The air of Piltover was the first thing that hit him. It was… clean. Disgustingly clean. It had none of the character of smoke, none of the personality of chemical stench, and none of the soul of Zaun's oily steam. It smelled like flowers and polished metal—like the inside of a rich grandma's house. Kaen Vexis crawled out of the ventilation duct with all the grace of a freshly bathed cat, landing in a spotless alley. His face, as always, was a mask of impassiveness, but deep inside, his gremlin soul was offended.
"How bland," he muttered, his monotone voice bouncing off perfectly aligned brick walls. "This place desperately needs some grime for character."
He brushed nonexistent dust off his tattered jacket and stepped out of the alley—right into Progress Day. The culture shock was instant. Golden and blue banners hung from every building. People in elegant, colorful clothing strolled about, laughing and chatting. The air was filled with cheerful music (real music, unlike his) and the smell of sweet pastries.
Kaen looked at himself. His outfit, which was perfectly normal in Zaun, here screamed, "I'm from the undercity and probably stole something on the way here." His violet eyes scanned the crowd. "Mission number one: camouflage. I can't perform my artistic masterpiece looking like a horror movie extra."
He skirted the edge of the festival, dodging a group of rich kids playing with mechanical toys that buzzed like insects.
Then he spotted his target: a young Piltovan slumped against a wall, dressed in a crisp blue jacket and white pants, snoring softly with an empty bottle in hand. He was clearly drunk—a drop of chaos in this ocean of perfection.
"A charitable soul," Kaen said to himself. He approached the sleeper with the confidence of a surgeon. With swift, precise movements worthy of a gentleman thief, he proceeded to "borrow" the man's clothes. Off came the jacket, then the pants, even the fancy leather shoes—all done with a face so serious, it might as well have been a sacred ritual.
Once the man was left in his underwear, Kaen dressed him in his own Zaunite attire—shabby jacket, worn-out pants, and his old boots placed neatly beside him. Then Kaen slipped into the Piltovan's clothes. They fit perfectly, thanks to his ideally enhanced physique. He looked at his reflection in a shop window.
"Hmm, not bad," he murmured, adjusting the collar of the jacket. He leaned over the sleeping man and gave him a gentle pat on the cheek. "Consider this a cultural exchange, good sir. I've given you style with more… authenticity. You're welcome." With a theatrical bow to the unconscious man, he turned and blended into the crowd—his beat-up bass now slung over a dashing blue jacket.
The central plaza of Progress Day was a spectacle. Stalls offered everything from frosted pastries to glowing gadgets. A mechanical fountain sprayed water in impossible patterns. A stage featured musicians playing soft copper-toned melodies. And a carousel spun with steam-powered horses neighing theatrically. The crowd was a mix of monocle-wearing aristocrats, inventors showing off their creations, and families enjoying the festivities. Kaen, now dressed like a respectable citizen and bursting with unreasonable confidence, waded into the chaos like he owned the place.
His first stop: food. His stomach had been complaining since the elevator ride. One stall was selling something called "Hex-Infused Cronuts." They smelled divine and cost an absurd amount of Piltovan gears—which he didn't have. He approached the vendor, a man with a perfectly curled mustache.
"Greetings, culinary artisan," Kaen said, his flat voice cutting through the crowd. "I am a renowned food critic from the Abyssal Journal. I'm here to evaluate the festival's culinary offerings. I'll need a sample for my review."
The vendor blinked. "The… Abyssal Journal? I've never heard of—"
"It's very exclusive," Kaen interrupted, waving a hand. "Only for refined palates. Now, your creation."
The vendor, puzzled but unwilling to offend a potential critic, offered him a cronut on a stick. Kaen took it, inspected it like it was a priceless gem, sniffed it, and took a small bite. He chewed slowly, violet eyes fixed on the horizon.
"Hmm… interesting," he said. "The texture is… competent. But the Hex infusion balance… I'll need another sample to be sure." Before the vendor could react, Kaen snatched three more cronuts. "For a thorough evaluation," he explained while stuffing them into his mouth. "My audience demands rigor. Good job overall. A solid 7 out of 10. Keep improving."
And with that, he walked away, leaving the vendor confused and four cronuts poorer. "Hey! That wasn't free!" the man shouted, but Kaen had already vanished into the crowd, happily chewing.
His next stop: a carnival game. "Jayce's Hammer of Might." The goal: smash a platform with a giant hammer to ring a bell at the top of a tower. The grand prize: a giant plush Poro. Kaen wanted it.
"I need a mascot for my world tour," he decided.
He waited in line, watching muscle-bound Piltovans slam the platform with all their might—barely reaching halfway up the tower. When his turn came, he took the hammer. It felt light in his Shimmer-enhanced hands. He struck a dramatic pose, lifting the hammer like a thunder god.
He struck.
He miscalculated his strength. The hammer connected with a loud CRACK. The meter didn't just rise—it shot straight up, shattered the bell with a deafening CLANG, and kept going until it hit the top of the tower, which shuddered dangerously. Lights flickered, the machine groaned, and then died with a puff of smoke.
Silence. Everyone stared.
Kaen dropped the hammer. "Seems I won," he said in his monotone voice, pointing to the wreckage. "I exceeded the max score. I'll take my Poro now."
"You broke my game!" the owner screeched.
"Correction: I exposed the limitations of your design," Kaen replied, unfazed. "The game wasn't prepared for my… potential. Clearly, I deserve the prize. It's the only logical outcome." He crossed his arms, waiting.
Caught between humiliation and Kaen's absurd logic, the owner handed over the largest Poro plush he had.
Kaen took it and hugged it. "I shall name you Distortion," he whispered to the plush. "You'll be the first member of my fan club."
With his new companion under one arm, he continued exploring, now headed toward the main plaza where the Kiramman booth was supposedly located. In the distance, he saw two figures standing out near the stall: a tall, handsome man in a sharp suit who looked incredibly nervous, and a young woman with dark blue hair in a cadet's uniform talking to him.
"Pff, important posh people," Kaen thought, rolling his eyes internally while taking another bite of his stolen cronut. "Probably talking about boring stuff like progress and responsibility. Yawn."
...
From her position, Caitlyn Kiramman rolled her eyes and focused on the man in front of her.
"Hmm… now we're truly living in anarchy," she said with a small smirk.
"Have fun herding drunks," Jayce teased as he turned to leave.
Caitlyn shook her head with a quiet chuckle, but as she did, her trained observer's eyes scanned the crowd out of habit. And then she saw it. The anomaly. A young man with silver-white hair and a suspicious-looking bass guitar slung over a Piltovan jacket, hugging a giant Poro plush like it was treasure. What froze her in place was the scene: the young man was solemnly attempting to feed a bite of his cronut to the inanimate plush, his face a mask of pure seriousness.
"…"
It was so absurdly out of place, so illogically strange, that she was momentarily speechless.
"Who's that?" she murmured to herself, more intrigued than alarmed.
"Who's who?" asked Jayce, already halfway gone—but the strange young man had already moved on, drawn to something else, and vanished into the crowd.
"No one," Caitlyn said, shaking her head. "Just… another character in this circus." But the image of that brazen gremlin and his Poro lingered in her mind—a delightfully discordant note in the perfect symphony of Progress Day.
...
Kaen, completely unaware he'd been spotted, had found something far more interesting than speeches. A mime. A street performer painted black and white was trapped inside an invisible box, delighting a small group of children.
Kaen approached with his usual blank expression and stopped right in front of the artist. He tilted his head, examining the "box" from every angle. The mime, seeing he had a new audience member, intensified his act, hands pressing desperately against the invisible walls.
"An interesting metaphysical construct," Kaen said, his monotone voice cutting through the children's laughter. They all turned to look at him. "Does it represent the self-imposed prison of societal expectations, or did you simply forget where the door is?"
The mime froze, then gave him a look of pure exasperation, frantically pointing at an invisible wall.
Kaen nodded solemnly. "I see. A philosophical dilemma. But perception is reality, my friend." With a theatrical gesture, he reached out and mimed opening a door in the air. "There. I've created an exit through conceptual deconstruction. You're free."
The mime stared. The crowd was now fully captivated by this bizarre duo. With a dramatic sigh, the mime pretended to exit through Kaen's "door" and gave a flourishing bow.
"You're welcome," Kaen replied, bowing just as dramatically, as if they'd just solved an international crisis. Totally absorbed in his newfound art form, he had completely forgotten about his bass, his concert, and his grand debut in Piltover. For now, he had found a far more intimate stage—and in his own bizarre way, one that was far more fun.