Ionian Orders and Conflicts

“It was no tempest. It was a spirit,” said the fisherman, still rattled by the shipwreck he’d barely survived two nights ago. The man told of his fishing vessel being sunk by a creature, large as a house and quick as the wind.

Shen listened to the tale, silently weighing the facts as presented.

“Show me where it happened,” said Shen.

The man led him to a beach in the bay, where a team of villagers worked to recover the drowned bodies of the mariners. Shen knelt to examine a piece of wreckage. The gashes in the driftwood were deep and savage, the work of powerful claws.

“How many dead?” he asked.

“All but me… Six,” responded the fisherman.

The spirits are strong, thought Shen, digging through the wreckage for any further evidence.

At last, on the edge of a splintered portion of the hull, he found it: a small tuft of gossamer hair. Most people would overlook it, or if they did see it, they’d never believe a creature that could break a ship in half could leave something so delicate. But Shen had seen hair like this before. Any doubts he’d had about the veracity of the fisherman’s tale faded as he watched the fine, silvery tuft dissolve into nothing at his touch.

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“A demon,” Shen remarked. “You must have sailed into its path.”

The fisherman nodded grimly. Spirits of all kinds were known to mingle with the physical world, especially in Ionia, where the barrier between realms was thin and passable. The ethereal and material planes were in constant contact, sliding peacefully past one another like oil atop water.

As the Eye of Twilight, it was Shen’s duty to walk between the worlds, ensuring neither side overwhelmed the other. To humans, he was a ghost, vanishing in the space between breaths to reappear many miles away. To spirits, he was a human, flesh and bone who ought never to venture into ethereal realms.

He knelt on the beach to examine one of the corpses that had been recovered. The man had been torn in half, just below the ribs. What was left of his innards dangled from a pale, bloated torso.

“You need not worry. I shall have the monster before nightfall,” said a voice from behind.

Shen turned to see a holy man sent by the local temple. Several acolytes stood around him, carrying an assortment of mystical trinkets and oils. They were beginning a cleansing ritual to root out any spiritual disturbances in the area. The holy man stared at Shen, as if sizing up his value.

“Can we count on your help, sir?” the man asked.

“Balance will be restored,” said Shen with an assuring nod.

He parted ways with the holy man and continued to follow the faint trail of gossamer hair. He thought of the dead seafarers and the cost he’d need to exact from the demon. The words of his father still rang true: “The hardest part is finding the point of balance in all things.” True neutrality, the precise center of all forces at work in the world - that is what the Eye must be able to distinguish.

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Enforcing that equilibrium was its own struggle. For the task, Shen carried two blades on his back. One was an Ionian steel saber that could cleave through a person in one blow. The other was a sword of pure arcane energy. It was used for dealing with spirits, and had been passed down through many generations of Shen’s ancestors. He had slain countless demons, ghosts, wraiths, and sprites with it over the years, and fully expected to take one more before the day was done.

At last, Shen came to a secluded inlet, quiet and devoid of human activity. On a sandbar in the shallows lay the demon, its fine, glossy coat shimmering in the dusk. The creature swelled as it rested, engorged from consuming the mortal essences of its victims. Shen crept through the rushes, silently edging toward the sleeping demon. He could see its massive ribcage expand and contract with deep, restful breaths. When he was but a few paces from the sandbar, he drew his spirit blade, readying his strike.

Suddenly, a distressing sound stayed his hand. It was a shrill, ghastly cry, emanating from the very air itself. It sounded familiar, but before Shen could identify the noise, he heard it again. And again. And again, culminating in a chorus of blood-curdling shrieks. These were the cries of dying spirits. Shen’s eyes darted back to the demon, now beginning to stir from its slumber. Shen took one more look at his spirit blade, calmly weighing his options. He then clasped his hands together, carefully focusing his ki, and disappeared in a vortex of crackling energy, leaving the demon alone on its sandbar.

A moment later, Shen reappeared at the site of the shipwreck.  All around, smoldering pools of black ooze evaporated into the air, coupled with the lingering reek of terror.

Shen counted the dissipating black puddles, each the remains of a slain spirit. His tally was interrupted as the holy man entered the clearing with his acolytes. One of the men held a cord of flax and silver. Tethered to the other end was a smaller spirit - an imp of no significance. It struggled against the choke of its leash. It wailed as it saw the remains of its brethren.

“Would you care to dispose of this one?” the holy man asked Shen, casually, as if offering him a bowl of soup at dinner.

Shen looked at the sticky, smoldering pools that were mighty beings of the otherworld just moments ago. Then he turned his gaze toward the priest and the wailing imp.

“I am sorry for this, Your Holiness,” he said. He placed his spirit blade back into its scabbard and drew his steel saber instead. It was not the sword he had expected to use that day.

“Ah— Hey! Bo’lii!” I cry out. “Cut me a little deep, don’t you think?”

I crane my head up and around from the wicker mat I’m lying prone on to stare right into the eyes of the vastaya kneeling over me. I can feel the blood sliding down my back.

“How about you be a little more careful?” I add.

Bo’lii pulls his qua’lo and mulee away from my shoulder, the tools of a tattoo artist, like a hammer and chisel, made from serpent bone. Some use other animals or metal, but the serpent bones are just hollow enough to give the ink the fine line that a master like Bo’lii demands in his work. A little more of my blood drips off the mulee and onto my back. He smiles, dabs it with a swatch of old linen and shakes his head. Then he holds up his hands and shrugs, as if to ask, You want me to stop?

The words don’t come. Noxian soldiers took most of his tongue long before I began coming here, but I know him well enough to know what a look can say. His work is more than a fair trade for a little discomfort.

And the blood? I can take a little blood. A lot, if it’s not my own.

“Just clean it up a little, okay? I don’t think we have much time,” I tell him.

Bo’lii begins tapping the mulee with the qua’lo and adding the ink. He has the best inks, rich colors made from crushed Raikkon wild berries and the enchanted flower petals found only on the southern faces of the Vlonqo cliffs. He is a master, and I am honored to be his canvas.

I started coming to Weh’le not long after I stopped listening to Shen. All those years in the Kinkou Order “treading carefully”? No. Shen was wrong about that. About me.

Restraint has never been my thing.

I turn back around on the mat and rest my chin on top of my hands. Keeping my eyes trained on the door that leads into Bo’lii’s tavern. His place is clean, but the air hangs heavy with guilt. The tavern is home to a collection of thieves, rogues, and bad decisions. People come to Bo’lii’s to arrange a way out of Weh’le. Out of Ionia. Because getting into Weh’le is hard… but getting out is even harder.

Weh’le is a phantom port, a hidden coastal village, protected by the mystical properties of Ionia. Unlike Fae’lor, she doesn’t welcome outsiders, and you won’t find her on the maps. Should Weh’le appear at all, it is always on her own terms, daring people into doing very dumb things.

Most approach from the sea, dreaming of riches, discovery or maybe just a new start, only to have their hopes dashed in an instant. First, the shoreline that once called to them vanishes behind a dense wall of cobalt fog crackling with arcane power. The sea rises and falls violently before unleashing torrents of crushing waves. As the survivors cling to their splintered vessel, the fog pulls back for the briefest of moments, allowing them one look at the flickering lanterns of Weh’le cruelly saying goodbye just before the water pulls them down to the bottom of the Breathless Bay.

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I can’t do anything about those people. Not my people. Not my problem.

Bo’lii stops tapping. I’m here for someone else entirely.

I feel my satchel against my thigh. It puts me at ease, although I would rather have it on me. From there, I could fire three kunai into three hearts on instinct. Three kills without a thought. Where it is now, I’d have to think a little.

I look up just in time to see the man come through the front door. He is flanked by three guards in their battle dress.

“Well, that makes it easy… I wonder which one I’m supposed to kill?” I mock.

Bo’lii laughs. He can still do that, even without a tongue. It sounds a little weird, but it’s real. He shakes his head again, and does that thing he always does. With a series of hand movements and head nods he tells me to try and do my business outside this time, after they leave his establishment.

“You know I can’t promise that,” I say as I check my satchel, and turn towards the din of the tavern.

I pause at the doorway and turn back to him.

“I’ll do what I can,” I say, before lifting the mask over my face. I don’t mind them seeing me, but if they saw me laughing at them, I think it would be just too much.

The guy with the guards is my people—a high councilman from Puboe, a place not far from the Kinkou Order. But, like many, he sold out his people to the invaders for gold and safe passage to Weh’le, and beyond. So now he is my problem.

But this is as far as he will get. Sure, I could’ve taken him out in his sleep at the inn, or when they made camp along the road to Weh’le, but where’s the fun in that? I want him to taste the salt air. I want him to feel a sense of relief before the end comes. But I also want the others to see him pay for his crimes, and know that this will not stand.

Actions have consequences.

I approach without a sound. His hands are shaking as he raises a mug of ale to his lips. His guards stand in his defense when they notice me. I’m impressed.

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“Nice to see manners around here for a change,” I say with a smile they cannot see.

“What’s your business, girl?” One of them asks through a plate of pitted and tarnished steel.

“Him,” I say pointing with my kama. It glistens with hues of the magic it was forged in. “He’s my business right now.”

The guards draw their weapons, but even before they can step towards me, they disappear in a thick ring of blinding smoke. The kunai begin to fly, hitting their targets with a satisfying flesh and bone THUNK.

One. Two. Three.

Footsteps.

I send two more kunai in that direction. A clang of metal, followed by the THUCK-THUCK of them ricocheting into the walls.

More footsteps.

“Aw, you’re gonna bleed!” I call out, flinging a single shuriken from my hip, and flipping across the room, following in its wake.

I break through the smoke to see the last guard splayed out on the ground next to the door. The three prongs are lodged deep in his windpipe—I can see his chest rising and falling ever so slightly. I grab him by the collar, raise him up, just to be sure.

“Almost…” I whisper.

At that moment, I hear a gurgling behind me. I turn to see the councilman through the receding smoke, bleeding out on the floor. His eyes are open, darting back and forth across the tavern, wondering what just happened.

He looks so peaceful now.

Kayn stood confidently in the shadow of the noxtoraa, surrounded by dead soldiers, and smiled at the irony. These triumphal arches of dark stone were raised to honor the strength of Noxus—to instill fear and to demand fealty from all who passed beneath them. Now this one was a tombstone, a monument to false strength and arrogance, and a symbol of the fallen warriors’ own fear turned against them.

Kayn relished fear. He counted on it. It was a weapon, and as his brothers in the Order of the Shadow had mastered their katana and their shuriken, Kayn had mastered fear.

But as he felt Noxian soil beneath him for the first time in years, amid the enemy soldiers slain and soon to be forgotten, there was unease. It hung in the air like the pressure before a storm, begging to be released.

Nakuri, Kayn’s fellow acolyte of the Order, reversed the grip on his blade and prepared for a more personal fight. To his credit, he almost managed to hide the tremor in his voice. “What’s it going to be, brother?”

Kayn said nothing. His hands rested empty at his sides. He knew he was in control. Even so, he felt a flickering sense of déjà vu, like something out of a dream. It came in a flash, and then was gone.

A voice rose from the empty space between them—a dark and hateful voice that echoed with the pained cries of a thousand battlefields, daring each of them to act.

“Who will prove worthy?”

Zed had summoned his greatest student.

Spies of the Order had confirmed the disheartening rumors. The hated Noxians had discovered an ancient scythe of Darkin origin, as powerful as any other magic in Ionia. A single eye of crimson hate stared out from the heel of the blade, tempting the strongest of men to wield it in battle. Evidently, none had proved worthy. All who touched it were quickly and painfully consumed by its malevolence, so it had been wrapped in chainmail and sackcloth, before being secured by a guarded caravan bound for Valoran, and the Immortal Bastion.

Shieda Kayn knew what would be asked of him. This would be his final test.

He had reached the outskirts of the coastal city of Vindor before he ever considered the journey’s significance. Taking the fight to the enemy in their own land was audacious. But so was Kayn. There was no other who could match his talents, none to whom Zed would entrust the fate of Ionia, and so there could be no doubt: Kayn was destined for greatness.

He set his trap shortly before sunset. The approaching caravan was just visible in the distance, as wisps of dust rising into the orange sky—ample time to dispatch the three guards at the noxtoraa.

He moved in silence across the archway’s lengthening shadow as the first guard paced out a patrol. Kayn summoned his shadow magic and stepped into the black stone wall as if it were a passage open only to him. He could see the guards in silhouette, grasping their pikes tightly with both hands.

He lunged from the edifice cloaked in shadow, and snuffed the life from the second guard with his bare hands. Before the third could even react, Kayn dissolved into tendrils of pure darkness and darted across the cobbled road, reforming in front of his victim. In a flash, he wrenched the man’s head around, snapping his neck with ease.

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The first guard heard the bodies fall, lifeless and limp, and turned toward Kayn.

The assassin smiled, taking time to relish the moment. “It paralyzes, does it not?” he hissed, slipping into the shade of the noxtoraa once more. “The fear...”

He rose from the quaking soldier’s own shadow.

“This is the part where you run, Noxian. Tell others what you witnessed here.”

The soldier threw down his pike and sprinted for the safety of Vindor. He didn’t get far.

Clad in robes every bit as dark as Kayn’s, Nakuri leapt from behind the noxtoraa and plunged his katana into the belly of the fleeing soldier. The other acolyte locked eyes with Kayn. “The vaunted strength of Noxus? Such delusion...”

“I knew you were impetuous, brother,” Kayn spat. “But this? Following me all this way, hoping to share in my glory?”

There was no time for further admonishment. They could hear the caravan of soldiers approaching.

“Get out of sight, Nakuri. I will deal with you later. If you survive.”

The long shadows of twilight hid the bodies until the approaching soldiers were almost beneath the grand arch.

“Hold!” the first outrider cried, drawing his sword. “Fan out! Now!”

Confusion set in among the others as they left their horses and, for the first time, Kayn laid eyes on their cargo. It was just as Zed had described—wrapped in chainmail and sackcloth and strapped to the back of a sturdy Vindoran steed.

Patience was a virtue that Nakuri did not possess, and he heedlessly dove for the nearest soldier. Kayn always selected his targets carefully, and so struck with precision at the lead outrider, felling him with his own sword.

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He turned again to the Vindoran, but the scythe was gone.

No. He had come too far to fail.

“Kayn!” Nakuri yelled as he cut down one soldier after another. “Behind you!”

A desperate Noxian had freed the weapon, its red eye now revealed and glowing with inhuman rage. The soldier’s own eyes grew wide as he swung in vicious arcs at his own comrades. He was clearly not in control, trying in vain to release the scythe.

The rumors were true.

Calling again on his shadow magic, Kayn dove into the writhing Noxian’s Darkin-corrupted flesh. For the briefest of moments, he saw through the eyes of this ageless being, witnessing millennia of inflicted pain and suffering, screams and lamentations. This thing was death reborn again and again. It was the purest evil, and it had to be stopped.

He burst from what was left of the Noxian—the soldier’s flesh having warped into scales of hardened carapace that shattered into black shards and choking dust. All that remained was the scythe, its eye now closed. Kayn reached for it as Nakuri dispatched the last of their enemies.

“Brother, stop!” the acolyte cried, flicking blood from his katana. “What are you doing? You saw what it can do! It must be destroyed!”

Kayn faced him. “No. It is mine.”

The two of them drew up, neither willing to back down. Beyond the city boundaries, warning bells began to toll. The moment seemed to stretch out.

Nakuri reversed the grip on his blade. “What’s it going to be, brother?”

The scythe spoke to Kayn, then. It seemed as if it was echoing in his mind, and yet the other acolyte’s widening eyes showed he had heard it too.

“Who will prove worthy?”

Kayn conjured fingers of darkness that snatched up the weapon, lifting it into the night and spinning it into his waiting hands. It felt like a part of him, like it had always been a part of him, as if he alone was born to wield it. He spun it with a comfortable flourish and leveled the blade toward Nakuri’s throat.

“Do what you must.”