THE INVASION OF IONIA

“I believed in you, Blade Dancer!” the man choked, his lips frothing red. “You showed us the path…”

Irelia held her stance. She looked down at him, this devotee of the Brotherhood, on his knees in the mud. He had been pierced over and over by her blades.

“We could have been strong... United as one people...”

“That is not the Spirit’s way,” she replied. “If that’s what you think, then you are wrong.”

He had come to this village, waiting for the perfect moment before making his move. But he was clumsy and awkward. She had danced around him easily.

He had been determined to kill her. The worst thing was, he wasn’t the first. Irelia’s blades now hovered at her shoulders, following the graceful, circling movements of her hands. One simple gesture, and it could all be over.

He spat blood on the ground, his eyes burning with hatred. “If you will not lead Navori, the Brotherhood will.”

He tried weakly to raise his dagger against her. This man would never be taken alive.

“I believed in you,” he said again. “We all did.”

She sighed. “I never asked you to. I’m sorry.”

Her limbs flowing lithely around her body, Irelia whirled to the side, sending the blades out in a deadly arc. They sliced cleanly through his flesh, as much an act of mercy as self-defense.

A simple turn, just one elegant step, brought the blades back to her, their edges slick with blood. The man’s lifeless body toppled forward.

“May the Spirit bring you to peace,” said Irelia.

She closed her eyes.

“Father,” she whispered. “I have bloodied our family’s honor once more. Forgive me.”

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Irelia spread the blades out before her—like Ionia itself, they were the fractured pieces of something that had once been far greater, now turned to violent ends. She poured water into a small wooden bowl, and dipped in a rag. The simple act of cleaning the shards had become a ritual, one that she felt compelled to undertake after every battle she fought.

The water slowly turned red as she worked. But beneath the fresh blood, the metal carried much darker, older stains that she could never seem to remove completely.

This was the blood of her people. The blood of Navori itself.

Lost in thought, she began to slide the blades around, slowly reforming them into her family crest. Its three symbols lay cracked before her, representing the Xan name, her home province, and the rest of the First Lands, all in harmony. Her ancestors had always lived by the teachings of Karma. They inflicted no harm on anyone, regardless of circumstance.

And now, here was their seal and crest turned into weapons, and takers of countless lives at that.

She could feel the eyes of her brothers upon her. Even in their eternal rest, at one with the Spirit of Ionia, she feared earning their disappointment, their resentment. She pictured her dear old O-ma too, broken and sobbing, devastated by each kill...

Many times, that thought had made Irelia weep more than any other.

The blades would never be clean. She knew that—but she would still do right by those she had harmed.

She passed many of her followers on her way to the burial grounds. Though they looked to Irelia for leadership, now more than ever, she recognized so few of them. With each winter the faces became less familiar, as the last of the old resistance were replaced by new and more zealous fighters. They came from faraway provinces, and towns she had never heard of.

Even so, she halted often to return their half-hearted salutes and bows, and would accept none of their help in dragging the shrouded body of her dead attacker along the road.

Finding an open patch beneath the blossom-heavy branches of a tree, Irelia set him down carefully, and turned to join in the grief of the widows and widowers, the orphaned sons and daughters.

“I know it is never easy,” she said, placing a consoling hand on the shoulder of one man, who knelt before a pair of fresh graves, “but each life, and each death, are part of—”

He batted away her hand, glaring at her until she retreated.

“It was necessary,” she murmured to herself as she prepared to start digging, though she remained unconvinced by her own words. “It is all necessary. The Brotherhood would grip this land in an iron fist. No better than Noxus…”

Her eyes fell upon an old woman, sat on a simple wooden stool at the foot of the tree, singing a soft lament. Streams of tears had dried on her face. She was dressed plainly, with one hand resting on a grave marker next to her. It was adorned with food offerings for the deceased.

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To Irelia’s surprise, the woman halted her song.

“Bringing us some company, are you, daughter of Xan?” she called out. “Ain’t much room left round here. But any friend of yours is a friend of ours.”

“I did not know this man, but thank you. He deserved better than he was given in life.” Irelia took an uncertain step closer. “You were singing one of the old songs.”

“Helps keep my mind off bad things,” said the old woman, tamping down a patch of dirt on the grave. “This is my nephew.”

“I… I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sure you did all you could. Besides, this is all part of the Spirit’s way, you know?”

Her kindly demeanor had put Irelia entirely at ease. “Sometimes I don’t know,” she confided.

The old woman perked up, expecting more. Irelia continued, finally giving voice to the doubts that had plagued her for a long time.

“Sometimes… Sometimes I wonder if I killed our peace.”

“Killed our peace?”

“When Noxus invaded. Perhaps we lost something when we fought back, something we can never restore.”

The woman stood, trying in vain to open a large nut. “Child, I remember peace well,” she said, thrusting one gnarled, knobby finger at Irelia. “Those were good days! Nobody misses peace more than me.”

She pulled a knife from her belt, and began to pry open the nutshell.

“But the world’s a different place now. What worked then don’t work today. No point dwelling on it.”

At last, the shell cracked, and she placed the broken kernel into a bowl on the grave.

“See, there? Used to be able to open these with my hands alone, now I need a knife. The young me would’ve fretted about it, damaging the nut like that. But that me don’t matter, because she don’t have to live in the here and now.” The old woman nodded kindly, then went back to her singing.

For the first time in a long while, Irelia smiled. Within her satchel, wrapped in protective cloth, were the shard-blades of her shattered family crest. She knew it would never be clean, never be whole again.

But they were always ready, and that would have to be enough.

Procured a cutthroat hiding among the populace and feigning civility. Only a disciplined eye could recognize the beast within, yearning for release. How could I refuse? For what is my work if not an attempt to reveal life’s hidden truths through science? It required two doses to subdue him. Impressively resilient. A necessary quality to survive the grand catalyst of pain and provoke the transmutation. The metamorphosis will reshape the man into a chimeric predator, and all of Zaun will be its hunting grounds.

Prepared subject for implantation. Tested a surgical technique I observed during the Ionian Campaign to reach the scapulae. Required several minutes of drilling through bone to attach the alchemical chamber and pumps that will deliver the transmutative formula. Subject wailed and pleaded. Insisted he was no longer a monster, but a good man. Ignored the distractions and threaded lengths of delicate hoses throughout his extremities, splicing them with his veins and arteries. The subject remained conscious and screaming for six hours. Very encouraging as he endured significantly longer than earlier failures. Finished by integrating the mechanical augmentations with the neurolous fibers of the spine. Minimal stitching required. Subject stable and recovering. I must rest and replenish before tomorrow’s procedure.

Found subject despondent and shrinking at the slightest gesture. He struggled against his bonds as the delivery chamber filled with the transmutative formula and activated. The mechanism primed the alchemicals then initiated the next stage. The effects were instantaneous. The subject convulsed as his blood vessels constricted against those first drops. The plunger pushed the mixture through the obstruction, and the subject thrashed violently, nearly toppling the surgical table.

As hypothesized, pain proved the catalyst of change. It released the flood of chemistry required to transmute the subject’s base anatomy. A snapping of bone and sinew followed, reshaping the skeletal frame. And then a jagged shard ripped through the subject’s wrist. He wrenched against the bindings, pulling until the joint cracked sharply, and his severed hand fell to the floor. There was a piercing wail, and his entire body seized before suffering a full collapse. The transmutation had failed. I stanched the wound and stabilized the body’s vital tasks. Perhaps I’ve overestimated the subject’s tolerance for pain. I will recalibrate and begin anew tomorrow.

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Returned to my laboratory and found the severed hand still on the floor. Surprisingly, it showed no signs of decay or rigor. Examined the subject’s mangled stump as he spat a litany of insults and threats. The rise in aggression is a promising aftereffect of the alchemicals. But the most striking change was hidden beneath the blood-soaked bandages. A protolimb. Embryonic and malformed, but beautiful in its predatorial function. Even now, hours after the aborted procedure, flesh continues to grow and outpace the formation of misshapen bone. Perhaps allowing more time for the serum to take effect may prove beneficial.

Images of the protolimb pervaded my sleep. Its beauty and singular purpose arrested in tragic failure. But what if it could be more? Awoke with the spark of inspiration. Metallurgy. It may lack the refinements of true chemistry, but last night, it served my purpose. Worked until first light forging steel, sharpening edges, and hammering a framework. It should provide the necessary structure, a scaffolding of sorts, for the new limb to grow into. Improving upon nature is simple when she’s already offered a design.

The constraints of the procedure forced me to benumb the subject and work swiftly. Discovered signs of new growth on the protolimb. The changes had slowed, but not settled. Grafted the malformed limb’s muscle tissue, blood vessels, and delicate nerve endings to the framework. Finished by integrating the augmentation with the alchemical chamber. Observed a slight twitch in the smallest digit. Moved subject, and reinforced his restraints. What other enhancements could be made? Perhaps I shall have a stroll and take in the Gray. There is much to consider.

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Returned from the Boundary Markets and was greeted by an old familiar stench. Tributaries of blighted veins stretched across the subject’s back. The infection originated where bone and metal chamber adjoined. Made adjustment to the formula, and dispensed the new batch. The subject’s stupor broke in a piercing shriek as his skeletal structure fractured and reshaped. A beastial form began to emerge, the chimeric properties finally surfacing, but then, the transmutation slowly ebbed and stilled.

Increased the chamber’s outflow. It trembled violently, delivering twice the dosage for every beat of the heart. The body contorted in response as flesh split like poorly seamed fabric unable to contain the changes occurring underneath. The chamber rumbled as the mixture roiled within the sealed container. Pressure built until it released in a rupture of hoses, seals, and blood vessels. A series of snapping sounds followed, metallic and clanging, and the subject’s restraints gave way.

An instant later, he was tearing into my face, reopening the old wounds and feeding the old rage. We struggled briefly until he finally grew limp and collapsed. A single word escaped his throat. And then all the indicators of life faded, and the body finally settled. No heartbeat detected. Applied several drops of caustic solution to his left arm, and received no response. Subject deceased. Dragged the body outside, and disposed of the remains in the Sump. Once again, scientific progress is stifled by lesser creatures. The only consolation is that even failure adds to the vast reservoir of knowledge.

There was a disturbance last night. Arrived to discover the rear door to my laboratory was torn from its hinges. Its heavy wooden planks cleaved and splintered into kindling. Inside, my equipment and provisions suffered a similar fate. Nothing was spared. And everything bore the same deep, gouging slash of sharpened metal. Hours of examining and comparing the marks confirmed the truth—the subject had returned! I don’t know how, but there are a myriad of questions already forming in my mind. But first, a new laboratory must be secured before locating the beast and starting the next phase. What was the word the subject said before it collapsed? A name perhaps? I’ll start there, and see where the search leads me.