Tarren carefully packed the last of his gadgets into the worn wooden box on his workbench. Each invention had been polished and double-checked—a clockwork coin sorter, a noiseless typewriter, and many more. Every item represented some hours of tinkering, trial, and error. Today was Progress Day, and it was his chance to show Piltover what he could do.
His outfit, while not quite Piltover-worthy, was as formal as the undercity could provide: a patched shirt, a vest two sizes too big, and scuffed boots he'd managed to shine. As he adjusted the strap securing the box, Benzo entered the room. The older man leaned against the doorframe, taking in the sight with a soft, almost melancholic smile.
"You ready, kid?" Benzo asked.
"Almost," Tarren replied, turning to face him.
Benzo stepped inside, the usual gruffness in his demeanor softened by the moment. "You've got your shot now. I won't pretend I'm thrilled about it, but I know how much this means to you." He placed a hand on Tarren's head, ruffling his ginger hair. "Just remember—temper your expectations. Piltover's a different beast. Do your best, but don't let 'em chew you up and spit you out."
Tarren nodded, his eyes glistening with gratitude. "Thank you—for everything. For giving me a home, for not stopping me, even when you probably wanted to."
Benzo chuckled, pulling him into a brief, fatherly hug.
Tarren hugged him back tightly before stepping away, picking up his box, and heading out the door. "See you tonight, old man!"
—
The streets of the undercity weren't about to let Tarren leave without a fight—literally. As he navigated the shadowy alleys, the air thick with the stench of damp metal, a group of street kids emerged from the darkness. Their tattered clothes hung loose on their wiry frames, and their eyes glinted with the sharp hunger of desperation. Their leader, a tall boy with a crooked nose and a crude metal pipe slung over his shoulder, stepped forward and blocked Tarren's path.
"Tribute," the leader demanded. He crossed his arms, his thin but muscular build radiating confidence. "You're passing through our turf. Pay up, or we'll take it ourselves."
Tarren stopped. He set his box down carefully on the cracked pavement, his hands lingering over it for a moment before he straightened. "I don't have time for this," he said flatly.
The leader smirked, taking a step closer. "Then make time."
The first strike came without warning—a blur of movement as the leader lunged forward, swinging his pipe toward Tarren's head. Tarren ducked, his reflexes honed by years of living in a world where hesitation meant pain. His hand darted into his pocket, fingers closing around the cold steel of his iron knuckles.
With a swift motion, Tarren slipped the knuckles onto his right hand and countered with a punch aimed squarely at the leader's gut. The impact drove the air out of the taller boy's lungs, and he staggered back, coughing violently.
"Get him!" another kid shouted, and the rest of the gang swarmed.
Tarren moved with precision, his body reacting faster than his mind. A smaller kid rushed him with a broken bottle, but Tarren sidestepped the attack and delivered a sharp kick to his knee, sending him crumpling to the ground. Another came from the left, swinging a rusty chain, but Tarren raised his arm, catching the chain on his knuckles and yanking it free before delivering a punch that sent the assailant sprawling.
The fight was chaotic, fists and makeshift weapons flying, but Tarren stayed focused. His iron knuckles gave him an edge, and his years of scrapping in the undercity taught him to fight smart. He used the terrain to his advantage, shoving one kid into a pile of broken crates and dodging another into a cluster of jagged pipes.
By the time the dust settled, the gang was scattered across the alley, groaning and clutching their bruises. The leader lay on his back, his pipe clattering uselessly to the ground as he glared up at Tarren.
Tarren wiped the blood from his split lip with the back of his hand and bent to pick up his box. The leader snarled but made no move to stop him as Tarren turned and walked away. His steps were uneven, pain radiating from the cuts and bruises he'd collected, but he kept moving.
Behind him, the gang stayed where they were, defeated but alive. Tarren didn't look back.
—
In Piltover, the air was thick with the hum of Progress Day preparations. The sprawling city gleamed in the sunlight, its intricate clockwork mechanisms and towering spires casting long shadows over the streets below. In a modest office tucked away in the Academy's administrative wing, Viktor sat hunched over his desk. The faint tick-tock of a wall clock punctuated the quiet, a sharp contrast to the distant bustle of the celebration outside.
Stacks of applications loomed on either side of him, an endless sea of papers filled with ambition, desperation, and innovation. His thin fingers, calloused from years of tinkering, sifted through the pile. His eyes scanned each entry, his sharp mind sorting the wheat from the chaff. This was his job, to sort out the apprentas from inside and outside of the academy that had either been rejected or accepted to be sponsored by the high houses of Piltover so they could archive it. He also had another task, to find some hidden potential from the ones that entered outside of the academy, to be given a chance on entering the university.
Most of the submissions bore familiar names—the scions of lesser but still somewhat influential families, their surnames written in bold, confident strokes. Their inventions were grandiose, designed more to dazzle than to solve real problems. Viktor's lips thinned as he stamped yet another accepted onto a file once he looked at the answer of the mercantile families for the person's request of presentation. Viktor thought that some aren't worthy of it at all, yet they still got accepted.
He knew the game well. It wasn't about merit or ingenuity; it was about connections, influence, and wealth. Bright minds were often dismissed in favor of those who could afford to grease the right wheels. It was a bitter truth he had learned to live with, but it never ceased to frustrate him.
Then, his hand paused over a file. The paper was slightly crumpled, the ink smudged in places—a stark contrast to the pristine applications surrounding it. His brow furrowed as he read the name: Tarren.
The boy was from the undercity.
Viktor's eyes drifted to the list of inventions. There were no energy grandiose machines that don't make sense in theory here. Instead, the boy had submitted practical tools: a mechanical egg-shaped timer, an automated needle threader, a convenient wristwatch, noiseless typewriter, collapsible ladder, and many more. Simple, and functional. Yet, as Viktor read through the descriptions, he felt a pang of recognition.
Each item had a purpose, a tangible utility that spoke to the boy's environment and the challenges he faced. These weren't inventions born of luxury or idle curiosity; they were solutions to everyday struggles. Viktor's mind drifted back to his own beginnings, to the rickety workshop where he had crafted his first machines—not for applause, but for survival and for safety of workers down there.
He flipped through the file again, noting the harsh rejection stamps from the mercantile houses. His jaw clenched, and his grip on his cane tightened until his knuckles turned white.
"Progress," he murmured bitterly, his voice barely above a whisper. "But only for those they deem worthy."
The words tasted sour on his tongue. He had once believed in Piltover's ideals, in the promise of innovation and the power of ideas to change the world. But now, he saw the cracks in its foundation—the way it hoarded opportunity and crushed those who dared to rise from beneath, especially from the undercity.
Viktor leaned back in his chair, staring at the file in his hands. He saw potential in Tarren's designs, a spark of ingenuity that reminded him of himself. It was a small thing, perhaps, but it deserved a chance.
He reached for the stamp. As he pressed it down onto the file, the sound of the stamp echoed in the quiet room. He wanted to recommend him to the academy.
Accepted.
—
Tarren finally arrived at Piltover's grand commerce building, his battered state earning wary glances from enforcers stationed near the entrance. The line inside stretched endlessly, young men and women clutching boxes and papers, their faces alight with excitement or weighed down by anxiety.
He ignored the whispers, keeping his head down as he waited his turn. When he reached the desk, the officer there barely looked at him before grabbing his application.
"Arvino: denied. Cadwalder: denied. Giopara: denied…" The officer droned on, reading the rejections as if they were a rehearsed song.
Tarren's heart sank with every word. He had been prepared for this, but the sting of dismissal still cut deep.
Then, the officer paused, frowning. "The academy…" His voice trailed off as he squinted at the paper. "Accepted."
Tarren's eyes widened.
"You're to present your inventions to the dean of the academy in a few hours," the officer repeated.
A slow, disbelieving smile spread across Tarren's face. "Thank you," he said softly, clutching the paper as if it were a lifeline.
As he stepped away, his grip on the box tightened, leaving with renewed confidence.