A greying middle-aged man stumbles through the docks of Piltover, the land clearly unfamiliar to him. But he couldn't deny his beauty. He keeps his head down; his wide conical hat consumed his vision. Yet he shuffles with experience, moving like a breeze, to avoid the on-comers.
He makes his way to the bridge to the Undercity.
"Name? Reason for visiting? Pass?" the enforcer asked.
The man answered the enforcers' inquiries effectively and entered the elevator to the undercity.
He saw the state of the Undercity and wondered why his sister ever moved here. There were gangs and drugs, all sorts of criminals. The gutters and garbage alleys mixed with the children and the unfortunate amputees. Who they offended, the old man didn't know.
He asked a child, flicking a coin, directions to his sister's address. The child's eyes followed the coin as it bounced on the dirty floor. His stomach answered, "That way," as he picked the coin as scurried away.
The old man didn't let his mind linger. Excitement filled him, a giddy little sister thrilled to see her big brother, a pleasant surprise. But unease loitered in the back of his mind. His sister had been unresponsive for more or less a month. Hopefully, everything was alright.
He made his way through the nose-assaulting streets of the Undercity, thinking of the reunion.
He reached the house. Although the undercity was perpetually in darkness, the darkness of her house did not seem ordinary. He doubted the address as unease piled. However, it was all but confirmed when he saw a decoration through the window, a paper flower native to Ionia. Something they used to make when they were younger.
The old man sighed. With a half-forced smile, he opened the door. He paused. The smell of blood and death assaulted him.
His heart dropped. Something was not right.
The door continued to creak open as he placed his hand on the hilt of his side-sheathed sword. He walked forward with caution.
His foot creaked a floorboard. Alerted, he pulled his sword in a swift motion, getting into a well-practiced stance.
His senses were tingling. Although triggered by his own action, his senses had saved him countless times from demons.
Something shifted in the darkness. He could not see it, but he knew something was looking at him. He continued to walk forwards, ready to return any aggression. His breathing was steady, and his eyes were steeled.
Footsteps. And quite quick at that. Small and quiet. But it was too loud to be a mere rat. Even if it was so, the veteran would still swivel like he did. The years had left him mistakes and from that, wisdom.
"Who's there?" he asked.
No answer. He frowned. He continued to where the sound ended as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. There, a small box. Nothing to be concerned about if it wasn't trembling as if it was about to explode.
He reached to open it.
It suddenly opened itself and from it leapt a figure. The man was about to strike, but he saw a human face through the window's rays. His curved blade retracted immediately right before he made contact. He took a calculated dash backwards.
Squinting, he observed the assailant. It shook wildly; its thin arms covered its head as it crouched in a defensive but resigned position. It was a child. But the man could never be too sure.
He called out from his distance, promising passiveness. No response but a teary eye peeking from the bundle of hair. Eyes just like his sister.
He sighed. But he didn't sheath his sword. Even if this child was confirmed, there might still be danger elsewhere.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
Again, they didn't answer. Instead, it bolted out of the room and out the door. He shook his head. He'd had enough headaches to not want to chase after a child. His questions now were for his sister. If he could find her.
With his stance still intact, he inched towards the stairs. Each step held caution. The smell of dead grew stronger and more putrid.
Peeking above the floor from the stairs, he gasped. A sight he was used to but yet, it was also his worst nightmare. A pool of blood, bones, muscles, and flesh. A delight for the greenish maggots. The face, eyes opened in fear and mouth ajar with insects roaming.
Was familiar.
The man's knees hit the wood softly. His sword laid by his side. He looked at his sister until he couldn't look anymore.
He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes through the pain. He stood up, it was best to pay her dues before her body could be desecrated further. He grabbed the blanket and sheets from the bed. He had done this before, but this time was different. It hit way harder.
The noise of the squelching hammered in reality. He had to persevere as he had done countless times. But it was hard for him to stand, not to break down immediately. That could, would wait.
He needed to find a place to bury the couple. He walked the streets in thought and grief. The undercity didn't have room for yards or exposed soil. But they did have street looters and thugs.
They surrounded him, leaving no escape. As it could be imagined, the man was in no mood for their nonsense.
He warned them kindly. They laughed. They demanded his sword as payment. The man scoffed, his anger rising.
Then, they did something unforgivable. They insulted his clothes, calling it 'shitty Ionian style'. He reached his boiling point. Not only did they insult his culture, but they also inadvertently insulted his sister who gifted him the clothes.
He snarled and unsheathed his blade. 8 of them. Each pulled out a pistol. "Dead meat," One smirked.
The usually calm man, always content to be in the counter-offensive, lunged at the speaker, turning 180 degrees in an instant.
Before anyone could pull their trigger, the offender's gun fell to the ground along with some of his fingers. He screamed, running around holding his hand.
The assailants, momentarily stunned, were not momentarily enlightened. Their eyes lit with fury and urgency.
"Kill him!" They all shot.
At nothing. The older man re-appeared to the side. They shot again. He sidestepped again. Shortly after, they all had to reload at roughly the same time.
"Idiots." He grumbled. He dashed in the centre of the 7 of them. Spinning almost a full rotation, he swung his sword with all his might. The air split as their guns dropped on the ground, sliced in half. In each of their necks, appeared a small slit. Not enough to kill them. But enough to freeze them in place.
The man walked away, re-sheathing his sword. One stupid thug grabbed the gun of his first dead comrade and quickly shot at the man multiple times. None hit.
The man suddenly appeared in front of the shooter and decapitated him with a swing of his sword before reappearing at his previous position, his sword sheathed again. He walked like nothing happened.
He sighed. That helped him relieve some stress. Another demon, eliminated. He retook his breath to stop his fatigue. He was getting old.
He found a dirty lake. Quiet and solitary. If he could, he would take their bodies back to Ionia to bury it with the spirits. But this would have to do. Noting his position, he turned back.
Deep black eyes stared back at him. Malnourished and pale. But her sharp eyes had an unmistakable familiarity.
"Are you Ionian?" she asked.