Runeterra: Alexander The Eternal

"I found it."

Three peaks rose above the clouds, their jagged spires untouched by war. A village clung to one of them, its wooden dwellings woven seamlessly into the cliffs, fields carved with patient hands. A world of stillness, where time moved only as fast as the wind allowed.

But something far older than the village lay hidden here.

Atop the highest summit, a presence stirred. The air bent around it, weighty and silent—like a dying star refusing to fade.

My gaze lingered on the peak.

The artifact.

Stealing it would be simple. A single night. No witnesses. No resistance.

But an artifact means nothing without understanding.

Power is wasted in the hands of the ignorant. If I take it now, I gain a weapon. If I wait, I learn what makes it truly dangerous.

And there was more to this place than relics. History, its customs, its way of war—all things I could turn to my advantage. If I wanted to break this land, I first had to understand how it bends.

Then there was Bard.

I had to ensure he appears, and that required patience.

.

An old man stood alone next to the village. His weathered features bore the weight of decades, long gray hair swaying gently with the wind.

A sickle-and-circle tattoo marked the top of his bald head—a symbol of meaning lost to outsiders. His faded blue robe, trimmed with gold, carried no ostentation, only the quiet dignity of age.

I approached.

Silver's talons scraped softly against the stone behind me, his towering form casting a long shadow.

The Elder's reaction was immediate. His arm lifted—not a show of aggression, but of caution.

Expected.

What I did not expect was the way he looked at me. No fear. Only curiosity.

I raised my hand slightly, greeting.

"A leader must know who stands before his people." I said, voice calm.

The Elder's expression did not change. "And who stands before me now?"

"A wanderer." I gestured to Silver. "And his shadow."

The silence between us was not empty. It carried the weight of judgment, of evaluation. The Elder studied me, his gaze sharp despite his years.

He exhaled through his nose, the smallest shift in posture. Then, finally, he lowered his arm.

"That beast of yours…" he murmured, gaze flickering toward Silver. "You are no common traveler."

He motioned to the stone beside him. "Sit."

A test disguised as an offer.

I obliged.

The Elder's gaze lingered on me before he spoke again. "Demacia," he said, voice slow. "I have heard of winged creatures like yours in their ranks." His brow furrowed slightly. "But you… you are no knight."

"And you are no mere storyteller," I countered. "A village like this, untouched by war, unseen by even Ionia itself…"

I let my words settle before adding, "Are you hiding something?"

His composure wavered, but quickly recovered.

"…Are you a Spirit Walker?"

I arched an eyebrow slightly.

"One who does not simply walk the land, but the space between it. One who carries their will."

'Sounds familiar.'

I considered my answer for only a moment. Then, nodded.

"Perhaps."

. .

The village lay open before me, built upon a rare stretch of flat land up high in the mountain.

Wooden houses stood in quiet order, their beams aged by wind and time. Simplicity ruled here—homes without ornament, white cloth garments, fields carved into the earth with patient hands. The sky stretched vast and clear above, unbroken by smoke or sound beyond the faint rustle of cloth and the distant creak of wood.

After getting to know each other better, he invited me to the vila. I walked beside, the presence of the villagers settled over me like a weight. Their gazes, sharp and steady, followed my every step.

Women paused in their tasks, baskets of grain held still in their arms. Children, bolder but cautious, peered from behind doorways before vanishing into the safety of their homes. The men stood firm, silent, their hands calloused from labor, their expressions hardened.

I observed the pillars, the top hidden by fog but a magic signal was clear.

'The elder is called Renzo. He can also sense mana, referring to it as spiritual energy. He firmly believes only good hearted ones manifest such gift.'

Renzo had invited me to his residence, and while we were walking, a group of men stood in my way, questioning my presence.

I didn't need to do much. The old man handled well, talking about me being a noble Spirit Walker, who was wandering the world to learn and offer wisdom.

They didn't seem to like it but they trusted his decision.

. . .

Time Passed

I stood at the base of the steps leading toward one of the artifacts, my gaze lifted to the peak.

I had remained here, weaving myself into their world—learning their customs, their scattered knowledge of Ionia's history, and the way they understood the land.

These people truly lived in peace.

They eat strange food, follow stranger customs, and their homes… unnatural—no, too natural? There was no shaping of stone, no chopping of wood. Instead, they praised spirits, offered gifts, and let nature decide the shape of their dwellings.

Also, there is a legend that, an enigmatic figure arrived at the village in the past, accompanied by a storm of winds and cosmic songs. After leaving three items, he disappeared, stating that "Balance would demand a worthy guardian one day."

A Spirit Walker, it seems. There's not much to them beside their connection to spirits, channeling their will.

"Spirits… I haven't seen any," I murmured, "but this land should be infested."

A scream tore through the quiet:

"The savages are coming!"

. .

A stillness settled over the village. The usual sounds—the laughter of children, the rustle of fabric, the creak of old wooden doors—had grown faint. The birds had stopped singing. Even the wind felt different. A sign of what was coming.

Panic spread as word of a Noxian scout sighted near the village reached the people.

We gathered at the village center, voices clashing in heated discussion.

A resistance force quickly formed, calling for every able hand to take up arms and fight. Some considered surrendering the artifacts to spare their children, while others demanded to call for aid.

"The artifacts must be protected! No one will arrive in time!"

"We must use everything we have! The artifacts—use them!"

Their desperation was evident. Yet, despite their pleas, Elder Renzo stood firm.

He spoke of tradition, of history, of sacred duty.

And as the argument raged, I glanced toward the horizon, where war's shadow loomed closer.

'They are doomed.'

. . .

The battle begins.

I had offer myself to protect one of the artifacts. Some protested, but eventually accepted.

I stood in one of the three peaks. In the ground, a polished circular stone covered the center, with short, thin, crooked pillars around it, old construct. A small altar in the middle, where the artifact sits: A golden bracer, its surface polished yet worn.

At first glance, it was unremarkable—no inscriptions, no elaborate markings, nothing to suggest power. But I saw beyond that.

Faint runic inscriptions oscillated beneath the surface, hidden from ordinary sight. Their design reminding me of—the World Runes.

It seems to resonate with elemental powers, but its true purpose remains unclear.

Two men stood guard beside me, the same ones who had judged me harshly when I first arrived. They positioned themselves near the entrance, where the steps began their descent into the fog-shrouded mountainside. The air was thick with tension, and the fog clung to the stairs like a living thing, obscuring everything beyond a few paces.

"I can't see a damn thing in this fog," one of the guards muttered, his voice tinged with unease.

"Is that what you're worried about?" the other replied, his tone sharper. "I still can't believe the elder is willingly using that power. People have tried to take it by force before, but using it… it's suicide."

"It's the only option now," the first guard countered, though his voice wavered. "The Noxians are gathering. He even ordered the villagers to retreat so he could use it. I didn't know the elder had a knack for warfare."

'The battle is one-sided. They should have taken the artifacts and fled while they had the chance.'

"Balance will be lost," the second guard said, his eyes flicking toward me. "That's not like him. Something must have happened. Someone…" His voice trailed off, and his gaze lingered on me, heavy with unspoken accusation.

I sighed inwardly.

'The old man took that dark egg to the frontline—a foolish decision. Knowing the future, it means something went wrong and he retreated.'

Step, step.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the fog, his silhouette sharp against the gray haze.

"Hi guys, everything okay around here?"

The first guard frowned. "You? I don't remember you—"

The figure moved fast—silent, precise. The blade slid across the guard's throat before the man even realized he was dead. His body staggered, hands reaching for a wound already too deep to stop. The other guard gasped, fumbling for his weapon. Too slow.

"W-What!?" the second guard stammered, his hand fumbling for his weapon.

"Weaklings," the soldier sneered, his voice dripping with contempt.

He swung his blade again, and the second guard barely managed to raise his weapon in time. The clash of steel echoed, but the outcome was inevitable.

I observed. Noxian. He was skilled, but his movements were predictable. Still, the two guards were no match for him.

"The war must be closing in to lore," I murmured, more to myself than anyone else.

"What are you saying!? Help—" the second guard cried out, but his plea was cut short as—SWING—my blade arced through the air, cleanly severing both heads from their shoulders.

The bodies slumped to the ground, lifeless.

My gaze shifting toward the artifact.

"Let's test this thing."

As I approached the altar, I paused, sensing a powerful magical signature emanating from the battlefield bellow.

"Finally. Let's get this over with."