WHACK!
"Hee." I was sitting on a chunk of rubble, watching.
They turn around. Surprised.
"Good punch. Try using more of your hips next time."
Puzzled faces.
"Look boys, why don't you lend that girl to me?" I flicked a gold coin into the air.
The ringleader snatched it.
They looked at me, then the girl, then back.
"She's all yours, sir." He glanced at her one last time. "Have fun."
I watched them go. Said nothing. The alley was quiet again except for the distant sound of the harbor.
I approached her.
She was young, maybe twelve. Tanned skin and dark hair, sand-worn clothes, good fabric.
She didn't look at me.
Her eyes were open but somewhere else entirely, fixed on the ground like she'd already decided nothing good was coming next.
"I could turn their bodies inside out," I said. "That would be satisfying, wouldn't it?"
She glanced up. Just slightly.
"But that would be me doing it, not you." I held her gaze. "Listen. I'll only say this once. You need to play to your strengths, not with them. Doesn't matter how many rats you kill, there will always be more. You need to send a message, rewire their brains."
Something changed in her eyes. Small. Like a light finding the switch.
I leaned forward and touched the top of her head.
[Heal]
A soft green light bloomed at my fingertips and traced down her skin. The split on her lip closed. The red mark on her cheek faded. Her eyes bulged, like waking up from something.
I took the mask from her hands and looked at it briefly, before placing onto my face.
"Next time I hear about you, I want to learn that their heads hass swapped bodies." I shuffled her hair.
Then turned and walked away.
"Good luck."
.
I walked through the city.
Stone for streets. Bricks for walls.
Noxians banners. Massive and long swaying in the wind while hung in stone arches.
'Heal. That spell bugs me a little. It really makes no sense how it works.'
Clenck-Clenck.
Iron-shod boots crunched rhythmically against the floor. Noxian soldiers patrolled in black iron.
'I can still mimic it with that method, but the cost outweighs the benefits completely.'
Murmurs.
Resentful Shuriman locals. Dusty vastayan mercenaries near the taverns.
Their many dialects and languages scratched at my ears. I took the chance and used [Clarity] to learn them all.
'Sweet.'
.
I stepped inside the armory.
Low ceiling, thick walls, the air heavy with iron and oil. Every surface was either a rack, a hook, or a shelf, and all of it was full.
"Strength and glory," the man behind the counter said flatly, the standard Noxian greeting worn smooth from repetition.
I nodded. My eyes scanned the racks.
Noxian blades; Short swords and battle axes, production-grade, no elegance. Repeating crossbows. Shuriman khopesh, sickle-shaped swords evolved from ancient battleaxes.
Tucked underneath the counter were kegs of black powder and explosives. Beside them a case of Piltovan firearms.
"Piltover tech. Interesting, huh?" The man said, "That's highly coveted these days."
He leaned in.
"And very pricey."
I paid him no mind. "Is that so."
The man's temples tensed. Eyes on my mask.
"You look foreign. Foreign people are more into foreign stuff." He reached under the counter and placed a locked case on top. "Right?" He unlock it.
Wrapped in velvet cloth was a pair of very reflective wrist protectors. Silver-white.
I knew about them. Very well.
"Demacian wrist protectors." He said proudly. "These beauties traveled very far."
Petricite.
Just from looking I could tell their worth. The ambient elements flowed toward them and vanished.
Well, not exactly.
Like I remembered, the material drank mana the way a sponge took water. Hungry. Silently.
A magical sucking matter.
'It looks profound. No shit Demacia invested the fuck-all in research. Imagine a golem made of this? No wonder Galio looks terrifying in that music video.'
I nodded.
"I must admit. I'm interested."
.
When night came I was at a bar trying out the local beverage.
Low ceiling, sand on the floor, the whole place smelling of salt and smoke and something fried. Packed and diversed enough that nobody looked twice at a masked stranger.
Beer.
It was sweeter than I expected. Thick, almost syrupy. Not bad. Not good either. I took another sip anyway.
'It's unfortunate that the guy didn't have the full armor. Petricite plate would be way better than these dragon scales.'
The bar was loud. Finally. Loud rooms are generous with information.
I listened.
A pair of sailors two tables over, sunburned and animated going on about Bilgewater. Something about religious ships, a procession crossing open water. A pilgrimage, one of them said. Though he couldn't name the destination and the other didn't seem to care.
"Noticed by She who Wanders," one of them muttered, almost reverent. Before they moved on to their drinks.
Closer, a merchant in a stained coat was lecturing anyone who'd listen about Piltover. The Hexgates. An inauguration, apparently. He described it like someone who'd read about it secondhand and wanted credit for knowing. The crowd around him was half-interested at best.
Then at the far end of the counter, the mood grew heavy.
Two vastayan mercenaries, rough faces and worn feathers, conversing low. Hiding talks about a vila attack.
My vila attack.
A slave trader furious, sending people out. Someone had blasted the corrupted guild with powerful magic. Flying. Alone. Like some type of myth. The vastayans called him "The Liberator" with something between gratitude and unease in their voices.
The Noxian officer at the corner table didn't share the sentiment.
"Warlock of Kalduga," he said to his companion, flat and certain. "We'll find him soon."
I took another sip of beer.
'Liberator. Warlock. Shit, I guess I'm famous now. And hunted. Information is valuable in this type of world.'
I gazed toward nothing.
'...but what was that about "She who Wanders"? I think I heard of that before.'
Thud.
A man placed a cup onto my table.
Then took a seat without asking.
"...You," he spoke. "Thank you."
"...?"
I observed him.
Short black hair and a standard face. Not tall. Not strong. Looking at him was like glancing at a wall, forgettable in the way only certain people know how to be.
"Why are you thanking me?" I asked.
"That… my daughter spoke about you."
I tapped the table. "...I see."
After that we made small talk and exchanged simple information. He spoke about the girl's mother passing and how they'd moved here to start something new. He also had a new wife that the girl didn't approve of. She made no friends since. So he blamed himself.
"If it keeps going like this…" His face was red, almost passing out from the drinks. "I'm afraid it will scale into something harsh. I don't want her to get any more hurt."
'So she didn't tell him about the head swapping part.'
As the last Noxians left the bar the man suddenly sobered up.
"I also," he leaned in, "have that armor you're looking for."
"..."
"Sorry about that. I'm a friend of that manager."
"..."
Someone already tracked me?