Turkugur Plain
The grassland stretched endlessly, lush and green.
A gentle breeze swept through the valley, bending the knee-high grass and revealing scattered flocks of cattle and sheep.
White and brown, the animals grazed with single-minded greed, never raising their heads.
In contrast, the herders looked thin and worn.
Their cheekbones jutted out, eye sockets sunken, lips cracked from sun and wind.
They wore blank, numb expressions, untouched by the pastoral beauty around them.
Boom—Boom—
Suddenly, the silence was shattered.
The ground trembled. One of the cattle raised its head first, letting out a sharp, uneasy bleat.
Waaa—
Screams followed. Hooves pounded.
Driven by instinct, the herds scattered in panic.
Startled, the herders' faces shifted from weariness to alarm.
They shouted and cracked their whips, trying to steer the stampede.
Bang-Bang—
The tremors grew faster. Stronger. The cattle and sheep ran blindly, like flies trapped in a room, desperate for escape.
Something told them—danger was coming.
The herders quickly lost control. The animals ignored them, racing wildly across the plain.
Watching helplessly, the herders let out hoarse cries.
Their arms dropped, whips falling limp to the ground. Despair froze on their faces.
It was the look of drowning men, resigned to the wave crashing down.
Despair. Helplessness. Mourning...
Boom! Boom!
The rumbling didn't stop.
One herder turned toward the noise and squinted into the distance.
"What… what is that?"
His voice trembled.
On the far horizon, yellow sand churned into the sky. Dust clouds rose.
Through the haze, dark shapes raced forward.
As they drew closer, it became clear—these weren't beasts.
They were armored knights on mounts.
Two flags flew at the front. One a banner. One of a regimental standard.
"It's Noxus!" someone cried.
"They're here! We're saved!" another shouted, overcome with emotion.
"Baron Thor! Your time is up!" a voice growled, filled with long-held hatred.
The shepherds came alive, expressions lighting up like puppets wound back to motion.
They raised their whips in celebration, shouting praises.
Then they saw the front rider.
Darius.
The Hand of Noxus led the charge, a towering figure atop a massive war-tiger.
As he drew near, the herders dropped to their knees.
"General of Noxus! Please, save our families!" a middle-aged man begged.
"Please!"
"Help us!"
Their cries rose in chorus, desperate and pleading.
Darius dismounted, cold eyes scanning the crowd.
"Stand up," he ordered, voice firm and commanding.
"Bring your leader forward."
The herders hesitated, then slowly got to their feet.
After some murmuring, they nudged a middle-aged man forward.
Darius nodded slightly.
"Good. What's your name?" he asked, his gaze sharp.
"I'm Hult… We're citizens of the Kingdom of Turkugur. We are under Baron Thor," the man said, avoiding eye contact. His voice trembled.
"What did you just say?" Darius pressed.
"We heard… that Noxus helps the oppressed," Hult said carefully.
He looked up, caught sight of Darius' blood-red armor, and quickly lowered his head again, his body shaking.
Darius raised his axe and let out a dry laugh.
"You heard right."
"Please, General," Hult dropped to his knees, tears welling up, "my wife and children… they'll starve if this goes on."
He clutched the hem of Darius' boot, voice breaking.
"We work all day just for a little food. The baron's steward still takes a cut. By the end, we barely have enough to live."
Darius glanced at the nearby livestock.
"There's plenty of meat on this land. Why not take one?"
"The baron's guards would kill us," Hult replied, voice shaking.
"They've got weapons."
Darius turned slightly.
"Wedlin. Arm them."
"Yes, General."
Wedlin and the soldiers around him moved quickly, pulling spare spears from their mounts and planting them upright in front of the herders.
Darius looked back at the group.
"Noxus gives you a chance," he said, voice like steel.
"Stand up."
Roar!
After Darius finished speaking, he tugged the reins and pulled the mount closer.
The beast raised its head and let out a deep, resonant roar.
The roar echoed across the plain, and suddenly, the wind fell silent.
One by one, the herders lowered their heads. Their limbs trembled uncontrollably.
If not for the last thread of human reason, they would've fled like the terrified cattle and sheep before them.
Darius sneered at the scene.
"If you're content to live in chains, then stay on your knees and keep being slaves," he said coldly.
"But if you're not—take the spears in front of you, butcher the cattle and sheep, and follow me to storm the baron's castle!"
"This..."
Hult hesitated. And he wasn't alone. Most of the herders shrank back, the weight of years under Baron Thor's rule making them flinch.
They stood like tethered livestock—meek, silent, gazing down at the grass instead of facing the future.
Then, from the back of the group, a thin young man stepped forward.
He walked with purpose, head held high.
Under Darius' watchful gaze, he gripped a spear and tore it from the ground.
Without hesitation, he turned to a nearby white, long-horned sheep—then drove the spear through its eye.
Splurt!
Blood sprayed across his face and chest.
He didn't even blink. His expression twisted into something savage, almost inhuman.
He yanked the spear free, eyes burning red, and looked straight at Darius.
"General," he said, voice hard.
"May I speak?"
Darius leaned slightly forward from his saddle, clearly interested.
"Of course. What's your name?"
"Ian. Let me take this mutton home—then I'll follow you wherever you lead."
Darius saw it clearly in the sunlight: hatred and madness flickering behind the young man's eyes.
"Good." Darius grinned and laughed deeply.
At his signal, one of the Trifarian soldiers rode up and tied Ian's kill to his mount.
The rest of the herders exchanged glances.
Compared to the baron's cruelty, what could be more real than the bloody meat right in front of them?
They were starving.
They looked at the animals grazing nearby, and for the first time in their lives, hunger outweighed fear.
They swallowed hard.
It was strange. They saw these herds every day, fed them, walked with them—yet today, they felt a restless urge unlike before.
Swish—
The sound of feet moving through grass.
One herder stepped forward. Then another. And another.
Soon, dozens followed. They grabbed spears, raised them high, and began killing.
Cattle and sheep screamed across the plain, blood staining the grass red.
The stench of death, manure, and hot blood filled the air.
But as the livestock fell, the herders stood taller.
With every stab, they vented years of rage.
Their hands shook—not with fear, but from sheer adrenaline.
Some were overwhelmed, eyes wide, lips trembling, not with sorrow but release.
They had never known it could feel like this—to rise.
Each time a herdsman finished, the soldiers secured the slain animal to a mount.
"Very good," Darius said.
He turned in his saddle, his voice like iron.
"Remember the choice you made today. Ian—you're their acting captain. Lead them well."
Then Darius spurred his mount and led his troops toward the village in the distance.
The yellow sand kicked up behind him. Dust rose. The air turned cold and sharp once again.
"Yes, General!"
Ian shouted behind him.
And in that moment, something bloomed in his eyes.
Hope.
With the sun blazing above, he lifted his bloodstained spear and pointed it toward the other herders.
"Move! Don't make the general regret choosing you—or I'll run you through myself!"
Then he took off at a run, heading straight for the village.
The herders didn't hesitate this time. With hunger, anger, and a taste of freedom driving them, they followed Ian.
This timid, beaten-down group of men had finally erupted.
There was no turning back now.
By the time they reached the village, it had already been taken by the Trifarian Legion.
The black-and-red flag of the Noxian Empire flew from the highest platform in the village square—a bold declaration of conquest.
Only the baron's castle remained sealed.
The villagers had already been rounded up and brought to the square outside the castle gates.
Ian and the others entered the square with spears in hand and bowed three times, solemnly, to Darius.
On the way there, they had already seen the livestock they had slaughtered, now neatly arranged beside the square, ready for collection.
"You have a quarter of an hour. Then we storm the castle," Darius ordered coldly.
"Half an hour is more than enough!" Ian replied with firm conviction.
He turned, laid down his spear, and began distributing the cattle and sheep.
Each family received their share swiftly and efficiently.
Within moments, Ian had completed the task and reassembled his men.
By the time he regrouped, their numbers had swelled.
Darius glanced over the growing crowd—there were now over a hundred people, including many unfamiliar faces.
"General," Ian said, stepping forward, gripping his spear tightly.
"We're all ready to fight and die. Please—let us be the vanguard!"
Darius raised an eyebrow, impressed.
He'd noticed Ian moments earlier, speaking briefly to a girl with a maimed arm and a scarred face.
That exchange, no longer than a breath, had galvanized him.
Still, Darius had no intention of using these emaciated villagers as cannon fodder.
"Hahaha! Not today," he barked.
"But remember this moment well. Follow me—kill!"
His voice rang out like steel over stone.
With a powerful tug on the reins, Darius charged forward alone atop his black tiger, racing toward the castle gates.
Ian did not hesitate. Spear in hand, he sprinted after him.
Inspired by their example, the elderly and weak villagers rallied behind them.
With spears provided by the Trifarian soldiers, they ran—not because they were unafraid, but because Darius had given them hope.
"Enemy attack!!"
The castle guards barely had time to cry out before Darius was airborne.
"Die!"
Launching himself from his mount, Darius soared dozens of meters high.
With his battleaxe raised above his head, he came down like a meteor.
CRACK—BOOM!
The axe struck the castle wall with a thunderous roar.
Stone split apart, rubble exploded in all directions.
A deep fissure tore through the fortress wall.
Several guards, too slow to flee, were crushed beneath tons of rock and debris.
Even the ground behind the wall split open under the sheer force.
The remaining guards stared in horror. Was this a man—or a force of nature?
"Noxus!" Darius bellowed, charging into the breach with his axe dripping blood.
Anyone foolish enough to stand in his way was split in two, their blood soaking the stones behind them.
The sheer violence left the rest paralyzed.
They fell back, circling Darius but never daring to strike.
After watching a few more of their comrades fall, their courage snapped.
Fear overtook discipline. Panic overtook loyalty.
Some dropped their weapons and fled. Others simply collapsed in place, unable to move.
Darius paid them no mind. He was hunting prey, not soldiers.
His goal lay deeper inside.
Moments later, Ian and the others poured into the castle.
They took charge, disarming the surrendered guards and herding them aside, controlling the chaos.
Suddenly, from within the castle, a series of terrified shrieks echoed outward.
Darius emerged, dragging behind him a cluster of noblemen and noblewomen, dressed in silks and gold, now soiled with blood and dirt.
A few clutched at missing limbs.
Others sobbed uncontrollably.
One blood-covered noble, face twisted with both pain and pride, screamed:
"I am a baron, bestowed by the king himself! You—savages—will regret this!"
He spat blood, his voice shrill and unhinged.
Darius ignored him. He turned instead to Ian.
"Is this your baron?" he asked, voice like cold iron.
Ian's grip on his spear tightened. His knuckles turned white. Veins bulged beneath the skin of his arms.
"It's him, General," he growled.
"I have a request."
Darius gave him a long look, then grinned.
"Hah. The moment you picked up a spear, you became a Noxian."
Then he turned and walked away, casually hefting his battleaxe over his shoulder.
"Thank you, General!"
Ian's voice cracked with emotion.
Behind Darius, the baron's screams grew louder, then cut to silence.
Darius didn't look back. He mounted his tiger again with a practiced motion.
"Move out!" he commanded.
The Trifarian Legion rode as one, thundering out of the village, toward the next conquest.
Behind them, the red-and-black banner of Noxus was planted atop the village square.
It flapped like a final verdict in the wind, and the villagers could only stare in awe.
Later, Ian emerged from the castle—his face covered in blood, but his posture proud and unyielding.
He climbed the high platform at the center of the square.
He stood watch with a spear in one hand and the Noxian flag billowing behind him.
He did not speak.
He looked into the distance, where the Trifarian Legion had vanished, and stood tall, guarding the banner of a new future.