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Jayce accepted the invitation solemnly, a touch of emotion flickering in his eyes.
"Don't you want to know who the professor is?" Mel asked, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
"Victor!" Jayce blurted out without hesitation.
He turned to gaze out the window, nostalgia softening his expression.
Then, suddenly, he laughed.
"It's quite ironic, isn't it? Everyone used to see him as my assistant. I thought he was my good friend, but the truth is… he was exactly what they said he was."
"You're much more mature than before," Mel said earnestly.
Jayce nodded, his voice tinged with weariness.
"I've been through too much. Ms. Camille's cold choices, Silco's death, the misfortune of the Kiramman family, and the shifting tides of the Twin Cities… All of it made me reflect on the choices I've made in the past."
He tightened his grip on the wine glass, a rueful smile playing on his lips.
"Piltover is what it is today, largely because of my mistakes. I can even understand Heimerdinger a little better now."
"You're not like him," Mel replied firmly.
Jayce chuckled faintly. "No, I'm not. I don't have the luxury of his lifespan. That's why I have to learn as much as I can in the time I have. I want to visit the Academy and understand the world from a Noxian perspective."
But there was one thought he left unspoken.
He wanted to grow alongside Viktor again.
This time, however, he vowed not to let himself be outpaced so easily.
"People will always make mistakes, but they'll also grow from them. Leave the affairs of Piltover to me. We'll always be here, waiting for our most brilliant leader to return," Mel said as she leaned against Jayce, her voice full of promise.
Meanwhile, far from Piltover, the vision of Noxus extended across the lands.
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Demacia
In the Demacian barracks near the Noxian borders, Prince Jarvan Lightshield IV, clad in gleaming golden armor, stood side by side with the towering and heavily armored Garen Crownguard. Both gazed solemnly toward the Immortal Bastion in the distance.
The Lightshield and Crownguard families—Demacia's sharpest spear and strongest shield—had led their people to victory for generations.
"A stirring speech," Garen remarked with a sigh.
"But it does nothing for Demacia," Jarvan replied gravely.
"We are thousands of kilometers from the Immortal Bastion, yet their influence stretches even here. We can see their vision, hear their voice. It's unnerving."
Jarvan's tone grew heavier as he continued. "Perhaps we need to reconsider our stance on magic. Such devastating power, in the hands of our enemies..."
"What do you think of their recent changes?" Jarvan asked, glancing at his stalwart companion.
Garen frowned, his brow furrowed in thought.
"Their soldiers' morale has grown stronger, no doubt. But morale alone can't bridge the gap in strength."
Jarvan twitched the corner of his mouth, suppressing a weary sigh.
He knew Garen was a warrior at heart, practical and straightforward in his observations.
"But Noxus is more unified, more dynamic than ever," Jarvan mused.
"Right now, they're still cleaning up the remnants of Darkwill's regime. But in two years… five years… ten years?"
Uncertainty clouded Jarvan's gaze as he stared into the distance. It was difficult to imagine just how formidable the Noxian army might become in the years to come.
Demacia, meanwhile, faced its own struggles—problems that festered like a slow poison.
Jarvan's father dismissed them as trivial matters, but Jarvan knew better. He was in his twenties now, no longer a boy, and these issues loomed over Demacia's future like an unrelenting storm.
"Don't worry," Garen said, his voice firm and resolute.
"Even if it's twenty years from now, they won't set foot on our land unless they go through me first."
"I hope so…" Jarvan murmured, burying his unease.
He tightened his grip on the halberd in his hand, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
The vision of Noxus loomed large in his mind, a shadow over Demacia's uncertain future.
Ionia
Outside the Ionian town closest to the Noxus-occupied area, the red-clothed girl, Irelia, sat cross-legged at the edge of a cliff, her gaze fixed on the horizon, where the vision of Noxus loomed.
"Grandmother... I swear I will resist Noxus' attacks again, to protect the sacred land beneath our feet."
Her voice was firm, yet tinged with an undercurrent of grief.
"I've seen Ionia consumed by the flames of war, the ancient trees torn from their roots… If we don't act, we'll cease to exist."
A woman clad in the green robes of an Ionian priestess approached. Her expression bore the weight of sorrow, with a hint of despair etched into her features.
"Elder Karma," Irelia greeted solemnly, "I will no longer bow to the dictates of fate."
Irelia slowly stood, the resolve in her eyes hardening like steel. No longer was she the girl who flinched in the face of conflict; now, she faced Noxus head-on, her voice resolute and unyielding:
"We drove them back once, and we'll do it again—again and again, if need be—until every last drop of my blood is spilled!"
She raised her arms, her voice ringing out into the vast Ionian expanse:
"Ionia, keep your spirits high!"
Shurima
In front of a grand Shuriman temple, a figure resembling a dog-headed anthropologist stood in quiet contemplation.
Nasus, the Curator of the Sands, gazed across the lands. His luminous eyes, deep with ancient wisdom, seemed to see all: to the left, the heights of Mount Targon, and to the right, the shadows of Noxus.
After a long silence, he sighed—a sound steeped in the weariness of millennia. His voice, though soft, carried the weight of history itself:
"One day, even the gods will fall. Noxus… and you, Ryan Meredith—I look forward to witnessing your future."
He turned slowly to face a blue-skinned mage waiting at the temple's entrance. It was Ryze, the Rune Mage, his expression grim and determined.
"Ryze," Nasus began, his tone calm but certain,
"Shurima does not hold what you seek. If you're determined to pursue them, perhaps Targon might have the answers you desire."
"You know they're dangerous!" Ryze's voice was sharp with urgency.
"Yes, I know," Nasus replied, his tone carrying the weight of bitter truths.
"But they are not in Shurima. As you've seen, Shurima is already a setting sun, its light fading into history."
"You'll regret this!" Ryze snapped, frustration flashing in his eyes.
The mage's form shimmered as a rune-laden portal began to encircle him. Moments later, he disappeared into the aether, leaving only the faint hum of lingering magic.
Nasus turned back toward the horizon, his expression unreadable.
"Shurima is already dead," he murmured to himself.
"What regret could outweigh the losses we suffered thousands of years ago?"
A bitter laugh escaped him—deep, hollow, and tinged with a sadness only someone of his age could feel.
Runeterra's Eyes on Noxus
Across Runeterra, the attention of the many regions and factions focused on the heart of the continent.
Noxus, with its relentless momentum, was rising, and none could ignore its presence.
Its allies roared with approval, while its enemies scrambled to curb the empire's expansion.
At the Academy in Noxus, the visions of a sky-phenomenon had begun to dissipate, but the excitement lingered. A crowd remained gathered near the stage, murmuring in anticipation.
Ezreal, the yellow-haired adventurer from Piltover, took his place on the platform, stepping into the spotlight.
He glanced over the audience with a grin, effortlessly seizing their attention.
"Everyone's still fired up, aren't they?" he began, his tone playful.
"Well, let me tell you a story. You see, I'm a Piltover man through and through, but my journey brought me here, to Noxus. And, well… let's just say, no place I've been has ever left such an impression on me."
The crowd murmured, intrigued by the famed explorer's words.
"I've traveled to countless regions—Demacia, Ionia, Shurima—you name it. But none of them shook me to my core the way Noxus did. That's why I stayed, why I decided to bring my adventurous spirit here and align it with the empire's greatness."
Ezreal's enthusiasm was contagious, and his pride in Noxus was unmistakable.
He grinned mischievously, adding, "Let me tell you a little story. One time, I walked into a tavern in Shurima. I told everyone I was from Piltover, and you know what they said? They laughed! They said, 'You're so scrawny, you must be Pil-to-poor!'"
The crowd erupted into laughter.
"But then," Ezreal continued, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smirk, "a Noxian man about my size walked in. The same guy who mocked me before suddenly shouted, 'Oh! A Noxian! Drinks are on the house for someone as strong as you!'"
He threw his hands up in mock disbelief.
"Can you believe that? What hidden talent did he have that I didn't? So I thought to myself, next time I'm there, I'll slam the door open and yell, 'I'm a Noxian! Now, where's my free drink?'"
The crowd roared with laughter, thoroughly entertained.
Ezreal's wit and humor had turned the crowd's admiration into a raucous camaraderie, leaving them even more enamored with both him and the empire.