While the festivities of Piltover continued, a violent explosion ripped through the docks as one of the ships ignited into a blaze. Silco, industrialist and criminal mastermind, had a regular shipment of Shimmer to smuggle into the city, a drug that could heighten body and mind at the cost of the user's wellbeing, often leaving them disfigured and addicted.
After the fires died down, Caitlyn, who had snuck away from the festival, investigated. The charred airship showed signs of more than a simple accident: the deck bore the scars of a firefight, strange yellow crystals shattered across the planks. Multiple bodies lay strewn about and empty casings glittered as she photographed and analyzed the scene.
She spotted a trail of blood leading beneath the deck into the cargo hold. It ran to a grate. Lifting it, she found a man curled beneath, clutching a bullet wound.
"I didn't do anything! She's crazy!" he groaned, face pale with pain.
"She shot me," he groaned as Caitlyn pressed a clean cloth to the wound.
"Who?" Caitlyn asked, frowning. "Who shot you? Who are you working for?"
"I— I can't. He'll kill me."
"Who? We can protect you."
A shadow fell over them. "Caitlyn Kiramman," a voice rose with annoyance. "You're supposed to be guarding your mother's tent."
She gasped and turned to see Sheriff Marcus looming, displeasure carved into his features.
"I was, Sheriff, but this takes priority!"
"I realize you're used to getting your own way, Kiramman, but we have a chain of command for a reason."
"I understand," she said, standing and letting go of the wound. A masked enforcer hurried up to Marcus and handed him a note. The enforcer's expression was urgent as Marcus read, then frowned and crumpled the paper in his hand.
"But there's more going on here than just smuggling. If I can just question him—" Caitlyn pleaded, desperate.
Marcus sighed, annoyed. "Since you're so eager for work, you can take the graveyard shift tonight at the fair. We'll take it from here. Go, before I have you suspended."
"Yes, sir..." Caitlyn replied reluctantly, trying her best to hide her disobedient tone.
Enforcers hauled the wounded man from the hole as Marcus ordered, "Take this one to Stillwater."
---------------
~Below~
The tunnels opened into a large cargo bay. Stacks of raw materials and supplies filled three corners; the remaining corner served as a workspace for repairs and sorting.
None of that mattered to the thugs and workers encircling the dark tunnel. Those in front shifted nervously, gripping blades or whatever improvised weapon they could find. In the back, a dozen guns were aimed into the dark tunnel.
Experienced ones exhaled slowly, index fingers resting on triggers with practiced ease.
The novices trembled with wrong finger placement, shaking guns, and erratic breathing as howls of the damned echo from the tunnel.
"AAAAAA!"
"Help us!"
"NO—GAH!"
The screams died.
Silence settled, heavy with the metallic smell wafting out.
"FIRE!"
Three blurs burst from the darkness. The marksmen's shots found two who flew past and crashed into the floor, leaving messy, gory splotches. The third struck a man wielding a chainsaw. He landed a blow but was knocked off balance by an impact that slammed him back.
"W-What the…?!"
Mangled bodies littered the ground, bone spears protruding grotesquely from torsos. Two of the corpses bore bullet holes; the third lay skewered with a chainsaw embedded in the skull, its face frozen in lifeless horror.
From the shadows came a voice, bubbling with sadistic glee:
"Corpse Explosion!"
"AAAAAA!"
The corpses swelled and bulged in a grotesque parody of life before detonating in a spray of blood and bone. Bone fragments and gore struck those nearby. Some fell screaming; others were struck in vital places and died on the spot or collapsed into pools of their own blood.
"Corpse Explosion!"
The man who'd been under the first corpse, the unlucky one with the chainsaw, burst, taking more people with him. Panic devolved into chaos; survivors fled toward the elevator, coated in gore.
Chuckling with a cruel pride, Xander emerged from the tunnel and took in the scene with a deep breath. The fact this might not be a game hadn't registered; he was too drunk on power and egotistical glee, feeling like reaper incarnate. His mind buzzed with a fevered white fog, dull and loud at once.
"Mana consumption?" Xander mused, assessing himself. Something felt off, but he couldn't place it. His eyes, red and ominous beneath his mask, drifted to a man crawling toward the elevator where terrified survivors huddled.
"Leveling up restores mana and vitality…"
"GAH!"
A vicious machete strike finished the straggler and Xander's cold gaze rose to the survivors.
"P-please, spare us!" someone cried.
A giant green scythe materialized behind Xander and their eyes widened as the grim reaper before them took a step forward.
"AAAAA!"
-----------------
Urgot, standing at the entrance, eyed the creaking gates of the elevator eagerly. When the shrouded figure stepped out, coated in blood and emanating an ominous aura, Urgot could not help but react.
His mechanized body twitched with anticipation though a subconscious twinge followed the newcomer's presence, a sensation he had not felt in a long time. His gaze fell on a half-cleaved corpse dangling from the man's hand.
"Finally," he grated, the voice grinding through metal and hydraulics. "A blade that understands force. Survival through combat. Survival through domination."
He extended a hand, huge, plated fingers capable of crushing bone like paper, an offer and a challenge all at once. When he spoke again, there was no charity in it, only command.
"Stand with me, or get out of the way. We will tear down their nobility, strip them of privilege, and remake this city by strength. Fight, serve, or be discarded."
He did not wait for consent. The smell of oil and iron clung to him as he stepped forward, already calculating how to turn this new horror into an instrument for his rule.
"Which city?" Urgot's voice rattled with a layer of amusement. "You must be like me."
Urgot misunderstood, understandably so. Those born to Piltover would know where they stood. Those sent here as slaves, or betrayed like Urgot himself, might lack such certainty.
"You stand in the darkest pit of Zaun, Dredge Prison," Urgot grated. "Tell me, stranger, how were you betrayed? I doubt someone of your strength would be so easily captured."
The dark figure did not move or answer. Urgot peered at him warily until a low, uncertain voice whispered.
"Zaun… Arcane? This is the wrong universe and the wrong setting. Am I going to wake up soon?"
"What nonsense do you spew?" Urgot snapped.
A pulse of danger washed over him. Instinctively his torso opened and a mechanical grinder revealed itself and, with a hiss, a barbed harpoon shot out on a metal chain.
The stranger only chuckled darkly. He raised the corpse, stepped aside, and the harpoon struck the dead body. With a wet, terrible sound, the chain whipped back toward Urgot and returned into his torso, tearing metal and flesh, spraying guts and blood across the floor.
"Corpse Explosion," the man intoned.
"AGH!" Urgot roared, the sound more machine than man. Two of his support legs buckled as the internal mechanisms rattled; the shock of the blast hit him harder than the wound itself.
His internals were built to grind people to dust, so why had a corpse's detonation shaken him so? The surprise and the sudden instability did more to unbalance him than the physical damage.
"I will kill you!" he snarled, raising his arm, augmented into a rifle, ready to fire when he noticed a white glint and jerked his arm protectively instead.
A loud, metallic bang resounded as inches from his face, a sharp bone jutted through his weapon.
What the fuck is this? Urgot thought, having never seen such magic or terrifying ability, peering back at the dark figure as the man began to raise his hand in an upward, clawing motion.
What is that? I'll kill him before—
His thought ended abruptly, and his body now hung limp.