a student who neither absorbs his master's wisdom nor commits himself fully to his craft? Answer me that," Saburo said as he stood and began walking toward the forge.
"Forgive me, but I can't abandon my brother. He's the only family I have left. I must protect him," Han said. Saburo stopped abruptly, turned around, and with a swift motion struck Han, knocking him to the ground.
"How can you protect anyone if you can't even protect yourself? You had the calling of a great blacksmith, yet you've chosen to throw it away for the sake of your emotions," the master said.
"I have no other choice. He's my brother," Han replied firmly. Saburo stared at him for a long moment, his gaze heavy with scrutiny, before heading back to the forge. From a bucket, he retrieved a wooden training sword and tossed it to Han.
"Take it. From this moment on, you are no longer my student. I will teach you to hold a sword, and after that, I don't want to see you again," Saburo said.
"Thank you. And forgive me once again," Han said.
**********************************
While young Han was striving to master swordsmanship, Noxus faced a fortress it could not conquer. The walls of the castle were so high that ladders couldn't reach the top, and siege engines were powerless against its magically reinforced, unyielding structure.
In their attempts to breach the fortress, Noxian troops were drowning in blood. Each futile assault on the impenetrable stronghold came at a terrible cost: the battlefield was littered with the bodies of the fallen, from fresh-faced recruits to seasoned veterans. All of them had perished at the base of those indomitable walls.
General Alistar Grant, a man whose family had long served the ruling dynasty, had delivered many victories to the empire. But when faced with the forces of this state, he paid dearly—its magic was overwhelming. Noxus had mages, but too few compared to the enemy's numbers. This fortress, standing as an immovable barrier in their path, was both strategically placed and impeccably fortified.
Alistar saw the futility of his actions, yet continued to send men to their deaths in a desperate bid to take the stronghold. He had no choice—orders were orders, and he had to obey. He knew this campaign would likely end his career. After all, a string of defeats meant either execution or disgraceful dismissal, and he would never accept the latter. Death was a far preferable fate. Yet what pained him most was the needless loss of so many brave soldiers. His repeated requests and pleas for retreat were met with firm refusals. Could it be that someone in power saw him as an obstacle and intended to rid themselves of him this way?
"General, the Du Couteau emissaries have arrived," announced his aide as he entered the command tent.
"So, this is it," Alistar muttered, realizing his end had come. "Licas, promise me this: protect our brothers-in-arms from unnecessary deaths. Do everything you can to convince the next commander of the challenges we face. Farewell—you've been a fine soldier," he said, placing a firm hand on his aide's shoulder.
The tent flaps were suddenly thrown open, and a man dressed in black stepped in, sword already drawn.
"Well, you bastard, I won't go down without a fight. I am Alistar Grant!" the general declared, launching himself barehanded at the assassin from the Du Couteau clan. His weapon was too far away to reach in time.
"That makes it more interesting," the assassin smirked before delivering a single, lethal strike. Alistar froze, clutching his throat, and stumbled a few steps before collapsing to the ground.
"Here's a message from the high command: your army is to cease all offensive operations and hold defensive positions until new leadership arrives," the assassin said before turning and leaving.
Licas dropped to his knees beside the general. He couldn't believe that such a valiant warrior and commander was dead—a man who had made only one mistake in his career. And even that mistake wasn't truly his.
This was Noxus's greatest weakness: an insatiable hunger for conquest, sacrificing its own people to push forward relentlessly like an avalanche. The recent draft was no coincidence—the military was depleted and desperately needed reinforcements to hold its ground. The states that had stood in Noxus's path had united against a common enemy. Acting in unison, they had halted Noxian advances and were already preparing a counterattack.
Runeterra was once again descending into endless war. Noxus was now the central battleground, but in the west, another power was rising—Demacia. Having declared its independence, it was consolidating its territories, bringing more and more independent cities under its banner. Many, fearful of magic, flocked to Demacia's ranks, seeking refuge in its rigid order.
A new chapter in Runeterra's history was unfolding—new wars, but the same human strife. While mortals waged war among themselves, the threat of the Void remained ever-present. The darkness crept steadily across the land, spreading its tendrils to every corner of the continents. Its malevolent influence poisoned mortal minds, driving them to destroy their own world.
***********************************************
On a distant continent, long forgotten by the rest of the world, lay the Blessed Isles. Once a thriving paradise, it had become a desolate land of the dead, haunted by ghosts and restless spirits. In the depths of a shadowy dungeon, a figure moved, chains clinking with every step. In its left hand, it held a lantern, emanating a haunting chorus of wails and cries for help. In its right hand was a dreadful scythe attached to a chain, adorned by a flaming skull.
[image]
"Your screams won't save you—what a sweet melody for my ears," the creature said, tapping the lantern with its bony fingers. The tapping seemed to amplify the cries and intensify the torment within.
"Ah, forgive me, I got distracted. Now, where were we? Ah, yes—submit, and the suffering will cease," the figure continued, raising the lantern to illuminate a body bound by chains to a stone altar. The figure was barely alive, with mere scraps of flesh clinging to its bones, which protruded grotesquely from every part of its form.
The prisoner made no sound.
"You're no fun at all. But you know, this can go on forever," the creature mused, pulling at the chains to torment the soul trapped within the wretched body, forcing it to writhe in agony. The tormentor was Thresh, the Chain Warden. He had captured this soul on another continent. It was rare, powerful, and fascinating—so much so that even Mordekaiser had failed to claim it. But through guile and cunning, Thresh had managed to bind the soul to the living world, anchoring it to this decayed body, making it his prisoner. He wanted this soul to serve him, yet its defiance remained unbroken.
"When I escape, I will destroy you," the soul rasped, its distorted voice filled with fury.
"What a fiery spirit! Yes, I do enjoy this. Let's continue," Thresh replied, intensifying the soul's suffering. Yet, as he delved deeper into his cruel game, he abruptly stopped.
"How inconvenient... that whining fool again," he muttered, irritated, as he hastily covered the body with heavy stones and sealed it with dark enchantments. Thresh began to wait for his unwelcome visitor.
"Thresh! Where are you?" boomed a commanding voice.
"Here, my king," Thresh answered obsequiously.
"Why do you make me search for you? It seems you've grown insolent," the visitor said as he entered the chamber. His skin was pale as chalk, and he wore dark robes that left his chest bare. His white hair was crowned by a three-pronged diadem. An aura of death and darkness radiated from him.
[image]
"Forgive me, my king. I was... occupied," Thresh replied with a veneer of humility.
"Occupied? Are your petty affairs more important than mine?" Viego demanded, his tone dripping with menace.
"No, my king," Thresh answered, bowing slightly in feigned deference.
"Have you found the remaining fragments of my queen's soul?" the Ruined King asked, his piercing gaze boring into Thresh.
"Forgive me, my king. It has proven... challenging. But I assure you, I am conducting an active search," Thresh replied. Internally, he bristled at Viego's incessant demands. The Chain Warden had no real desire to cater to the king's whims, submitting only to Viego's overwhelming power. Yet, Thresh bided his time, knowing that consuming enough strong souls would one day elevate him beyond even the Ruined King.
"Too slow," Viego growled, his voice echoing with frustration. "I wish to reunite with her as soon as possible, and your excuses grow tiresome."
"I obey, my king. I will redouble my efforts," Thresh said with a bow, masking the disdain simmering behind his words.
"You'd better. Or you will suffer consequences you cannot begin to imagine," Viego warned, turning to leave the enchanted chamber.
As the echoes of the king's retreating steps faded, Thresh turned his gaze back to the chained body. A wicked grin crept across his face.
"You see the kind of company I must endure? So self-important, so arrogant. But inside, he's just a feeble child," Thresh muttered, shaking his head. He tapped his lantern again, drawing forth renewed cries from the soul trapped within.
"Now, where were we? Ah, yes—your suffering."
"AAAAAH!" a soul-wrenching scream echoed through the dungeon, reverberating off the damp stone walls. For Thresh, the most exquisite agony was that of the soul—wounds that could never fully heal and left scars that lingered for eternity.