《Random Stuff》 Chapter 1 - Life In life, there will be friends, and there will be foes. If I one wants to succeed in life, then you will naturally need friends and even foes. But no matter what, if you are a friend, then be a good friend. That can support and trust other people. If you are a foe, then you must keep light on your feet, and follow every single movement or breath of your enemy. Then at their weakest time, make them suffer(don''t actually make them suffer, but you can if you want to????). Chapter 2 - Friends When someone or friend wants you do something for them, it doesn''t matter if you don''t do anything about it. Because that someone may be someone you like or love. If I would do something that they want me to do, I would consider, and decide to do it or not. No matter in life, there will always be a time. where you''ll need to accept, even it is being forced. So, your decisions will lead your future, what you are doing right now, and the next generation, if you decide to make a family. Although people may seem rude, you can do the same, or not, so don''t go killing people. Chapter 3 - Judgement Judgement can either superb or terrifying for some people. Like getting pregnant, or having a baby as a teenager. All of these choices are made by you. These choices will shape your entire future, what you do in the future, is all dependent by YOU. And your choices and judgements will be extremely important for your destiny. For the terrifying part, someone could be sent to jail or prison for something they did not do. Many people would be or could be affected, loved ones, personal family, colleagues, co-workers, and friends. In the future we all need to make a big judgement, to keep living on or to perish with tears of loves ones, friends, and family. So make sure to make the judgement, when time rolls to you. Chapter 4 - Games Games, you can discover by your parents, friends, or grandparents. Games can help you get tough times, or it is a thing that simply entertains you. Games you play as a kid, you may or may not be playing up to this day. It can be a sport, board game, or a toy. Even if you''re being mocked or discriminated by paying your "game", keep enjoying yourself and doing you because people will always be haters. Now use those haters, as your power power, when you are playing your "game". Games can defined who you are, what you do, and represent a part of yourself. Chapter 5 - Bliss and Torture In a world where you can do anything would be a world of bliss and happiness. Ruled only by you and only you, with this could do whatever you want. Resting all the time, eating, watching, exploring, experimenting with what you want, or you could be enjoying life. People could be there, strangers, friends, personal kin, and even fictional characters. This world controlled by you, could have endless love, torture, and bliss. But all of this is dictated by your actions and what you do this world. Or you can, simply not rule the world, and enjoy the life that you are living right now. Would you rule this world or be still be living this endless supply of torture and self-hatred. Chapter 6 - Music Music can the most out of you. By dancing, singing, and exploring different cultures of exotic music. Enjoying hearing this weird melody of an another country or by just a group. Music can unite people from all of different backgrounds, listening to the same music, singing, dancing, and watching. Listening to music can pass time, entertaining you while you doing an activity or hobby. All of these traits is shared by all of the world. Some people may or not listen to music and explore the vast culture of this eye-catching and thrilling music. Shared by you and other people around the world this music can represent something, bring meaning to this devastating situation, the event of personal victory, or the death of a family member. A song can represent you in multiple ways, or you can be you and represent yourself without any help. So in life music will be an escape-way to another world made by alien and foreign people around the world. Chapter 7 - Alarm Clocks Alarm clocks can sometimes be such a pain. The dire need of sleep will be stop by this annoying and ear-piercing mysterious pitch. Even though the pitch may not be mysterious to you, this could a song or a tune that you like. I started the alarm clock in middle school making me wake up at 6am(EST). I still use it to this day, having the same tune and all. Even though I just a teen in highschool. This will definitely help me wake up on time to go on the bus or maybe car in the near future(hopefully). This could be used by many people around you or this could be used across the other side of the world. When you sleep there will be someone in the world with an alarm, at the time you have fall asleep, waking them up to another day of their life. Alarm clocks could be easily set up in real life or you can simply do this on your personal phone. Even my family uses this at different times. There will one day where you use the alarm clock or an alarm for an important event or situation. Please don''t hurt your alarm clock too, they have a family and they also have feelings(lol). Chapter 8 - Cereal Cereal, everybody has at least have ate cereal in their life. Cereal can cause be a great energy boost for you and your loved ones in the morning if you are tired. Cereal is bought across the world. Some are "Lucky Charms", "Frosted Flakes", and "Apples and Jacks". There are many variations of all of these cereal, some with (special) ingredients. Special codes for a game, a toy in inside the actual cereal box, and various spin-offs. Cereal can be a great energy boost in the morning, because that is when you are very tired, and naturally to replenish the energy. Is to eat cereal, snack, or nothing if you are a savage. Chapter 9 - Clothes Clothes can your protection from many things although they have to be washed and dry once a week(or more), they will be eventually be used by you, or by other people around you. You can donate clothes, give them away to family members(cousins), or you can save them for later in life for your eventual children. I probably won''t save my clothes, but I would probably use them a lot, unless you want to be n.a.k.e.d or half-n.a.k.e.d. You could have many clothes around you, someone out there, could have nothing, with all of their skin being exposed by the torturous/scorching sun and the absolute-zero cold weather. Clothes can be burned, copied, or sold by many companies or famous brands. Clothes can be worn in different ways, and some people won''t wear their clothes. But these clothes can give you protection from the sun or the cold weather. So bundle up and don''t go dieing, like there''s no tomorrow. Chapter 10 - Gum Gum can be very annoying, tricky, and could be used for pranks. In school below college, gum was like currency, people always trying to get them from people. When I person has one, a stranger might ask "Can I have one". I would usually say no, like. most other people, but some people like to be nice and give it out for free. Which is not a bad thing to do, is that you can use gum for trading things, which is pretty nice (this is pretty stupid). People could also make weird noises with gum or they could take the gum out of their mouth and tie it up and then put it back into their mouth. Gum could also be a stress reliever, when you are bored you could chew gum, and when you have stinky breath. You can chew gum to get rid of your stinky breath. Chapter 11 - Paintings Paintings can represent many things. Including past teachers, famous people, different topics, and many others. Most people tend to dislike paintings, in art gallery, but it''s okay because as long as you recognize and look at it. You give the artist assurance that it was notice by people, and that they spread the (info) or the word. Some paintings can be sold for millions depending on the artist and if the artist is very famous or not. Many rich people could afford it, but the cost beyond the ownership of the several million dollar painting. Paintings can also be made for money, first making the painting, and then selling to a gallery or to someone. Paintings always represent something, the artist wants you to think about and take a moment to decide, what is happening in this painting. Chapter 12 - Cardboard Cardboard is mostly used for protection, or to build something for a project of some sort, or it is used for packaging a package. Kids could use cardboard as an castle or a fort, sleeping in it. There was one time, in 3rd grade, my teacher told my class to do a project using cardboard. My Dad literally did all the work (Thanks Dad) and he made a marble racer thing. I''m pretty sure it was trashed by now, but I will never know. Cardboard has many uses including using it for a project, protecting yourself against something(I wouldn''t use cardboard), or protecting a box inside a box. Chapter 13 - Laundry Laundry, some people don''t like to do it, but if you want clean and non-smelly clothes. Then you have to do the laundry. Even though, I don''t even do the folding of the laundry, I hit the dry or wash button. Laundry could be done in clothes, bed sheets, pillow casings, blankets, and many other things, that I don''t know. Probably later in my life, I will be doing a lot laundry, in order to have clean and good smelling clothes, that I can wear, when I go out. Sorry, for not posting yesterday, I totally forgot.???? Chapter 14 - Headphones Headphones can make people ignore you, notice you, or you simply want to listen to music. I take my headphones to school, everyday, even though, most of the time, I don''t even use them. Headphones, could represent status, by like famous brands, like: Beats, Bose, JBL, and etc. People could be listening to music, trying to enjoy their life, and some people will play music out loud(in public). Beware of people, who uses headphones, I''m just kidding. Chapter 15 - Basketball Basketball is a pretty popular sport around the world. There could small leagues, national league, or the local league, that people could play in. They could make money, if they''re good enough, to get an agent, and get that dough. Some risks would be life-threatening injuries like: breaking your back, breaking your leg, dislocated hip, dislocated knee, or permanent eyesight damage. Or it could be a small little bruise, while ll of this comes with basketball, some people don''t even come near close to basketball, and doesn''t even participate in it. Basketball is sometimes hated or loved by fans, or liberals who can''t watch a basketball game. People who play basketball, also have pretty good shooting, either have tall height, or dribble the ball very well than, other people, like your "average Joe". Basketball will be someone interpreted as a sport that uses teamwork, athletic ability, and talent in the sport of basketball. Chapter 16 - Math Math is a core subject in school. It is probably the most hated because people can''t understand how to do calculations in their heads, but others can do it just fine. Or there are people who major in a certain type of math like statistics or calculus. I''m only in highschool, but I plan to take AP Stats and Honors Trigonometry next year, as a sophomore (10th grade). Math is used all around the world, for money, sports, and even more that I can''t describe or depict. Using percentages and guesses is just like math, always spreading the math knowledge around the world. Whatever the teacher teach, I''m probably learning it. Chapter 17 - Football Football, the game, where people catch pigskin and throw it. There is a whole bunch of different positions including quarterback, long snapper, punter, kicker, wide receiver, slot receiver, tight end, defensive tackle, linebacker, right/left linebacker, and many more that you probably don''t wanna know. This could be play in little leagues, minor league, college league, and then at the national level(NFL). People who are good at football will make good money, if they find an agent, and sign a contract with a team. Football could be a dad/son sport, throwing the ball, to each other, running around in the playground or backyard. Football can also cause many injuries including fracture, skull deformation, knocked out teeth, blood loss, fainting, hopelessness, sleeplessness, or could be a simple cut from the opposing player on the other team. Football could be a life-threatening sport that could injure you or friends. This could be also watched by fans, betting games, and putting wagers on important games, for the teams they like, to make money. Chapter 18 - Rugby Rugby, although it is not popular in the states, as for other countries like Australia, where it is very popular. Rugby, I''m pretty sure has like 15 positions. I don''t really know what the positions are, but all I know is wing and forward. Rugby is a game if strength, speed, and power. Unlike football, the ball is thrown to the side, a touchdown is worth 5 points, and the kick through the posts is worth 2 points. Even though, I don''t know anything about rugby, it seems very interesting. Chapter 19 - Chess Chess, the game, I don''t know how to play it, well I didn''t even know it or do anything with it. With complex or the simplest strategy to win in a game of chess. With all different pieces like the knight, pawn, bishop, rook, queen, and the king. All of these pieces have a job, you are the one controlling the pace and the structure of the game. You can either lead them to glory(victory) or lose in an bad or lazy way. If people were very good at this game, they would attend tournaments and brackets around the world, to claim the name of chess grandmaster. The current grandmaster is Magnus Carlsen. Chapter 20 - Beds Beds, people sleep on them, what can I say. Although I don''t sleep on one, I sleep on a 1-inch mattress with blankets and pillows, when I sleep. Beds give you comfort as you sleep, also it gives you the energy when your body recharges and is set for the day. There is a lot of stores that sell mattress and beds in a combo set, for people who want to buy one. Also the myth of the monster in the closet, I think it is totally false and unreasonable, but people(kids) still believe in it today. Or this could be a myth made in a fictional story, like Monsters Inc. Well, beds give you comfort and energy to take on the day, so please don''t trash your bed, cause you spend 1/3 of your life, sleeping on one. Chapter 21 - World Languages World Languages can be very helpful for understanding one''s culture and life. This can also help with the bonding of many soon to be friends, classmates, wife, husband, co-workers, bosses, or landlords. Some world languages can be very easy to understand and to learn, or some could be heard as an alien language from the furthest away galaxy in the Milky Way. Some people can speak one, two, three, or four and more. People who know a lot of world languages can be independent than others, knowing many languages at their disposal. There are roughly 6,500 spoken languages in the world today. However, about 2,000 of those languages have fewer than 1,000 speakers. The most popular language in the world is Mandarin Chinese. There are 1,213,000,000 people in the world that speak that language. Most people can speak Mandarin, Spanish, French, German, and many others that, I don''t want to list. Chapter 22 - English/ELA English or ELA in some countries. English is one of the core subjects in the United States or in other countries, this helps you with the basic understanding of all sorts of things in poems, lyrics, and poetry. This talks about adverbs, adjectives, nouns, verbs, conjunctions, conjugations, and punctuation. This is also, a way to deepen students'' understanding of the English language through reading, writing and speaking. As a highschooler in 9th grade, everybody had to take English a core subject, and currently, we are reading Romeo and Juliet, which is going to be a doozy. Each course includes writing practice, vocabulary development, reading comprehension, and communication skills. This is also critically important to learn specific writing, reading, and listening skills, but it is also necessary for student success to take an interdisciplinary approach by applying language arts skills to other subjects. Chapter 23 - Social Studies Social Studies also have known as world history, is a field of historical study that emerged as a distinct academic field in the 1980s. It examines history from a global perspective. World history looks for common patterns that emerge across all cultures. Currently, right now in my American Studies 1 class, we are doing a five-seven page essay, which is going to be very fun(it''s not). In the United States education system, social studies are the integrated study of multiple fields of social science and the humanities, including history, geography, and political science. Someone could have a major in some type of world history, researching and discovering new information for a twenty-page essay handed in for one day, but some people to research and discovering more things about the world and what is happening right now. Although some people may hate the course as history, history is the past, many people still reflect on the past, on what they have done, what did or shouldn''t have done. Chapter 24 - Cross Country "Cross country running is a sport in which teams and individuals run a race on open-air courses over natural terrains such as dirt or grass. Sometimes the runners are referred to as harriers (dogs). The course, typically 4C12 kilometers (2.5C7.5 mi) long, may include surfaces of grass, and earth, pass through woodlands and open country and include hills, flat ground and sometimes gravel road. It is both an individual and a team sport; runners are judged on individual times and teams by a points-scoring method. Both men and women of all ages compete in cross country, which usually takes place during autumn and winter, and can include weather conditions of rain, sleet, snow or hail, and a wide range of temperatures."(Wikipedia) Apparently cross country is the hardest sport because it takes everything you have to run. Some people might be afraid to wake up at 5 am, just to run 8 miles in their neighborhood, that is just simply crazy. As there are many breathing techniques and multiverse of running styles, and also tons of exercises could be used. You also need time to train, and the patience to actually run and listen to your coach. Running also makes you better mentally and physically. The practices are insane to some and easy to others. The practices consist of running six-to-eight miles a day with hills. The next day may be the same thing or something harder. Chapter 25 - Hydra Hydra is a mythical beast with eight heads, causing mass destruction with great power. Skills of hyper regeneration, toxic venom, long tail, and venomous blood. Slained by Herakles. In eighth grade, my school wanted to change the names of our teams(students placed in teams). To Hydra, Thunderhawks, and Steel Force. Rides belonging to some waterpark or something like that. My school wanted to go on a field trip to the waterpark, but they didn''t have enough money(lol). That literally the only occurrence of the word Hydra used in my life and Minecraft too. Chapter 26 - Lightning Storms Lightning storms could be every dangerous or it could bring excitement and joy to people''s eyes. Lightning is an electrical discharge caused by an imbalance between storm clouds and the ground, or within the clouds themselves. Most lightning occurs within the clouds. "Sheet lightning" describes a distant bolt that lights up an entire cloud base. Other visible bolts may appear as bead, ribbon, or rocket lightning. Today, in my area, there was a weak thunderstorm that only remained for 30 minutes. I personally think that lightning storms are very interesting and could be an topic, that anybody can talk about. Chapter 27 - Science Science is a systematic enterprise that builds and organizes knowledge in the form of testable explanations and predictions about the universe. The earliest roots of science can be traced to Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia in around 3500 to 3000 BCE. Via Wikipedia Science a school subject, this topic has things like hypotheses, theories, anatomy, biology, and physics. For every conclusion, you will need a hypothesis. Things like calculating probability and solving a genetic code are pretty worthless, once you think about it. But, there is going to be a day where, people depends on that old knowledge, and use it for better or for worse. Chapter 28 - Sonnet Part 1 As gazes gazed at his head For it was a dream. Sleeping comfortably in the bed For this was someone''s scheme. Looking back at the secret shadow Comes a bedridden beast It leaps over the bedpost, making a silent blow Until the beast was discovered, the movement cease. The flashlight froze the beast in fear The heart-racing beast had to run. He saw his dear Seeing this was not so fun. His dear ran away with great haste Never to be seen again, was a bloody body waste. Chapter 29 - Sonnet Part 2 There are many lessons that one can learn in life. Sometimes, it is natural, other times one must think about or yearn for it. These lessons may even be taught by another. Not everyone will reach the same conclusion. Some may even have conflicting thoughts. This could lead to confusion or turn one''s beliefs into knots. However, this leads into the mind exploring to become more wise and less blind. Perhaps, this will cause many adventurers to gain allies. Society has lost much of this understanding. That is why those with it are truly outstanding. Chapter 30 - Sonnet Part 3 Toast most Toast is great Most toast My toast, I already ate My toast I cook The toaster on the kitchen counter My toast do not overlook It''s bread, just a little more browner You can have it in the morning The bread getting warmer like the arrival of the sun Although, I do give forewarning For you may find yourself cooking more even after breakfast is done Toast I do love Toast fits any meal, just like a glove Chapter 31 - Sonnet Part 4 My empty grass, you inspire me to write. How I love the way you run, sneer and skip, Invading my mind day and through the night, Always dreaming about the buggy whip. Let me compare you to a grumpy mill? You are more bumpy, potable and neat. Wild rains flood the huge fields of April, And the springtime has the sharp trick or treat. How do I love you? Let me count the ways. I love your thigh and personality. Thinking of your crumpy thumb fills my days. My love for you is the normality. Now I must away with a dumpy heart, Remember my meet words whilst we''re apart. Chapter 32 - Sonnet Part 5 My slim zombie, you inspire me to write. I hate the way you paddle, sneer and chirp, Invading my mind day and through the night, Always dreaming about the shiny earp. Let me compare you to a dry crowbar? You are more intense, merry and evil. Dense storms whip the twiglets of October, And autumntime has the tense upheaval. How do I hate you? Let me count the ways. I hate your blind feet, fingers and toenails. Thinking of your dim fingers fills my days. My hate for you is the shrieval horsetails. Now I must away with a cherry heart, Remember my grim words whilst we''re apart. Chapter 33 - Sonnet Part 6 That silver hair just takes my breath away An acquired taste, it''s hard not to stare. Each silver strand laced a different way No one can compare with that silver hair Makeup meant to cover your gorgeous face But your beauty has no flaws to cover Excellence found in different ways, laced Lines and colors, abstract undercover I can see silver linings, abstract art Those lips, a taste I have only dreamt of The magnificent taste of human art This letter of love, delivered by dove Doves soaring through abstract lines and colors One day we will meet, but not as lovers. Chapter 34 - Sonnet Part 7 The white dove perched on a bough beholds Winter''s gripping languish on time and growth She waits for spring''s reign, nature''s comely oath To wash this land with hues of bright and bold This veil will thaw for a vernal threshold Inducing spring''s burgeoning undergrowth And verdant marquees for sweet warmth to clothe The white dove waits for such allure to unfold Renaissance of motivation and sense Will be plied to pretermit brumal days. Time and turns pursue at your own expense Bitter doubt, cold jealousy to dispense Idle hands'' aptitude for lavish praise The white dove bides for a shift in conscience Chapter 35 - Sonnet Part 8 Take my broken heart, and rip it from my chest. Steal away my soul, and finally put me to rest. I dreamt about you day and night, and I wanted you to be mine. You watched me in my hardest days, and sometimes you watched me shine. Every time I saw you, my heart would skip a beat. Every time you said my name, I would spring out of my seat. I loved you with my heart and soul. I loved you year after year. But something always kept us apart: our confusion, our chances, our fear. But now there is no hope for us we are doomed to be apart. Maybe I won''t feel the pain if you completely break my heart. Chapter 36 - Sonnet Part 9 My sweet Daisy is like none can say. She is far more lovely than the sunset; She is like the sun to light my day; She is like a heat that makes me sweat. My Daisy is the one for me. My love is like a blossoming flower, My love is like a growing tree, That grows to give me a new power. My sweet Daisy is like none can utter. She is like a goddess who walks the earth; She is like a butterfly who''s wings flutter; Her eyes shine like the gold she is worth. And yet, as I''m concerned, I won''t flee From my love, for I am the great Gatsby. Chapter 37 - Sonnet Part 10 The water splintered the sun, Reflecting fallen lightning. The shards once rugged bits of shine, Now broken and it''s frightening Remembering so vividly the sun, set in the sky. Remembering waves in the ocean and how i longed to fly Subdivided parts of earth start to come together, Subsided lakes and rivers recede, because convulsing weathers I thought you were prepossessing, ''till I looked at your depth. Believed that you were flawless, but you were just perplex I swallowed, My throat collapsed, It fell into my stomach. No more stars to long for, every planet is imploding The universe is mortal, it''s time to say goodbye Never should have happened, but the water met the sky. Chapter 38 - Poem Part 1 The outlook wasn''t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day: The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play, And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same, A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human b.r.e.a.s.t; They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that We''d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat." But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake, And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake; So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all, And Blake, the much despisd, tore the cover off the ball; And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred, There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third. Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a l.u.s.ty yell; It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell; It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat, For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Casey''s manner as he stepped into his place; There was pride in Casey''s bearing and a smile lit Casey''s face. And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt ''twas Casey at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt; Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance flashed in Casey''s eye, a sneer curled Casey''s lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped "That ain''t my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said. From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore; "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand; And it''s likely they''d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand. With a smile of Christian charity great Casey''s visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew; But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike two!" "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn''t let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey''s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate, He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey''s blow. Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright, The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout, But there is no joy in Mudvillemighty Casey has struck out. By Ernest Lawrence Thaye Chapter 39 - Poem Part 2 When the corn''s all cut and the bright stalks shine Like the burnished spears of a field of gold; When the field-mice rich on the nubbins dine, And the frost comes white and the wind blows cold; Then its heigho fellows and hi-diddle-diddle, For the time is ripe for the corn-stalk fiddle. And you take a stalk that is straight and long, With an expert eye to its worthy points, And you think of the bubbling strains of song That are bound between its pithy joints Then you cut out strings, with a bridge in the middle, With a corn-stalk bow for a corn-stalk fiddle. Then the strains that grow as you draw the bow O''er the yielding strings with a practiced hand! And the music''s flow never loud but low Is the concert note of a fairy band. Oh, your dainty songs are a misty riddle To the simple sweets of the corn-stalk fiddle. When the eve comes on and our work is done And the sun drops down with a tender glance, With their hearts all prime for the harmless fun, Come the neighbor girls for the evening''s dance, And they wait for the well-known twist and twiddle, More time than tunefrom the corn-stalk fiddle. Then brother Jabez takes the bow, While Ned stands off with Susan Bland, Then Henry stops by Milly Snow And John takes Nellie Jones''s hand, While I pair off with Mandy Biddle, And scr.a.p.e, scr.a.p.e, scr.a.p.e goes the corn-stalk fiddle. "Salute your partners," comes the call, "All join hands and circle round," "Grand train back," and "Balance all," Footsteps lightly spurn the ground, "Take your lady and balance down the middle" To the merry strains of the corn-stalk fiddle. So the night goes on and the dance is o''er, And the merry girls are homeward gone, But I see it all in my sleep once more, And I dream till the very break of dawn Of an impish dance on a red-hot griddle To the screech and scr.a.p.e of a corn-stalk fiddle. By: Paul Laurence Dunba Chapter 40 - Poem Part 3 The tires on my bike are flat. The sky is grouchy gray. At least it sure feels like that Since Hanna moved away. Chocolate ice cream tastes like prunes. December''s come to stay. They''ve taken back the Mays and Junes Since Hanna moved away. Flowers smell like halibut. Velvet feels like hay. Every handsome dog''s a mutt Since Hanna moved away. Nothing''s fun to laugh about. Nothing''s fun to play. They call me, but I won''t come out Since Hanna moved away. By: Judith Viorst Chapter 41 - Poem Part 4 On an island of music in a city of drum beats the drum dream girl dreamed of pounding tall conga drums tapping small bong drums and boom boom booming with long, loud sticks on big, round, silvery moon-bright timbales. But everyone on the island of music in the city of drum beats believed that only boys should play drums so the drum dream girl had to keep dreaming quiet secret drumbeat dreams. At outdoor cafs that looked like gardens she heard drums played by men but when she closed her eyes she could also hear her own imaginary music. When she walked under wind-wavy palm trees in a flower-bright park she heard the whir of parrot wings the clack of woodpecker beaks the dancing tap of her own footsteps and the comforting pat of her own heartbeat. At carnivals, she listened to the rattling beat of towering dancers on stilts and the dragon clang of costumed drummers wearing huge masks. At home, her fingertips rolled out their own dreamy drum rhythm on tables and chairs and even though everyone kept reminding her that girls on the island of music have never played drums the brave drum dream girl dared to play tall conga drums small bong drums and big, round, silvery moon-bright timbales. Her hands seemed to fly as they rippled rapped and pounded all the rhythms of her drum dreams. Her big sisters were so excited that they invited her to join their new all-girl dance band but their father said only boys should play drums. So the drum dream girl had to keep dreaming and drumming alone until finally her father offered to find a music teacher who could decide if her drums deserved to be heard. The drum dream girl''s teacher was amazed. The girl knew so much but he taught her more and more and more and she practiced and she practiced and she practiced until the teacher agreed that she was ready to play her small bong drums outdoors at a starlit caf that looked like a garden where everyone who heard her dream-bright music sang and danced and decided that girls should always be allowed to play drums and both girls and boys should feel free to dream. By: Margarita Engle Chapter 42 - Poem Part 5 And look up through the tree! The Sky is like a kind big smile Bent sweetly over me. The Sunshine flickers through the lace Of leaves above my head, And kisses me upon the face Like Mother, before bed. The Wind comes stealing o''er the grass To whisper pretty things; And though I cannot see him pass, I feel his careful wings. So many gentle Friends are near Whom one can scarcely see, A child should never feel a fear, Wherever he may be. By: Abbie Farwell Brown Chapter 43 - Poem Part 6 Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp! When the stars threw down their spears And water''d heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? By: William Blake Chapter 44 - Poem Part 7 I always like summer best you can eat fresh corn from daddy''s garden and okra and greens and cabbage and lots of barbecue and buttermilk and homemade ice-cream at the church picnic and listen to gospel music outside at the church homecoming and go to the mountains with your grandmother and go barefooted and be warm all the time not only when you go to bed and sleep By: Nikki Giovanni Chapter 45 - Poem Part 8 Maggie and Milly and Molly and May went down to the beach(to play one day) and Maggie discovered a shell that sang so sweetly she couldn''t remember her troubles, and Milly befriended a stranded star whose rays five languid fingers were; and molly was chased by a horrible thing which raced sideways while blowing bubbles: and may came home with a smooth round stone as small as a world and as large as alone. For whatever we lose(like a you or a me) it''s always ourselves we find in the sea By: E. E. C.u.m.m.i.n.gs Chapter 46 - Poem Part 9 She said the head was too large, the hooves too small. I could clean my paintbrush but I couldn''t get rid of that voice. While they watched, I crumpled him, let his blue body stain my hand, I cried when he hit the can. She smiled. I could try again. Maybe this is what I unfold in the dark, deciding for the rest of my life, that donkey was just the right size. By: Naomi Shihab Nye Chapter 47 - Poem Part 10 Poor old lady, she swallowed a fly. I don''t know why she swallowed a fly. Poor old lady, I think she''ll die. Poor old lady, she swallowed a spider. It squirmed and wriggled and turned inside her. She swallowed the spider to catch the fly. I don''t know why she swallowed a fly. Poor old lady, I think she''ll die. Poor old lady, she swallowed a bird. How absurd! She swallowed a bird. She swallowed the bird to catch the spider, She swallowed the spider to catch the fly, I don''t know why she swallowed a fly. Poor old lady, I think she''ll die. Poor old lady, she swallowed a cat. Thank of that! She swallowed a cat. She swallowed the cat to catch the bird. She swallowed the bird to catch the spider. She swallowed the spider to catch the fly, I don''t know why she swallowed a fly. Poor old lady, I think she''ll die. Poor old lady, she swallowed a dog. She went the whole hog when she swallowed the dog. She swallowed the dog to catch the cat, She swallowed the cat to catch the bird, She swallowed the bird to catch the spider. She swallowed the spider to catch the fly, I don''t know why she swallowed a fly. Poor old lady, I think she''ll die. Poor old lady, she swallowed a cow. I don''t know how she swallowed a cow. She swallowed the cow to catch the dog, She swallowed the dog to catch the cat, She swallowed the cat to catch the bird, She swallowed the bird to catch the spider, She swallowed the spider to catch the fly, I don''t know why she swallowed a fly. Poor old lady, I think she''ll die. Poor old lady, she swallowed a horse. She died, of course. By: Anonymous Chapter 48 - Random Facts 1 Medium ruled (or College ruled) paper has 9/32 in (7.1 mm) spacing between horizontal lines, with a vertical margin drawn about 1-1/4 in (31.75 mm) from the left-hand edge of the page. Kiribati consists of about 32 atolls and one solitary island (Banaba), extending into the eastern and western hemispheres, as well as the northern and southern hemispheres. It is the only country that is situated within all four hemispheres. For centuries insincere humans have been said to cry crocodile tearsa nod to the famous tale that crocs weep with false remorse while devouring their prey. Now research has shown that some reptiles really do shed tears during a meal, but most likely for biological rather than emotional reasons. With an area of 12 million square kilometers (5 million square miles), the Arctic Ocean is the smallest ocean - more than five times smaller than the Indian and Atlantic oceans. In 1937, the Walt Disney Studios released its first fully animated feature film, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, and pioneered a new form of family entertainment. Asia is the most populous continent on earth. It leads the ranking of the global population by continent in mid 2013. Several large countries are located there, such as China. China is the country with the largest population. Commonly used fish are tuna (maguro, shiro-maguro), Japanese amberjack, yellowtail (hamachi), snapper (kurodai), mackerel (saba), and salmon (sake). The most valued sushi ingredient is toro, the fatty cut of the fish. Most Caucasian babies are born with dark blue eyes and their true eye colour -- be it brown, green, hazel or blue -- may not reveal itself for a few months. The colour of your baby''s eyes in the first minutes after birth won''t last -- exposure to light changes a baby''s initial eye colour. Exercise is very important in maintaining a healthy body and the muscle mass % is a useful indicator to control it. The normal muscle mass percentage on the body weight lies between 38% and 54% for men and between 28% and 39% for women depending on age and physical activity level. Chapter 49 - Random Facts 2 Santa Claus Is Comin'' to Town is a 1970 stop motion television special, made by Rankin-Bass. The film stars actor Fred Astaire as the narrator S.D. Kluger, Mickey Rooney as Kris Kringle/Santa Claus, Keenan Wynn as the Winter Warlock, and Paul Frees in various roles. Whales have nostrils called blowholes. Over millions of years of evolution whales and dolphins nostrils moved to the top of their head. This allows them to breath by surfacing instead of them sticking their whole head out of the water. The first thing a newborn dolphin must do is to go to the surface to breathe. John Lennon signed the paperwork that officially broke up the Beatles at the Polynesian Resort on December 29, 1974. John, Julian, and I (May Pang) left New York the following day to spend Christmas in Florida. In contrast to the fruit fly that has one eightieth the body size and flaps its wings 200 times each second, the much larger honey bee flaps its wings 230 times every second. This results in an oval ring around each magnetic pole where auroras occur. The north pole aurora is called the aurora borealis and the aurora at the south pole is called the aurora australis. Depending on the level of recent solar activity, there may or may not be visible auroral activity all the way around the ring. The cracking sound a bullwhip makes when properly wielded is, in fact, a small sonic boom. The end of the whip, known as the "cracker", moves faster than the speed of sound, thus creating a sonic boom. The whip is probably the first human invention to break the sound barrier. Wasps and many bees can sting more than once because they are able to pull out their stinger without injuring themselves. Only honey bees have special hooks on their stinger that keep the stinger in the skin after a person is stung. The stinger gets torn out of the bee''s body as it tries to fly away. The SMS concept was developed in the Franco-German GSM cooperation in 1984 by Friedhelm Hillebrand and Bernard Ghillebaert. The first text message was sent in 1992 from Neil Papworth, a former developer at Sema Group Telecoms. New York Jets (1960-Present) Nickname: Named in 1963 after the Jets that flew overhead at Shea Stadium, their home starting in 1964 from nearby LaGuardia Airport. It also gave them a name that rhymes with Mets, who they shared Shea Stadium with at the time. Comprised of 31 states and one federal district, the nation of Mexico is home to the world''s largest population of Spanish speakers. From the temples of Chichen Itza, to the beaches of Cancun or the bustle of Mexico City, Mexico boasts a diverse landscape and rich history. Earth''s magnetic field is mostly caused by electric currents in the liquid outer core, which is composed of conductive, molten iron. Loops of currents in the constantly moving, liquid iron create magnetic fields. From afar, the Earth looks like a big magnet with a north and south pole like any other magnet. Chapter 50 - Random Facts 3 Dogs belong to the taxonomic family Canidae (canines) which is divided into two tribes: those related to wolves (Canini) and those related to foxes (Vulpini). A couple of canine species lay outside these two tribes, but hyenas are not canines. The phrase was coined by Benjamin Franklin in his Advice to a Young Tradesman (1748): Remember that time is money. He that idly loses five shillings'' worth of time loses five shillings, and might as prudently throw five shillings into the sea. ENIAC. ENIAC (/?ini.?k/ or /??ni.?k/; Electronic Numerical Integrator And Computer) was the first electronic general-purpose computer. It was Turing-complete, digital, and capable of being reprogrammed to solve "a large class of numerical problems". If you look at the heat capacity of salt water, you will find that it is less than pure water. In other words, it takes less energy to raise the temperature of the salt water 1C than pure water. This means that the salt water heats up faster and eventually gets to its boiling point first. The Big Dipper is one of the most well-known and easily spotted collection of stars in the Northern Hemisphere, and although it is often mistaken to be a constellation, it is merely an asterism(group of stars). It consists of seven bright stars and is part of the constellation Ursa Major or Great Bear. Solar and lunar eclipses are dependent on the alignment of the sun, moon and Earth. When the moon is aligned exactly between the Earth and the sun, the shadow of the moon blocks the sun from view. A lunar eclipse occurs when the moon passes into the shadow of the Earth. Coubertin explained his design in 1931: "A white background, with five interlaced rings in the centre: blue, yellow, black, green and red...is symbolic; it represents the five inhabited continents of the world, united by Olympism, while the six colors are those that appear on all the national flags of the world at Thanksgiving has been celebrated as a federal holiday every year since 1863, when, during the Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln proclaimed a national day of "Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens", to be celebrated on the last Thursday in November. A 1902 political cartoon in The Washington Post spawned the Teddy bear name. The name Teddy Bear comes from former United States President Theodore Roosevelt, who was commonly known as "Teddy" (though he loathed being referred to as such). Galleon or Gold-Galleon (?) is the most valued coin of the wizarding currency. One Galleon is equal to 17 Sickles or 493 Knuts. Galleons are made of gold. In the late 20th century, the Galleon was also equivalent to 4.97 GBP, or $10.17 USD. Snow Crab. Chionoecetes opilio. Snow crabs live along the continental shelf at depths less than 200 m in the Bering Sea, the Chukchi Sea, and in the western Atlantic Ocean as far south as Maine; they are not present in the Gulf of Alaska. PNEUMONOULTRAMICROSCOPICSILICOVOLCANOCONIOSIS. At 45 letters, this is the longest word you''ll find in a major dictionary. An inflated version of silicosis, this is the full scientific name for a disease that causes inflammation in the lungs owing to the inhalation of very fine silica dust. Chapter 51 - Random Facts 4 In 1882 Edison helped form the Edison Electric Illuminating Company of New York, which brought electric light to parts of Manhattan. But progress was slow. Most Americans still lit their homes with gas light and candles for another fifty years. Only in 1925 did half of all homes in the U.S. have electric power. A.d.u.l.t brown recluse spiders often live about one to two years. Each female produces several egg sacs over a period of two to three months, from May to July, with approximately fifty eggs in each sac. The eggs hatch in about one month. The spiderlings take about one year to grow to a.d.u.l.thood. However, this is a common misconception, as people are born with only two fears C of falling and of loud noises. These two fears are incorporated in the human DNA and have become a mechanism for survival which is passed to new generations. Rum is a distilled alcoholic beverage made from sugarcane byproducts, such as molasses, or directly from sugarcane juice, by a process of fermentation and distillation. The distillate, a clear liquid, is then usually aged in oak barrels. A bratwurst (German: [?b?a?tv???st] ( listen)), also known as a brat in American English, is a sausage usually composed of veal, pork or beef. The name is derived from Old High German Br?twurst, from br?t-, which is finely chopped meat and Wurst, or sausage. Most countries which were British colonies still drive on the left hand side of the road including huge land masses such as India, Australia and Southern Africa as well as the Caribbean. Europe generally drives on the right hand side apart from the United Kingdom, Ireland, Malta and Cyprus. Chalk /?t???k/ is a soft, white, porous sedimentary rock, a form of limestone composed of the mineral calcite. Calcite is calcium carbonate or CaCO3. Aluminum is the most abundant metallic element on the surface of the earth and moon; it composes more than eight percent of the earth''s crust. It is never free in nature, combining with oxygen, sand, iron and titanium; its ores are mainly bauxites (aluminum hydroxide). Yelling "fore" is simply a shorter way to yell "watch out ahead" (or "watch out before"). It allows golfers to be forewarned, in other words. Any golfer who hits an errant shot that sends their golf ball hurtling toward golfers ahead should yell out "fore" as a warning. In 1958, the State Department explained that the terms "Near East" and "Middle East" were interchangeable, and defined the region as including only Egypt, Syria, Israel, Lebanon, Jordan, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Bahrain, and Qatar. The average Game of Thrones episode costs $6 million to make. That''s two to three times what a typical network or cable show costs per episode (Breaking Bad episodes cost around $3 million, early Big Bang Theory cost $2 million). It''s like Picasso was born an artist: his first word was "piz," short of lpiz the Spanish word for ''pencil.'' His father Ruiz, an artist and art professor, gave him a formal education in art starting from the age of 7. By 13, Ruiz vowed to give up painting as he felt that Pablo had surpassed him. Chapter 52 - Random Facts 5 Pandas do not have access to eucalyptus because it''s not native to china. A panda eats bamboo... I don''t know where people got the idea they eat eucalyptus, because that''s a plant native to Australia. Koala bears eat eucalyptus, and pandas eat bamboo. So far it''s taken approximately 1,009,491 days to build Rome. This is based on the traditional founding of the city (21 April 753 BCE), but we should also consider that the city has been sacked and rebuilt several times. Weighing in at around 3 pounds, the liver is the body''s second largest organ; only the skin is larger and heavier. The liver performs many essential functions related to digestion, metabolism, immunity, and the storage of nutrients within the body. A chin is a protrusion at the front of the mandible bone, which humans and elephants have while gorillas-and apparently every other animal-do not have. Skulls of animals in question. It''s like if Sarah Jessica Parker and John Kerry had a baby. Biting on aluminum foil can be painful and is usually noticed if you have metal in your mouth from dental work (e.g. fillings, crowns). Basically, when you bite on foil, you set up a battery in your mouth and the electrical current stimulates nerve endings in your tooth. Frogs can hear both in the air and below water. They do not have external ears; the eardrums (tympanic membranes) are directly exposed or may be covered by a layer of skin and are visible as a circular area just behind the eye. Thutmose III, who was technically co-ruler with Hatshepsut, succeeded the female pharaoh after her death. Although Hatshepsut was given a burial in the Valley of the Kings, her memory was not honored. The killer whale (Orcinus orca), also referred to as the orca whale or orca, and less commonly as the blackfish, is a toothed whale belonging to the oceanic dolphin family. Killer whales are found in all oceans, from the frigid Arctic and Antarctic regions to tropical seas. The chocolate chip cookie was invented by Ruth Graves Wakefield. She owned the Toll House Inn, in Whitman, Massachusetts, a very popular restaurant that featured home cooking in the 1930s. Her cookbook, Toll House Tried and True Recipes, was first published in 1936 by M. Barrows & Company, New York. The legs of the ant are very strong so they can run very quickly. If a man could run as fast for his size as an ant can, he could run as fast as a racehorse. Ants can lift 20 times their own body weight. An ant brain has about 250 000 brain cells. The great fire of Rome breaks out and destroys much of the city on this day in the year 64. Despite the well-known stories, there is no evidence that the Roman emperor, Nero, either started the fire or played the fiddle while it burned. The U.S. National Anthem, The Star-Spangled Banner, was written in 1814 by Francis Scott Key. Key was sent to the British fleet in Chesapeake Bay during the War of 1812 to secure the release of Dr. William Beanes on September 13, 1814. Chapter 53 - Random Facts 6 Regardless of your view, here''s the order of the eight larger planets, starting nearest the sun and working outward through the solar system: Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune. Of the approximately fifty delegates who are thought to have been present in Congress during the voting on independence in early July 1776, eight never signed the Declaration: John Alsop, George Clinton, John D.i.c.kinson, Charles Humphreys, Robert R. Livingston, John Rogers, Thomas Willing, and Henry Wisner. In 1970, Congress took their anti-smoking initiative one step further and passed the Public Health Cigarette Smoking Act, banning the advertising of cigarettes on television and radio starting on January 2, 1971. The human foot has 26 bones, 33 joints, 107 ligaments, 19 muscles and tendons. The 52 bones in your feet make up about 25 percent of all the bones in your body. Instruction permit. To obtain a motorcycle instruction permit, the applicant must pass the motorcycle knowledge test, a sign test and a vision screening. If under age 18, the following are also required: Be at least 16 years old. Lake Superior is the largest freshwater lake in the world in area (if Lakes Michigan and Huron are taken separately; see Lake MichiganCHuron), and the third largest in volume, behind Lake Baikal in Siberia and Lake Tanganyika in East Africa. Gr.a.p.es are a type of fruit that grow in cl.u.s.ters of 15 to 300, and can be crimson, black, dark blue, yellow, green, orange and pink. "White" gr.a.p.es are actually green in color, and are evolutionarily derived from the purple gr.a.p.e. The lava lamp contains blobs of coloured wax inside a glass vessel filled with clear or translucent liquid; the wax rises and falls as its density changes due to heating from an incandescent light bulb underneath the vessel. The appearance of the wax is suggestive of phoehoe lava, hence the name. DOLPHINS and other sea-dwelling mammals can obtain water from their food and by producing it internally from the metabolic breakdown of food. Although some marine mammals are known to drink seawater at least on occasion, it is not well established that they routinely do so. Almost all of it lies in Asia, but a small portion extends into Europe. Istanbul, the largest city of Turkey and best-known example. The Bosporus Strait separates its European and Asian portions. An alcoholic beverage is a drink that typically contains 3% C 40% alcohol (ethanol). Alcoholic beverages are divided into three classes: beers, wines, and spirits (distilled beverages). There are about 1500 potentially active volcanoes worldwide, aside from the continuous belt of volcanoes on the ocean floor. About 500 of these have erupted in historical time. Many of these are located along the Pacific Rim in what is known as the ''Ring of Fire.'' While he may have made peanut butter, the preparation arose in other cultures independently. The Aztecs were known to have made it from ground peanuts in the 15th century, and Marcellus Gilmore Edson was awarded U.S. Patent 306,727 (for its manufacture) in 1884, when Carver was 20. Mature swine are called hogs and young swine are called pigs, but in common usage hogs, pigs, and swine are often used as synonyms. The female hog is called a sow; the male, a boar. The young hog after being weaned is called a shoat or shote. A v.i.r.g.i.n female is called a gilt. Apollo 11 astronaut Buzz Aldrin poses for a snapshot while inside the Lunar Module in this July 1969 NASA image. Aldrin and astronaut Neil Armstrong were the first humans to land and walk on the moon on July 20, 1969. A herb is a plant whose stem does not contain any woody tissue. Banana "trees" are therefore not trees. They are herbaceous plants and should perhaps be called banana herbs. So to answer this week''s question, a banana is both a fruit and a herb. On the evening of December 6, 1964, families sat down to watch a new TV show for the first time: an animated special called Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. It featured the voice of Burl Ives as Sam, a singing snowman, who narrates the tale of a misfit reindeer who finds his own special way to shine. Jean-Paul Sartre, awarded the 1964 Nobel Prize in Literature, declined the prize because he had consistently declined all official honours. Le Duc Tho, awarded the 1973 Nobel Peace Prize jointly with US Secretary of State Henry Kissinger. Bubble tea, also known as pearl milk tea or boba milk tea, is a Taiwanese tea-based drink invented in Taichung, Taiwan, during the 1980s. This briefing presents the first graphic we''re aware of that aggregates the disparate systems of confinement in this country, which hold more than 2.4 million people in 1,719 state prisons, 102 federal prisons, 2,259 juvenile correctional facilities, 3,283 local jails, and 79 Indian Country jails as well as in military Hieroglyphics was the written language of the ancient Egyptians. It was composed of sacred characters called hieroglyphs that were used for religious and governmental purposes. These characters can be seen today on temples, tombs and other sites of importance. Muhammad Ali, original name Cassius Marcellus Clay, Jr. (born January 17, 1942, Louisville, Kentucky, U.S.), American professional boxer and social activist. Ali was the first fighter to win the world heavyweight championship on three separate occasions; he successfully defended this title 19 times. Aardvarks live in sub-Saharan Africa, where there is suitable habitat for them to live, such as savannas, grasslands, woodlands and bushland, and available food (i.e., ants and termites). They hide in dark underground burrows to avoid the warm weather. Turkey can be stored in the freezer (unopened and uninterrupted) for up to 2-3 years and still be safe to cook. However, for the best quality, we recommend using the frozen turkey within 7 months of storage. Percy Spencer invented the first microwave oven after World War II from radar technology developed during the war. Named the "Radarange", it was first sold in 1946. Diet Coke, called Coca-Cola Light in some countries, is a sugar-free soft drink produced and distributed by The Coca-Cola Company. It was first introduced in the United States on August 9, 1982, as the first new brand since 1886 to use the Coca-Cola trademark. Roosevelt: Theodore and Franklin Share Name, Distantly Related. While many Americans may assume that President Franklin D. Roosevelt (1933-1945) was the son of Theodore Roosevelt (1901-1909), the two former presidents who led the country three decades apart were actually fifth cousins. Chapter 54 - Random Facts 7 In the American Revolutionary War (1775C1783), France fought alongside the United States, against Britain, in 1778. French money, munitions, soldiers and naval forces proved essential to America''s victory over the Crown, but France gained little except large debts. Chosen to be first President of Colombia, was General Simn Bolvar y Palacios, leader of the revolutionary forces, who up to that point was titled "Supreme Chief" for his role in the revolution. The following day, Congress elected Francisco Antonio Zea Daz, first Vice President of Colombia. Sensory neuron. Sensory neurons are nerve cells within the nervous system responsible for converting external stimuli from the organism''s environment into internal electrical impulses. For example, some sensory neurons respond to tactile stimuli and can activate motor neurons in order to achieve muscle contraction. Protonpositive; electronnegative; neutronno charge. The charge on the proton and electron are exactly the same size but opposite. The same number of protons and electrons exactly cancel one another in a neutral atom. Supposedly, this pizza was first created by the baker Raffaele Esposito in Naples. His creation was immediately a favorite, and Esposito was called to make a pizza for the visit of King Umberto and Queen Margherita of Italy in 1889. Animal Cell Structure. Animal cells are typical of the eukaryotic cell, enclosed by a plasma membrane and containing a membrane-bound nucleus and organelles. Unlike the eukaryotic cells of plants and fungi, animal cells do not have a cell wall. The speed of light in a vacuum is 186,282 miles per second (299,792 kilometers per second), and in theory nothing can travel faster than light. In miles per hour, light speed is, well, a lot: about 670,616,629 mph. If you could travel at the speed of light, you could go around the Earth 7.5 times in one second. You have to go back to ancient times when horses were used as war mounts. Soldiers carry their swords on the left side (to reach with their right hand) and so they could only mount from the left or they would sit on their sword. Minute steak is cut from the sirloin or round steak and pounded very thin. Usually 1/4 thick and is tender from the pounding. Since it''s been pounded it can be cooked quickly, perfect for this busy time of year. In 1899 the bobbing pin came into wide use as the hairstyle known as the "bob cut" or "bobbed hair" took hold. It was invented in Paris by Robert (Bobby) Pinot. As foreigners caught wind of his invention, the hairstyle gained momentum and the pin became known as "Bobby''s pin." Potato skin contains B vitamins, vitamin C, iron, calcium, potassium and other nutrients. Potato skin also provides lots of fiber, about 2 grams per ounce. If you eat a medium baked potato, including the skin, you''ll get nearly 4 grams of fiber, 2 milligrams of iron and 926 grams of potassium. If the average night''s sleep is eight hours (ie one third of a day), one sleeps for one third of one''s life. If you live, say, 75 years, that''s 25 years asleep, or 9,125 days. It is the pit inside the red or purple fruit often referred to as a cherry. Even though coffee are seeds, they are referred to as ''beans'' because of their resemblance to true beans. The fruits - coffee cherries or coffee berries - most commonly contain two stones with their flat sides together. Sarah Breedlove (December 23, 1867 C May 25, 1919), known as Madam C. J. Walker, was an American entrepreneur and philanthropist, regarded as the first female self-made millionaire in America. In the late 80''s, the 5.25-inch floppy disk was on its way out and in 1987 the 3.5-inch floppy disk had moved into the high density category with a capacity of 1.44 MB. You would need 711 1.44 MB floppy disks to equal 1 Gigabyte. Redheads Have Fewer Hairs. Blondes are lucky; on average they have the largest number of hairs on their head. While blonde women have an average of 150,000 hairs, the average redhead counts only 90,000 hairs on her head. On average, women with brown or black hair count about 110,000 or 100,000 hairs, respectively. Chapter 55 - Random Facts 8 The circ.u.mference of the Earth at the equator is 25,000 miles. The Earth rotates in about 24 hours. Therefore, if you were to hang above the surface of the Earth at the equator without moving, you would see 25,000 miles pass by in 24 hours, at a speed of 25000/24 or just over 1000 miles per hour. The PT Cruiser was designed by Bryan Nesbitt, who later also styled the Chevrolet HHR. The name "PT Cruiser" includes the initialism PT, standing for "Personal Transport" and designating the car''s platform as well as production code. As a candle burns the wax melts and is drawn up the wick like when you dip a paper towel into a cup of water. The melted wax in the wick gets evaporated due to the heat from the flame, this dries the wick out which allows it to draw up more melted wax at a constant rate. It was named for it color. Actually, use of the word ''orange'' to describe a cross between red and yellow wasn''t recorded until three hundred years after the fruit appeared in Europe. It''s thought that oranges get their name from the Sanskrit word for fragrant C naranja. A deck of English Uno cards from 1994. This particular deck uses the older card design, where letters appear on the action cards instead of symbols. The deck consists of 108 cards, of which there are twenty-five of each color (red, green, blue, and yellow), each color having two of each rank except zero. Hence, Earth circ.u.mference is 2*Pi*r is about 40,030 km. Now is up to you to decide the amount of running per day. If you run a marathon 42.2 km per day, you''ll be done in around 2.5 years. (Located in Canada)Calgary''s elevation is approximately 1,048 m (3,438 ft) above sea level downtown, and 1,084 m (3,557 ft) at the airport. The city proper covers a land area of 726.5 km2 (280.5 sq mi) (as of 2006) and as such exceeds the land area of the City of Toronto. Wisdom teeth are called wisdom teeth because they erupt (emerge) into the mouth when people are in their late teens or early twenties, affectionately termed the "Age of Wisdom." Wisdom teeth are technically referred to as third molars, and they''re just like all the other teeth in your mouth. Despite its name, the game is not a variation of checkers, nor did it originate in China or any part of Asia (on the other hand, the game known as "Chinese chess", or xiangqi, is from China). The game was invented in Germany in 1892 under the name "Stern-Halma" as a variation of the older American game Halma. Texas is the second largest U.S. state, behind Alaska, with an area of 268,820 square miles (696,200 km2). The really clever thing about hippos is that they produce their own sunscreen, in the form of a sticky reddish sweat. It has told Nature magazine the oily secretion is made up of two unstable pigments - one red, the other orange. The Lego Group began in the workshop of Ole Kirk Christiansen (born 7 April 1891), a carpenter from Billund, Denmark, who began making wooden toys in 1932. In 1934, his company came to be called "Lego", from the Danish phrase leg godt, which means "play well". The source of the Upper Mississippi branch is traditionally accepted as Lake Itasca, 1,475 feet (450 m) above sea level in Itasca State Park in Clearwater County, Minnesota. In 1901, New York became the first state to register automobiles; by 1918 all states required license plates. States were slower to require licenses for drivers. Only 39 states issued them by 1935 and few required a test, despite widespread concern about incompetent drivers. Wild bananas, prior to domestication, do have seeds. But like seedless gr.a.p.es, humans have found and cultivated seedless mutations. So now all banana trees come from cuttings and there are no seeds in the fruit. The little brown specs in a banana are the vestiges of seeds that did not develop because of the mutation. The standard plural in English of octopus is octopuses. However, the word octopus comes from Greek, and the Greek plural form octopodes is still occasionally used. The plural form octopi is mistakenly formed according to rules for Latin plurals, and is therefore incorrect. By the time he was five years old, Mozart had complete mastery of keyboards and violin, and had written his first five compositions. At six, he toured Europe as a child prodigy; by 16, he''d already written three operas and 25 symphonies. Apollo 8, the second human spaceflight mission in the United States Apollo space program, was launched on December 21, 1968, and became the first manned spacecraft to leave Earth orbit, reach the Earth''s Moon, orbit it and return safely to Earth. Chapter 56 - Random Facts 9 Yes, lamb is a red meat. The amount of the protein myoglobin in animal muscles determines the color of meat. Lamb is called a red meat because it contains more myoglobin than chicken or fish. Other red meats are beef, veal, and pork. Although the process of weathering that turned the copper covering of the 1886 Statue of Liberty from brown to its current green was gradual, color images indicated that the transformation was complete by 1920. The word robot was introduced in 1920 in a play by Karel Capek called R.U.R. , or Rossum''s Universal Robots. Robot comes from the Czech word robota, meaning forced labour or drudgery. In the play, human-like mechanical creatures produced in Rossum''s factory are docile slaves. Not many athletes make it to the NFL. There are 15,588 senior student athletes playing football. 256 of those athletes will be drafted into the NFL. That''s 1.6% of all NCAA seniors playing football that get drafted. .008% of all high school athletes get drafted. If you want to completely escape Earth''s gravity and travel to another moon or planet, though, you need to be going even faster - at a speed of at least 7 miles per second or about 25,000 miles per hour. The eleven Finger Lakes from east to west are: Otisco Lake, Skaneateles Lake, Owasco Lake, Cayuga Lake, Seneca Lake, Keuka Lake, Canandaigua Lake, Honeoye Lake, Canadice Lake, Hemlock Lake, and Conesus Lake. On May 21, 1927, the aviator Charles A. Lindbergh landed his Spirit of St. Louis near Paris, completing the first solo airplane flight across the Atlantic Ocean. Lindbergh was just 25 years old when he completed the trip. Tennessee and Missouri each share borders with eight states. Here are the states with their neighbors, listed clockwise. Tennessee: Kentucky, V.i.r.g.i.nia, North Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, and Missouri. Missouri: Iowa, Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Kansas, and Nebraska. The average fall was 5.5 stories. Of the 115 cats studied, 90 per cent survived, including one cat that fell 32 stories onto a sidewalk and suffered only a mild chest injury and a chipped tooth. Interestingly, cats that fell from 9 or more stories suffered fewer injuries than those falling from lower heights. While a brain takes up about twenty percent, or 300, of a resting body''s 1300 calories a day, and while it has the potential to burn more, it''s estimated that most actual thinking only changes the amount of calories that the brain burns by around twenty to fifty calories per day. Google came from the mathematical term googol. It''s the number one followed by one hundred zeros. In its earliest version, Sergey Brin and Larry Page named their search engine "Back Rub." They changed the name to Google, which stems from the mathematical term "googol." And then there''s four franchises -- the Cleveland Browns, Detroit Lions, Houston Texans, and Jacksonville Jaguars -- who have never been to the Super Bowl. Cleveland has lost three AFC Championship appearances, Jacksonville two, Detroit one, and Houston has never made it past the AFC Divisional round. Gone with the Wind is a novel written by Margaret Mitchell, first published in 1936. The story is set in Clayton County, Georgia, and Atlanta during the American Civil War and Reconstruction era. Nearly 40% of small breed dogs live longer than 10 years, but only 13% of giant breed dogs live that long. The average 50-pound dog will live 10 to 12 years. But giant breeds such as great Danes or deerhounds are elderly at 6 to 8 years. The origin of the phrase, it''s believed, is that hatters really did go mad. The chemicals used in hat-making included mercurous nitrate, used in curing felt. Prolonged exposure to the mercury vapors caused mercury poisoning. After a three-season career at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where he was a member of the Tar Heels'' national championship team in 1982, Jordan joined the NBA''s Chicago Bulls in 1984. To measure blood pressure, your doctor uses an instrument called a "sphygmomanometer," more often referred to as a blood pressure cuff. The cuff is wrapped around your upper arm and inflated to stop the flow of blood in your artery. Chapter 57 - Random Facts 10 Randy Gardner is the holder of the scientifically doc.u.mented record for the longest period a human has intentionally gone without sleep not using stimulants of any kind. In 1964, Gardner, a 17-year-old high school student in San Diego, California, stayed awake for 264.4 hours (11 days 24 minutes). The source of the Upper Mississippi branch is traditionally accepted as Lake Itasca, 1,475 feet (450 m) above sea level in Itasca State Park in Clearwater County, Minnesota. Even though the bottle says "refrigerate after opening," according to the Kikkoman website soy sauce will not spoil after opening as long as no other ingredients have been added to it. The high salt level is the reason for this. But you may begin to lose quality over time. The first official game was played in the YMCA gymnasium in Albany, New York on January 20, 1892 with nine players. The game ended at 1C0; the shot was made from 25 feet (7.6 m), on a court just half the size of a present-day Streetball or National Basketball Association (NBA) court. Knocking on wood used to be a way of warding off suspected impending bad luck, and now it''s used as a tongue-in-cheek sort of phrase for when someone has had a lot of good luck, meaning that the person should be careful to avoid the bad luck which may follow. We pass out when the pressure drops below 57 percent of atmospheric pressure equivalent to that at an altitude of 15,000 feet (4,572 meters). Climbers can push higher because they gradually acclimate their bodies to the drop in oxygen, but no one survives long without an oxygen tank above 26,000 feet (7925 m). Thunder is the sound caused by lightning. Depending on the distance and nature of the lightning, thunder can range from a sharp, loud crack to a long, low rumble (brontide). The sudden increase in pressure and temperature from lightning produces rapid expansion of the air surrounding and within a bolt of lightning. A 100-count string of incandescent mini lights runs at 40 watts, while a 70 count of 5mm Wide Angle LEDs is approximately 4.8 watts total. In fact, because incandescent wattage is 80-90% more than LED wattage, the cost to power an incandescent can be up to 90x greater than powering an LED. In fact, there are approximately 19 billion chickens in the world. That''s almost three per person. Usually it''s because tiny edges and bristles on the grass make small cuts on your skin, causing slight itching. You probably can''t see the cuts,but they are called "blades" of grass for that reason. The Alps are growing just as quickly in height as they are shrinking. This paradoxical result comes from a new study by a group of German and Swiss geoscientists. Due to glaciers and rivers, about exactly the same amount of material is eroded from the slopes of the Alps as is regenerated from the deep Earth''s crust. The Spanish Magellan-Elcano expedition of August 1519 to 8 September 1522, started by Portuguese navigator Fern?o de Magalh?es (Ferdinand Magellan) and completed by Spanish navigator Juan Sebastin Elcano after Magellan''s death, was the first global circ.u.mnavigation. The reason why ice forms on the top of lakes and ponds is that once water cools below 39 degrees Fahrenheit, it becomes lighter and less dense the more it cools. This means that water expands as it freezes into ice. As a result, ice takes up more room than the water it was made from. Prescription bottles come in several different colors, the most common of which being orange or light brown due to its ability to prevent ultraviolet light from degrading the potentially photosensitive contents through photochemical reactions, while still letting enough visible light through for the contents to be ... Even after centuries of effort, some 86 percent of Earth''s species have yet to be fully described, according to new study that predicts our planet is home to 8.7 million species. The most common dry ingredients are flour (1 cup = 150g), sugar (1 cup = 200g), brown sugar (1 cup packed = 200g), rice (1 cup = 200g), raisins (1 cup = 140g). For butter 1 tablespoon is 15g, 1 stick is 110g and 1 cup is 225g. Confectioner''s sugar is icing sugar (1 cup = 100g). A calorie is just a measurement of energy- the amount of energy needed to raise 1 gram of water 1 degree Celsius at standard atmospheric pressure. This makes sense when talking about calories in food. Food provides energy and our bodies need this energy to function throughout the day. Chapter 58 - Sestina 1 September rain falls on the house. In the failing light, the old grandmother sits in the kitchen with the child beside the Little Marvel Stove, reading the jokes from the almanac, laughing and talking to hide her tears. She thinks that her equinoctial tears and the rain that beats on the roof of the house were both foretold by the almanac, but only known to a grandmother. The iron kettle sings on the stove. She cuts some bread and says to the child, It''s time for tea now; but the child is watching the teakettle''s small hard tears dance like mad on the hot black stove, the way the rain must dance on the house. Tidying up, the old grandmother hangs up the clever almanac on its string. Birdlike, the almanac hovers half open above the child, hovers above the old grandmother and her teacup full of dark brown tears. She shivers and says she thinks the house feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove. It was to be, says the Marvel Stove. I know what I know, says the almanac. With crayons the child draws a rigid house and a winding pathway. Then the child puts in a man with buttons like tears and shows it proudly to the grandmother. But secretly, while the grandmother busies herself about the stove, the little moons fall down like tears from between the pages of the almanac into the flower bed the child has carefully placed in the front of the house. Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house. By Elizabeth Bishop Chapter 59 - Sestina 2 It feels like forever I''ve been on the job. Pinned down by the weight of my gun and my badge; my duty is etched there, to serve and protect. The uniforms tape off the scene of the crime at this point, there still isn''t much to report, It promises to be one hell of a night. My partner and I will work into the night; It''s on days like this I truly hate my job. The worst part of all is the daily report, Complete with the number and name from my badge I lay out the facts of a hideous crime. The victim is gone; one we failed to protect. Now my reputation I have to protect. From hero to scapegoat C it just takes one night; a free-roaming villain, or one unsolved crime. To close every case is the goal of the job, the reason each day that I put on the badge. I wish I could put that inside the report. The televised anchors all love to report to viewers C the public I''ve sworn to protect C The slightest mistake by one who wears the badge. The airwaves are filled with bad news every night, I wish that good news was a part of their job Like how, with hard work, we usually solve the crime. I shudder recalling details from this crime; gunfire C In my mind, I hear its report. Deductive pretending is part of my job. Sometimes sanity becomes hard to protect when facing this ugliness night after night. Emotions grow cold when you''re wearing the badge. My life? A lot simpler before the gold badge. Back then it was mostly stopping petty crime, And helping my neighbors sleep better at night. I still had to fill out each detailed report, the public I still did my best to protect; promotions happen when you''re good at your job. "Now, wearing my badge is more than just a job," I repeat this each night as I write my report. "By solving these crimes, my whole world I protect." By Dusty Grein Chapter 60 - Sestina 3 Ethel Freeman''s body sat for days in her wheelchair outside the New Orleans Convention Center. Her son Herbert, who had assured his mother that help was on the way, was forced to leave her there once she died. Gon'' be obedient in this here chair, gon'' bide my time, fanning against this sun. I ask my boy, and all he says is Wait. He wipes my brow with steam, says I should sleep. I trust his every word. Herbert my son. I believe him when he says help gon'' come. Been so long since all these suffrin'' folks come to this place. Now on the ground ''round my chair, they sweat in my shade, keep asking my son could that be a bus they see. It''s the sun foolin'' them, shining much too loud for sleep, making us hear engines, wheels. Not yet. Wait. Lawd, some folks praying'' for rain while they wait, forgetting what rain can do. When it come, it smashes living flat, wakes you from sleep, eats streets, washes you clean out of the chair you be sittin'' in. Best to praise this sun, shinin'' its dry shine. Lawd have mercy, son, is it coming? Such a strong man, my son. Can''t help but believe when he tells us, Wait. Wait some more. Wish some trees would block this sun. We wait. Ain''t no white men or buses come, but looksee that there? Get me out this chair, help me stand on up. No time for sleeping'', cause look what''s rumbling this way. If you sleep you gon'' miss it. Look there, I tell my son. He don''t hear. I''m ''bout to get out this chair, but the ghost in my legs tells me to wait, wait for the salvation that''s sho to come. I see my savior''s face ''longside that sun. Nobody sees me running toward the sun. Lawd, they think I done gone and fell asleep. They don''t hear Come. Come. Come. Come. Come. Come. Come. Ain''t but one power make me leave my son. I can''t wait, Herbert. Lawd knows I can''t wait. Don''t cry, boy, I ain''t in that chair no more. Wish you coulda come on this journey, son, seen that ol'' sweet sun lift me out of sleep. Didn''t have to wait. And see my golden chair? By Patricia Smith Chapter 61 - Sestina 4 There is no woman living that draws breath So sad as I, though all things sadden her. There is not one upon life''s weariest way Who is weary as I am weary of all but death. Toward whom I look as looks the sunflower All day with all his whole soul toward the sun; While in the sun''s sight I make m.o.a.n all day, And all night on My sleepless maiden bed Weep and call out on death, O love, and thee, That thou or he would take me to the dead, And know not what thing evil I have done That life should lay such heavy hand on me. Alas, Love, what is this thou wouldst with me? What honour shalt thou have to quench my breath, Or what shall my heart broken profit thee? O Love, O great god Love, what have I done, That thou shouldst hunger so after my death? My heart is harmless as my life''s first day: Seek out some false fair woman, and plague her Till her tears even as my tears fill her bed: I am the least flower in thy flowery way, But till my time become that I be dead Let me live out my flower-time in the sun Though my leaves shut before the sunflower. O Love, Love, Love, the kingly sunflower! Shall he the sun hath looked on look on me, That live down here in shade, out of the sun, Here living in the sorrow and shadow of death? Shall he that feeds his heart full of the day Care to give mine eyes light, or my lips breath? Because she loves him shall my lord love her Who is as a worm in my lord''s kingly way? I shall not see him or know him alive or dead; But thou, I know thee, O Love, and pray to thee That in brief while my brief life-days be done, And the worm quickly make my marriage-bed. For underground there is no sleepless bed: But here since I beheld my sunflower These eyes have slept not, seeing all night and day His sunlike eyes, and face fronting the sun. Wherefore if anywhere be any death, I would fain find and fold him fast to me, That I may sleep with the world''s oldest dead, With her that died seven centuries since, and her That went last night down the night-wandering way. For this is sleep indeed, when labour is done, Without love, without dreams, and without breath, And without thought, O name unnamed! of thee. Ah, but, forgetting all things, shall I thee? Wilt thou not be as now about my bed There underground as here before the sun? Shall not thy vision vex me alive and dead, Thy moving vision without form or breath? I read long since the bitter tale of her Who read the tale of Launcelot on a day, And died, and had no quiet after death, But was moved ever along a weary way, Lost with her love in the underworld; ah me, O my king, O my lordly sunflower, Would God to me too such a thing were done! But if such sweet and bitter things be done, Then, flying from life, I shall not fly from thee. For in that living world without a sun Thy vision will lay hold upon me dead, And meet and mock me, and mar my peace in death. Yet if being wroth God had such pity on her, Who was a sinner and foolish in her day, That even in hell they twain should breathe one breath, Why should he not in some wise pity me? So if I sleep not in my soft strait bed I may look up and see my sunflower As he the sun, in some divine strange way. O poor my heart, well knowest thou in what way This sore sweet evil unto us was done. For on a holy and a heavy day I was arisen out of my still small bed To see the knights tilt, and one said to me "The king," and seeing him, somewhat stopped my breath, And if the girl spake more, I heard not her, For only I saw what I shall see when dead, A kingly flower of knights, a sunflower, That shone against the sunlight like the sun, And like a fire, O heart, consuming thee, The fire of love that lights the pyre of death. Howbeit I shall not die an evil death Who have loved in such a sad and sinless way, That this my love, lord, was no shame to thee. So when mine eyes are shut against the sun, O my soul''s sun, O the world''s sunflower, Thou nor no man will quite despise me dead. And dying I pray with all my low last breath That thy whole life may be as was that day, That feast-day that made trothplight death and me, Giving the world light of thy great deeds done; And that fair face brightening thy bridal bed, That God be good as God hath been to her. That all things goodly and glad remain with her, All things that make glad life and goodly death; That as a bee sucks from a sunflower Honey, when summer draws delighted breath, Her soul may drink of thy soul in like way, And love make life a fruitful marriage-bed Where day may bring forth fruits of joy to day And night to night till days and nights be dead. And as she gives light of her love to thee, Give thou to her the old glory of days long done; And either give some heat of light to me, To warm me where I sleep without the sun. O sunflower made drunken with the sun, O knight whose lady''s heart draws thine to her, Great king, glad lover, I have a word to thee. There is a weed lives out of the sun''s way, Hid from the heat deep in the meadow''s bed, That swoons and whitens at the wind''s least breath, A flower star-shaped, that all a summer day Will gaze her soul out on the sunflower For very love till twilight finds her dead. But the great sunflower heeds not her poor death, Knows not when all her loving life is done; And so much knows my lord the king of me. Aye, all day long he has no eye for me; With golden eye following the golden sun From rose-coloured to purple-pillowed bed, From birthplace to the flame-lit place of death, From eastern end to western of his way. So mine eye follows thee, my sunflower, So the white star-flower turns and yearns to thee, The sick weak weed, not well alive or dead, Trod underfoot if any pass by her, Pale, without colour of summer or summer breath In the shrunk shuddering petals, that have done No work but love, and die before the day. But thou, to-day, to-morrow, and every day, Be glad and great, O love whose love slays me. Thy fervent flower made fruitful from the sun Shall drop its golden seed in the world''s way, That all men thereof nourished shall praise thee For grain and flower and fruit of works well done; Till thy shed seed, O shining sunflower, Bring forth such growth of the world''s garden-bed As like the sun shall outlive age and death. And yet I would thine heart had heed of her Who loves thee alive; but not till she be dead. Come, Love, then, quickly, and take her utmost breath. Song, speak for me who am dumb as are the dead; From my sad bed of tears I send forth thee, To fly all day from sun''s birth to sun''s death Down the sun''s way after the flying sun, For love of her that gave thee wings and breath, Ere day be done, to seek the sunflower. By Algernon Charles Swinburne Chapter 62 - Sestina 5 The first of the undecoded messages read: "Popeye sits in thunder, Unthought of. From that shoebox of an apartment, From livid curtain''s hue, a tangram emerges: a country." Meanwhile the Sea Hag was relaxing on a green couch: "How pleasant To spend one''s vacation en la casa de Popeye," she scratched Her cleft chins solitary hair. She remembered spinach And was going to ask Wimpy if he had bought any spinach. "M''love," he intercepted, "the plains are decked out in thunder Today, and it shall be as you wish." He scratched The part of his head under his hat. The apartment Seemed to grow smaller. "But what if no pleasant Inspiration plunge us now to the stars? For this is my country." Suddenly they remembered how it was cheaper in the country. Wimpy was thoughtfully cutting open a number 2 can of spinach When the door opened and Swee''pea crept in. "How pleasant!" But Swee''pea looked morose. A note was pinned to his bib. "Thunder And tears are unavailing," it read. "Henceforth shall Popeye''s apartment Be but remembered space, toxic or salubrious, whole or scratched." Olive came hurtling through the window; its geraniums scratched Her long thigh. "I have news!" she gasped. "Popeye, forced as you know to flee the country One musty gusty evening, by the schemes of his wizened, duplicate father, jealous of the apartment And all that it contains, myself and spinach In particular, heaves bolts of loving thunder At his own astonished becoming, rupturing the pleasant Arpeggio of our years. No more shall pleasant Rays of the sun refresh your sense of growing old, nor the scratched Tree-trunks and mossy foliage, only immaculate darkness and thunder." She grabbed Swee''pea. "I''m taking the brat to the country." "But you can''t do thathe hasn''t even finished his spinach," Urged the Sea Hag, looking fearfully around at the apartment. But Olive was already out of earshot. Now the apartment Succ.u.mbed to a strange new hush. "Actually it''s quite pleasant Here," thought the Sea Hag. "If this is all we need fear from spinach Then I don''t mind so much. Perhaps we could invite Alice the Goon over"she scratched One dug pensively"but Wimpy is such a country Bumpkin, always burping like that." Minute at first, the thunder Soon filled the apartment. It was domestic thunder, The color of spinach. Popeye chuckled and scratched His balls: it sure was pleasant to spend a day in the country. By John Ashbery Chapter 63 - Sestina 6 You wanna know what happened to Elvis I''ll tell you what happened I oughta know man I was one of his army I mean man I was on his side He made us feel alright We were the first wave in the Postwar baby boom The generation before had just come Out of the Great Depression and World War II You know heavy vibes for people to wear So much heaviness like some kind of Voiding of the emotions Their music you know the songs Life always carries You know every culture has songs Well anyway their music was Restrained emotion You know like you didn''t wanna dance If you didn''t know how Which says something strange Well anyway Elvis came along About ten years after the nuke When the only generals America had in The only army she had were Ike and Mac And stupor hung over the land A plague where everyone tried to Materially free themselves Still too shell-shocked to understand To feel what was happening Everything was getting hopeless Then when Elvis started to rock The roll just picked up I mean drabness the beaver showed us Could only be a foretold future Who wanted to be Ward and June and I mean father never did know best He was still crazy from surviving the war Like there was this psychotic pall So widespread as to be assumed normal Heavy man you know really Anyway Elvis showed us an out You know he showed every man and Everygirl Woman there''s something good In feeling good Like a prophet for every boy every girl When someone''s mom and dad lied Something about him told us To be sensual is really okay Someones mom and dad waltzed us around Everygirl wasn''t supposed to enjoy it If she did she was bad and everybody Well boys will be boys don''t feel anything Take what you can Marry a decent girl when the fun''s done Like no matter what we did we all were guilty Maybe someone''s mom and dad resented What they missed and while They were trying to pass it on us We heard Elvis''s song and For the first time we made up our own mind The first wave rebelled I mean we danced even if we didn''t know how I mean Elvis made us move Instead of standing mute he raised our voice And when we hear ourselves something Was changing you know like for the first time We made a collective decision about choices America hurriedly made Pat Boone A general in the army they wanted us to join But most of us held fast to Elvis And the commandants around him Chuck Berry Buddy Holly Little Richard Bo Diddley Gene Vincent you know Like a different civil war all over again I mean you take don''t be cruel I want you I need you I love you And jailhouse rock Or you take Pat and his white bucks Singing love letters in the sand Hell man what''s real here I mean Pat at the beach in his white bucks His ears getting sunburned told us Something about old wave delusion I mean wanting and needing and imprisonment We all been to those places but what did White bucks at the beach understand Other than more straight line dancing You know what I mean Anyway man for a while we had a breather Fresh energy to keep us from falling into the big sleep Then before long Elvis got assassinated in all the fame Taking a long time to die others seized Control while Elvis rode the needle out Never understanding what he''d done It''s like we were the baby boom because Life needed a fresher start I mean two world wars in a row is Really crazy man And Elvis even though he didn''t know he said it He showed it to us anyway and even though We didn''t know we heard it we heard it anyway Man like he woke us up And now they''re trying to put us Back to sleep so we''ll see how it goes Anyway look at the record man Rock ''n'' roll is based on revolution Going way past 33 1/3 You gotta understand man he was America''s baby boom Che I oughta know man I was in his army By John Trudell Chapter 64 - Sestina 7 Now you want us To cry your tears for you After we''ve already bled for you Already been dead to you Now you want us To cry your tears for you Chapters of a democracy story Descendants of genocide Twelve score and more years ago We went from being the majority To being the smallest minority Now you want us To cry your tears for you We saw that emptying Early morning skyline Back through that horizon Duck Valley 1979, Wounded Knee Sand Creek, that Trail of Tears Exactly how did our land Become your country Now you want us To cry your tears for you While we''re still crying tears of our own With your past as your future That industrial ruling class Using religion as a weapon Distilling love into hate Pointing fingers and name calling evil Sacrificing lives and blood Making the innocent the new v.i.r.g.i.ns Offering to the gods of profit Now you want us To cry your tears for you In the homeland security Pretending corporate corruption Isn''t economic terrorism Money talks while the government listens Compiling files on ones who think different Conditioning an acceptance of debt And not to expect the truth So get used to hearing the lie Now you want us To cry your tears for you Misusing the beauty Turning freedom into a killing machine Mass murdering the environment Weaponizing the psychology of fear And pushing material addiction with A substitution of rules faking the law The bill of rights becomes collateral damage Making the constitution another broken treaty Now you want us To cry your tears for you Way this story is unfolding We may end up crying together As in crying at the same time But we''re short on tears to cry for you With all these tears to cry of our own Now you want us To cry your tears for you By John Trudell Chapter 65 - Sestina 8 Look at us We are of earth and water Look at them It is the same Look at us We are suffering all these years Look at them They are connected Look at us We are in pain Look at them Surprised at our anger Look at us We are struggling to survive Look at them Expecting sorrow be benign Look at us We are the ones called pagan Look at them On their arrival Look at us We are called subversive Look at them Descending from name callers Look at us We wept sadly in the long dark Look at them Hiding in technologic light Look at us We buried the generations Look at them Inventing the body count Look at us We are older than America Look at them Chasing a fountain of youth Look at us we are embracing earth Look at them Clutching today Look at us We are living in the generations Look at them Existing in jobs and debt Look at us We have escaped many times Look at them They cannot remember Look at us We are healing Look at them Their medicine is patented Look at us We are trying Look at them What are they doing Look at us We are children of earth Look at them Who are they By John Trudell Chapter 66 - Sestina 9 In the pink light, haloes of cloud form over the mountains; lightning, two valleys away, then, not an hour later, the explosion of thunder. The roadrunners pecking for breadcrumbs on the porch have long since fled into the rabbitbrush, into the endless ocean of grass. Driving in every direction down licks of red road, I have lost myself in a militarized topography; everything named after army units, generals, scouts, miners The Dragoon Mountains, Cochise Stronghold; defunct Gleeson and Pearce, weird, rusty ghost towns, the only non-derelict structure for miles, the local school, its polished windows and well-kept lawn, a source of great local pride. No mountain monograms for these desiccated whistle-stops, no giant Q or C or W in bright white paint to mark the township''s still functional sorta functional breathing, no carving for them into the planet''s bark; and thus they are blessd to me like no other; every successful city is a flimsy affair with civility, its eternalness, like Paris or Rome, mere hypocrisy. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN, BUY REAL ESTATE! Hail follows rain. Nearby, the township of Sunsites, once billed as the safest spot to survive the inevitable nuclear winter, actually topped Soviet Russia''s list of high-priority targets Enter the Orange Duck Candidate. A haboob sweeps across the Valley of the Senile. In a week, the mountains have switched from brown to purple to green. The desert is human endeavour''s most fitting graveyard; the slow bleaching, the gradual eroding into sand, the heat stifling sound as it leaps into the air. IT CAN''T HAPPEN HERE. But it always does. By Andr Naffis-Sahely Chapter 67 - Sestina 10 Hearing of harvests rotting in the valleys, Seeing at end of street the barren mountains, Round corners coming suddenly on water, Knowing them shipwrecked who were launched for islands, We honour founders of these starving cities Whose honour is the image of our sorrow,Which cannot see its likeness in their sorrow That brought them desperate to the brink of valleys; Dreaming of evening walks through learned cities They reined their violent horses on the mountains, Those fields like sh.i.p.s to castaways on islands, Visions of green to them who craved for water. They built by rivers and at night the water Running past windows comforted their sorrow; Each in his little bed conceived of islands Where every day was dancing in the valleys And all the green trees blossomed on the mountains Where love was innocent, being far from cities. But dawn came back and they were still in cities; No marvellous creature rose up from the water; There was still gold and silver in the mountains But hunger was a more immediate sorrow, Although to moping villagers in valleys Some waving pilgrims were describing islands "The gods," they promised, "visit us from islands, Are stalking, head-up, lovely, through our cities; Now is the time to leave your wretched valleys And sail with them across the lime-green water, Sitting at their white sides, forget your sorrow, The shadow cast across your lives by mountains." So many, doubtful, perished in the mountains, Climbing up crags to get a view of islands, So many, fearful, took with them their sorrow Which stayed them when they reached unhappy cities, So many, careless, dived and drowned in water, So many, wretched, would not leave their valleys. It is our sorrow. Shall it melt? Ah, water Would gush, flush, green these mountains and these valleys, And we rebuild our cities, not dream of islands. By W.H. Auden Chapter 68 - Paradelle 1 Beneath the Dripping Cypress Trees By Sally Ann Roberts ''Tis the breeze beneath the cypress trees, ''Tis the breeze beneath the cypress trees, Where shady branches bend and bow, Where shady branches bend and bow. Beneath the bend and branches breeze, Where the cypress'' bow ''ties shady trees. Ink like stains of sap fold down, Ink like stains of sap fold down, Brown and dripping tears that keep, Brown and dripping tears that keep. Sap like ink and stains of brown, Tears that fold keep dripping down. Will such variegated colors blend, Will such variegated colors blend, Away within envelope of leaves, Away within envelope of leaves. Of such colors envelope within, Variegated leaves away will blend. Within the sap ''tis shady brown, And keep the breeze of that fold down, Variegated stains away will blend, Where colors bow and branches bend. Tears of ink envelope like leaves, Beneath such dripping cypress trees. Chapter 69 - Paradelle 2 A Paradelle of Winged Flight By Mary Ellen Clark Twilight falls, darkness cover me Twilight falls, darkness cover me as gentle slumber lures awakening dreams as gentle slumber lures awakening dreams cover me gentle twilight, darkness lures dreams, awakening as slumber falls. Journey on celestial wings through astral visions Journey on celestial wings through astral visions and hover above earth-bound limitations and hover above earth-bound limitations on celestial wings, hover above earth bound limitations and journey through astral visions. Explore the expansiveness of self, Explore the expansiveness of self, look within and discover your untapped wealth look within and discover your untapped wealth look within the expansiveness of self, discover and explore your untapped wealth. cover me, dreams look within darkness journey -- discover your gentle awakening; slumber lures the expansiveness of self through astral visions. Hover above earthbound limitations on celestial wings, and as twilight falls, explore wealth -- untapped. Chapter 70 - Paradelle 3 Dreamt I of What Came to Me By Dan Tharp Falling asleep ''neath a cypress tree Falling asleep ''neath a cypress tree What variegated colors came calling to me What variegated colors came calling to me `Neath falling colors, asleep to me What came calling?... A variegated cypress tree I dreamt of ink in a well so deep I dreamt of ink in a well so deep As an envelope as full of words to eat As an envelope as full of words to eat In an envelope of words, I dreamt to eat Of ink as full as a well so deep So, away I went, to write of that told So, away I went, to write of that told Tears as joy, on paper to fold Tears as joy, on paper to fold That on paper to write, of joy told As tears went away... so I, to fold Joy as tears, full of words went to calling Ink as well, in an envelope a falling Variegated colors to eat of that told So, away I write on paper to fold As deep asleep, ''neath a cypress tree So, dreamt I... of what came to me Chapter 71 - Paradelle 4 A Paradelle of Love By Linda E. Newman Tattered tapestries, remnants of forgotten dreams, Tattered tapestries, remnants of forgotten dreams Blackened by the unforgiving fire of love, Blackened by the unforgiving fire of love; Blackened by the fire, tattered remnants of Forgotten tapestries, unforgiving dreams of love. I douse Love''s flames with crystal tears, I douse Love''s flames with crystal tears, Pieces of my broken heart, shattered souvenirs, Pieces of my broken heart, shattered souvenirs; Flames of my heart I douse with tears; Love''s shattered crystal pieces, broken souvenirs. All that remain are charred moonbeams, All that remain are charred moonbeams And sooty ashes of now-dead dreams, And sooty ashes of now-dead dreams; Sooty and charred, now-dead moonbeams, Ashes are all that remain of dreams. With tears of love I douse the flames, Charred remnants of ashes all that remain, Dreams are forgotten, fire blackened and tattered, Pieces of my unforgiving heart, shattered By broken souvenirs of crystal moonbeams, Love''s sooty tapestries'' now-dead dreams. Chapter 72 - Paradelle 5 Untouched Beauty By Marie Summers Among the variegated skies and cypress trees, Among the variegated skies and cypress trees, Lies a poet''s inspiration hidden away untouched, Lies a poet''s inspiration hidden away untouched. Hidden away among a poet''s inspiration Lies variegated skies and the untouched cypress trees. The tears shed from the beauty of this serene sight, The tears shed from the beauty of this serene sight, Will unleash the poet''s ink to flow endlessly, Will unleash the poet''s ink to flow endlessly. The tears shed will flow endlessly from the poet''s ink To unleash the beauty of this serene sight. Journals, they will be filled with letters to be written, Journals, they will be filled with letters to be written, Envelopes will be stuffed with the sweet words of nature, Envelopes will be stuffed with the sweet words of nature. Journals to be stuffed with the sweet words of nature Envelopes will be filled with letters, written they will be. The poet''s ink lies hidden among the cypress trees; Variegated skies to shed away untouched tears. Journals will be filled with the sweet words of inspiration, Envelopes will be stuffed with a poet''s sight, From the letters to be written, they will flow endlessly, And unleash the serene beauty of this nature. Chapter 73 - Paradelle 6 Paradelle For Morning By Camille C. Patty Wait, and listen to the air''s weighty anticipation. Wait, and listen to the air''s weighty anticipation. You are like a transparent apple, fallen in rhythm. You are like a transparent apple, fallen in rhythm. Like weighty airs to the apple, you listen in a fallen rhythm, wait, and are transparent anticipation. Bird Calls beckon something, then announce your return. Bird Calls beckon something, then announce your return. A basket woven inwardly, I receive in morning. A basket woven inwardly, I receive in morning. Receive a woven basket. I beckon your return inwardly, then announce morning, something in bird calls. This script for touch shivers like coldness or fear. This script for touch shivers like coldness or fear. It is the thin skin of apple, a clear yellow glowing. It is the thin skin of apple, a clear yellow glowing. Glowing or thin, the apple skin is like a clear script. It shivers fear yellow for this coldness of touch. A clear script for rhythm, your bird calls are a weighty listen inwardly, something like fear. You wait, or return in like anticipation of air''s coldness, then beckon, and receive it. The yellow transparent apple, fallen in a morning basket. Touch is glowing apple shivers. I announce this to the thin woven skin. Chapter 74 - Paradelle 7 Here In The Heart Of The Heart By Mary DeBow Here in the heart of the heart, love is a burden. Here in the heart of the heart, love is a burden. It says what it has come to say, and forgets to leave. It says what it has come to say, and forgets to leave. The heart in love says it has a burden of is. Come here and leave to the heart what it forgets to say. Love is a wire around my wrist. Love is a wire around my wrist. I feed the wolf my hands and my mouth. I feed the wolf my hands and my mouth. My wire hands love the wolf I feed. My mouth is a wrist around my and. When my passion leaves, there is only the mountain. When my passion leaves, there is only the mountain. I wake each morning with its melt on my tongue. I wake each morning with its melt on my tongue. Each morning I passion the leaves with my tongue. Mountain wake my only when on its there is melt. The burden of passion is a wire each forgets. I leave love to what it has to feed on. My heart is a mouth, and my heart is the wolf. When the leaves say come, my hands mountain the morning. With only my tongue says my wrist. Love in and around its it. Wake there. I melt here. Chapter 75 - Paradelle 8 Lightning Bug Paradelle By S. Bauer-Zingg That summer, the fields dry That summer, the fields dry We ran about, and flew and chased at night We ran about, and flew and chased at night The fields that night dry and chaste Summer ran - we flew at and about Lightning bugs, low and near Lightning bugs, low and near Tucked into tight-lidded Mason jars Tucked into tight-lidded Mason jars Lightning lidded low into Mason jars Bugs tucked tight and near They were night lights among dried grass They were night lights among dried grass And jewelry, smudged into our skin And jewelry, smudged into our skin Jewelry skin - they were into and among dried grass Our smudged nightlights Low and near - they were into and among night Dried lightning -- lidded - chaste bugs And the fields ran dry And lights flew at night Mason jar jewelry - grass smudged about We tucked that summer tight into our skin Chapter 76 - Paradelle 9 Mutation Verse By Aric Gles This is awkward, unnatural and strange This is awkward, unnatural and strange As a jigsaw puzzle with no picture As a jigsaw puzzle with no picture Strange awkward jigsaw this is And with no picture, a puzzle unnatural. Forcing the square into the round Forcing the square into the round It is a mutation, as art for its own sake It is a mutation, as art for its own sake. Round as mutation into the square It is forcing the art, a sake for its own. Can we make sense of this hybrid verse, Can we make sense of this hybrid verse, Like a moronic building that one jumps to enter? Like a moronic building that one jumps to enter? Can we enter this moronic verse of hybrid sense That one jumps like to make a building?? Forcing as with a picture of hybrid sake This is a moronic verse, unnatural and a puzzle Awkward, strange as a jigsaw building. Can the square make sense like the mutation jumps? Into the round art, it is this we enter That to one, for its own. Chapter 77 - Paradelle 10 Two Years By Ken Ronkowitz The heart softens with winter, the heart softens with winter. Time strengthens your thin body, time strengthens your thin body. Your thin body strengthens. Winter time softens the heart. Oak and sage edges the river, oak and sage edges the river. Rock breaks the water, its rings survive, rock breaks the water, its rings survive. Sage, oak and rock survive the breaks. The river water rings its edges. From a year without you beside me with the pain, from a year without you beside me with the pain. These selected moments surface, these selected moments surface. You beside me without the pain, surface from a year with these selected moments. The river rock softens its edges with time. Oak at the heart strengthens as the rings thin. Sage survives the winter pain. Your body breaks the water surface beside me. These moments selected from a year with and without you. Chapter 78 - Villanelle 1 Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night By Dylan Thomas Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night, Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night, Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Chapter 79 - Villanelle 2 One Art By Elizabeth Bishop The art of losing isn''t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fl.u.s.ter of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn''t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother''s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn''t hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn''t a disaster. CEven losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan''t have lied. It''s evident the art of losing''s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. Chapter 80 - Villanelle 3 The Home on the Hill By Edward Arlington Robinson They are all gone away, The house is shut and still, There is nothing more to say Through broken walls and gray, The wind blows bleak and shrill, They are all gone away Nor is there one today, To speak them good or ill There is nothing more to say Why is it then we stray Around the sunken sill? They are all gone away And our poor fancy play For them is wasted skill, There is nothing more to say There is ruin and decay In the House on the Hill: They are all gone away, There is nothing more to say. Chapter 81 - Villanelle 4 Mad Girl''s Love Song By Sylvia Plath I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead, I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head) The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary darkness gallops in. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head). God topples from the sky, hell''s fires fade: Exit seraphim and enter Satan''s men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I fancied you''d return the way you said. But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head). I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head). Chapter 82 - Villanelle 5 The Waking By Theodore Roethke I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go. We think by feeling. What is there to know? I hear my being dance from ear to ear. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Of those so close beside me, which are you? God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there, And learn by going where I have to go. Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how? The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair; I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Great Nature has another thing to do To you and me; so take the lively air, And, lovely, learn by going where to go. This shaking keeps me steady. I should know. What falls away is always. And is near. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I learn by going where I have to go. Chapter 83 - Villanelle 6 Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James Joyce Are you not weary of ardent ways, Lure of the fallen seraphim? Tell no more of enchanted days. Your eyes have set man''s heart ablaze And you have had your will of him. Are you not weary of ardent ways? Above the flame the smoke of praise Goes up from ocean rim to rim. Tell no more of enchanted days. Our broken cries and mournful lays Rise in one eucharistic hymn. Are you not weary of ardent ways? While sacrificing hands upraise The chalice flowing to the brim, Tell no more of enchanted days. And still you hold our longing gaze With languorous look and lavish limb! Are you not weary of ardent ways? Tell no more of enchanted days. Chapter 84 - Villanelle 7 When I Saw You Last, Rose By Austin Dobson When I saw you last, Rose, You were only so high;- How fast the time goes! Like a bud ere it blows, You just peeped at the sky, When I saw you last, Rose! Now your petals unclose, Now your May-time is nigh;- How fast the time goes! And a life,-how it grows! You were scarcely so shy When I saw you last, Rose! In your bosom it shows There''s a guest on the sly; How fast the time goes! Is it Cupid? Who knows! Yet you used not to sigh, When I saw you last, Rose;- How fast the time goes! Chapter 85 - Villanelle 8 A Villanelle By Oscar Wilde O singer of Persephone! In the dim meadows desolate Dost thou remember Sicily? Still through the ivy flits the bee Where Amaryllis lies in state; O Singer of Persephone! Simaetha calls on Hecate And hears the wild dogs at the gate; Dost thou remember Sicily? Still by the light and laughing sea Poor Polypheme bem.o.a.ns his fate; O Singer of Persephone! And still in boyish rivalry Young Daphnis challenges his mate; Dost thou remember Sicily? Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee, For thee the jocund shepherds wait; O Singer of Persephone! Dost thou remember Sicily? Chapter 86 - Villanelle 9 Villanelle By Edmund Gosse WOULDST thou not be content to die When low-hung fruit is hardly clinging, And golden Autumn passes by? Beneath this delicate rose-gray sky, While sunset bells are faintly ringing, Wouldst thou not be content to die? For wintry webs of mist on high Out of the muffled earth are springing, And golden Autumn passes by. O now when pleasures fade and fly, And Hope her southward flight is winging, Wouldst thou not be content to die? Lest Winter come, with wailing cry His cruel icy bondage bringing, When golden Autumn hath passed by. And thou, with many a tear and sigh, While life her wasted hands is wringing, Shalt pray in vain for leave to die When golden Autumn hath passed by. Chapter 87 - Villanelle 10 A Dainty Thing''s the Villanelle By William Ernest Henley A DAINTY thing''s the Villanelle, Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme, It serves its purpose passing well. A double-clappered silver bell That must be made to clink in chime, A dainty thing''s the Villanelle; And if you wish to flute a spell, Or ask a meeting ''neath the lime, It serves its purpose passing well. You must not ask of it the swell Of organs grandiose and sublime-- A dainty thing''s the Villanelle; And, filled with sweetness, as a shell Is filled with sound, and launched in time, It serves its purpose passing well. Still fair to see and good to smell As in the quaintness of its prime, A dainty thing''s the Villanelle, It serves its purpose passing well. Chapter 88 - League of Legends Regions Bandle City Opinions differ as to where exactly the home of the yordles is to be found, though a handful of mortals claim to have traveled unseen pathways to a land of curious enchantment beyond the material realm. They tell of a place of unfettered magic, where the foolhardy can be led astray by myriad wonders, and end up lost in a dream... In Bandle City, it is said that every sensation is heightened for non-yordles. Colors are brighter. Food and drink intoxicates the senses for years and, once tasted, will never be forgotten. The sunlight is eternally golden, the waters crystal clear, and every harvest brings a fruitful bounty. Perhaps some of these claims are true, or maybe nonefor no two taletellers ever seem to agree on what they actually saw. Only one thing is known for certain, and that is the timeless quality of Bandle City and its inhabitants. This might explain why those mortals who find their way back often appear to have aged tremendously, while many more never return at all. Bilgewater Nestled away in the Blue Flame Isles archipelago, Bilgewater is a port city like no otherhome to serpent-hunters, dock gangs, and smugglers from across the known world. Here, fortunes are made and ambitions shattered in the blink of an eye. For those fleeing justice, debt, or persecution, Bilgewater can be a place of new beginnings, for no one on these twisted streets cares about your past. Even so, with each new dawn, careless travellers can always be found floating in the harbor, their purses empty and their throats slit... While incredibly dangerous, Bilgewater is ripe with opportunity, free from the shackles of formal government and trade regulation. If you have the coin, almost anything can be purchased here, from outlawed hextech to the favor of local crime lords. Demacia Demacia is a strong, lawful society with a prestigious military history. It values the ideals of justice, honor and duty highly, and its people are fiercely proud. Demacia is a self-sufficient, agrarian society, with abundant, fertile farmland, dense forests that are logged for lumber, and mountains rich with mineral resources. It is inherently defensive and insular, partly in response to frequent attacks from barbarians, raiders and expansionist civilizations. Some suggest that the golden age of Demacia has passed and unless it is able to adapt to a changing world C something many believe it is simply incapable of doing C that its decline is inevitable. Nevertheless, Demacia remains one of the dominant powers in Valoran, and boasts the most elite, well-trained army in all of Runeterra. Freljord The Freljord is a harsh and unforgiving land. Proud and fiercely independent, its people are born warriors, with a strong raiding culture. While there are many individual tribes within the Freljord, the battle lines are being drawn in a three-way civil war that will determine the future for them all. One tribe unflinchingly honors the traditions that have ensured its survival; another follows the dream of a united future, as foretold by a young idealist; while the third worsh.i.p.s the power of an enigmatic sorceress. Ionia Ionia is a land of unspoiled beauty and natural magic. Its inhabitants, living in scattered settlements across this massive island continent, are a spiritual people who seek to live in harmony and balance with the world. There are many orders and sects across Ionia, each following their own (often conflicting) paths and ideals. Self-sufficient and isolationist, Ionia has remained largely neutral in the wars that have ravaged Valoran over the centuries C until it was invaded by Noxus. This brutal conflict and occupation has forced Ionia to reassess its place in the world. How it reacts and the future path Ionia will follow is as yet undetermined, but will be of great importance to Runeterra. Mount Targon Mount Targon is the mightiest peak in Runeterra, a towering peak of sun-baked rock amid a range of summits unmatched in scale anywhere else in the world. Located far from civilization, Mount Targon is utterly remote and all but impossible to reach save by the most determined seeker. Many legends cling to Mount Targon, and, like any place of myth, it is a beacon to dreamers, madmen and questors of adventure. Some of these brave souls attempt to scale the impossible mountain, perhaps seeking wisdom or enlightenment, perhaps chasing glory or some soul-deep yearning to witness its summit. The ascent is all but impossible, and those hardy few who somehow survive to reach the top almost never speak of what they have seen. Some return with a haunted, empty look in their eyes, others changed beyond all recognition, imbued by an Aspect of unearthly, inhuman power with a destiny few mortals can comprehend. Noxus Noxus is a powerful empire with a fearsome reputation. To those beyond its borders, Noxus is brutal, expansionist and threatening, yet those who look beyond its warlike exterior see an unusually inclusive society, where the strengths and talents of its people are respected and cultivated. Its people were once a fierce reaver culture until they stormed the ancient city that now lies at the heart of their empire. Under threat from all sides, they aggressively took the fight to their enemies, pushing their borders outward with every passing year. This struggle for survival has made the Noxians a deeply proud people who value strength above all, though that strength can manifest by many different means. Anyone can rise to a position of power and respect within Noxus if they display the necessary aptitude, regardless of social standing, background, homeland, or wealth. Piltover Piltover is a thriving, progressive city whose power and influence is on the rise. It is Valoran''s cultural center, where art, craftsmanship, trade and innovation walk hand in hand. Its power comes not through military might, but the engines of commerce and forward thinking. Situated on the cliffs above the district of Zaun and overlooking the ocean, fleets of sh.i.p.s pass through its titanic sea-gates, bringing goods from all over the world. The wealth this generates has given rise to an unprecedented boom in the city''s growth. Piltover has - and still is - reinventing itself as a city where fortunes can be made and dreams can be lived. Burgeoning merchant clans fund development in the most incredible endeavors: grand artistic follies, esoteric hextech research, and architectural monuments to their power. With ever more inventors delving into the emergent lore of hextech, Piltover has become a lodestone for the most skilled craftsmen the world over. Shadow Isles The land now known as the Shadow Isles was once a beautiful realm, but it was shattered by a magical cataclysm. Black Mist permanently shrouds the isles and the land itself is tainted, corrupted by malevolent sorcery. Living beings that stand upon the Shadow Isles slowly have their life-force leeched from them, which, in turn, draws the insatiable, predatory spirits of the dead. Those who perish within the Black Mist are condemned to haunt this melancholy land for eternity. Worse, the power of the Shadow Isles is waxing stronger with every passing year, allowing the shades of undeath to extend their range and reap souls all across Runeterra. Shurima The empire of Shurima was once a thriving civilization that spanned a vast desert. After an era of growth and prosperity, the fall of its gleaming capital left the empire in ruins. Over millennia, tales of Shurima''s glorious city became myth and religion among the descendants of the scattered survivors. Most of the nomadic inhabitants of Shurima search for basic sustenance in an unforgiving land. Some defend small outposts built around a few oases. Others hunt buried riches among the ruins of the fallen empire, or obtain mercenary work, taking coin for their deeds before disappearing back into the sands. Now, the tribes are stirred by whispers from the heart of the desert: the city of Shurima has risen again. Void Screaming into existence with the birth of the universe, the Void is a manifestation of the unknowable nothingness that lies beyond. It is a force of insatiable hunger, waiting through the eons until its masters, the mysterious Watchers, mark the final time of undoing. To be a mortal touched by this power is to suffer an agonizing glimpse of eternal unreality, enough to shatter even the strongest mind. Denizens of the Void realm itself are construct-creatures, often of only limited sentience, but tasked with a singular purposeto usher in total oblivion across Runeterra. Zaun Zaun is a large, undercity district, lying in the deep canyons and valleys threading Piltover. What light reaches below is filtered through fumes leaking from the tangles of corroded pipework and reflected from the stained glass of its industrial architecture. Zaun and Piltover were once united, but are now separate, yet symbiotic societies. Though it exists in perpetual smogged twilight, Zaun thrives, its people vibrant and its culture rich. Piltover''s wealth has allowed Zaun to develop in tandem; a dark mirror of the city above. Many of the goods coming to Piltover find their way into Zaun''s black markets, and hextech inventors who find the restrictions placed upon them in the city above too restrictive often find their dangerous researches welcomed in Zaun. Unfettered development of volatile technologies and reckless industry has rendered whole swathes of Zaun polluted and dangerous. Streams of toxic runoff stagnate in the city''s lower reaches, but even here people find a way to exist and prosper. Chapter 89 - Aatrox - The Darkin Blade Whether mistaken for a demon or god, many tales have been told of the Darkin Blade... but few know his real name, or the story of his fall. In ancient times, long before desert sands swallowed the empire, a mighty champion of Shurima was brought before the Sun Disc to become the avatar for a now forgotten celestial ideal. Remade as one of the Ascended, his wings were the golden light of dawn, and his armor sparkled like a constellation of hope from beyond the great veil. Aatrox was his name. He was at the vanguard of every noble conflict. So true and just was his conduct that other god-warriors would always gather at his side, and ten thousand mortals of Shurima marched behind him. When Setaka, the Ascended warrior-queen, called for his help against the rebellion of Icathia, Aatrox answered without hesitation. But no one predicted the extent of the horrors that the rebels would unleashthe Void quickly overwhelmed its Icathian masters, and began the grinding annihilation of all life it encountered. After many years of desperate battle, Aatrox and his brethren finally halted the Void''s perverse advance, and seared the largest rifts shut. But the surviving Ascended, the self-described Sunborn, had been forever changed by what they had encountered. Though Shurima had triumphed, they all had lost something in their victory... even noble Aatrox. And in time, Shurima fell, as all empires must. Without any monarch to defend, or the existential threat of the Void to test them, Aatrox and the Sunborn began to clash with one another, and eventually this became a war for the ruins of their world. Mortals fleeing the conflict came to know them instead by a new and scornful name: the darkin. Fearing that these fallen Ascended were as dangerous to Runeterra''s survival as the Void incursions had been, the Targonians intervened. It is said that the Aspect of Twilight gave mortals the knowledge to trap the darkin, and the newly reborn Aspect of War united many in fighting back against them. Never fearing any foe, Aatrox and his armies were ready, and he realized only too late that they had been deceived. A force greater than a thousand dead suns pulled him inside the sword he had carried into battle countless times, and forever bound his immortal essence to it. The weapon was a prison, sealing his consciousness in suffocating, eternal darkness, robbing him even of the ability to die. For centuries, he strained against this hellish confinement... until some nameless mortal was foolish enough to try and wield the blade once more. Aatrox seized upon this opportunity, forcing his will and an imitation of his original form onto his bearer, though the process quickly drained all life from the new body. In the years that followed, Aatrox groomed many more hostsmen and women of exceptional vitality or fortitude. Though his grasp of such magics had been limited in life, he learned to take control of a mortal in the span of single breath, and in battle he discovered he could feast on his victims to build himself ever larger and stronger. Aatrox traveled the land, searching desperately, endlessly, for a way return to his previous Ascended form but the riddle of the blade proved unsolvable, and in time he realized he would never be free of it. The flesh he stole and crudely shaped began to feel like a mockery of his former glorya cage only slightly larger than the sword. Despair and loathing grew in his heart. The heavenly powers that Aatrox had once embodied had been wiped from the world, and all memory. Raging against this injustice, he arrived at a solution that could only be born of a prisoner''s desperation. If he could not destroy the blade or free himself, then he would embrace oblivion instead. Now, Aatrox marches toward this merciless goal, bringing war and death wherever he goes. He clings to a blind hope: if he can drive all of creation into a final, apocalyptic battlewhere everything, everything else is destroyedthen maybe he and the blade will also cease to exist. "I must destroy even hope" Chapter 90 - Ahri - The Nine-Tailed Fox Innately connected to the latent power of Runeterra, Ahri is a vastaya who can reshape magic into orbs of raw energy. She revels in toying with her prey by manipulating their emotions before devouring their life essence. Despite her predatory nature, Ahri retains a sense of empathy as she receives flashes of memory from each soul she consumes. Abandoned in the snowy woods of northern Ionia, Ahri knew nothing of her original family save the token they left her: a pair of matching gemstones. She joined a pack of icefoxes as they stalked prey on their morning hunt, and before long they adopted her as one of their own. With no one to teach her the magic of her kind, Ahri instinctively learned to draw it from the world around her, shaping destructive spheres and quickening her reflexes to take down prey. If she was close enough, she could even soothe a deer into a state of tranquility, so much that it remained serene even as she sank her teeth into its flesh. Ahri first encountered humans when a troop of foreign soldiers camped near her den. Their behaviors were strange to Ahri and, curious to learn more, she watched them from afar. She was especially drawn to a hunter who, unlike his wasteful companions, used every part of the animals he killed, reminding her of her fox family. When the hunter was wounded by an arrow, Ahri felt his life seeping away. She instinctively devoured the essence leaving his body, and gained brief flashes of his memoriesthe lover he had lost in battle, his children from a strange land of iron and stone. She found she could push his emotions from fear to sorrow to joy, and charmed him with visions of a sun-soaked meadow as he died. Euphoric at the rush of absorbing the hunter''s life, Ahri felt more alive than ever, and traveled Ionia in search of more victims. She relished toying with her prey, shifting their emotions before consuming their life essence. She alternated between dazzling them with visions of beauty, hallucinations of deep longing, and occasionally dreams colored by raw sorrow. She grew drunk with memories that were not her own, and exhilarated in the lives of others. Through stolen visions, Ahri watched through their eyes as they pledged fealty to a temple of shadow, sacrificed offerings to a deity of the sun incarnate, encountered an avian tribe of vastaya that spoke only in song, and glimpsed mountainous landscapes unlike any she had seen. She experienced heartbreak and elation in tantalizing flashes that left her craving more, and wept at the massacres of Ionian villagers at the hands of Noxian invaders. Ahri was surprised when the memories led her to discover the tale of an unearthly fox demon. As she absorbed more life essence, she grew to identify more and more with her victims, and felt guilty at ending so many lives. She feared that the myths about her were trueshe was no more than a cruel monster. But whenever too much time passed between feedings, she sensed her own power fade, and could not help but partake once more. Ahri tested her self-control by consuming small quantities of life essence, enough to absorb a memory or two but not enough to kill. She was successful, for a time, but was tortured by her unending hunger and soon succ.u.mbed to temptation, indulging in the dreams of an entire coastal village. Tormented by her mistake, Ahri could not forgive herself and felt a deep sorrow that forced her to question her own existence. She withdrew to the forest caves, isolating herself in hopes of controlling her relentless desire. Years later she emerged, determined to experience every facet of life through her own eyes. Though she might indulge in occasional essence, she resisted consuming entire lives. With the twin gemstones as the only clue to her origin, Ahri set out in search of others like her. No more would she rely on borrowed memories and unfamiliar dreams. "Human emotions can be more volatile than even the deepest magic" Chapter 91 - Akali - The Rogue Assassin Ionia has always been a land of wild magic, its vibrant people and powerful spirits seeking to live in harmony but sometimes this peaceful equilibrium does not come easily. Sometimes it needs to be kept in check. The Kinkou are the self-appointed keepers of Ionia''s sacred balance. The order''s loyal acolytes walk the spirit and material realms, mediating conflicts between them and, when necessary, intervening by force. Born among their ranks was Akali, daughter of Mayym Jhomen Tethi, the renowned Fist of Shadow. Mayym and her partner Tahno raised their daughter within the Kinkou Order, under the watchful leadership of Great Master Kusho, the Eye of Twilight. Whenever her parents were called away, other members of the order stepped in as Akali''s surrogate family. Kennen, the Heart of the Tempest, spent many hours with the young girl, teaching her shuriken techniques, and emphasizing speed and agility over strength. Akali was a precocious child, and soaked up the knowledge like a sponge. It became clear to all that she would follow her parents'' pathalong with the Great Master''s son and appointed successor Shen, she would lead a new generation dedicated to preserving Ionia''s balance. But balance can be fleeting. The order found itself divided. A wayward acolyte named Zed returned, and clashed violently with Kusho, wresting power in a bloody coup. Akali fled into the eastern mountains along with Mayym, Shen, Kennen, and a handful of other acolytes. Sadly, Tahno was not among them. Zed''s transformation of the Kinkou into the merciless Order of Shadow was almost complete. But, as the new Eye of Twilight, Shen intended to rebuild what had been lost. They would return to the Kinkou''s three fundamental philosophies: the pure impartiality of Watching the Stars, the passage of judgment in Coursing the Sun, and the elimination of imbalance by Pruning the Tree. Even though they were now few, they would train neophytes to restore and grow their numbers once more. When Akali came of age at fourteen, she formally entered her Kinkou training, determined to succeed her mother as the new Fist of Shadow. She was a prodigious fighter, and mastered the kama and kunaia handheld sickle and throwing dagger. Though she did not possess the magical abilities of many of her fellow acolytes, she proved to all she was worthy of the title, in time allowing her mother to step down and help mentor the younger neophytes. But Akali''s soul was restless, and her eyes were open. Though the Kinkou and the Order of Shadow had come to an uneasy accord in the wake of the Noxian invasion of Ionia, she saw that her homeland continued to suffer. She questioned whether they were truly fulfilling their purpose. Pruning the Tree was meant to eliminate those who threatened the sacred balance... yet Shen would always urge restraint. He was holding her back. All the mantras and meditations could quiet her spirit, but such platitudes would not defeat their adversaries. Her youthful precociousness turned to outright disobedience. She argued with Shen, she defied him, and she took down Ionia''s enemies her way. In front of the whole order, she declared the impotence of the Kinkou, all its talk of spiritual balance and patience accomplishing little. Ionians were dying in the material realm, and that was the realm Akali would defend. She was trained as an assassin. She was going to be an assassin. She did not need the order anymore. Shen let her go without a fight, knowing this was a path that Akali must walk alone. Perhaps that path would bring her back one day, but that would be for her to decide. "If you look dangerous, you better be dangerous" Chapter 92 - Alistar - The Minotaur As the mightiest warrior to ever emerge from the Minotaur tribes of the Great Barrier, Alistar defended his tribe from Valoran''s many dangers; that is, until the coming of the Noxian army. Alistar was lured from his village by the machinations of Keiran Darkwill, General Boram Darkwill''s youngest son and commander of the Noxian expeditionary force. When Alistar returned, he found his village burning and his family slain. Bellowing with rage, he charged an entire regiment of Noxus'' elite, slaughtering them by the hundreds. Only the intervention of some of Noxus'' most skilled blood mages checked Alistar''s rage. Brought in chains to Noxus, Alistar spent the intervening years as a gladiator in the Fleshing, pitted in endless battle for the entertainment of Noxus'' wealthy leaders. Alistar''s once noble soul slowly became twisted, and he would have been driven to insanity if not for Ayelia, a young servant girl who befriended him and eventually arranged for his escape. Suddenly free and with no home to return to, Alistar fled, hoping to one day exact his final vengeance upon Noxus and find the girl who had renewed his hope. He did not slink off into the shadows, however, instead becoming a vocal advocate for those whom the Noxian government treads upon. He also calls to light things that the Noxian military would prefer remain hidden C something that has made him very unpopular with Noxus'' nobles. His charitable work has earned him several philanthropic awards, which serve as an interesting contrast to the rage and destruction he is known for in battle. "Nothing can hold me back!" Chapter 93 - Amumu - The Sad Mummy A lonely and melancholy soul from ancient Shurima, Amumu roams the world in search of a friend. Cursed by an ancient spell, he is doomed to remain alone forever, as his touch is death and his affection ruin. Those who claim to have seen him describe Amumu as a living cadaver, small in stature and covered in bandages the color of lichen. Amumu has inspired myths, folklore, and legends told and retold for generations C such that it is impossible to separate truth from fiction. The hardy folk of Shurima agree upon certain things: the wind always blows from the west in the morning; a full belly on a new moon is an ill omen; buried treasure hides under the heaviest of rocks. They do not agree, however, about the tale of Amumu. One oft-told story links Amumu to the first great ruling family of Shurima who succ.u.mbed to a disease that corrupted flesh with hideous speed. The youngest child, Amumu, was quarantined in his chambers and befriended a servant girl who heard his cries through the walls. She regaled the lonely heir with courtly news and stories of her grandmother''s mystic powers. One morning, the girl brought word that Amumu''s last remaining brother had passed away, making him Emperor of Shurima. Saddened that he had to bear this news alone, she unlocked his door and ran inside to comfort him face to face. Amumu threw his arms around her, but as they touched, he fell back, realizing he had condemned her to the same terrible fate as his family. Upon the girl''s death, her grandmother placed a twisted blight on the young emperor. In her mind, Amumu had as good as murdered her kin. As the curse took effect, Amumu was trapped in his moment of suffering like a locust ensnared in honeyed amber. A second tale whispers of another crown prince, one given to bouts of petulance, cruelty, and murderous vanity. In this telling, Amumu was crowned Emperor of Shurima at a young age, and convinced he was blessed by the sun, he forced his subjects to worship him as a god. Amumu sought the fabled Eye of Angor, an ancient relic entombed in a gilded crypt, said to grant eternal life to whoever looked upon it with an unflinching heart. He hunted the treasure for years with a host of slaves who carried him through labyrinthine catacombs, sacrificing themselves to traps so the emperor could continue without hindrance. Amumu finally reached the cyclopean golden archway, where upon dozens of his stonemasons labored to breach the sealed door. As the young emperor rushed within, determined to look into the Eye of Angor, his slaves seized their chance and sealed the stone doorway behind him. Some say the child emperor endured in the darkness for years, his loneliness driving him to insanity and causing him to claw at his own skin, which he was forced to wrap in bandages. His life was extended by the power of the Eye as he meditated on his past transgressions, but the gift was a double edged sword, for he was cursed to remain forever alone. When a series of devastating earthquakes shattered the foundations of his tomb, the emperor escaped with no knowledge of how much time had passed, seeking to undo the suffering he had caused in life. Yet another story of Amumu tells of the first and last Yordle ruler of Shurima, who believed in the innate goodness of the human heart. To prove his detractors wrong, he swore an oath to live as a beggar until he made one true friend, convinced his people would rally to help their fellow Shuriman. Though thousands walked by the disheveled Yordle, not one stopped to offer a helping hand. Amumu''s sadness grew until he eventually died of a broken heart. But his death was not the end, for some swear the Yordle still wanders the desert, forever searching for someone who might restore his faith in humanity. These stories, despite their differences, are woven with parallels. Whatever the circ.u.mstances, Amumu is doomed to exist in a broken state of emptiness, eternally alone and friendless. Fated to forever search for a companion, his presence is cursed and his touch is death. On long winter nights when the fire is never allowed to burn low, the sad mummy can sometimes be heard weeping in the desert, despairing that he''ll never know the solace of friendship. Whatever Amumu searches for C atonement, kinship, or a single act of kindness C one thing is as certain as the western wind at dawn: he has yet to find it. "Solitude can be lonelier than death." Chapter 94 - Anivia - The Cryophoenix Anivia is a being of the coldest winter, a mystical embodiment of ice magic, and an ancient protector of the Freljord. She commands all the power and fury of the land itself, calling the snow and bitter wind to defend her home from those who would harm it. A benevolent but mysterious creature, Anivia is eternally bound to keep vigil over the Freljord through life, death, and rebirth. Anivia is as much a part of the Freljord as the never-ending frost. Long before mortals had ever set foot on the land''s frigid tundra, she had lived countless lifetimes and died as many deaths. The beginnings and ends of her eternal cycle always heralded great change, from the calming of raging storms to the ebb and flow of ice ages. It is said that when the cryophoenix dies, an era ends; and when she is reborn, a new era begins. Though Anivia''s past lifetimes have faded from her memory, she knows her purpose: she must protect the Freljord at all costs. When she was last reborn, Anivia witnessed the rise of a mighty and united human tribe. She guarded their lands with pride as they prospered, but such unity could not last forever. The great tribe fractured into three, and after that upheaval, Anivia watched the people of the Freljord become embroiled in battle. As she strove to calm the turmoil tearing her home apart, Anivia began to sense a greater threat: an ancient evil growing deep within the earth. To her horror, she felt the pure magic of the ice itself become blackened and corrupt. Like blood in water, darkness crept into the Freljord. With her destiny so tied to the power of the land, Anivia knew if such evil took root in her home, that same darkness would find its way into her heart. She could no longer remain a mere guardian - the cryophoenix had to act. Anivia soon discovered an ally in Ashe, the Frost Archer. Ashe too believed in unification as an end to the Freljord''s perpetual strife, and Anivia offered the tribal leader her aid. Now, with war on the horizon, Anivia prepares to fight for peace, but she knows the inevitable truth of her destiny. One day, evil will rise from the ice, and she must destroy it - no matter the cost. "I am the fury of the blizzard, the bite of the wind, and the cold of the ice. I am the Freljord." Chapter 95 - Annie - The Dark Child Boram Darkwill''s last years on the throne were a time of great uncertainty for Noxus, and many with an aptitude for magic left the capital for the relative peace of more distant provinces. Gregori the Gray and his wife, a witch by the name of Amoline, preferred to demonstrate their Noxian strength by taming the borderlands, rather than partaking in the political intrigue of the noble houses. The young couple claimed a piece of land beyond the Ironspike Mountains to the north, finishing their small home just before winter and the arrival of their first child. During their journey, other colonists'' tales of the great shadow bears that once roamed the territory had captivated Amolinenow heavily pregnant, she passed the time sitting near the fireplace, creating a toy version of the protective creatures. Just as she finished sewing the last button eye on the stuffed bear, the quickening of labor overcame her. Gregori remarked later that his daughter was eager to play with her new toy, for there, on an ember-warmed hearth, Amoline brought Annie into the world. When Annie was still a toddler, she and her father took ill. As night fell, Annie began to burn with fever, and soon she was so hot, she could no longer be held in her mother''s arms. Amoline grew desperate, deciding at last to fetch icy water from the nearby river. The next morning Gregori awoke, weak and groggy from his sickness. In the crib, a now-healthy Annie played with her stuffed bear, Tibbers, but Amoline was gone. Na?vely, Annie believed her mother would one day return. Gregori would often find the girl sitting in her mother''s rocking chair near the hearth, hugging Tibbers and staring into a crackling fire, where he was sure there had been nothing but cold ashes. He chalked up these slips of the mind to the burden of parenting a child alone. Years passed, bringing more colonists to the region. And in time, Gregori met Leanna, a woman seeking a new life outside the capital with her own young daughter, Daisy. Annie was eager for a playmate, but spoiled by the indulgences of being an only child, so acclimation to her new stepfamily was difficult. Whenever Annie''s fiery temper erupted, it left Leanna uneasy, and quick to take her own daughter''s side. It fell to Gregori to keep an uneasy peace between the three. Unused to the dangers of the untamed borderlands, Daisy''s playing ended in catastrophe for the family. Leanna, of course, blamed Annie for the loss of her daughter, focusing her rage and grief on her stepdaughter''s most prized possession: Tibbers. Annie was horrified as the last physical memory of her mother was threatened. The girl''s terror grew to an unbridled rage, releasing her latent and powerful pyromancy, and the stuffed bear was brought to life in a maelstrom of protective fire. When the flames died down and the swirl of ash settled, Annie was left orphaned and alone. Believing most city a.d.u.l.ts to be like her stepmother, Annie has kept to the wilder parts of her frontier homeland. On occasion, she will use her disarmingly adorable exterior to be taken in by some pioneer family long enough to be offered new clothes and a hot meal. However, fire and death awaits anyone foolish enough to try parting Annie from the stuffed bear at her side. Kept safe by Tibbers, she wanders the dark forests of Noxus, oblivious to dangerand the dangers posed to others by her own unchecked powerhoping, one day, to find someone like her to play with. "Ashes, ashes, they all fall down." Chapter 96 - Ashe - The Frost Archer Ashe hails from the northern Freljord, where brutal tribal raids and inter-clan warfare are as much a part of the landscape as the scream of the frozen winds, and the unyielding cold of the tundra. The only child of Grena, the matriarchal chieftain of the tiny Avarosan tribe, Ashe was Iceborn: a member of the warrior caste, gifted with an ancestral connection to the magic of her lands, and the rare ability to wield the power of True Ice. Everyone assumed that Ashe would follow her mother as the tribe''s next leader. However, this was never a glory Ashe desired. The grim responsibility of her warlike lineage and extraordinary gifts instead left Ashe feeling isolated, burdened, and alone. Her only respite was when Sejuani, an Iceborn girl from a sister tribe, would stay with them for the summer hunts around the Ornnkaal Rocks. The girls'' friendship defined their childhoods, but was cut short just as they reached their teens. Somehow, Grena had offended Sejuani''s grandmother, and the fellowship between their tribes ended suddenly. Soon after, with her youth fading, Ashe''s mother began her lifelong quest for the "Throne of Avarosa", a supposed hoard of treasures and magical items that she hoped would return her people to greatness. But Grena''s belief in prophecies and legends led her to take risks, which often left her tribe enfeebled. Finally, during a dangerous and unnecessary raid in another tribe''s lands, Grena was killed. Her sudden death left young Ashe on the run, while most of her tribe was wiped out. Alone, pursued, Ashe followed her mother''s last map to a deserted glacier where she found the supposed grave of Avarosa, and her magical bow of True Ice. Ashe used the weapon to avenge her mother''s death, then turned west. Whether it was out of duty or loneliness, Ashe gained a reputation by protecting the many scattered hearthbound tribes she encountered. She spurned the custom of taking thralls, and instead chose to adopt these desperate people as full members of her new tribe, and her fame grew quickly. Soon many began to believe that she did not just carry the weapon of AvarosaAshe was the legend herself, reborn and destined to reunite the Freljord. But tall tales would not feed her followers, and their long march south left the tribe on the verge of starvation. So, Ashe leveraged the myths surrounding her, using them to form alliances with the powerful and land-rich southern tribes, promising to unite them into a nation capable of challenging neighboring kingdoms. These new alliances brought new dangers, and Ashe quickly found herself at the center of a political feud. A Warmother, as Freljordian tribal leaders are known, was expected to wed, and taking a husband from one of the major tribes would anger the others. Ashe could take several husbands, but this would only bring the conflict to a boil within her own household, and the ensuing bloodshed would shatter the alliances she had fought to build. Her answer was an impoverished vagabond from a mountain clan that had been nearly wiped outthe warrior Tryndamere. He was neither a spirit-walker nor blessed with any elemental powers, but upon his arrival in Ashe''s new capital, Tryndamere had thrown himself into every dueling ring he could find. He fought with abandon, desperate to prove the destitute survivors of his clan were worthy of adoption by one of the stronger tribes. But even for the Freljord, his brutal fighting style and extraordinary vitality were unsettling, and many suspected he was touched by dark magic. Ignoring this, Ashe offered to adopt his people as her own, if he became her first and only bloodsworn. Tryndamere accepted reluctantly. Though a political marriage, the attraction they felt for each other was palpable, and slowly a true affection blossomed. Now, Ashe stands at the head of the largest coalition of Freljordian tribes in many generations. Even so, the unity she would bring rests upon an uneasy peace threatened by internal intrigues, foreign powers, the growing violent horde of the Winter''s Claw, and a supposed destiny that Ashe must at least pretend to believe "One tribe, one people, one Freljord." Chapter 97 - Aurelion Sol - The Star Forger Aurelion Sol once graced the vast emptiness of the cosmos with celestial wonders of his own devising. Now, he is forced to wield his awesome power at the behest of a space-faring empire that tricked him into servitude. Desiring a return to his star-forging ways, Aurelion Sol will drag the very stars from the sky, if he must, in order to regain his freedom. The appearance of a comet often portends a period of upheaval and unrest. Under the auspices of such fiery harbingers, it is said that new empires rise, old civilizations fall, and even the stars themselves may tumble from the sky. These theories merely scratch the surface of a far more bizarre truth: that the comet''s radiance cloaks a cosmic being of unfathomable power. The being now known as Aurelion Sol was already ancient by the time stellar debris first coalesced into worlds. Born in the first breath of creation, he roamed the vast nothingness, seeking to fill a canvas of incalculable breadth with marvels whose twinkling spectra brought him considerable delight and pride. A celestial dragon is an exotic creature, and as such, Aurelion Sol seldom encountered any equals. As more forms of life emerged to fill the universe, a multitude of primitive eyes gazed up and beheld his work with wonder and breathless pondering. Flattered by this audience of countless worlds, he became fascinated by their fledgling civilizations, who crafted amusingly self-centered philosophies on the nature of his stars. Desiring a deeper connection with one of the few races he deemed worthy, the cosmic dragon selected the most ambitious species to grace with his presence. These chosen few sought to unravel the secrets of the universe and had already expanded beyond their home planet. Many verses were composed about the day the Star Forger descended to a tiny world and announced his presence to the Targonians. An immense storm of stars filled the skies and twisted into a massive form as marvelous as it was terrifying. Cosmic wonders swirled and twinkled throughout the creature''s body. New stars shone brightly, and constellations rearranged at his whim. Appropriately awed by his illuminant powers, the Targonians titled the dragon Aurelion Sol and presented him with a gift as a token of respect: a splendorous crown of star-gems, which he promptly donned. Before long, though, boredom drew Aurelion Sol back to his work in the fertile vastness of space. However, the further from the reach of that tiny world he traveled, the more he felt a grasping at his very essence, pulling him off his path directing him elsewhere! He could hear voices shouting, commanding, from across the cosmic expanse. The gift he''d received was no gift at all, it seemed. Outraged, he fought these controlling impulses and attempted to break his bonds by force, only to discover that for each attack against his newfound masters, one of his stars vanished forever from the firmament. A powerful magic now yoked Aurelion Sol, forcing him to wield his powers exclusively for Targon''s benefit. He battled chitinous beasts that tore at the fabric of this universe. He clashed with other cosmic entities, some of which he had known since the dawn of time. For millennia, he fought Targon''s wars, crushed any threats to its dominance, and helped it forge a star-spanning empire. All of these tasks were a waste of his sublime talents; after all, it was he who birthed light into the universe! Why must he pander to such lowly beings? As his past glories slowly vanished from the celestial realm for lack of maintenance, Aurelion Sol resigned himself to never again bask in the warmth of a freshly ignited star. Then, he felt itCa weakening in his unwilling pact. The voices from the crown grew sporadic, clashing, arguing with each other while some fell ominously silent. An unknown catastrophe he could not fathom had thrown off the balance of those who bound him. They were scattered and distracted. Hope crept into his heart. Driven by the tantalizing possibility of impending freedom, Aurelion Sol arrives on the world where it all began: Runeterra. It is here the balance will finally tip in his favor. And with it, civilizations across the stars shall bear witness to his rebellion and again play audience to his might. All will learn what fate befalls those who strive to steal for themselves the power of a cosmic dragon. "Cower. Worship. Marvel. They are all appropriate responses." Chapter 98 - Azir - The Emperor Of The Sands Azir was a mortal emperor of Shurima in a far distant age, a proud man who stood at the cusp of immortality. His hubris saw him betrayed and murdered at the moment of his greatest triumph, but now, millennia later, he has been reborn as an Ascended being of immense power. With his buried city risen from the sand, Azir seeks to restore Shurima to its former glory. Thousands of years ago, the Shuriman empire was a sprawling realm of vassal states conquered by powerful armies led by all but invincible warriors known as the Ascended. Ruled by an ambitious and power hungry emperor, Shurima was the greatest realm of its day; a fertile land blessed by the power of the sun that shone from a great golden disc floating atop the temple at the heart of its capital. The youngest and least-favored son of the emperor, Azir was never destined for greatness. With so many siblings ahead of him, he would never be emperor. Most likely he would take up a position in the priesthood or as governor of some backwater province. He was a slender, studious boy who spent more time perusing the texts collected in the Great Library of Nasus than training to fight under the stern tutelage of the Ascended hero, Renekton. Amid the twisting shelves of scrolls, books and tablets, Azir met a young slave boy who visited the library almost every day in search of texts desired by his master. Slaves in Shurima were forbidden to take names, but as the two boys became friends, Azir broke that law and called his new friend Xerath, which means ''one who shares.'' He appointed Xerath - though he was careful never to endanger him by naming him publicly - as his personal slave and the two boys shared their love of history by learning all they could of Shurima''s past and its long legacy of Ascended heroes. While traveling with his father, brothers and Renekton on the yearly tour of the empire, the royal caravan stopped at a well-known oasis for the night. Azir and Xerath stole away in the middle of the night to draw the stars and add their own celestial maps to those they had studied in the Great Library. While they drew the patterns of constellations, the royal caravan was attacked by a cabal of assassins sent by the emperor''s enemies. One of the assassins found the two boys out in the desert and was poised to cut Azir''s throat when Xerath intervened, throwing himself upon the assassin''s back. In the ensuing melee, Azir freed his dagger and plunged it into his attacker''s throat. Azir took up the dead man''s sword and rushed back to the oasis, but by the time he returned, the assassins were already defeated. Renekton had protected the emperor and slain the attackers, but Azir''s brothers were all dead. Azir told his father of Xerath''s courage and asked him to reward the slave boy, but his words fell on deaf ears. In the emperor''s eyes, the boy was a slave and beneath his notice, but Azir swore that one day he and Xerath would be brothers. The emperor returned to his capital, with the fifteen year old Azir now his heir, and unleashed a merciless campaign of bloodshed against those he believed had sent the assassins. Shurima descended into years of paranoia and murder as the emperor took revenge on any he suspected of treason. Though he was now heir to the throne, Azir''s life yet hung by a thread. His father hated him - wishing he had died instead of his brothers - and the queen was still young enough to bear sons. Azir trained in combat, for the attack at the oasis had revealed how little he knew of the deadly arts. Renekton took up the task of teaching the growing prince, and under his aegis, Azir learned to wield sword and spear, to command warriors, and to read the ebb and flow of battle. The young heir elevated Xerath, his only trusted confidant, and made him his right hand man. To better counsel him, Azir tasked Xerath with seeking out knowledge wherever he could find it. Years passed, but the queen was never able to carry a child to term, every conceived infant perishing before it could be born. So long as the queen remained barren, Azir''s life was relatively safe. Some around the court believed a curse was at work and a few even whispered the young heir''s name in connection with this C though Azir claimed innocence and even executed some who dared voice such accusations openly. Eventually, the queen bore a healthy son, but on the night of his birth a terrible storm engulfed Shurima. The queen''s chambers were struck again and again by powerful bolts of lightning, and in the subsequent blaze, both the queen and her newborn son were killed. It was said the emperor went mad with grief and took his own life upon hearing the news, but tales soon spread of how he and his guards had been found lying in pieces on the palace floor, their bodies little more than charred skeletons. Azir was shocked by their deaths, but the empire needed a leader, and with Xerath at his side he took control of Shurima as its emperor. Over the next decade, he expanded Shurima''s borders and ruled with a harsh, but just hand. He instituted reforms to better the lives of slaves and privately developed a plan to overturn millennia of tradition and eventually free them all. He kept his plans secret, even from Xerath, and the issue of slavery would prove to be a continual bone of contention between them. The empire had been built on the back of slavery, and many of the great noble houses depended on enforced labor for their vast wealth and power. Such monolithic institutions could not be overturned overnight, and Azir''s plans would be undone were they to become common knowledge. Despite Azir''s desire to name Xerath his brother, he could not do so until all Shurima''s slaves were free. Through these years, Xerath protected Azir from his political rivals and guided the expansion of the empire. Azir married and fathered numerous children, some by wedlock, others by ill-advised liaisons with slaves and harem girls. Xerath stoked the emperor''s grand vision of an empire greater than any the world had ever known. But to stand as ruler over the entire world, Xerath convinced Azir that he would need to be all but invincible, a god amongst men C an Ascended being. As the kingdom reached the zenith of its power, Azir announced he would undertake the Ascension ritual, that the time was right for him to take his place alongside Nasus and Renekton and their glorious forebears. Many questioned this decision; the Ascension ritual was highly dangerous and intended only for those near the end of their lives, those who had devoted their lives to Shurima and whose service was to be honored with Ascension. It was for the Sun Priests to decree who would be blessed with Ascension, not the hubris of an emperor to bestow it upon himself. Azir would not be dissuaded from his rash course of action, for his arrogance had grown along with his empire, and he ordered them to comply on pain of death. The day of the ritual finally came and Azir marched toward the Dais of Ascension, flanked by thousands of his warriors and tens of thousands of his subjects. The brothers Renekton and Nasus were absent, having been dispatched by Xerath to deal with an emergent threat, but still Azir would not turn from what he saw as his great destiny. He climbed to the great golden disc atop the temple at the heart of the city and in the moments before the sun priests began the ritual, he turned to Xerath and finally freed him. And not just him, but all slaves Xerath was stunned into speechlessness, but Azir was not yet done. He embraced Xerath and named him his eternal brother, as he had promised he would all those years ago. Azir turned as the priests began the ritual to bring down the awesome power of the sun. Azir was unaware that Xerath had studied more than just history and philosophy in his quest for knowledge. He had learned the dark arts of sorcery, all the while nursing a desire for freedom that had grown like a cancer into a burning hatred. At the height of the ritual, the former slave unleashed his powers and Azir was blasted from his place on the dais. Without the protection of the runic circle, Azir was consumed by the sun''s fire as Xerath took his place. The light filled Xerath with power, and he roared as his mortal body began to transform. But the magic of the ritual was not intended for Xerath, and such awesomely powerful celestial energies could not be diverted without dire consequence. The power of the Ascension ritual exploded outward, devastating Shurima and laying waste to the city. Its people burned to ash and its towering palaces fell to ruin as the desert sands rose up to swallow the city. The sun disc sank from the sky and what had taken centuries to build was brought to ruin in an instant by one man''s ambition and another''s misplaced hate. All that remained of Azir''s city were sunken ruins and echoes of its people''s screams on the night winds. Azir saw none of this. For him, all was nothingness. His last memories were of pain and fire; he knew nothing of what befell him atop the temple, nor what became of his empire. He remained lost in timeless oblivion until, thousands of years after Shurima''s doom, the blood of his last descendant spilled onto the temple ruins and resurrected him. Azir was reborn, but was yet incomplete; his body little more than animate dust given form, held together by the last vestiges of his indomitable will. Gradually resuming his corporeal form, Azir stumbled through the ruins and came across the corpse of a woman with a treacherous knife wound in her back. He did not know her, but saw in her features the distant echo of his bloodline. All thoughts of empires and power were forgotten as he lifted this daughter of Shurima and bore her to what had once been the Oasis of the Dawn. The oasis was empty and dry, but with every step Azir took, clear water began filling the rocky basin. Azir immersed the woman''s body in the restorative waters of the oasis and as the blood washed away, only a faint scar remained where the blade had pierced her. And with that act of selflessness, Azir was lifted up in a column of fire as the magic of Shurima renewed him, remaking him as the Ascended being he was meant to become. The sun''s immortal radiance poured into him, crafting his magnificent, hawk-armored form and granting him the power to command the very sand itself. Azir lifted his arms and his ruined city shrugged off the dust of centuries spent beneath the desert to rise anew. The sun disc lifted into the sky once more, and healing waters flowed between temples heaving themselves back into the light at the emperor''s command. Azir climbed the steps of the newly-risen sun temple, weaving the desert winds to recreate the city''s last moments. Ghosts formed of sand relived his city''s last moments from long ago, and Azir watched in horror as Xerath''s treachery unfolded. He wept as he saw his family murdered, his empire fall and his power stolen. Only now, millennia too late, did he finally understand the depths of hatred harbored by his former friend and ally. With the power and prescience of an Ascended being, Azir sensed Xerath somewhere abroad in the world and summoned an army of sand warriors to march alongside their reborn emperor. As the sun blazed from the golden disc above him, Azir swore a mighty oath. I will reclaim my lands and take back what was mine! "Shurima was once the glory of Runeterra. I will make it so again." Chapter 99 - Bard - The Wandering Caretaker Bard travels through realms beyond the imagination of mortal beings. Some of Valoran''s greatest scholars have spent their lives trying to understand the mysteries he embodies. This enigmatic spirit has been given many names throughout the history of Valoran, but titles such as Cosmic Vagabond and Great Caretaker only capture a fleeting aspect of his true purpose. When the unknowable structure of the universe is threatened, Bard steers all existence away from utter annihilation. "The chimes of his footsteps are echoes of change." Chapter 100 - Blitzcrank - The Great Steam Golem Blitzcrank is an enormous, near-indestructible steam golem originally built to dispose of hazardous waste in Zaun. Evolved beyond his primary purpose, Blitzcrank selflessly uses his strength and durability to protect others. Able to see past false veneers and artifice to the truth of an intention, Blitzcrank moves to help those in need. Shortly after the development of hextech, inventors and scientists flocked to Zaun, a place where they could experiment with volatile materials undeterred by the stringent regulations and rules of Piltover. Their experiments often ended in disaster, with entire buildings destroyed and toxic chemicals spilled into nearby streets. A team at the College of Techmaturgy developed steam-powered golems who would remove the hazardous debris, a task deemed too dangerous for even the most desperate of Zaunites. The golems labored tirelessly through the streets, carrying waste to the growing number of disposal sites around the city. Even among such hardy machines, accidents were common, and the automatons were frequently sent back to the college in pieces. Dredging up slime at the bottom of Zaun was no easy task, and acidic, noxious chemicals gradually wore down their metal shells. An ambitious young inventor known as Viktor longed to create a durable machine that could clean more effectively and eliminate the need for costly repairs. He gathered broken parts from the retired golems, avoiding the flashier components popular among his peers. Even employing an assemblage of unwanted materials, Viktor designed a more resilient machine. He named his creation Blitzcrank, hoping the golem would quickly eradicate all waste and become far greater than the sum of his discarded parts. After instilling in Blitzcrank a relentless desire to serve the people of Zaun by removing the toxins in their path, Viktor sent him into the Sump to help. The golem took Viktor''s ideology to heart, believing self-sacrifice and altruism could lead to true greatness for the entire city. Blitzcrank joined the other machines in their cleanup program, leading scouting efforts far past the usual areas of pollution. He fearlessly cleansed toxic neighborhoods of the most noxious chemical spills without any need to return to the college for repairs. As Blitzcrank encountered other civic dangers, he developed increasingly ambitious plans for his crew of golems, but found his own design was limited such that he could not extend his work beyond cleaning chemical spills. One night, he borrowed Viktor''s prized toolbox, and wrenched open his own steam-engine. He reconfigured his mechanics and removed all limits to his function so that he could make an even greater difference in the city. In the following weeks, Blitzcrank orchestrated neighborhood-wide evacuations to help people avoid toxic fumes, redirected a food distribution system to increase its efficiency, and repaired an elaborate filtering system to dispense clean water into a community well. With every good deed, Blitzcrank''s sense of his own purpose solidified, and he gained a consciousness that no other golem had yet achieved. Viktor noticed the unusual changes in his creation, and sought to replicate Blitzcrank''s profound sentience and self-sufficiency in other machines. But Blitzcrank never revealed what had caused his awakening, and without that knowledge, Viktor could not replicate his success. Blitzcrank roamed the streets of Zaun at all hours, refusing to pause or rest when there might be people in need. His assistance extended beyond just humans to street animals and even broken-down automatons. When a gas fire devastated the Davoran Clocktower, he rescued a family of mechanics and their soot-black cat with his enormous crank-like arm even stopping to recover a miniature mechanical dancer from a child''s bedroom. No task was too small for the steam golem - in a single day he stopped a chem-punk robbery, caught a child''s icefruit before it fell to the pavement, and rounded up a lost poro from a traveling circus before it collided with a malfunctioning velocipede. As time passed, Blitzcrank learned that several of the people he had previously saved succ.u.mbed to illnesses after their exposure to noxious chemicals. Anxious at his inability to help, he turned to his creator. Viktor, who had an interest in evolving humanity beyond its frail mortality, was eager to assist. He promised Blitzcrank that, with his developments in techmaturgy, they could defeat death. Blitzcrank convinced a family of sump dwellers to try Viktor''s approach, and worked with the inventor to install machinery that seamlessly integrated with their bodies to eliminate the disease. At first, the transition was a success, and the family regained the mobility they had lost since falling ill. But after a few months of good health, their bodies began to fail. Viktor and Blitzcrank worked tirelessly to try to find a cure, but their efforts only delayed the inevitable. Before long, the entire family was dead. Saddened by their failure, Blitzcrank knew this way of helping people was not his. He parted ways with his creator as a friend and peer, hoping to make the greatest difference he could for the people of Zaun. While some view Zaun as a chaotic place where reckless experimentation and lawlessness run rampant, Blitzcrank sees only its infinite possibilities. He searches Zaun for ways he can create change for good, paying extra attention to those forgotten or discarded by society. With a bit of axle grease, Blitzcrank believes Zaun will grow into the greatest city Valoran has ever seen. "A SINGLE GEAR TURNING CAN MAKE ALL THE DIFFERENCE." Chapter 101 - Brand - The Burning Vengeance The son of a Freljordian healer, Kegan Rodhe was born an outsider. The little magic and herbcraft his mother possessed allowed them both to survive on the fringes of a small coastal community named Rygann''s Reach. Friends were few and far between. Even as a young boy, he knew his father was an enemy reaver, and that heand Kegan by extensionwas the reason his mother was shunned. The villagers called him "the reaver-bastard". Kegan allowed his loneliness and resentment to smolder, often turning violent. After enduring years of seemingly endless winter, his mother''s frail body finally gave in. As Kegan spread her funeral ashes, he thought of the people she had spent her life healing. None had come to pay their respects. He knew they wished him to disappear into the cold air as well. He would oblige them, but not before he took his revenge. He burned down the village and fled into the night, leaving himself with scars that would never heal. Kegan wandered the frozen tundra of the Freljord. He told himself that he was searching for his father, but he knew deep down he was looking for a friend... or, at the very least, a kind face. Finding neither, he holed himself up in a cave, and waited to die. It was not death that came to him, but another outsider. The mysterious mage named Ryze saw potential in this half-frozen young man, and took him on as an apprentice. Teacher and student struggled as Kegan''s nascent, wild magic frustrated them both, and Ryze''s requests for patience and humility often fell on deaf ears. Unfortunately, instructing Kegan would always come second to Ryze''s original mission. He had long sought to collect and hide away a power that could be Runeterra''s unmakingthe legendary World Runes. After tracking down one such fragment, Kegan faced the same desperate temptation that had driven so many before him to madness. The Runes were the source of all magic in the world and, against his master''s warnings, he chose to seize that power for himself. Ryze was forced to watch in failure as his apprentice was burned away by the raw magic, Kegan''s soul utterly consumed. The creature that was born in that moment was no longer the bitter young man Ryze had rescued from the snows, nor the Freljordian mage he had come to know as his friend. Rather, this vengeful being of fire and fury that now walked the mortal realm would eventually become known as Brand. Cursing his former master, and every other living thing that would ever come between him and the Runes, Brand lashed out with magical flames, and Ryze barely escaped with his life. Over the centuries since that day, Brand has lived an anarchic, wildfire existence, taking and never giving anything back to the world. At times, he blazes across the heavens like a comet. At others, he sinks into the cold earth and slumbers, waiting for the unmistakable scent of magic that will lead him to another World Rune and should he find one, there are precious few in Runeterra with the power to stop him. "This place will burn, not by cinder flying or breath of wind, but by the vengeance of my hand." Chapter 102 - Braum - The Heart Of The Freljord Blessed with massive muscles, and an even bigger heart, Braum is a beloved hero of the Freljord. Every child born to the ice knows of his legendary strength, capable of felling entire forests of frost-oaks in a single night or rending the very mountains asunder. With a colossal vault door borne across his back as a shield, Braum roams the land as a friend to those in need and a terrible foe of evildoers. "Today, we fight as enemies. Tomorrow, we may fight as brothers." Chapter 103 - Caitlyn - The Sheriff of Piltover A determined and skilled investigator, Caitlyn is one of the sheriffs of Piltover, the City of Progress. She is a fiercely intelligent woman with a strong sense of justice and a resolute devotion to the law. Armed with a magnificent hextech rifle, Caitlyn is a patient hunter and the bane of criminals throughout her city. Born to a wealthy and influential family of hextech artificers in Piltover, Caitlyn swiftly learned the social graces of city life, but preferred to spend her time in the wilder lands to the south. Equally adept at mingling with the moneyed citizens of the City of Progress or tracking a deer through the mud of the forest, Caitlyn spent the bulk of her youth beyond Piltover''s gates. She could track a bird on the wing or put a bullet through the eye of a hare at three hundred yards with her father''s Bilgewater repeater musket. Caitlyn''s greatest assets, however, were her intelligence and willingness to learn from her parents, who reinforced her innate understanding of right and wrong. Though the family''s engineering skills had made them wealthy, her mother always warned of Piltover''s seductions, of how its gilded promises could harden even the kindest heart. Caitlyn paid little attention to her mother''s warning, for Piltover was a city of beauty to her, a place of order she would cherish after each trip into the wild. All that was to change one Progress Day, five years later. Caitlyn returned from one of her long forays into the woodlands to find her home ransacked and empty. The family retainers were all dead, and no trace could be found of her parents. Caitlyn secured her home, and immediately set off in search of her mother and father. Tracking quarry that does not want to be found within the confines of a city was very different from hunting in the wild, but, one by one, Caitlyn located the men who had invaded her home. None of these men knew the true identity of who had hired them, only that they had acted via a proxy with the initial "C." The trail eventually led Caitlyn to a secret hextech laboratory where her mother and father were being forced to work for a rival clan under pain of death. Caitlyn rescued her parents, and the wardens, acting upon Caitlyn''s information, arrested the clan leader behind the kidnapping. She and her parents returned home and began to rebuild their lives, but something fundamental had changed in Caitlyn. She had seen that Piltover could be a dangerous place, where ambition and greed were as deadly as a cornered beast. During the course of her investigation, Caitlyn had seen beneath Piltover''s veneer of progress and science. She had seen people in need of help, a host of souls lost and alone. And she had seen that she could help them. Though she loved her parents, Caitlyn had no desire to follow in their footsteps as an artisan, and looked for a way to earn a living in the sprawling metropolis. She established herself as an investigator of sorts, utilizing her skills as a superlative hunter to act as a finder of lost people and retriever of stolen property. For her twenty-first birthday, Caitlyn''s parents presented her with a hextech rifle of exquisite artifice. The weapon was a thing of beauty, with specialized shells that enabled it to shoot with greater accuracy than any rifle she had ever owned. The weapon could also be modified to fire a variety of different ammunition types, and went with Caitlyn whenever she took a case. Caitlyn knew Piltover''s nooks and crannies as thoroughly as the forest paths of her childhood, and turned a tidy profit in a profession that brought her into contact with the many and varied layers of society. Her profession exposed Caitlyn to a great deal of strange encounters that taught her, first-hand, the dangers of untested hextech and rogue chemtech development. Over the next few years, she quickly made a name for herself as someone to go to for help in matters both mundane and esoteric. One particularly traumatic case involving a missing hextech device and a series of child abductions led to Caitlyn working closely with an agent of the Piltover Wardens; one who, like her, had developed something of an affinity for stranger cases. Caitlyn refused to give up, even when the trail grew colder with every passing day. She chased it like a dog would a bone, and eventually, broke the case. Caitlyn and the warden rescued the children after a battle with a host of rogue chimerics in the employ of a lunatic chem-researcher driven mad by his own concoctions. As she and the warden shared a celebratory drink, he offered her a job as a sheriff. At first, Caitlyn refused, but eventually came to realize that, with all the resources the wardens had to offer, she could potentially get closer to discovering the identity of the mysterious "C," the only person involved in the attack on her family home she had yet to apprehend. Caitlyn now works as a highly respected officer within the ranks of the Piltover Wardens to keep order in the City of Progress - particularly in areas where overzealous hextech artisans cross the line of what is acceptable in Piltover. She has recently partnered with a new recruit from Zaun, the brash and reckless Vi. How such an unlikely pairing came to be, and has proven to be so effective, is the subject of numerous wild rumors and tavern speculation among their fellow wardens and those they haul away to jail. "To be the best hunter, you have to be able to think like your prey." Chapter 104 - Camille - The Steel Shadow Weaponized to execute outside the boundaries of the law, Camille is an elegant and elite operative who ensures the Piltover machine and its Zaunite underbelly runs smoothly. Camille''s true strength is her adaptability and attention to detail, viewing sloppy technique as an embarrassment that must be put to order. Raised among manners and money, she is the Principal Intelligencer of Clan Ferros, tasked with cutting down her family''s darker problems with surgical precision. With a mind as sharp as the blades she bears, Camille''s pursuit of superiority through hextech body augmentation has left many to wonder if she is more machine than woman. Camille''s family gained most of its wealth through a rare crystal harvested from a creature native to the sands of a distant valley. These first hex-crystals, or "first crystals," contained power normally reserved to those born with innate magical ability. Camille''s Great-Great Aunt Elicia lost an arm, and nearly her life, during one such early expedition. Her sacrifice was celebrated, and it set an expectation that is still reflected in the Ferros family motto today, "For family, will I give." The creatures Elicia Ferros found, the Brackern, were not an unending resource, and Camille''s family had to look for ways to augment the crystals they had acc.u.mulated. Utilizing certain shadow investments in chemtech and runic alchemy, the Ferros family brought to market the less powerful, but easier to procure, synthetic hex-crystals. Such power often comes with consequences, and the production of synthetic crystals is rumored to be a heavy contributor to the Zaun Gray. Born into one of the wealthiest houses in Piltover''s ill.u.s.trious Bluewind Court, Camille was the sixth child of Rhodri and Gemma, then Masters of Clan Ferros. However, Camille and her younger brother, Stevan, were the only children who survived to a.d.u.l.thood. With the family''s focus set upon Camille as the eldest surviving child, no expense was spared in her education, instilling both her aristocratic attitude and sense of duty at an early age. With so many of Valoran''s finest visiting Piltover, Camille had no shortage of exceptional tutors. Accordingly, she speaks the Zhyun dialect of Southern Ionia and Ur-Noxian fluently. As a child, Camille was encouraged to take an interest in Valoran history, and learned to read and write Ancient Shuriman while assisting her father on digs in the Odyn Valley. Camille also became quite an accomplished musician and plays the cellovinna at a concert master level. Among the leading families of Piltover, it is customary for one of the younger children to take up the mantle of the family''s principal intelligencer, the sword and shield of their clan. Those chosen are tasked with operating in the best interest of a Piltover family, working with the clan master to secure the family''s continued success by any means necessary. Clan Ferros, with its wealth of secrets, has always taken this position seriously, putting forward considerable resources to ensure its intelligencer was always the best. Camille''s brother, Stevan, had been born with a weak constitution and was considered ineligible. Her parentsher father especiallywere extremely proud when Camille took Stevan''s place as the principal intelligencer for the clan. Stevan''s jealousy simmered as he watched Camille embrace her additional training and tutoring. She became quite adept in combat, espionage, and interrogation. Camille''s favorite techniques were fighting with the Shon-Xan footed glaive, gaining intelligence through classic inquisition, and rappelling from a certain broken clock tower with a grappling line and hook native to the Western Serpent Isles. When Camille was 25, she and her father were attacked by a band of augmented thugs. The gang was determined to move up in Zaun''s underworld by laying hands on some of the family''s more lucrative secrets. Both Camille and her father were wounded. Camille recovered, but her father succ.u.mbed to his wounds. Camille''s mother passed away soon after, unable to bear the anguish that settled over the house. The title of clan master passed to Camille''s brother, Stevan. Young, impetuous, and eager to prove himself as a strong leader of the family, Stevan doubled the already extensive Ferros research in human hextech augmentation. After a year of mourning, the Ferros house was decorated resplendently for the next Progress Day auditions. Stevan personally oversaw the induction of Hakim Naderi as the lead artificer for the family, a promising young crystallographer from the Shuriman coastal city of Bel''zhun. Shaken by her inability to protect her father, Camille requested a hextech augmentation from Hakim to push her power beyond that of her human body. When Hakim met Camille, he was instantly enamored and was determined to draw Camille out of the darkness surrounding her parent''s death. They bonded over the work at hand and late night stories of the sands of Shurima. After months of intimate work together, Camille could no longer deny she returned Hakim''s feelings. As the day of Camille''s augmentation approached, they grew reckless in their affair, as they knew the surgery would mark the end of their time together. Hakim would move onto other projects for the family, and Camille would once again be fully committed to her duty as principal intelligencer. More than that, Hakim worried that in carving away Camille''s heart, he might cut too deeply and deprive her of her humanity as well. Days before Camille''s operation, Hakim''s reservations about the procedure boiled over. He proposed marriage and begged Camille to run away with him instead. He painted a picture of their future--wandering the sun-kissed sands of Bel''Zhun, uncovering the ruins of Ancient Shurima, raising their children together--a future far away from the duty that bound Camille to her house. For the first time in her life, Camille was torn. Stevan''s position as clan master depended heavily on Camille''s ability to execute his vision. When he learned of the secret proposal, he saw his principal intelligencer dangerously close to slipping away, and by extension, his control over the Ferros family. Stevan devised a plan to remind Camille of the duty she swore to their father. Stevan set himself up to be attacked the next time he knew Camille and Hakim were to be together. Using the fragility that had once denied him his place, Stevan presented himself bloodied and beaten to his sister, preying on her dark memories of the night she failed her father. Camille could not deny the evidence that stained her hands, proof of what could happen when the intelligencer''s attention was divided. Hakim pleaded with Camille, but she would not have it. Hers was a duty going back generations, one that if she had been better prepared could have saved her father''s life and should have prevented injury to her brother. Camille insisted her surgery go forward and ended her relationship with Hakim. Hakim still loved Camille and knew that he was the only one who could perform the surgery safely. Unable to let the love of his life die on the operating table, he cut away Camille''s heart as she asked. Once he was sure that her new mechanical heart would beat without him, Hakim resigned. Camille awoke to find the lab she and Hakim had shared empty and abandoned. Camille threw herself into her work, taking on further refinements in the form of bladed legs, grapple-spindled h.i.p.s, and other, minor hex-augmentations. Each addition pushed Camille and the ever more ambitious technology to the limits. This led some to wonder how much of the lady was still left. As Clan Ferros amassed more power and wealth, the missions Camille ran for her brother became darker and more deadly. Thanks to the rejuvenating vibrations of her hex-tech heart, time passed for Camille without age, and soon, Hakim Naderi became a distant memory. The years were not so kind to her brother. Stevan''s body grew more frail, but that did nothing to loosen his iron grip on the title of Clan Master. On a recent assignment, Camille uncovered a na?ve Piltovan''s ill-fated engagement and with it a series of events that exposed the depth of Stevan''s treason. The lies that drove Hakim away now threatened to destroy Camille and the clan. She saw his greedy machinations for what they were; selfish and no longer in the best interest of the family. In that moment, she discarded the last sentiment she felt toward her brother and took control of Clan Ferros. Camille now runs the family''s public affairs through her favorite grand-niece she installed as master of the clan. This allows Camille to continue the more shadowy operations that ensure her family''s success. Committed to her role as a solver of difficult problems, Camille has embraced her more-than-human transformation and the cutting judgment it affords her. With hex-crystal energy coursing through her veins, Camille has never been content to sit idle, and instead gains invigoration from well-executed industrial espionage, a fresh-brewed cup of tea, and long walks in the Gray. "Precision is the difference between a butcher and a surgeon." Chapter 105 - Cassiopeia - The Serpent’s Embrace The youngest child of General Du Couteau, Cassiopeia was born to a life of possibility and privilege among the Noxian noble houses. From an early age, she displayed a keen mind and sharp wit, and while her sister Katarina flourished under their father''s tutelage, it was their mother Soreana in whose footsteps Cassiopeia would follow. A hero of Noxus'' expansion into Shurima, General Du Couteau eventually sent for his family, installing them close to the governor of the coastal city of Urzeris. Surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar land, Cassiopeia remained close to her mother, learning much of politics, diplomacy, and subtle influence. As she grew, Cassiopeia could not help but glimpse other, hidden concerns within Soreana, beyond those of the empire One day, quite unexpectedly, Soreana collapsed in the family residenceher hairbrush had been laced with caustic venoms by an unknown hand, leaving her close to death. General du Couteau was well versed in the ways of an assassin, and so he had all the household staff removed, leaving his wife and daughters alone in an empty house. Still little more than a child, Cassiopeia never left her mother''s bedside. While Soreana''s recovery took many months, the bond between them became stronger than ever before. When the general was recalled to Noxus to prepare for the long-awaited invasion of Ionia, he took Katarina with him, but Cassiopeia remained in Urzeris. Seemingly relieved, Soreana confided in her daughter that she belonged to a clandestine and secretive cabal, known by some as "the Black Rose". Having guided the empire for centuries, they had finally managed to spread their influence into Shurima. Now free of her husband''s watchful eye, Soreana''s real work could begin. In time, and under her mother''s tutelage, Cassiopeia blossomed into a young woman of tremendous beauty, cunning and intelligence, if somewhat lacking in empathy. She saw those around her as tools to be used to achieve her goals, and then cast aside just as quickly. Though she had barely reached the cusp of womanhood, she was initiated into the Black Rose by hunting down and eliminating those who had sought the death of her mother. She surprised even Soreana with her speed and efficiency, and left no trace of her activitiesor her proxiesbehind. Only then was Cassiopeia made privy to the cabal''s broader plan for Shurima. Using her family''s tremendous resources, she undertook a number of expeditions into the deep desert, raiding ancient ruins with the help of a local mercenary named Sivir. Her efforts were made all the more urgent when word reached Urzeris from the capital. Grand General Boram Darkwill had been deposed by Jericho Swain, and a number of noble houses had chosen to honor this coup including Du Couteau. Outraged and disgusted by her husband''s betrayal, and fearing that all members of the Black Rose were now in jeopardy, Soreana became desperate. She dispatched Cassiopeia to seek out the godlike power that had been the key to Shurima''s supremacy in ages past. Cassiopeia swore she would return with a weapon ready for the looming secret war, or not at all. Fulfilling this oath would leave her changed forever. Upon unearthing a long lost tomb of the mythical Ascended, she knew this was the threshold to the power she sought, and intended to dispatch all witnesses from her expedition before claiming it. The guide Sivir was the first to fall to Cassiopeia''s blade, but then an ancient stone tomb guardian reared up, and buried its fangs into her flesh. Overcome by its arcane toxins, she was carried back through the desert by her hired soldiers, screaming as her body twisted into something new and unspeakable Cassiopeia locked herself in the disused crypt of the Urzeris residence, and endured the untold agonies of this transformation. Gone was the brilliant and beautiful daughter of Soreana Du Couteau, replaced by a monstrous, slithering creature that skulked in the shadows, spitting poison, and crushing stone as easily as glass. For weeks she wept and howled, grieving her lost life until the day she could weep no more. She dragged herself up from the depths of despair, determined to acceptmaybe even someday embrace?her fate. It was not the Ascension she had hoped for, but Cassiopeia had unearthed the magic of dead Shuriman gods. She would turn it to the schemes of the Black Rose just as she and her mother had planned, and she could feel this power growing within her, day by day. Though into what, even she cannot guess. "Secrets are sharper than blades" Chapter 106 - Cho’Gath - The Terror Of The Void There is a place between dimensions, between worlds. To some it is known as the Outside, to others it is the Unknown. To those that truly know, however, it is called the Void. Despite its name, the Void is not an empty place, but rather the home of unspeakable things - horrors not meant for minds of men. Cho''Gath is a creature born of the Void, a thing whose true nature is so awful most will not speak its name. Its fellows have been poking at the walls that divide dimensions for a crack, a way into Runeterra, where they can visit their own personal paradise of horror upon the world. They are called the Voidborn, creatures so ancient and terrible that they have been removed from history altogether. It is rumored that the Voidborn command vast armies of unspeakable creatures on other worlds, that they were once driven from Runeterra by powerful magic lost to antiquity. If such tales are true, then the rumors that follow must be equally true - that one day, the Voidborn will return. Even now, something dark stirs in Icathia. Cho''Gath, an alien creature of malice and violence, causes all but the most stalwart to cringe in fear. Cho''Gath even appears to feed on its predations, growing and swelling as it gorges itself. Worse yet, the creature is intelligent, perhaps greatly so, hinting at the sentient horror of the Void. "Your souls will feed the Void!" Chapter 107 - Corki - The Daring Bombardier When Heimerdinger and his yordle colleagues migrated to Piltover, they embraced science as a way of life, and they immediately made several groundbreaking contributions to the techmaturgical community. What yordles lack in stature, they make up for with industriousness. Corki, the Daring Bombardier, gained his title by test-piloting one of these contributions - the original design for the Reconnaissance Operations Front-Line Copter, an aerial assault vehicle which has become the backbone of the Bandle City Expeditionary Force (BCEF). Together with his squadron - the Screaming Yipsnakes - Corki soars over Valoran, surveying the landscape and conducting aerial acrobatics for the benefit of onlookers below. Corki is the most renowned of the Screaming Yipsnakes for remaining cool under fire and exhibiting bravery to the point of madness. He served several tours of duty, often volunteering for missions that would take him behind enemy lines, either gathering intelligence or delivering messages through hot zones. He thrived on danger, and enjoyed nothing more than a good dogfight in the morning. More than just an ace pilot, Corki also made several modifications to his copter, outfitting it with an arsenal of weapons which some speculate were more for show than functionality. When open hostilities ceased, Corki was forced into a retirement, which he felt ''''cut the engines and clipped the wings.'''' He tried to make do with stunt flying and canyon running, but it was never the same without the refreshing smell of gunpowder streaking through the air around him. "Death from above!" Chapter 108 - Darius - The Hand Of Noxus Darius and his brother Draven grew up as orphans in the port city of Basilich. Darius struggled to provide for them both, constantly fighting with gangs of older urchins and anyone else who threatened his little brothereven the city guard. Every day on the streets was a battle for survival, and Darius earned more scars by his twelfth summer than some soldiers do in a lifetime. After Basilich was seized by the expanding Noxian empire, the victorious commander Cyrus saw the strength in these defiant brothers, and they found a home within the ranks of his warhost. Over the years, they fought in many grueling campaigns of conquest from one end of the known world to the other, as well as crushing a number of rebellions against the throne. Within the empire, anyone could rise to power, no matter their birth, culture, or background, and none embraced this ideal more fervently than Darius. From humble beginnings, he rose steadily through the ranks, always putting duty before all else, and garnering great respect for his aggression, discipline, and refusal to ever take a backward step. On the bloodsoaked fields of Dalamor Plain, he even beheaded a Noxian general after the coward ordered a retreat. Roaring in defiance and hefting his bloodied axe overhead, Darius rallied the scattered warbands and won a great and unexpected victory against a far more numerous foe. He was rewarded with a senior command of his own, attracting many thousands of eager recruits from across the empire. Darius turned the majority away, accepting only the strongest, the most disciplined and iron-willed. Such was his fearsome notoriety, even in the lands beyond Noxus, that it was not uncommon for entire cities to surrender at the first sight of his banners. After a grinding victory against the cloud-fortresses of the Varju, a proud warrior people who had resisted decades of Noxian aggression, Darius was named the Hand of Noxus by Emperor Boram Darkwill himself. Those who knew Darius best knew he craved neither power nor adulationhe wished merely to see Noxus triumph over allso Darkwill ordered him and his warhosts far north into the Freljord, to finally bring the barbarian tribes to heel. The campaign dragged on for years, ending in a bitter, icy stalemate. Darius narrowly survived assassination attempts, ambushes, and even capture by the vicious Winter''s Claw. He was growing weary of endless wars of attrition, and returned to Noxus to demand a reconsolidation of the military. He marched his veterans into the capital, only to find that the emperor was dead, killed in a coup led by Jericho Swain. The act had been supported by many allies, including Darius''s own brother, Draven. This was a difficult position. As Hand, many of the noble houses would expect Darius to avenge Darkwill, but he had known and greatly respected the disgraced general Swain, and had spoken against his discharge after the botched offensive in Ionia some years earlier. The oaths of the Hand were to Noxus, not any particular ruler, and Swain was a man who spoke honestly of his new vision for the empire. Darius realized this was a leader he was prepared to follow... but Swain had other ideas. With the establishment of the Trifarix, three individuals would rule Noxus together, each embodying one principle of strength: Vision, Might, and Guile. Darius gladly accepted his place on this council, and pledged to raise a new, elite forcethe Trifarian Legion, the most loyal and prestigious warriors the empire could produceand lead the armies of Noxus into a glorious new age of conquest. "History only remembers the victors. Stand with Noxus, and be remembered forever." Chapter 109 - Diana - Scorn Of The Moon Bearing her crescent moonblade, Diana fights as a warrior of the Lunari, a faith all but quashed in the lands around Mount Targon. Clad in shimmering armor the color of winter snow at night, she is a living embodiment of the silver moon''s power. Imbued with the essence of an Aspect from beyond Targon''s towering summit, Diana is no longer wholly human, and struggles to divine her power and purpose in this world. Diana was born as her mother and father sheltered from a storm on the unforgiving slopes of Mount Targon. They had travelled from a distant land, drawn by dreams of a mountain they had never seen and the promise of revelation. Exhaustion and blinding stormwinds overwhelmed them on the eastern slopes of the mountain, and there, beneath cold, pitiless moonlight, Diana came into the world as her mother breathed her last. Hunters from the nearby Solari Temple found her the next day as the storm abated and the sun reached its zenith, wrapped in bearskin and cradled in the arms of her dead father. They brought her to the temple, where the foundling child was presented to the sun and named Diana. The girl with the sable hair was raised as one of the Solari, a faith that dominated the lands around Mount Targon. Diana became an initiate, and was raised to venerate the sun in all its aspects. She learned the legends of the sun and trained every day with the Ra-Horak, the warrior templars of the Solari. The Solari elders taught that all life came from the sun, and that the light of the moon was false, offering no nourishment and crafting shadows in which only creatures of darkness found succor. Yet Diana found moonlight entrancing and beautiful in a way the harsh sun glaring down the mountain could never match. Every night the young girl would wake from dreams of climbing the mountain to sneak from the initiates'' dormitories to pick night-blooming flowers and watch freshwater springs turn silver in the moonlight. As the years went by, Diana found herself ever at odds with the elders and their teachings. She couldn''t help but question all she was told, always suspecting there was more that went unsaid in every teaching, as though what she was being taught was willfully incomplete. As she grew, Diana''s sense of isolation only became stronger as childhood friends distanced themselves from the mordant, questioning girl who never quite fit in. At night, watching the silver moon rise over the impossibly distant summit, she felt more and more like an outcast. The urge to climb the mountain''s flanks was like an itch that could never be scratched, but everything she had been taught since birth told her the mountain would claim more than just her life should she ever try. Only the most worthy and heroic dared make such an ascent. With every passing day, Diana felt more alone and more certain that some vital aspect of her life remained unfulfilled. Her first clue as to what that might be came when she was sweeping the temple library as punishment for arguing with one of her elders. A glint of light behind a sagging bookcase drew Diana''s eyes, and upon investigation, she discovered the partially burned pages of an ancient manuscript. Diana took the pages and read them beneath the full moon that very night, and what she read unlocked a door into her soul. Diana learned of an all-but-extinct group known as the Lunari, whose faith saw the moon as a source of life and balance. From what Diana could glean from the fragmentary texts, the Lunari spoke of the eternal cycle night and day, sun and moon as essential for universal harmony. This was a revelation to the girl with the sable hair, and as she looked beyond the moonlit temple walls, she saw an elderly woman wrapped in a bearskin cloak trudging up the far path that eventually led to the mountain''s summit. The woman''s steps were faltering and she leaned on a carved staff of willow to remain upright. She saw Diana and called for help, saying that she had to reach the top of the mountain before morning an ambition Diana knew was utterly impossible. Diana''s desire to help the woman and climb the mountain warred with everything the Solari taught. The mountain was for the worthy, and Diana had never felt worthy of anything. Again the woman asked for her help, and this time Diana did not hesitate. She scrambled over the walls and took the woman''s arm, leading her up the mountain, amazed someone so aged had even made it this far. They climbed for hours, above the clouds and into the chill air where the moon and stars glittered like diamonds. Despite her age, the woman kept climbing, urging Diana onwards when she stumbled or when the air grew thin and cold. As the night wore on, Diana lost track of time as the stars wheeled overhead and all but the mountain faded from view. Together, Diana and the woman climbed ever upwards and each time her steps faltered, she drew strength from the pale glow of the moon. Eventually Diana fell to her knees, exhausted and weary beyond imagining, her entire body strained to the limits of exhaustion. When Diana looked up, it was to see that somehow they had reached the mountaintop, a feat that should not have been possible in a single night. The summit was wreathed in cascades of spectral illumination, veils of brilliant light, spirals of vivid color and the glimmering ghost of a vast city of silver and gold hovering in the air. She searched for her companion, but the woman was nowhere to be seen only the bearskin cloak mantling Diana''s shoulders suggested she had existed at all. Looking into the light, Diana saw the promise of the emptiness within her being filled, of acceptance and the chance to be part of something greater than she could ever imagine. This was what Diana had sought all her life without truly knowing it, and fresh vitality flowed through her limbs as she rose to her feet. She took a hesitant step towards the incredible vista, her resolve growing stronger with every breath. The light surged and Diana screamed as it poured into her, a union with something vast and inhuman, impossibly ancient and powerful. The sensation was painful, but also joyous - a moment or an eternity that was both revelatory and hallucinatory. When the light faded, the sense of loss was an ache like nothing she had known before. Diana stumbled down the mountain in a fugue state, oblivious to her surroundings, until she found herself before a cleft in the mountainside; a cave mouth that would have been invisible but for the moonlight shadows. Cold and needing shelter for the night, Diana sought refuge within the cave. Inside, the narrow cleft widened into the crumbling ruin of what might once have been a temple or vast audience chamber. Its crumbling walls were painted in faded frescoes depicting warriors of silver and gold fighting back to back against an unending host of grotesque monsters as the sky rained comets of searing light. At the center of the chamber stood a crescent sword and a suit of armor unlike any other; a mail shirt of spun silver rings and wondrously crafted warplate of polished steel. Reflected in the gleam of the armor, Diana saw her once sable hair was now purest white, and a rune shone on her forehead with incandescent light. She recognized the symbol so exquisitely etched into the plates of the armor; the same symbol depicted in the pages of the burned manuscript she had found in the library. This was Diana''s moment of truth. She could turn away from this destiny or choose to embrace it. Diana reached out, and as her fingers touched the cold steel of the armor, her mind exploded with images of lives she had never lived, memories she had never experienced and sensations she had never known. Scraps of ancient history raged like a blizzard in her mind; secret knowledge she but dimly grasped and innumerable futures scattered like wind-blown dust. When the visions faded, Diana saw she was now fully clad in the silver warplate, armor that fitted her as though wrought especially for her. Her mind was still afire with newly-acquired knowledge, but much of it remained frustratingly out of reach, like a picture half in shadow, half in light. She was still Diana, but she was also something more, something eternal. Feeling vindicated with this new knowledge, Diana left the mountain cave and made her way unerringly towards the Solari Temple, knowing she had to tell the elders what she had learned. She was met at the temple gates by Leona, the master of the Ra-Horak and the Solari''s greatest warrior. Diana was brought before the temple elders, who listened with mounting horror as she told of what she had learned of the Lunari. When she had finished her tale, the elders immediately denounced her as a heretic, a blasphemer and peddler of false gods. For such a heinous crime, only one punishment could suffice; death. Diana was appalled. How could the elders reject what was so patently true? How could they turn their back on revelations brought from the very summit of the holy mountain? Her fury built at their willful blindness, and blazing orbs of silver fire spun in the air around her. With a scream of rage-fueled frustration, Diana''s sword swept out, and where it struck, silver fire burned with killing light. Again and again, Diana lashed out and when her fury ebbed, she saw the carnage she had unleashed. The elders were dead and Leona lay on her back, her armor smoking as though fresh from the forge. Appalled at what she had done, Diana fled the site of the massacre, escaping into the wilds of Mount Targon as the Solari reeled from the savagery of her attack. Hunted by the warriors of the Ra-Horak, Diana now seeks to piece together the fragmentary memories of the Lunari hidden within her mind. Driven by half-remembered truths and glimpses of ancient knowledge, Diana has only one truth to cling to that the Lunari and the Solari need not be foes, that there is a greater destiny for her than that of a simple warrior. What her destiny might be is unknown, but Diana will find it, whatever the cost. "I am the light coursing in the soul of the moon." Chapter 110 - Dr. Mundo - The Madman Of Zaun Utterly insane, unrepentantly homicidal, and horrifyingly purple, Dr. Mundo is what keeps many of Zaun''s citizens indoors on particularly dark nights. This monosyllabic monstrosity seems to want nothing more than pain C both the giving of it, and the receiving of it. Wielding his massive meat cleaver as if it were weightless, Mundo is infamous for capturing and torturing dozens of Zaun''s citizens for his nefarious "operations," which seem to have no overall point or goal. He is brutal. He is unpredictable. He goes where he pleases. He is also not, technically, a doctor. Stories differ as to the first sighting of Zaun''s unpredictable purple madman. Some say they first saw him as a baby, crawling through the Piltover marketplace and terrifying the upper-class aristocrats with his foul smell. Others say he was born in Zaun and spent the first years of his life sloshing through the sewers and choking the life out of sumprats. Only one thing is for sure: when he was roughly three years old, he arrived on the doorstep of the Zaun Asylum for the Irreparably Troubled. The other inmates of the asylum kept Mundo at a distance, but the asylum staff found the boy a source of constant fascination. They looked at him not as a child to be raised, but as a patient C a thing to be studied. Why was he purple? Who could have survived giving birth to someone of his size? Within a year of his arrival, the doctors realized his skin was never going to change from its shockingly bright shade. When Mundo turned four, they discovered the extent of his unprecedented strength when he accidentally crushed an orderly''s windpipe for not bringing him his favorite type of candy (toenails). When Mundo turned six, they discovered he had a relationship to pain that was... unusual. To say the least. Specifically, Mundo didn''t seem to mind pain. More than that, he actively sought it out. If left unsupervised, he''d stick sharp instruments into his shoulders. If he was placed anywhere near other patients, it''d only be a matter of minutes until one or both of them could be heard screaming in agony. Soon the asylum staff tired of merely observing Mundo. It was time, they decided, to start experimenting. Whether they began their tests out of medical curiosity, a desire for scientific breakthrough, or sheer boredom is unknown. Whatever their reasons, the doctors unquestionably put a great deal of effort into understanding the purple enigma before them. Over the next several years, they tested his tolerance for pain. They''d stick needles into his fingernails, and he''d giggle. They''d put hot irons to his feet, and he''d fall asleep. Soon, scientific curiosity gave way to outright frustration: they couldn''t get Mundo to react negatively to pain at all, and they couldn''t understand why. Not only that, but whatever damage they could do to him invariably healed itself within a few hours. Throughout his teenage years, Mundo''s life consisted of complete isolation and routine torture. He''d never been happier. He came to see the doctors as aspirational figures. If pain was Mundo''s passion, it was seemingly these doctors'' life work: their myriad attempts to push beyond his pain threshold grew more unconventional as the years went on, including dipping his feet in acid and throwing flesh-eating mites on his face. The asylum doctors were initially amused when the purple teen began to refer to himself not as "Mundo," but as "Doctor Mundo." He''d steal a syringe from an orderly and fill it with a mixture of cavernberry juice from breakfast and god-knows-what from his chamber pot. "Mundo make medicine!" he''d happily exclaim before jabbing the concoction into his own forehead. In time, however, Mundo grew tired of experimenting on himself. Later, many would speculate what Mundo''s motivations were. Some assumed he was taking revenge for the years of torture he endured at the hands of the asylum staff. Others thought he was merely a psychopathic monster with no sense of morality. The truth was much simpler: Mundo had decided it was time to put his research into practice. One night, Mundo snuck into the kitchen. There, he found a massive meat cleaver. "Medical" blade in hand, Mundo proceeded to go from room to room, "operating" on every "patient" he found with no logic to his method of "treatment" other than what would amuse him the most at any given moment. By daybreak, every single person in the asylum was "cured," save for Mundo. He donned a physician''s coat from one of his victims, his massive muscles ripping it as he pulled it over his gargantuan frame. Mundo had realized his dream. He was a doctor! As a new member of a long and ill.u.s.trious line, he had to share his medicinal skills with the rest of the world. His work had just begun. He barged through the locked doors of the asylum and past the steps where he''d been left so many years ago. Mundo walked into the streets of Zaun, a smile on his face and a spring in his step. The doctor was in. "Mundo will let you know upfront: this probably hurt very much." Chapter 111 - Draven - The Glorious Executioner Unlike his brother Darius, victory in battle was never enough for Draven. He craved recognition, acclaim, and glory. He first sought greatness in the Noxian military, but his flair for the dramatic went severely underappreciated. Thirsting for a method to share ''''Draven'''' with the world, he turned his attention to the prison system. There he carved out the celebrity he desired by turning the tedious affair of executions into a premiere spectacle. At Draven''s first execution, he shocked onlookers when he ordered the doomed prisoner to run for dear life. Just before the man managed to flee from sight, Draven brought him down with a flawless throw of his axe. Soon, all Draven''s executions became a gauntlet through which Noxian prisoners raced for a final chance at life. He used this trial as his own personal stage, and turned executions into a leading form of entertainment. He rallied onlookers into a frenzy, while desperate prisoners scrambled to evade him. They never succeeded. Rejecting the solemn, black uniforms of Noxian executioners Draven donned bright outfits and developed flashy signature moves to distinguish himself. Crowds flocked to see Draven in action, and tales of his performances spread quickly. As his popularity grew, so did his already-inflated ego. He belonged at the center of attention. Before long, the scope of his ambitions outgrew the population of Noxus. He decided that the glorious exploits of Draven should be put on display for the entire world. "The best'' is wherever I decide to set the bar each day." Chapter 112 - Ekko - The Boy Who Shattered Time A prodigy from the rough streets of Zaun, Ekko manipulates time to twist any situation to his advantage. Using his own invention, the Zero Drive, he explores the branching possibilities of reality to craft the perfect moment. Though he revels in this freedom, when there''s a threat to his friends he''ll do anything to defend them. To outsiders, Ekko seems to achieve the impossible the first time, every time. Born with genius-level intellect, Ekko constructed simple machines before he could crawl. Amazed by these displays of brilliance, his parents, Inna and Wyeth, vowed to provide a good future for their son. In their mind, Zaun, with all its pollution and crime, was no place for a child of his genius. They toiled through long factory hours and worked in dangerous conditions in order to forge a path for their son to have opportunities in Piltover. But Ekko saw things differently. He witnessed his parents aging beyond their years, trying to make ends meet with small wages while their handmade goods were sold to wealthy Piltovans for exorbitant profits, profits they''d never see thanks to the greedy Factorywood overseers and their shrewd buyers. Pilties wandered over to the Promenade for good, cheap times or down to the Entresol to indulge in "everything goes" type clubs. No, his parents'' vision of Ekko living a good life in the privilege-filled City of Progress was one he didn''t share. Zaun, however Where his parents only saw the oppressive layers of choking pollution and a blight of criminality, Ekko looked beyond and discovered a dynamic city overflowing with energy and potential. It was a hotbed of pure innovation, a melting pot of faraway cultures, immigrants united by a single desire to pioneer the future. But even they could not hold a candle to the native Zaunites. Not the tech-augmented thugs or bottom-feeding sc.u.m whose wicked deeds dominated Piltover newspapers; but the sump-scrappers, the chem-jacks, the horticulturalists that tended to the cultivairs. These, and so many more, were the heart and soul of the city. They were resourceful, resilient, and industrious. They built a thriving culture out of catastrophe and flourished where others would have perished. That Zaun spirit enchanted Ekko and drove him to build his machines exclusively out of junk no one else valued, and spurred him on to test them on himself. He wasn''t alone in possessing that spirit. Ekko befriended scrappy orphans, inquisitive runaways, and anyone whose thirst for excitement was as infectious as the grey-pox. Each had unique talents: from climbing to sculpting, from painting to planning. Many Zaunites eschewed formal education in favor of apprenticesh.i.p.s, these self-dubbed Lost Children of Zaun looked to labyrinthine streets to be their mentor, and as such wasted time in glorious, youthful fashion. They challenged each other to footraces through the Border Markets. They dared each other to climb the precarious routes from the Sump to the Entresol and up to the Promenade. They ran wild and free, answering to no one except their own whims. To stand out from criminal gangs and other chem-punks, he and his friends opted to keep their bodies whole. Augmentation was, to them, a waste of money and frowned upon. So was stealing from anyone who had nothing or less than they had. This made uppercrust Pilties and tech-enhanced bullies such enticing targets for their mischief. They adorned their secret hideouts with pilfered goods and works of art painted directly on walls. The Lost Children of Zaun felt invincible. As he grew up, Ekko''s inventions became more fantastic and complex, requiring exotic components that needed to be "liberated" from the scrapyards. Good thing he subscribed to a conveniently flexible view of trespassing. Soon, tech-enhanced vigilnaut thugs and unnervingly aggressive security guards were constantly on lookout for Ekko and his misfit crew, and often gave the teens a merry chase. It always amused him how Piltover laboratories and Chem-Baron factories fiercely guarded their junk. It''s not like they were using these discarded bits of tech for anything. He, on the other hand, could put their trash to good use with a little ingenuity. One night, while Ekko scoured the rubble of a recently demolished laboratory, he made an astonishing find: a shard of a blue-green gem that glittered with magical energy. He quickly searched and discovered other fragments of the glowing jewel. The shards hummed like they were trying to sing a broken melody, the song growing louder when near other pieces. He painstakingly searched for every splinter of the broken crystal, though some were buried deep beneath tons of debris that required him to squeeze and wiggle between chunks of smelly rubbish. Every child of Zaun heard tales about hextech crystals. They powered weapons and heroes. They could create energy on their own. Hextech crystals had the potential to change the world. Now he held a broken one. Before he could celebrate his find, the place was crawling with vigilnauts scanning the ruins, searching for something. Ekko knew it was the pieces of the crystal he held in his hand. He barely escaped detection. After meticulous study, Ekko noticed that faint traces of energy surged when the crystals were brought closer together; the edges crackled and sent waves of rippling distortion through the air. When he pulled the pieces apart, a magnetic-like resistance fought his efforts. It was as if the splintered crystals remembered being whole. Even curiouser, Ekko felt the strangest sensation; a haunting feeling of remembering a moment, only slightly differently. His hands couldn''t keep up with the ideas his mind had for the crystal. During one of his less-than-scientific experiments, the gem exploded into a vortex of shimmering dust, triggering eddies of temporal distortion. Ekko opened his eyes to see several splintered realitiesand several "echo" versions of himself staring back in sheer panic amid the fractured continua. He''d really done it this time. After some tense coordination between Ekko and his paradoxes, they contained and repaired the doozy of a hole he''d torn in the fabric of reality. Eventually, Ekko harnessed the shattered crystal''s temporal powers into a device that would allow him to manipulate small increments of time well, at least in theory. Before he could test his latest machine, his friends badgered him into climbing Old Hungry to celebrate his name day C so Ekko slung the device over his shoulder and brought it along. They trekked out to the old clockwork tower in the heart of Old Zaun, and climbed, occasionally stopping to paint an obscene caricature of a prominent Piltie or two. They were near the top when a handhold gave way causing one of his friends to slip and fall off the spire. Instinctively, as if he''d done it a thousand times before, Ekko activated the crystal-containment device. The world shattered around him and he was wrenched backward through swirling particles of time. The hair on his arms tingled with electricity. A strange wooziness clouded his mind. Then he saw his friend reach for the rotting plank to repeat his soon-to-be-fatal error. CRACK! The plank gave under the boy''s weight, but Ekko reached out and grabbed his plummeting friend by the shirt collar and swung him to a nearby ledge. Unfortunately, he misjudged the trajectory and tossed his friend into the clockwork tower''s grinding gears. Whoops. Numerous rewinds and some adjustments for windshear later, Ekko saved his friend''s life. To others, it looked like Ekko had the reflexes of a god. Instantly, his status was elevated. He told them about the crystal and the time manipulation and made them swear to keep quiet. Instead, they shamelessly exaggerated their friend''s exploits and dared each other to attempt increasingly reckless stunts, knowing they would be kept safe. With each trial (and so much error) the time-warping device C which he''d dubbed the Zero Drive C grew more and more stable. Ekko found he could pilfer components, clobber imposing chem-punk bullies, and even get pickup lines right, making a good first impression every time. The only limit was how much his body could take before exhaustion set in. Rumors and tales of Ekko''s time-bending antics reached the ears of certain powerful people within the twinned cities. Viktor, a much respected (and feared) Zaunite scientist, has a keen interest in an audience with this defiant genius, and outfitted several of his low-level enforcers with powerful enhancements to encourage the boy to join his services. Piltover-renowned innovator Jayce, meanwhile, was eager to size up the Boy Who Shattered Time and reverse-engineer his technology. However, Ekko values his independence too much, and has no desire to be a part of anyone''s agenda. A few pursuers might catch a glimpse of Ekko before being thwarted, often embarrassingly so, by the sump-snipe with a preternatural knack for pinpointing their exact weakness. In his wildest dreams, Ekko imagines his hometown rising up to dwarf the City of Progress. Piltover''s golden veneer would be overshadowed by the sheer ingenuity and relentless spunk of a Zaun born not from generations of privilege but from utter daring. He may not have a plan yet, but Ekko has all the time in the world to make his dream a reality. After all, if he can change the past, how hard could it be to change the future? "My devices work best when they don''t work as intended which is most of the time." Chapter 113 - Elise - The Spider Queen Elise is a deadly predator who dwells in a shuttered, lightless palace, deep in the Immortal Bastion of Noxus. Once she was mortal, the mistress of a once-powerful house, but the bite of a vile spider god transformed her into something beautiful, undying, and utterly inhuman. To maintain her eternal youth, Elise preys upon the innocent, and there are few who can resist her seductions. The Lady Elise was born many centuries ago to House Kythera, an old and powerful family of Noxus, and swiftly learned the power of beauty to influence the weak-minded. When she came of age, she plotted to marry the scion of House Zaavan to augment her house''s power. The match was opposed by many within Zaavan, but Elise beguiled her intended husband and manipulated her detractors to secure a betrothal. As Elise had planned, her influence upon her new husband proved considerable. House Zaavan grew stronger, which in turn saw House Kythera''s star rise. Elise''s husband was the face of his house, but those in the know understood who truly wielded power. At first, Elise''s husband tolerated this, but as the years went by, his discontent festered as he became a light joke among Noxian families. Eventually, his resentment grew ever more rancorous until one night over a typically frosty dinner, he revealed he had tainted her wine with a disfiguring poison. He offered his terms; withdraw from society and stay out of his way as he took up the reins of power and he would give her the antidote. Refuse, and he would watch her die slowly and painfully. With every breath the poison did its evil work, dissolving her flesh and bone from the inside out. Believing he would have the antidote somewhere about his person, Elise palmed a sharp knife and played the role of remorseful wife to the hilt. She wept and begged her husband to forgive her, using every wile in her arsenal to approach without alerting him to her deadly intent. All the while, the poison was wracking her body, discoloring her flesh with grotesque lesions and filling her limbs with agony. When Elise reached her husband, he realized - too late - just how badly he had underestimated her disdain. She leapt upon him and rammed the knife through his heart, twisting the blade slowly as she watched him die. Elise found and drank the antidote, but the damage was done. Her face was monstrously disfigured with grotesque weals and necrotic flesh, like a cadaver given hideous animation. Elise was now mistress of House Zaavan, and such was the nature of Noxian politics that she was lauded for cutting a weakness from the empire. Yet so entwined were her particular notions of beauty and power that she retreated from public life and took to wearing a face-covering veil. Eschewing daylight, and turning away all allies and petitioners from her door, her once powerful house began a slow descent into obscurity. Elise roamed the empty halls of her palace in isolation and became a denizen of darkness, only ever venturing beyond its high walls at night. On one of her midnight wanderings, Elise was approached by another veiled woman, who pressed a waxen sigil of a Black Rose into her palm and whispered that the Pale Woman would greatly value her talents. Elise pressed on, but as she walked away, the woman''s voice echoed after her with the promise of being made whole again. However absurd she told herself it was, vanity and the hope of her beauty being renewed drove Elise to investigate further. She prowled the streets for weeks until she saw the Black Rose sigil again, etched onto a shadowed archway leading into the catacombs beneath Noxus. Following the hidden sigils brought her to the Black Rose, a secret society where those who dabbled in the darker powers of magic shared hidden knowledge and secrets. Elise became a regular visitor, going unveiled among its members and swiftly establishing a close rapport with the Pale Woman, an agelessly beautiful individual of great power. Elise embraced the society''s ways, but always sought the gift she had been promised; her beauty made whole again. The Pale Woman spoke of a haunted place known as the Shadow Isles and a serpent-bladed athame belonging to one of her acolytes who had been slain in the lair of a voracious spider god. The dagger was imbued with powerful magic, and if it was returned to her, then she would use its magic to restore Elise''s beauty. Elise immediately accepted and led a group of Black Rose devotees to the shunned island, knowing there would be a blood price to pay for such a prize. Elise found a desperate, debt-ridden captain willing to bear her and her fellow pilgrims across the ocean. The ship sailed for weeks until a craggy island loomed from seething banks of black mist. Elise came ashore on a beach of ashen sand and led her followers deep into the island''s haunted depths like lambs to the slaughter. Many were stolen away by spiteful wraiths, but half a dozen remained by the time they reached the web-wreathed lair of the Spider God. A bloated, monstrous creature of chitin and fangs erupted from the darkness and feasted on the screaming men and women. As they died or were swept up in streams of web, Elise saw the dagger the Pale Woman sought - held in the grip of a desiccated corpse. She snatched it up as the Spider God sank its envenomed fangs into her shoulder. Elise fell forward and the blade of the athame pierced her heart, its powerful magic flooding her and mixing with the lethal venom to wreak terrible changes on her body. Elise was transformed as the magically-empowered venom renewed her flesh, transforming it into a form even more beautiful than before. Her scars vanished and her skin became flawless and porcelain smooth, but the god''s venom had ambitions of its own. Elise''s back writhed with undulant motion as a host of arachnoid legs pushed their way from her flesh. Elise rose, breathless with the agony of her transformation, to find the Spider God looming above her. Shared power flowed between them, and both immediately sensed how they might benefit from this unexpected symbiosis. Elise returned to her ship, untroubled by the island''s spirits, and set sail for Noxus. When her ship arrived at the docks in the dead of night, Elise was the only living thing aboard. Elise returned the athame to the leader of the Black Rose, though the Pale Woman warned that the magic maintaining her restored beauty would eventually fade. The two sealed a pact; the Black Rose would provide Elise with acolytes to offer up to the Spider God, and she in turn, would return any artifacts of power she discovered upon the isles. Elise once again took up residence in the neglected halls of House Zaavan, becoming known as a beautiful yet unreachable recluse. None suspected her true nature, yet fanciful rumors cling to her, wild tales of her immortal beauty and a terrifying creature said to lair high in her dilapidated, dust-wreathed palace. Centuries have passed since her first voyage to the Shadow Isles, and whenever Elise sees streaks of white in her hair or crow''s feet at her eyes, she ventures forth to cull easily swayed souls from the Black Rose and set sail for the isle of black mists. None who accompany her ever return, and with each voyage, it is said she is renewed and invigorated, bearing another ancient artifact for the Pale Woman. "Beauty is power too, and can strike swifter than any sword." Chapter 114 - Evelynn - Agony’s Embrace Within the dark seams of Runeterra, the demon Evelynn searches for her next victim. She lures in prey with the voluptuous fa?ade of a human female, but once a person succ.u.mbs to her charms, Evelynn''s true form is unleashed. She then subjects her victim to unspeakable torment, gratifying herself with their pain. To the demon, these liaisons are innocent flings. To the rest of Runeterra, they are ghoulish tales of l.u.s.t gone awry and horrific reminders of the cost of wanton desire. Evelynn was not always a skilled huntress. She began eons ago, as something primordial, shapeless, and barely sentient. This nascent wisp of shadow existed, numb and unroused by any stimulation, for centuries. It might have remained so, had the world not been upended by conflict. The Rune Wars, as they would come to be known, brought an era of mass suffering the world had never known. As people across Runeterra began to experience a vast array of pain, anguish, and loss, the shadow stirred. The nothingness it had known for so long had been replaced by the manic vibrations of an agonized world. The creature quivered with excitement. As the Rune Wars escalated, the world''s torment grew so intense that the shadow felt as if it might burst. It drank in all of Runeterra''s pain, which it experienced as boundless pleasure. The sensation nourished the creature, and over time, it transformed into something more. It became a demon, a ravenous spiritual parasite that fed on the basest of human emotions. When the wars finally ended, the world''s suffering waned, and the demon found itself growing desperate. The only pleasure it had ever known was born of other creatures'' misery. Without their pain, it felt nothing, just as it had in its earliest days. If the world would not provide the suffering the demon needed to thrive, it would have to make its own. It needed to inflict pain on other beings so that it could experience that elation again. At first, catching prey was a challenge for the demon. It could move undetected in its shadow form, but to touch a human, the creature needed to manifest as something tangible. It made several attempts to fashion a physical body from its shadow-flesh, but each result was more monstrous than the last, scaring off her prey. The demon realized it needed a shape that was pleasing to humans, one that would not only lure them right into its claws, but would offer them ecstasy born of their own desires, so that their pain would be that much sweeter. From the shadows, it began to study those it sought to prey upon. It tailored its flesh to their liking, learned to say what they wanted to hear, and to walk in a manner they found alluring. In a matter of weeks, the demon had perfected her physique, leading dozens of enamored victims to be tortured to death at her hands. Though she relishes the exquisite pain of each of her victims, she always finds herself wanting more. Each human''s desires are so small, and they always expire too soon. Their pain, too fleeting to give her anything more than tiny morsels of pleasure, is just enough to tide her over to the next feeding. She yearns for the day she can plunge the world into utter chaos, and she can return to an existence of pure, rapturous ecstasy. "What are you doing tonight? How about we get together and unlock that vast well of torment inside you?" Chapter 115 - Ezreal - The Prodigal Explorer Born and raised in a wealthy neighborhood of Piltover, Ezreal was always a curious child. His parents were renowned archaeologists, so he became used to their long absences from the family home, often fantasizing about joining them on their travels. He loved hearing tales of high adventure, and shared their desire to fill in the blank spaces on every map. He was often left in the care of his uncle, the esteemed Professor Lymere. The professor did not enjoy having to wrangle such a rash and unruly child, and assigned the strictest tutors to teach him subjects including advanced cartography, hextech mechanics, and the ancient histories of Runeterra. But the boy had a knack for simply absorbing information, and found studying a waste of time. He passed assessments easily, with little or no preparation, infuriating his uncle and giving himself more time to roam the university grounds. Ezreal took great pleasure in evading the campus wardens, navigating the tunnels beneath the lecture halls as easily as the library rooftops. He even practiced lockpicking, sneaking into his teachers'' offices and rearranging their belongings for his own amus.e.m.e.nt. Whenever Ezreal''s parents returned to Piltover, his father in particular would tell him all they had seen, and their plans for future expeditionsnone more ambitious and secretive than the search for the lost tomb of Ne''Zuk, a Shuriman tyrant who was said to be able to jump instantly from one place to another. If Ezreal''s father could learn whatever sorcery Ne''Zuk had possessed, he joked that wherever he was traveling, he would simply drop into Piltover for dinner with his son each night. As the boy grew older, the time between his parents'' visits grew longer until, one year, they did not return at all. Professor Lymere tearfully admitted that they had most likely perished, somewhere out in the desert. But Ezreal could not accept that. They had been too careful in their preparations. They must still be out there, somewhere Abandoning his reluctant studies, the budding explorer would strike out on his own. He knew, if he was ever to find his mother and father, he had to start with the final resting place of Ne''Zuk. He spent weeks secretly gathering supplies from the universitycelestial diagrams, translations of runic sigils, guides on the burial rites of Shurima, and a pair of protective goggles. Leaving a note of farewell for his uncle, he snuck onto a supply ship bound for Nashramae. Following his mother''s meticulous field notes, he crossed the Great Sai with merchant caravans heading south. For many months, he delved into cavernous ruins beneath the shifting sands, relishing the freedom of the unknown, facing unspeakable horrors that guarded hidden chambers. With each step, Ezreal imagined himself following his parents'' path, drawing ever closer to solving the mystery of their disappearance. Finally, he managed what they evidently had not. Beneath the newer mausoleum of some unnamed emperor, he uncovered the tomb of Ne''Zuk. The great sarcophagus lay empty, save for a gleaming bronze gauntlet, with a bright, crystalline matrix at its center. As soon as Ezreal laid his hands upon it, the tomb itself seemed to turn upon him, with cunningly wrought traps and wards laid down thousands of years ago. With scarcely a thought, he donned the gauntlet and blasted his way through, even teleporting the last hundred yards back to the hidden entrance before the whole structure collapsed in a plume of sand and masonry dust. Breathing hard, Ezreal looked down at the gauntlet as it hummed along with his heartbeat. He could feel it siphoning and amplifying his own essence. This, he realized, was a fearsome weapon of a previous age. A weapon fit for a god-warrior of Shurima, and the perfect tool for an explorer. Soon after returning to Piltover, Ezreal found himself bounding from adventure to adventure. From lost cities to mystical temples, his nose for treasure-seeking led him to places most university professors could only read about on maps, and his reputation began to grow. Naturally, to Ezreal''s mind, these tales rarely conveyed the true scope and scale of his exploits but they did give him an idea. If he could make a name for himself as the greatest adventurer in the world, then his parents would surely return, and seek him out in person. From the untamed borders of Noxus and Demacia, to the seedy depths of Zaun, and the frozen wilderness of the FreljordEzreal chases fame and glory, uncovering long-lost artifacts and solving the riddles of history. While some may dispute the details of his anecdotes, or call his methods into question, he never answers his critics. After all, they''re clearly just jealous. "If I don''t know the rules, then how can I be breaking them?" Chapter 116 - Fiddlesticks - The Harbinger Of Doom A ghastly living scarecrow, Fiddlesticks is an abomination who stalks the darkness, wielding a scythe and preying upon the unwary. Aided by a savage murder of crows, Fiddlesticks relishes terrorizing his victims before claiming their lives amid a flurry of feathers and blood splattered beaks. "No weapon cuts deeper than fear." Chapter 117 - Fiora - The Grand Duelist The most feared duelist in all Valoran, Fiora is as renowned for her brusque manner and cunning mind as she is for the speed of her bluesteel rapier. Born to House Laurent in the kingdom of Demacia, Fiora took control of the family from her father in the wake of a scandal that nearly destroyed them. House Laurent''s reputation was sundered, but Fiora bends her every effort to restore her family''s honor and return them to their rightful place among the great and good of Demacia. From an early age, Fiora defied every expectation placed upon her. Her mother had the finest craftsmen of Demacia fashion the most lifelike dolls for her. Fiora gave them to her maids and took up her brother''s rapier, forcing him to give her lessons in secret. Her father obtained a host of dressmaking mannequins for her personal seamstress to craft wondrous dresses. Fiora used them to practice lunges and ripostes. At every stage in her life, Fiora has embodied all that is noble in Demacia, striving for perfection in all things and brooking no insult to her honor or that of her family''s ideals. As the youngest daughter of House Laurent, she was destined for a life as a political pawn, to be married off in the grand game of alliances between patrician houses. This did not sit well with Fiora, whose temperament saw only dishonor in being maneuvered by another''s will, even that of her beloved father. Despite her resistance, a politically advantageous marriage was arranged with an outlying branch of House Crownguard, and plans were set for a summer wedding. The ancient families of Demacia sent their invited representatives to House Laurent to attend the marriage ceremony, but instead of meekly accepting her fate, Fiora defied it. She declared before the assembled host that she would sooner die than be dishonored by allowing someone else to control her fate. Her husband-to-be was publicly shamed and his family demanded a duel to the death to wipe away Fiora''s scandalous insult. Fiora immediately stepped forward, but as Master of House Laurent, it was her father''s duty to accept. The champion of House Crownguard was a truly deadly warrior, and defeat was almost certain. To lose would see House Laurent ruined and his daughter exiled in disgrace. Presented with so stark a choice, Fiora''s father made a decision that would damn his family for years to come. That night, he attempted to drug his opponent with a draught to rob his blows of speed, but his attempt was discovered and the Master of House Laurent was arrested. Demacian law is notoriously harsh and unforgiving. Its justice allows no leeway, and Fiora''s father had broken its most fundamental code of honor. He would suffer public humiliation upon the executioner''s scaffold, hanged like a common criminal, and his entire family expelled from Demacia. On the eve of his death, Fiora visited her father''s cell, but what passed between them is a secret known only to her. An ancient and all but forgotten code of honor allowed for a family member to expunge the shame of one of its number in blood, and thus avoid the virtual death-sentence of exile. Knowing they had no choice, father and daughter faced each other within the Hall of Blades. Justice would not be served by a mere slaying, Fiora''s father had to fight and be fought. The battle was blindingly swift, a dance of blades so exquisite that those who witnessed it would never forget what they had seen. Fiora''s father was a fine swordsman in his own right, but he was no match for his daughter. They said farewell in every clash of the blade, but in the end a tearful Fiora buried her rapier in her father''s heart and assured her family''s continued place in Demacia. With her father dead at her feet, Fiora became the head of House Laurent (much to the surprise of her older brothers...). Though the honor of House Laurent was not entirely ruined, scandals are not easily erased. In the years that followed, Fiora proved a sagacious leader of her House and swiftly learned not to make the mistakes of brash youth. She became a formidable mistress of blade and negotiation, cutting to the heart of any matter with her customary clarity and seemingly cruel directness. Some still speak of her House''s disgrace or decry how standards have fallen that a woman should dare call herself ruler of a noble House, but only in private. For when such gossip reaches Fiora''s ear, she is quick to call out those rumormongers and demand justice on the edge of a sword. Yet even here, she is not without pragmatic cunning, offering each challenger a way out that will allow honor to be satisfied without death. So far, none have accepted her offers, and none have ever walked away from a duel with Fiora. With the fortunes of House Laurent on the rise, Fiora has no shortage of suitors, but none have yet proven worthy of her hand. Many suspect Fiora herself puts every suitor through an impossible gauntlet of courtship in order to remain aloof and unmarried, for a wife would, traditionally, relinquish power to her husband. And Fiora has never done anything traditionally. "I have come to kill you for the sake of honor. And though you possess none, still you die." Chapter 118 - Fizz - The Tidal Trickster In ages past, the oceans of Runeterra were home to civilizations far older than those of the land. In the depths of what is now the Guardian''s Sea, a great city once stoodit was here that the yordle Fizz made his home. He lived alongside the artisans and warriors of that proud, noble race. Even though he was not one of them, they treated him as an equal, and his playful nature and tall tales of adventures in the open sea made him welcome at any gathering. But the world was changing. The oceans were growing warmer, emboldening fierce predators to rise up from the deepest trenches. Other settlements had fallen silent, but the rulers of the great city could still not agree on how to deal with the threat. Fizz pledged to roam the seas in search of survivors, or anyone who knew what had happened. Then, one dark day, the gigalodons came. These huge dragon-sharks stunned their prey with fell shrieking, and the avenues of the great city were soon clouded red. Thousands died in a matter of hours, the immense bulk of their killers crushing towers and temples in a monstrous feeding frenzy. Scenting blood in the water, Fizz raced back, determined to join the fight and save the city. He was too late. There was nothing left of the city to save. When the debris finally settled, not a single living creature remained, nor any stone upon another, and the ravenous shoal had moved on. Alone in the cold depths, Fizz sank into mournful despair. As his yordle magic began to fade, he let himself be carried by the currents, drifting in a catatonic torpor, dreaming away the millennia It was only chance that reawakened him. A handful of copper coins fell from above, scattered to the seabed in the wake of a huge, wooden fish that swam upon the surface. This was no gigalodon, but Fizz was alarmed nonethelesshe knew little of the world overhead, but surely no fish could survive up there? He ventured up and peered into the salty air for the first time. There were people, people who lived outside of the water and sailed in wooden fish of all sizes. Fizz found the thought both frightening and exciting, but the curious gifts they cast into the water made it clear that they wanted to be his friends. In time, following their movements to and fro across the oceans, he came to the port city of Bilgewater. To the inhabitants of that lawless place, this strange and slippery creature quickly became something of a legendthe Tidal Trickster, a spirit of the ocean itself. It is said that he can summon great beasts to do his bidding, hole a ship''s hull with his stone trident, and breathe air or water as it suits him. Many a misbehaving child has been warned on a moonless night: "Go quickly to sleep, or the Trickster will come and feed you to the fishes" Fizz is good-natured, but mischievous even for a yordle, and delights in confounding the people of Bilgewater. The most seasoned fishermen know, just as the ocean may rise and fall, the Tidal Trickster is as likely to lead them into windless doldrums as to an easy catch that would fill their nets. Even so, Fizz does not take kindly to the greedy or selfish, and more than one haughty sea captain hoping to make a quick pile of silver has found that her mysterious guide has led her crew not to safety, but to shipwreck. "You people can''t even breathe water. You''re boring." Chapter 119 - Galio - The Colossus Galio''s legend begins in the aftermath of the Rune Wars, when countless refugees fled from the destructive power of magic. In the west of Valoran, a band of these displaced people were hounded by a vicious band of dark magesexhausted from days without rest, the refugees hid among the shadows of an ancient, petrified forest, and their pursuers suddenly found their magic to be ineffective. It seemed the fossilized trees were a natural magic-dampener, and any sorcery used within them would simply fail. No longer helpless, the refugees turned their swords on the dark mages and drove them from the land. Some decided that this sanctuary from magic was a gift from the gods, others saw it as a fair reward for their terrible journey, but all agreed this should be their new home. As years passed, the settlers crafted items of protection from the enchanted wood. Eventually, they found it could be mixed with ash and lime to make petricitea material with a powerful resistance to magic. It would be the foundation for their new civilization, forming the walls of the new kingdom of Demacia. For years, these petricite barriers were all the Demacians needed to feel secure from the threat of magic within the borders of their homeland. In the rare event that they needed to settle a conflict abroad, their military proved fierce and formidable but when their enemies employed sorcery, Demacia''s roaming army had little recourse. Somehow, they needed to take the security of their magic-dampening walls into battle. The sculptor Durand was commissioned to fashion some manner of petricite shield for the military, and two years later the artist unveiled his masterpiece. While it was not what many were expecting, the winged statue Galio would become vital to the defense of the nation, and serve as a symbol of Demacia across Valoran. Using a system of pulleys, steel sledges, and countless oxen, they would pull the great stone figure to the battlefield. Many would-be invaders simply froze at the sight of the awe-inspiring silhouette looming before themthe titan who "ate magic" inspired a kingdom, and terrified those who opposed it. However, no one thought to consider what exposing the statue to such unpredictable energies might do Demacia had been mired in battle with enemy forces in the Greenfang Mountains. A skilled order of warmages, known as the Arcane Fist, bombarded the Demacians with crackling bolts of raw, mystical power for thirteen days. Those who had survived this long felt their morale dwindling, and huddled close to Galio. Just when their spirits could be brought no lower, a slow, deafening rumble shook the vale, as if two mountains were grinding against each other. As a great shadow grew above them, the Demacian soldiers steeled themselves for death. A deep voice bellowed from above. To the Demacians'' astonishment, the sound came from the colossus at their backsGalio was moving, and speaking, entirely on his own. Somehow, the acc.u.mulation of absorbed magic had given him life. He threw himself in front of the Demacians, shielding them from attack after attack, absorbing each fresh bolt into his massive, stone frame. Then Galio turned, bounded up the mountainside, and crushed every last one of the Arcane Fist into the craggy soil. The Demacians cheered. They were eager to thank the petricite sentinel that had saved them but as quickly as he''d come to life, their fearsome protector had ceased moving, returning to his pedestal, just as before. Back in the Great City, this bizarre tale was told in hushed tones by the few who had survived the Battle of the Greenfangs, and was usually received with silent incredulity. That day passed into legendperhaps a mere allegory of ancient days to help people through hard times. Certainly, no one would have believed that the colossus continued to see all that transpired around him. Even while immobile, Galio retained consciousness, longing to experience the sensations of battle once again. He watched mortals pass beneath him, paying him tribute year after year. It puzzled him to see them disappear one by one as time rolled on. Galio wondered where they went when they vanished. Perhaps they were sent away to be mended, as he often was when he returned from war? As the years slipped by, Galio began to realize the sorrowful answer to his questionunlike himself, the people of Demacia could not be repainted, or have their damage easily repaired. Mortals were frail, ephemeral creatures, and he now understood just how badly they needed his protection. Fighting had been his passion, but the people were now his purpose. Even so, Galio has been called to battle only a handful of times in all the centuries since. Demacia has begun to look inward, with magic becoming rarer in his world than it once was, and so the petricite colossus remains dormant, observing the world through the murk of his waking dreams. The statue''s greatest hope is to be blessed by a magic so powerful that he will never be forced to sleep again. Only then will Galio be able to truly serve his purpose: to stand and fight as Demacia''s protector, forevermore. "Get behind me, Demacian! You may not have noticed, but I''m very large." Chapter 120 - Gangplank - The Saltwater Scourge As unpredictable as he is brutal, the dethroned reaver king known as Gangplank is feared far and wide. Where he goes, death and ruin follow, and such is his infamy and reputation that the merest sight of his black sails on the horizon causes panic among even the hardiest crew. Having grown rich preying upon the trade routes of the Twelve Seas, Gangplank has made himself many powerful enemies. In Ionia, he incurred the wrath of the deadly Order of Shadow after ransacking the Temple of the Jagged Knife, and it is said that the Grand General of Noxus himself has sworn to see Gangplank torn asunder after the pirate stole the Leviathan, Swain''s personal warship and the pride of the Noxian fleet. While Gangplank has incurred the wrath of many, none have yet been able to bring him to justice, despite assassins, bounty hunters, and entire armadas being sent after him. He takes grim pleasure in the ever-increasing rewards posted for his head, and makes sure to nail them to the Bounty Board in Bilgewater for all to see whenever he returns to port, his sh.i.p.s heavy with loot. In recent times, Gangplank has been brought down by the machinations of the bounty hunter Miss Fortune. His ship was destroyed with all of Bilgewater watching, killing his crew and shattering his aura of invincibility. Now that they have seen he is vulnerable, the gangs of Bilgewater have risen up, fighting amongst themselves to claim dominion over the port city. Despite receiving horrific injuries in the explosion, Gangplank survived. Sporting a multitude of fresh scars, and with a newly crafted metal arm to replace his amputated limb, he is now determined to rebuild his strength, reclaim what he sees as rightfully his C and to ruthlessly punish all those who turned against him. "I was cutting throats and sinking Noxian war galleys when you were still pissing your britches, boy. You don''t want to take me on." Chapter 121 - Garen - The Might Of Demacia Born into the noble Crownguard family, along with his younger sister Lux, Garen knew from an early age that he would be expected to defend the throne of Demacia with his life. His father, Pieter, was a decorated military officer, while his aunt Tianna was Sword-Captain of the elite Dauntless Vanguardand both were recognized and greatly respected by King Jarvan III. It was assumed that Garen would eventually come to serve the king''s son in the same manner. The kingdom of Demacia had risen from the ashes of the Rune Wars, and the centuries afterward were plagued with further conflict and strife. One of Garen''s uncles, a ranger-knight in the Demacian military, told young Garen and Lux his tales of venturing outside the kingdom''s walls to protect its people from the dangers of the world beyond. He warned them that, one day, something would undoubtedly end this time of relative peacewhether it be rogue mages, creatures of the abyss, or some other unimaginable horror yet to come. As if to confirm those fears, their uncle was killed in the line of duty by a mage, before Garen turned eleven. Garen saw the pain this brought to his family, and the fear in his young sister''s eyes. He knew then, for certain, that magic was the first and greatest peril that Demacia faced, and he vowed never to let it within their walls. Only by following their founding ideals, and by displaying their unshakeable pride, could the kingdom be kept safe. At the age of twelve, Garen left the Crownguard home in High Silvermere to join the military. As a squire, his days and nights were consumed by training and the study of war, honing his body and mind into a weapon as strong and true as Demacian steel. It was then that he first met young Jarvan IVthe prince who, as king, he would one day serveamong the other recruits, and the two became inseparable. In the years that followed, Garen earned his place in the shieldwall as a warrior of Demacia, and quickly gained a fearsome reputation on the battlefield. By the time he was eighteen, he had served with honor in campaigns along the Freljordian borders, played a key role in purging fetid cultists from the Silent Forest, and fought alongside the valiant defenders of Whiterock. King Jarvan III himself summoned Garen''s battalion back to the Great City of Demacia, honoring them before the royal court in the Hall of Valor. Tianna Crownguard, recently elevated to the role of High Marshal, singled out her nephew in particular, and recommended him for the trials necessary to join the ranks of the Dauntless Vanguard. Garen returned home in preparation, and was greeted warmly by Lux and his parents, as well as the common people living on his family''s estate. Though he was pleased to see his sister growing into an intelligent, capable young woman, something about her had changed. He had noticed it whenever he visited, but now Garen wrestled with a real and gnawing suspicion that Lux possessed magical powers though he never let himself entertain the idea for long. The thought of a Crownguard being capable of the same forbidden sorceries that had slain their uncle was too unbearable to confront. Naturally, through courage and skill, Garen won his place among the Vanguard. With his proud family and his good friend the prince looking on, he took his oaths before the throne. Lux and her mother spent much more time in the capital, in service to the king as well as the humble order of the Illuminatorsyet Garen tried to keep his distance as much as possible. Though he loved his sister more than anything else in the world, some small part of him had a hard time getting close to her, and he tried not to think about what he would be forced to do if his suspicions were ever confirmed. Instead, he threw himself into his new duties, fighting and training twice as hard as he had before. When the new Sword-Captain of the Dauntless Vanguard fell in battle, Garen found himself put forward for command by his fellow warriors, and the nomination was unopposed. To this day, he stands resolute in the defense of his homeland, against all foes. Far more than Demacia''s most formidable soldier, he is the very embodiment of all the greatest and most noble ideals upon which it was founded. "This kingdom, and its people, have given me everything. What kind of man would I be if I gave any less in return?" Chapter 122 - Gnar - The Missing Link Before the ice had given the Freljord its name, there existed a land brimming with wonderthat is, if one could see the world through the eyes of Gnar. A young yordle with boundless energy, Gnar and others like him lived openly among the hardy tribes of the northlands. Though barely big enough to leave footprints in the snow, his temper rivaled that of beasts ten times his size, and he would erupt with a babble of curses the moment anything went amiss. For this reason, he felt more kinship with the greater and wiser creatures, who kept their distance from mortals. To Gnar, they looked like overgrown, white-furred yordles and that was good enough for him. While the tribes foraged across the tundra, gathering wild berries and tasty moss, Gnar collected more essential items, like rocks, pebbles, and the muddy remains of dead birds. His greatest treasure was the jawbone of a drvask. When he tugged it from the cold earth, he squealed with glee and flung it as far as he could. It landed two hops away. Thrilled by this early success, Gnar carried his "boomerang" wherever he went. The world would try its best to offer him new delightsshiny lint, sweet nectar, round thingsbut none could match the pure joy he felt in throwing and catching his cherished weapon. He now considered himself a hunter, and trailed herds of wild beasts that paid him no mind. But even he could sense change coming to the land. The sky seemed darker. The winds felt colder. The mortal tribes who had once foraged together, now appeared to hunt each other The big white yordles would know what to do. Gnar would go to them. Using all of his hunting skill, he tracked them into the snow-capped peaks of a vast mountain range, much farther than he had ever wandered before. As he approached unseen, he also saw more mortals than he could count. This was exciting, but no one else seemed too happy about it. Then the ground shook, and split apart. For the first time in Gnar''s life, it seemed as though everyone else was throwing tantrums. The mortals yelled. The big yordles roared. But the monster''s arrival silenced them all. Heaving itself up from the newly opened abyss, it bore huge horns, whipping tentacles, and a single eye, burning with strange light that made the fur on Gnar''s back crawl. While some mortals fled at the sight, he began to feel an odd pain in his chestit was like the thought of losing his boomerang, or never being hugged again. This horrible thing wanted to hurt his new friends. And this made him angry. In that moment, Gnar truly raged. All he could see was the monster. In a flash, he was in the air, leaping toward it. In one paw, he grasped a snowball or so he thought. In fact, it was a boulder plucked from the mountainside, for Gnar had grown as large as the big white yordles. He would send this monster back where it came from, by walloping its face! But the blow never landed. Gnar felt a chill colder than any winter, one that seemed to turn the air itself into icetruly, this elemental magic froze him in place, biting through his shaggy fur. Everything, including the monster, became quiet. The yordle''s strength and anger melted away. A deep tiredness crept into his limbs, and he fell softly asleep. Gnar napped for a long time. When he finally awoke, he shook the frost from his shoulders, breathing heavily. Everyone else was gone. With no monsters to fight and no friends to protect, he felt very small and alone again. The land was very different, too. There was snow everywhere, blanketing everything as far as his wide eyes could see. Still, he let out a happy yelp when he saw his beloved boomerang lying beside him, and scurried away to find something to hunt. Even now, Gnar has no grasp of what took place that fateful day, nor how he escaped. He simply marvels at the world before him, with so many oddities to collect and places to explore. "Gnar!" Chapter 123 - Gragas - The Rabble Rouser The only thing more important to Gragas than fighting is drinking. His unquenchable thirst for stronger ale has led him in search of the most potent and unconventional ingredients to toss in his still. Impulsive and unpredictable, this rowdy carouser loves cracking kegs as much as cracking heads. Thanks to his strange brews and temperamental nature, drinking with Gragas is always a risky proposition. Gragas has an eternal love of good drink, but his massive constitution prevented him from reaching a divine state of intoxication. One night, when he had drained all the kegs and was left wanting, Gragas was struck by a thought rather than the usual barstool: why couldn''t he brew himself something that would finally get him truly drunk? It was then that he vowed to create the ultimate ale. Gragas'' quest eventually brought him to the Freljord, where the promise of acquiring the purest arctic water for his recipe led him into uncharted glacial wastes. While lost in an unyielding blizzard, Gragas stumbled upon a great howling abyss. There he found it: a flawless shard of ice unlike anything he had ever seen. Not only did this unmelting shard imbue his lager with incredible properties, but it also had a handy side effect - it kept the mixture chilled at the perfect serving temperature. Under the spell of his new concoction, Gragas headed for civilization, eager to share the fermented fruits of his labor. As fate would have it, the first gathering to catch Gragas'' bleary eyes would shape the future of the Freljord. He blundered into a deteriorating negotiation between two tribes discussing an alliance with Ashe. Though Ashe welcomed a break in the tension, the other warriors bristled at the intrusion and hurled insults at the drunken oaf. True to his nature, Gragas replied with a diplomatic headbutt, setting off a brawl matched only in the legends of the Freljord. When the fallen from that great melee finally awoke, Ashe proposed a friendly drink as an alternative to fighting. With their tempers doused in suds, the two tribes, formerly on the brink of war, bonded over a common love of Gragas'' brew. Although strife was averted and Gragas hailed a hero, he still had not achieved his dream of drunken blissfulness. So once more, he set off to wander the tundra in search of ingredients for Runeterra''s perfect pint. "Now this''ll put hair on your chest!" Chapter 124 - Graves - The Outlaw Malcolm Graves is a wanted man in every realm, city, and empire he has visited. Tough, strong-willed, and above all relentless, through his life of crime he has amassed (then invariably lost) a small fortune. Raised in the wharf alleys of Bilgewater, Malcolm quickly learned how to fight and how to steal, skills that have served him very well over the years. Smuggling himself to the mainland in the bilge of an outgoing cargo ship as a youth, he stole, lied, and gambled his way from place to place. But it was across the table of a high-stakes card game that Malcolm met the man who would change his life: the trickster now known as Twisted Fate. Both men saw the same reckless love of danger and adventure in the other, and a dysfunctional partnership that lasted nearly a decade was born. Combining their unique skills, Graves and Twisted Fate were an effective team, pulling off scores of heists. They stole from and swindled the rich and foolish for cash, fame, and the sheer thrill. Adventure became as much of a lure as the payoff. On the borderlands of Noxus, they set two renowned houses at each other''s throats as cover for the rescue of an heir apparent being held hostage. That they pocketed the reward money only to ransom the vile young man to the highest bidder should have come as no surprise to their employer. In Piltover, they hold the distinction of being the only thieves ever to crack the supposedly impenetrable Clockwork Vault. Not only did the two empty the vault of its treasures, but they tricked its guards into loading it onto their hijacked cargo ship. Only once the pair were over the horizon was the theft discovered, along with Fate''s trademark playing card. But eventually their luck ran out. During a heist that went wrong, Twisted Fate seemingly betrayed and abandoned his partner. Graves was taken alive and thrown in the infamous prison known as the Locker. Years of imprisonment and torture followed, during which time Graves nursed his hatred for his former partner. A lesser man would surely have broken, but Malcolm Graves endured it all and finally escaped. He clawed his way to freedom and began his pursuit of Twisted Fate, the man whose treachery consigned him to a decade of unspeakable misery. Years later, Graves finally had his showdown with Twisted Fate. Yet, after learning the truth of what had gone down between them and escaping certain death at the hands of Gangplank with his old comrade, Graves put his vengeance aside. Older, if not wiser, the pair look to pick up where they left off, seeking to make themselves rich using their unique blend of trickery, heists, and focused violence. "We''re here for your gold, not your heads, so don''t nobody decide to be a hero." Chapter 125 - Hecarim - The Shadow Of War Born into an empire long since gone to dust and forgotten, Hecarim was a lieutenant of the Iron Ordera brotherhood sworn to defend their king''s lands. As Hecarim won victory after victory from the back of his mighty warhorse, the commander of the Iron Order saw in him a potential successor but also a growing darkness. His obsessive hunger for glory was eroding his honor, and over time the knight-commander came to realize this young lieutenant must never lead them. When he was told this, Hecarim was furious. Even so, he bit back his anger, and continued in his duties. When they next rode to war, the commander found himself surrounded by enemies, and cut off from his fellow knights. Hecarim, seeing his chance, turned away and left him to die. At battle''s end, the Iron Order, oblivious to what Hecarim had done, knelt on the bloody ground and swore allegiance to him. Hecarim rode to the capital to take his formal oaths, and met with Kalista, the king''s most trusted general. She recognized his prowess and leadership, and when the queen was wounded by an assassin''s poisoned blade, Kalista was comforted to know the Iron Order would remain with the king while she sought a cure. Gripped by paranoia, and seeing new threats in every shadow, the king raged at those he believed were trying to separate him from his dying wife, and dispatched Hecarim to quell dissent throughout the kingdom. The Iron Order earned a dreadful reputation as ruthless enforcers of the king''s will. Towns and villages burned. Hundreds were put to the sword. With grim inevitability, when the queen died, Hecarim chose to sour the king''s grief into hatred, seeking sanction to lead the Iron Order into foreign lands. He would avenge her death, while earning yet more dark renown for himself. But before they could ride out, Kalista returned. She had found what she sought upon the distant Blessed Islesand yet it was now too late. The king would not believe this, and had Kalista imprisoned as a traitor. Intrigued by what he had heard, Hecarim visited her cell, and they spoke of the pale mists that protected the islands from all invaders and also of the inhabitants'' immense wealth, including the legendary Waters of Life. Knowing only Kalista could lead them there, Hecarim eventually persuaded her to guide the king''s fleet through the veil that concealed the Blessed Isles from mortal sight. They landed at the city of Helia with the queen''s body in solemn procession. The Iron Order led the way, only to be met by the city''s masters, who now refused to help. Enraged, the king ordered Kalista to kill them, but she refused, and Hecarim smiled as he made the decision that would damn him for eternity. He drove a spear through Kalista''s back, and ordered his knights to ransack the city, looting its vaults of arcane treasures. Amid the chaos, a lowly custodian agreed to grant the king access to the Waters of Lifebut not even this could distract Hecarim from the revelry of bloodshed, and so it was that the Ruination of the Blessed Isles would take him almost completely by surprise. A blastwave of magical force tore across Helia, shattering every last building and leaving the fragments suspended in searing un-light. In its wake came the Black Mist, a billowing hurricane that dragged every living creature it touched into its shrieking, roiling embrace. Hecarim tried to rally the Iron Order, hoping to make it back to their sh.i.p.s, but the mist claimed them one by one as they fled. Alone, and defiant to the end, the knight-commander was taken by the shadows. He and his mighty steed were fused into a monstrous, spectral abomination that reflected the darkness in Hecarim''s hearta brazen creature of fury and spite, at one with the Black Mist and yet utterly enslaved by it. Bound forevermore to these Shadow Isles, Hecarim has spent centuries in a sinister mockery of his former life, cursed to patrol the nightmarish lands he once intended to conquer. Whenever the Black Mist reaches out beyond their shores, he and the otherworldly host of the Iron Order ride out to slaughter the living, in memory of glories long passed. "Break their ranks, and ride them down without mercy. Crush the living. Feast on their terror." Chapter 126 - Heimerdinger - The Revered Inventor A brilliant yet eccentric yordle scientist, Professor Cecil B. Heimerdinger is lauded as one of the most innovative minds and esteemed inventors Piltover has ever seen. Relentless in his work to the point of neurotic obsession, he is fascinated by mysteries that have confounded his contemporaries for decades, and thrives on answering the universe''s most impenetrable questions. Though his theories often appear opaque and esoteric, Heimerdinger believes knowledge should be shared, and is devoted to teaching all who desire it. "Impossible, you say? Nonsense. Just wait till you see my calculations!" Chapter 127 - Illaoi - The Kraken Priestess Illaoi''s powerful physique is dwarfed only by her indomitable faith. As the prophet of the Great Kraken, she uses a huge, golden idol to rip her foes'' spirits from their bodies and shatter their perception of reality. All who challenge the "Truth Bearer of Nagakabouros" soon discover Illaoi never battles alone - the god of the Serpent Isles fights by her side. All who encounter Illaoi are struck by her presence. An intense woman, the priestess is fully committed to the experience of living. She takes what she wants, destroys what she hates, and revels in everything she loves. However, to truly know Illaoi you must understand the religion she has devoted her life to. Nagakabouros, the deity of her faith, is usually depicted as an enormous serpent head with tentacles spiraling around it in endless motion, with no beginning and no end. Also called The Mother Serpent, The Great Kraken, or even The Bearded Lady, Nagakabouros is the Serpent Isles'' god of life, ocean storms, and motion. (The literal translation of its name is "the unending monster that drives the sea and sky.") Central to the religion''s theology are three tenets: every spirit was born to serve the universe; desire was built into every living being by the universe; the universe only moves toward its destiny when living creatures chase their desires. Lesser priestesses are tasked with maintaining temples, calling holy serpents, and teaching people the ways of Nagakabouros. As the religion''s Truth Bearer, Illaoi''s role is to serve the god directly by unblocking the flow of the universe. To this end, she has two sacred responsibilities. The first duty of a Truth Bearer is to be the spearhead in the war against undeath. Having fallen outside of the normal flow of the universe, the undead are considered an abomination against Nagakabouros. While it is the responsibility of every priestess of the Kraken to protect the indigenous population from the Harrowing, a Truth Bearer directly engages its most powerful spirits and drives the Black Mist back. Second, Illaoi is tasked with seeking out individuals of great potential and challenging them with the Test of Nagakabouros. This task is the burden Illaoi''s title reflects. With her massive, holy relic, The Eye of God, the Truth Bearer strips the subject''s spirit from their body then forces them to stand against her to prove their worth. She does this knowing those who fail will be completely annihilated, for the great Kraken has no tolerance for cowardice, doubt, or restraint. But destruction is never the goal. Survivors of the ordeal are forever changed and often find the will to pursue their true destiny. Though Illaoi is the most powerful and respected Truth Bearer in a hundred generations, it is where she has broken the traditions of her faith that speaks the most about her. Having completed her training as a Truth Bearer, and at the height of her power, Illaoi left the golden temples of Buhru for the squalor of nearby Bilgewater. The pirate city is the only place foreigners are permitted on the Serpent Isles, viewed as a fetid gutter by Illaoi''s people. Previous Truth Bearers ignored the city and viewed the arriving foreigners as little better than untouchables. Illaoi broke with tradition when she chose to protect residents of Bilgewater from the Harrowing, or even more controversially when she decided that some of its residents had souls worthy of the great test. Despite this, only a handful of temples have been opened in the city, and very few paylangi (islander slang for residents of mainlander descent) have ever been permitted inside. Regardless, it is Illaoi who has brought the widespread awareness of the Mother Serpent to Bilgewater, and it is her indomitable spirit that has brought her religion into favor there. Rumors persist that Bilgewater''s most bloodthirsty and infamous pirate had his heart broken by the towering priestess. To anyone who has ever met her, this is no surprise. Illaoi''s rough manner belies subtle intelligence, strength, and a magnetic confidence. Many seek Illaoi''s favor and welcome her to Bilgewater... yet everyone fears being tested by the Kraken''s Prophet. "Wisdom is frequently a kick in the head." Chapter 128 - Irelia - The Blade Dancer Even as a small child, Xan Irelia was fascinated by the grace and beauty of human movement. Under her grandmother''s tutelage, she learned the traditional silk dances of her provincethough she was dubious of their supposedly mystical connection to the Spirit of Ionia, Irelia''s love for the dances was real. Seeking to master the art, she eventually left home to study with some of Ionia''s most respected performers at the Placidium of Navori. Irelia''s people were peaceful and sought harmony with their neighbors, but rumors of foreign invaders sighted off the coast unsettled many at the Placidium. Irelia returned to her village to find it already occupied, with steel-helmed soldiers from distant Noxus shoving unarmed civilians through the streets with the butts of their spears. The Noxian Admiral Duqal had seized the Xan home to quarter his fleet officers. Irelia''s brothers and her father Lito had evidently protested; her entire family now lay in unmarked graves, in the gardens. Ravaged by grief, the young girl saw Duqal''s men hauling valuables from the house. Among the loot was a large metal crest, depicting the Xan family emblem. Irelia raced to it, wrenching it from Noxian hands. The admiral himself hurled her to the ground, and had his warriors shatter the crest with a heavy iron maul, before ordering them to dig a fresh grave for this upstart child. As they surrounded her, Irelia averted her eyes, looking to the pieces of the Xan crest scattered on the ground. From deep within her soul, she felt a strange rhythm begin to beat. The shards of metal began to twitch, to twist, moving seemingly on their own, and Irelia felt the serene joy of the ancient dances once more... With a sweep of her arm, she sent the pieces flying like ragged blades, cutting clean through two of the Noxians. As Duqal and his officers reeled in shock, Irelia snatched up the shards of her crest, and fled the village. In the quiet forests beyond, Irelia mourned her family, and thought back to her grandmother''s teachings. She realized that the techniques she had learned were more than mere dancesthey were a powerful expression of something far greater. The Noxian occupation soon began to test the fragile peace of the First Lands. It was said that even the religious leader Karma had been forced to strike back at the invaders with deadly magic, though her followers had now withdrawn to the Lasting Altar and would not condone any further violence. Across Navori, dissenting voices began to band together. A resistance was forming, one that would not rest until Ionia was free once more. Irelia joined their ranks, performing her cherished dances for them in the woodland camps, to preserve some vestige of their vanishing culture. She was barely fourteen years old when she found herself back at the Placidium. Her band of resistance fighters joined the militia who had sworn to guard the monasteries and wild, sacred gardens. But Noxus knew only too well what this place represented. A particularly cunning general named Jericho Swain captured the Placidium and took its defenders hostage, hoping to lure the inevitable reinforcements into a trap. It was in this moment that Irelia rose to meet her destiny. Freed from her bonds, she unleashed the full potential of her ancient blade dance, lashing out with graceful zeal. A dozen of Swain''s veterans fell, sowing chaos in their ranks as the other captives joined her, before she struck down the general himselfthe sight of this rebellious girl hefting his severed arm over her head would be the turning point of the war. This victory, the Great Stand at Navori, ensured that everyone in Ionia knew the name of Xan Irelia, and looked to her for leadership. Reluctantly, she led the growing resistance for almost three years of grueling battle before her triumph at Dalu Bay. There, she finally cornered the defeated Admiral Duqal, and exacted the vengeance she had sought for so long. Though the war has long since ended, Ionia has been permanently changed by it. The First Lands are now divided, with rival factions fighting each other almost as bitterly as they did the Noxians. Many continue to look to Irelia for answers but, while others might welcome such power, Irelia remains uneasy with it. At heart, she still yearns only to dance alone. "There was a time when I danced only for myself. Now, I dance for the First Lands." Chapter 129 - Ivern - The Green Father Ivern Bramblefoot, known to many as the Green Father, is a peculiar half man, half tree who roams Runeterra''s forests, cultivating life everywhere he goes. He knows the secrets of the natural world, and holds deep friendsh.i.p.s with all things that grow, fly, and scuttle. Ivern wanders the wilderness, imparting strange wisdom to any he meets, enriching the forests, and occasionally entrusting loose-lipped butterflies with his secrets. In the early days of the Freljord, Ivern was a fierce warrior with an iron will and unflinching resolve. However, he was powerless when the Iceborn rose to prominence and looked down upon Ivern and his kind as hapless mortals who dared challenge their will. He plotted with his kinsmen to overthrow their sorcerous masters. Ivern the Cruel and the battle-hardened battalion under his command set sail from the frozen harbors of Frostguard for a faraway land that, according to legend, was the source of all magic. If Ivern could seize such a power for his own, then he could break the Iceborn. As the fleet crested the horizon, they sailed out of memory and into myth, for they were never seen again, and faded from Freljordian history like tracks in the winter''s snow. The sea, in abject rejection of their noble goals, fell on them with waves like crushing jaws, and shook the resolve of even the heartiest of men. Ivern, after putting many mutinous cowards to the sword, landed his armada on the shores of Ionia and mercilessly cut down the native resistance. The Ionians surrendered, and led the Freljordians to a sacred grove known as Omikayalan, the Heart of the World. Most of Ivern''s men thought this a gift to the conquerors, a sign of loyalty. But it was there, in that strange and verdant garden, where they met the fiercest resistance. A mysterious new foe arose. Chimeric beings, half human, half animal, stalked the dwindling battalion, relentlessly cutting down the would-be conquerors. Undeterred, Ivern pressed on until the remnants of his army, battered and few, discovered what the Ionians held so sacred: the God-Willow, a massive tree, dripping with long gossamer leaves that shimmered with golden-green light. While his men were being slaughtered in a final assault, Ivern stood transfixed by the mystical tree. Seeking to shatter the resolve of his foes, he gripped his battle-axe, and swung at the tree with the force of ten men. He felt no impact. He felt nothing. There was only blinding light when he felled the God-Willow and extinguished all the lifeforce within it. What happened next was even strangerhis hands fused and became one with the battle-axe and God-Willow''s hardwood. His limbs grew in length, and became knotty and rough to the touch. He stood helpless as the rest of his body followed suit. Within moments, he was ten feet tall, staring down over a field of his slain comrades. He could not feel his heart pumping, but he was awake and aware. He heard a voice deep inside him. "Watch," it said. In what felt like seconds, the bodies decayed under legions of colorful mushrooms and buzzing insects. Flesh fed the carrion birds and wolves alike. Bones rotted into fertile soil, and seeds from fruit eaten by the conquerors budded and sprouted into trees with fruit of their own. Hills rose and fell, like lungs gently filling with breath. Leaves and petals pulsed like colorful hearts. From the death that surrounded him, life exploded forth in ways too numerous to believe. Never had Ivern beheld such beauty. Life, in all its forms, was tangled together like an impossible knot that didn''t want to be untied. He reflected on the mistakes he''d made, the cruelty he''d visited on others, and felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow. He wept, and dewdrop tears sprang up on the bark and leaves that now covered his newly tree like body. Am I now becoming the God-Willow? He wondered. Then the voice inside Ivern told him something new. "Listen," it said. So he did. At first, he heard nothing. Then: the whimpers of countless beasts, the bawling of rivers, the howling of trees and the dripping tears of moss. They lamented the God-Willow''s death in a symphony of mourning. Remorse washed over Ivern, and he cried out for forgiveness. A tiny squirrel snuggled at his legs. He felt the gaze of nearby animals. Plants reached out for him with their roots. Nature''s gaze fixed on him, and he felt the seeping warmth of forgiveness. When Ivern finally moved, over a century had passed and the world felt new. The violence and cruelty of his old self were echoes in his heart. Never again would he be the man who wrought so much destruction. He even asked the voice deep inside, why him? Why was he spared? The voice spoke a third time. "Grow," it said. This puzzled him. Was he supposed to grow or help the world grow? He decided it was probably both; after all, who couldn''t use a bit of extra growth? Ivern looked at himself, his barklike skin, the mushroom on his arm, the family of squirrels tucked away in the area where his scabbard used to reside. This new body astounded him. He found he could dig his toes deep into the soil and commune with roots and insects alike: even the dirt itself had opinions! Ivern decided an excellent start was to get to know all the world''s inhabitants, and so he did. It took a few centurieshow many exactly, Ivern couldn''t say, because time flies when one is having such a good time. He wandered the world and developed close kinsh.i.p.s with all creatures great and small. He observed their foibles, delighting in their little habits, and occasionally offering a helping hand. He shortened the inchworm''s path, played tricks with mischievous bramblebacks, hugged thorny elmarks to happiness, and laughed with wizened elder-fungus. Everywhere Ivern went, forests blossomed in perpetual springtime and beasts dwelled in harmony. On occasion, he rescued creatures unjustly wounded by careless predators. In one instance, he found a wounded stone-golem. Knowing the poor creature was on the verge of death, he fashioned her a new heart from a river pebble. Adhering to the tradition of all mineral beings, the golem became Ivern''s devoted life-friend. He named her Daisy, after the flowers that mysteriously sprouted from her stone body. Today, if Ivern is threatened, she races to his side. Sometimes, he encountered communities of humans, many of them somewhat peaceful. They called him Bramblefoot or the Green Father and told tales of his strange benevolence. But how they took more than they gave, how they could be cruel and human, unnerved Ivern, and he retreated from their company. Then the voice inside of him spoke for a fourth time. "Show," it said. Ivern left the woodlands and journeyed out to meet a world blanketed in mankind. The resolve he''d once felt returned, but this time it wasn''t driven by malice or cruelty. One day, he hoped to replace what he took. If he was called to be the new God-Willow, he needed to cultivate humanity, help them watch, listen, and grow. Being human once himself, Ivern knew this would be difficult, so he smiled and challenged himself to complete this task before the final setting of the sun. He knew he would have the time. "The cleverness of mushrooms always surprises me." Chapter 130 - Janna - The Storm’s Fury Armed with the power of Runeterra''s gales, Janna is a mysterious, elemental wind spirit who protects the dispossessed of Zaun. Some believe she was brought into existence by the pleas of Runeterra''s sailors who prayed for fair winds as they navigated treacherous waters and braved rough tempests. Her favor and protection has since been called into the depths of Zaun, where Janna has become a beacon of hope to those in need. No one knows where or when she will appear, but more often than not, she''s come to help. Many of Runeterra''s sailors have strange and unusual superstitions, which is no wonder as they often live or die by the tempestuous whims of the weather. Some captains insist on pouring salt onto the deck so the sea doesn''t notice they''re from the shore. Others make sure to throw the first fish they catch back into the water as a show of mercy. It''s not surprising, then, that most implore the wind itself for steadfast breezes, calm seas, and clear skies. Many believe the spirit Janna was born out of these prayers. She started small. Seafarers would sometimes spot a bright blue bird just before a healthy tailwind billowed their sails. Others could swear they''d hear a whistling in the air right before a storm, as if to warn them of its approach. As word of these benevolent omens spread, sightings of the bird grew more common. Some swore they had seen the bird transform into a woman. With tapered ears and flowing hair, this mysterious maiden was said to float above the water and direct the wind with a flick of her staff. Seafarers created ramshackle shrines of seasparrow bones and shining oyster shells which they tucked into the bows of their sh.i.p.s. The more successful vessels built their shrines as figureheads on their masts, hoping their more ostentatious displays of faith would be rewarded with even better winds. Eventually, Runeterra''s seamen agreed upon a name for this wind spirit: "Janna," an ancient Shuriman word meaning "guardian." As more sailors came to believe in Janna and made increasingly elaborate offerings to gain her favor, she grew ever stronger. Janna helped explorers traverse new waters, blew sh.i.p.s from treacherous reefs, and C on particularly starless nights C wrapped the comfort of a warm breeze around a homesick sailor''s shoulders. For those sailing with ill intent C pirates, raiders, and the like C Janna was sometimes said to blow them off course with sudden squalls and storms. Janna took great joy in her work. Whether helping people or punishing the deserving, she felt happy to watch over Runeterra''s oceans. For as long as Janna could remember, a single isthmus separated the western and eastern oceans of Valoran. In order to move from the west to the east, or from the east to the west, sh.i.p.s would have to brave the long, incredibly dangerous waters around the tip of the southern continent. Most sh.i.p.s subsequently made offerings to Janna for strong winds that would expedite their perilous journey around the rocky coast. The city fathers of the bustling trade city on the isthmus''s coast tired of watching sh.i.p.s make the long trek around the southern continent, which could often take many months. They hired the most innovative scientists to use the rich chemical resources recently discovered in the area to create a massive waterway that would unite Valoran''s major seas. Word of the canal spread like a pox amongst sailors. Such a passage would open up boundless trade opportunities, allow for easier passage through dangerous waters, reduce time at sea and introduce the transportation of perishable goods. It would bring the east to the west, the west to the east, and above all: it would bring change. With the canal in place, sailors wouldn''t need Janna''s winds to keep their sh.i.p.s safe from Valoran''s cliffs. They wouldn''t need to build elaborate shrines or watch the stormy horizon for bluebirds. Their sh.i.p.s'' safety and speed no longer depended on an unpredictable deity, but the ingenuity of man. And so, as construction progressed over the decades, Janna fell out of favor. Her shrines grew ragged, picked apart by gulls, and seldom was her name whispered, even as the waters grew sharp and choppy with winter. Janna felt herself weaken and her powers fade. When she tried to summon a squall, she''d only conjure a light draft. If she transformed into her bird form, she could only fly for a few minutes before needing to rest. She''d meant so much to those at sea only a few years prior C was this how easily they could forget someone who just wanted to keep them safe and honor their prayers? Janna was saddened by her slow decline into irrelevance and as the canal reached completion, all that remained of her was a faded breeze. The opening of the canal was a joyful celebration. Thousands of chemtech devices were placed across the isthmus. The city fathers gathered for the ceremonial igniting of the charge as travelers from all over the world watched and waited, smiles on their faces and pride in their hearts. The devices activated. Chemical fogs of molten rock bloomed. Booms echoed through the isthmus. The cliff faces began to crack. The ground began to shake. Those assembled heard a roar of water and a hiss of gas. That is when the screaming started. In the years to come, no one would know the exact cause of the disaster. Some said it was the instability of the chem bombs, while others argued it was a miscalculation by the engineers. Whatever the cause, the explosions caused a chain reaction of earthquakes that shook the isthmus to its core. Entire districts collapsed into the ocean, and nearly half of the city''s denizens suddenly found themselves fighting for their lives against the clashing currents of the western and eastern seas. As thousands sank beneath the tides, they begged for help, praying for someone to save them. They called out for the name that, until recently, their hearts had always beckoned in times of great danger on the high seas: Janna. Struck by a sudden surge of desperate pleas for aid, Janna felt herself materialize with greater power than she''d ever felt before. Many of those who had fallen into the water had already drowned, but as clouds of toxic chem-gas leaked from cracks in the streets, poisoning and suffocating the hundreds of people unlucky enough to breathe them, Janna knew how to help. She disappeared into the bleak, billowing gas, its acrid grasp overwhelming the helpless victims of the great canal''s birth. Holding her staff high, she closed her eyes as wind swirled around her, the vortex so powerful that those who had summoned her feared they might be swallowed whole or ripped to pieces. Her staff glowed a brighter and brighter blue until she finally slammed it down, blowing the gas away in one ferocious burst of air. Those who had summoned Janna caught their breath and looked upon the woman who had saved them, vowing never to forget her again. With that, a gust of wind blew through the streets, and Janna was gone though some swore they saw a bright blue bird make a nest high atop the iron and glass spires overlooking the city. Years after the city called Zaun was repaired and the shining town of Piltover was built above it, Janna''s name endures in countless stories that tell of the wandering wind spirit who appears in times of great need. When the Zaun Gray grows thick, some say Janna blows it away, then vanishes as quickly as she came. When a Chem-Baron''s thug goes too far or a victim''s screams go unanswered, a fearsome torrent of wind might sweep through the alley and aid those who others are unwilling to help. Some say Janna is a myth: an optimistic fairy tale that Zaun''s most desperate tell themselves to bring an ounce of hope to their hour of need. Others C the ones who think of Janna when the wind whistles through narrow corridors of the city or huddle around handmade shrines (now crafted of scrap and gearworks rather than bird bones) C know better. When the gust rattles the shutters and blows the laundry off the line, Janna is surely in the air. Every Progress Day, no matter how cold the weather, the believers throw open their windows and doors so Janna can blow away the stale air of the year past and welcome the new. Even skeptics can''t help but feel their spirits lift when they spy a curious blue bird swooping through the streets of Zaun. Though none can be sure when, how, or if Janna will appear, most everyone can agree on one thing: it''s nice to have somebody watching over you. "Do not fear the winds of change C they will always be at your back." Chapter 131 - Jarvan IV - The Exemplar Of Demacia Soon after King Jarvan III''s coronation, he addressed the people of Demacia. Even though there were still many foes beyond the borders of their proud kingdom, several of the noble families had begun to feud with one another, some even raising private militias to seek the favor of their new king. This would not stand. Jarvan would not allow such dangerous rivalries to develop, and declared his intention to end the feuding by marriage. His bride, the Lady Catherine, was much beloved by the peopleand courtly gossip had long held that the two shared some secret fondness for one another. The bells of the Great City rang for a day and a night in celebration, and by year''s end came the announcement that the royal couple were expecting their first son. But all joy was forgotten when Catherine died in childbirth. The infant, named for his father''s line, was declared heir apparent to the throne of Demacia. Torn between grief and elation, Jarvan III swore never to take another wife, and that all his hopes and dreams for the kingdom''s future would live on in his son. With no memory of his mother, the young prince Jarvan was raised at court, groomed and guarded every moment of his life. The king insisted that he receive the finest Demacian education, learning from an early age the moral value of charity, the solemn burden of duty, and the honor of a life spent in service to one''s people. As he grew, he was also introduced to the history and politics of Valoran by his father''s seneschal, Xin Zhao. Hailing from distant Ionia, this loyal protector taught the prince about the world''s more spiritual philosophies, as well as the myriad arts of war. During his military training, Prince Jarvan found himself facing a brash youth of the Crownguard family named Garen. The two were of similar age, and became a quick pairJarvan admired Garen''s sheer determination and fortitude, and Garen looked up to the prince''s tactical instincts. When Jarvan came of age, his father rewarded him with the honorary rank of general. While it was not necessarily expected that the heir to the throne would take to the field of battle, Jarvan was determined to prove himself, with or without the king''s blessing. The lands beyond the Argent Mountains had long been contested by the empire of Noxus, creating an almost lawless frontier where foreign reavers and warring tribes threatened many of Demacia''s allies. The prince pledged to bring stability back to the region. His great grandfather had been slain by a foul Noxian brute many years ago, in the first clashes between their nations in the south. Now, that insult would finally be answered. Jarvan''s armies won victory after victory but the carnage he witnessed in the outlying towns troubled him deeply. When word came that the Gates of Mourning had fallen, he resolved to drive onward into Noxian territory, against the advice of his lieutenants. Inevitably, with the battalions spread so thin, Jarvan was encircled and defeated by Noxian warbands before he even reached Trevale. Refusing to surrender, the prince and a handful of other survivors fled into the forests, only to be hounded for days by enemy scouts. Eventually, pierced through his side by an arrow, Jarvan collapsed into the shade of a fallen tree, where he drifted in and out of consciousness. He was devastated. He had failed his family, his kingdom, and his brothers-in-arms. Doubtless he would have died there, alone, were it not for Shyvana. This strange, violet-skinned woman somehow carried Jarvan all the way back to Demacia, to the old castle at Wrenwall, where she proved herself a kind and worthy companion during his days of healing. At first taken aback by her outlandish appearance, the garrison commander could not deny that she had done a great service to the throne in saving Jarvan''s life. Unfortunately, Shyvana was herself being pursuedby the monstrous elemental dragon Yvva. When the castle''s watchmen spotted the beast on the horizon, Jarvan saw a chance to redeem himself. As Shyvana prepared to meet the beast in the skies in her half-dragon form, the prince limped from his bed to marshal the garrison, and reinforce the walls. He took up his lance, and swore that they would return to the Great City with the head of Yvva, or not at all. The battle was swift and deadly. When his men were driven in fear from their posts, it was Jarvan who rallied them. When they were wounded, it was Jarvan who directed healers to their aid. The fell creature was slain by Shyvana, but it was the prince''s leadership that had held the line. In that moment, Jarvan saw the true strength of the Demacian peoplestanding together as one in defense of their homeland, no matter their differences or misgivings. He promised Shyvana that she would always have a place among his guard, if she so chose. With the dragon''s skull in tow, Jarvan journeyed to his father''s court in triumph, Shyvana at his side. Though the king was overcome with emotion at his son''s return, some of the gathered nobles quietly questioned the wisdom of allowing such a creature to stand with the prince let alone serve as one of his protectors. Even so, Jarvan has resumed his position within the military, also playing a key role in stately matters beyond the defense of the realm. With his friend Garen now Sword-Captain of the elite Dauntless Vanguard, and the king beginning to feel the weight of his years, the prince must ensure he is prepared to one day inherit the throne, and be crowned King Jarvan IV of Demacia. "Words may make a ruler, but only actions make history." Chapter 132 - Jax - Grandmaster At Arms Jax sat cross-legged at the center of the bridge with his long-hafted polearm resting on his knees. Demacia had not changed much since he had last traveled this way, but that didn''t surprise him. Its people zealously protected their borders, which had turned them into pretty decent fighters. Well, some of them anyway, he thought, wiping a spot of blood from the softly glowing head of the lamppost. He flicked the droplet over the par.a.p.et to the river below and reached into his robe to pull out his third hard-boiled egg of the day. Tapping it on the cobbles, he slowly peeled the shell as he heard the warriors at the end of the bridge try to decide which one of them would face him next. Jax lifted his mask and bit into the egg. He took a deep breath, tasting sun-ripened crops on the wind and freshly turned earth from the expanse of farmland stretching to every horizon. Jax sighed; to see a realm at peace made him homesick for a land that no longer existed. He shook off the chill of memory, knowing thoughts of Icathia would only distract him. His robes were heavy, but the sun''s warmth didn''t reach the mottled and oddly hued skin beneath. No part of his flesh was visible, which was probably just as well. He wasn''t even sure what his skin looked like anymore. A cold wind scudded over the snowcapped mountains to the north and a distant storm disgorged rain over distant fields and settlements. Where Jax came from, there was little in the way of clouds, and even less rain. Perhaps the storm would come south and make the cobbles of the bridge slippery. That might make this more challenging for him. It would also make things more difficult for his opponents. And perhaps that was no bad thing. After all, a warrior worthy of fighting at his side in the battles against the monsters from beyond would need to be adaptable. He heard the clatter of armor and the whisper of a blade cutting air. "Stand and face me," ordered a powerful voice. Jax held up a finger while he finished his egg. He licked his lips then settled his mask back over his face before looking up at the warrior standing before him. The man was powerfully built, broad of shoulder and thick of arm. Armored head to foot in gleaming warplate of burnished steel, he carried a double-edged, hand-and-a-half sword. And looked like he knew how to use it. Jax approved. "You seem like a man who can hew ironbirch trees all day and still have energy left for a tavern brawl," said Jax. "I''ll not waste words on you, monster," said the warrior, assuming the same fighting stance all the others had. Jax sighed, disappointed the defeat of the fifteen men before this one hadn''t taught them anything. "Monster?" he said, rising to his feet in one smooth motion. "I could show you monsters, but I fear you wouldn''t live long enough to tell anyone what a real monster looks like." He swung his lamppost around to loosen the muscles in his shoulders. Not that he needed to, but he''d been fighting, on and off, for the last four hours and it might make the man facing him feel like he at least had a chance of winning this duel. "For Demacia!" shouted the swordsman and he attacked with the same tired, predictable strikes all the others had. The man was fast and strong enough to wield his sword in one hand. Jax swayed aside from the first blow, ducked the second and parried the third. He spun inside the swordsman''s guard and hammered his elbow against the side of his helmet. The metal buckled and the man went down on one knee with a grunt of pain. Jax gave him a moment to still the ringing in his head. The man tore off his helm and dropped it to the bridge. Blood matted the side of his head, but Jax was impressed at how the man controlled his anger. Demacians had always been sticklers for discipline, so he was glad to see that hadn''t changed. The man took a steadying breath and attacked again, a series of blisteringly fast cuts that went high and low, a mixture of sweeping slashes, lighting thrusts and overhead cuts. Jax parried them all, his lamppost in constant motion as it deflected the Demacian''s blade and delivered stinging, bruising ripostes to the man''s arms and legs. He feinted left and hooked his lamppost around the opponent''s legs, putting him flat on his back. He jabbed the butt of his post into the man''s belly, doubling him up and leaving him gasping for air. "Had enough yet?" asked Jax. "I can swap hands if it makes it easier." "A Demacian would rather die than take succor from an enemy," said the warrior, lurching to his feet. The man''s stoic facade was crumbling in the face of Jax''s mockery, and when he attacked again, it was with a ferocity untempered by discipline and skill. Jax ducked a risky beheading strike and switched to a one-handed grip on his lamppost. He spun his weapon under the man''s sword and rolled his wrist. The Demacian warrior''s sword was wrenched from his grasp and flipped through the air. Jax caught it deftly in his free hand. "Nice little weapon," he said, spinning the blade in a dazzling series of master fencer''s strokes. "Lighter than it looks." The Demacian drew his dagger and rushed him. Jax shook his head at his foolishness. He threw the sword from the bridge and sidestepped a series of blisteringly fast thrusts. He ducked a sweeping cut and caught a thunderous right cross in his open palm. He nodded toward the river. "I hope you can swim," he said, and twisted his wrist, lifting the armored warrior from his feet and flipping him over the bridge''s par.a.p.et. The man splashed down into the river and Jax planted his lamppost on the cobbles. "Who''s next?" he said. "That would be me," said a woman dismounting a gray gelding at the end of the bridge. Her horse''s flanks were lathered with sweat, her cloak dusty from a hard ride. She wore a silversteel b.r.e.a.s.tplate, and a long-bladed sword was scabbarded at her hip. She marched past the men at the end of the bridge and strode toward him, moving with a perfect economy of motion, utterly in balance and supremely confident in her skill. Her features were angular and patrician, framed by dark hair streaked with crimson. Her eyes were cold and unforgiving. They promised only death. "Who are you?" asked Jax, intrigued. "My name is Fiora of House Laurent," she said, drawing her weapon, a dueling saber that gleamed with a perfect edge. "And this is my bridge." Jax grinned beneath his mask. Finally, an opponent worth fighting! "Who wants a piece of the champ?" Chapter 133 - Jayce - The Defender Of Tomorrow Jayce is a brilliant inventor who has pledged his life to the defense of Piltover and its unyielding pursuit of progress. With his transforming hextech hammer in hand, Jayce uses his strength, courage, and considerable intelligence to protect his hometown. While revered throughout the city as a hero, he hasn''t taken well to the attention it brings. Still, Jayce''s heart is in the right place, and even those who envy his natural skills are grateful for his protection in the City of Progress. A native son of Piltover, Jayce was raised to believe in the principles that made the city great: Invention. Discovery. Not going to Zaun if you could help it. With a knack for understanding machinery, Jayce earned the honor of being the youngest apprenta to ever be offered patronage by Clan Giopara, one of Piltover''s most respected ruling clans. Utterly unsurprised, Jayce took the offer, and spent most of his early years constructing potential hextech devices and designing transformable multi-tools for Piltover''s working class: a wrench that transformed into a prybar, a pickaxe that could morph into a shovel, a hammer that could turn into a demolition beam, if only it had a sufficiently powerful battery. Everything Jayce touched put his contemporaries to shame. Most things came easy to Jayce, and he could never understand why his peers had so much trouble with what, to him, were simple concepts. As a result, nearly everyone who worked alongside Jayce found him arrogant, dismissive, and unwilling to slow his pace to help his colleagues catch up. As time went on, his patience became shorter, while at the same time, a chasm grew between decorum, charm, and Jayce''s natural demeanor. Only one person ever managed to match Jayce''s intelligence while also maintaining a healthy indifference to his superior attitude. His name was Viktor. The two met at a mandatory Progress Day party, and immediately bonded over how little either of them wanted to be there. They started working together shortly after. Viktor expanded Jayce''s intellectual horizons and challenged many of his assumptions. While Jayce sought to improve humanity via versatile technology, Viktor sought to solve problems inherent to humanity itself, such as physical decay or illogical prejudices. They constantly argued with one another, but their conflicts never got personal C though their methods were different, the two colleagues knew their ultimate goals were very much the same. More than that, they both knew what it was like to be ostracized by their colleagues: Viktor because of his unconventional thinking, Jayce because of his rudeness. Together, Jayce and Viktor invented a mechanized construction suit for Piltover''s dockworkers C something hearty enough to enhance the wearer''s strength, but light enough that its wearer wouldn''t immediately drown upon falling overboard. However, the two reached an impasse when Viktor''s design for the next version of the suit included a chemtech implant that would increase the wearer''s strength output by tenfold, while also preventing them from getting tired, panicking, or disobeying instructions from their superiors. While Viktor considered this feature a brilliant means of reducing the frequency of construction accidents, Jayce found its indifference toward free will immoral. The two nearly came to blows over the design and ultimately, after Jayce warned the academy of Viktor''s invention, Viktor was stripped of his honors and ostracized from Piltover''s scientific community. Viktor was the closest thing Jayce had ever really had to a friend, and distraught over their falling-out, went back to working on his own. He grew more insular. His patience toward others grew even thinner. As Jayce studied in solitude, Clan Giopara''s explorers discovered a raw, blue crystal deep within the Shuriman desert. Though Jayce volunteered to experiment on it (specifically by suggesting the clan''s other scholars wouldn''t be smart enough to get anything out of it), his lack of tact in doing so prompted Clan Giopara to give it to their better-mannered scholars as a form of punishment. Yet, after many months, the scholars reached a unanimous conclusion: the crystal was worthless. A power-drained hunk of rock. The disappointed clan leaders finally handed the crystal over to Jayce, assuming that even he, with his remarkable intelligence, wouldn''t be able to learn anything from it. Something inside the crystal called to Jayce. No, more than that C it sang to him. He couldn''t explain why, but he knew the Shuriman gem still held mysteries yet to be discovered. He spent many months running every variety of test on the crystal. He braced it into a cogwheel centrifuge; he superheated it and deep-froze it; he tinkered, and observed, and hypothesized, and beat his head against his copper pantograph. Quite simply, Jayce wasn''t used to working hard: this damned crystal was the first thing that had ever resisted his considerable mental aptitude. For the first time, he realized how his peers must have felt, trying so hard to solve a problem, only to bump against your own limitations. It felt frustrating. It felt unfair. And it probably felt much, much worse if you were working alongside an arrogant inventor who dismissed your every effort. Jayce realized that despite how dismissive he''d been toward his fellow scholars, none of them ever gave up. None of them ever stopped seeking the very things that defined Piltover: Progress. Discovery. If they wouldn''t give up, Jayce decided, he wouldn''t either. And maybe he''d try to be nicer. Maybe. Jayce approached the problem from a completely different angle. Rather than trying to experiment on the crystal as a whole, he wondered, why not run more invasive experiments on a smaller shard? Jayce chiseled off a piece of the crystal and suspended it in a liquid alloy. As he sent a voltaic current through the liquid metal, Jayce''s eardrums nearly shattered from the booming baritone note that blasted from the shard. Heat radiated from the crystal and, with a flash, it glowed bright enough to nearly blind him. This was unexpected. This was potentially dangerous. But this was progress. Jayce couldn''t erase the smile from his face as he worked well through the night, into the dawn. The next day, Jayce was surprised to find his old friend Viktor on his doorstep. Alerted by the massive power spike from the crystal shard, Viktor had a simple proposition. Since his expulsion from the Piltovan scientific community, Viktor had commenced work on a secret project in Zaun. He''d finally learned how to achieve his dream C how to eradicate disease, hunger, hatred. If Jayce joined him, the two would accomplish more than anyone from Piltover or Zaun could have dreamed of: they''d save humanity from itself. Jayce had heard a monologue like this before from Viktor. He never liked where it led. Viktor told Jayce that he only needed one thing for his Glorious Evolution C a power source like Jayce''s crystal. Jayce disagreed, informing Viktor that what he truly needed was a moral compass. Viktor, who had long grown tired of Jayce''s rudeness, leapt upon him, grabbed the crystal and knocked Jayce unconscious with it. When Jayce awoke hours later, he noticed that though the Shuriman crystal was gone Viktor hadn''t seemed to notice or care about the smaller shard. Jayce knew whatever Viktor was planning, he would only resort to these measures if he were close to completion. Even though he didn''t know what Viktor''s Glorious Evolution consisted of, it probably didn''t have a lot of respect for the free will of others. Without wasting a second, Jayce retrieved the suspended shard and installed it into a massive, transforming hammer C a demolitions invention he''d abandoned years ago for lack of a strong enough battery to power it. Though he had no idea where Viktor might have taken the crystal, he could feel the hextech hammer vibrate, pulling him not north, south, east or west, but down, toward the undercity of Zaun. The shard, eager to be reunited with the crystal from which it was chiseled, eventually led Jayce to a warehouse in the depths of the sump. Within the cavernous building, Jayce found something horrifying. Dozens of corpses, their skulls sawed open and hollowed out, their brains transplanted into an army of immobile metal soldiers, hooked up to the now-pulsing crystal. This was the first step in Viktor''s Glorious Evolution. Jayce''s stride grew less confident as he approached Viktor. He and Viktor had not always seen eye to eye, but this was something else entirely. For the first time, it occurred to Jayce that he might have to kill his old friend. He called out to Viktor, flinching as the army of robots stood to attention. Jayce asked him to look around C to see what he was doing. Whatever this was C this Evolution C wasn''t the progress they fought for in their youths. He even, to Viktor''s surprise, apologized for acting like such a jerk. Viktor sighed. He had only two words in response: "Kill him." The automatons sprinted toward Jayce, breaking free of the wires connecting them to the crystal and introducing Jayce to another new emotion: panic. He gripped the hammer tight, realizing he''d never actually used it before. When the first golem was within reach, he swung as hard as he could, feeling the shard''s energy surge through his muscles, accelerating the hammer''s movement until Jayce was worried it might fly out of his hands. It slammed into the automaton, all but exploding it into a hail of metal. Despite the obliteration of their comrade, the other machines didn''t even pause as they rushed at Jayce, trying to pummel him into unconsciousness. Jayce analyzed the formation of the mechanical wave coming at him and attempted to quickly calculate how to take out the largest number of them with the fewest amount of swings. It was pointless; they were on him before he could swing even once. As he fell to the ground under a storm of their blows, Jayce saw Viktor looking on, not with triumph, but with sadness. He''d outsmarted Jayce and ensured humanity''s future, but he knew that future came at a cost: he couldn''t let his old friend live. Jayce vanished under a sea of swinging metal limbs. That''s when Jayce, for the first time in his life, decided to stop thinking and just break stuff. No longer caring for his own safety, Jayce used every last bit of strength he had to break free from Viktor''s automatons. He sprinted to the glowing crystal, and struck it with all of the hextech-enhanced force his hammer could muster, crushing the mystical object. Viktor cried out in horror as the crystal shattered to fragments, the shockwave blasting them all backward as the army of automatons collapsed lifelessly to the floor. The very foundations of the warehouse shook, and Jayce barely managed to escape before the entire building toppled. Viktor''s body was never found. Upon his return to Piltover, Jayce informed his clan masters of Viktor''s nefarious plans. Soon, Jayce found himself a topic of discussion in both Zaun and Piltover alike. Hailed for his quick thinking in a time of crisis, Jayce became a beloved figure (at least, amongst those who hadn''t met him), earning himself a nickname: the Defender of Tomorrow. Jayce cared little for the adoration of his fellow Piltovans, but took the nickname to heart. He knew that Viktor was still out there, plotting his revenge. One day C maybe someday soon C an awful lot of trouble was headed for Piltover. And Jayce would be waiting. "Picking a fight with me is the dumbest thing you''ve done today C and that''s saying a lot." Chapter 134 - Jhin - The Virtuoso Jhin is a meticulous criminal psychopath who believes murder is art. Once an Ionian prisoner, but freed by shadowy elements within Ionia''s ruling council, the serial killer now works as their cabal''s assassin. Using his gun as his paintbrush, Jhin creates works of artistic brutality, horrifying victims and onlookers. He gains a cruel pleasure from putting on his gruesome theater, making him the ideal choice to send the most powerful of messages: terror. For years, Ionia''s southern mountains were plagued by the infamous "Golden Demon." Throughout the province of Zhyun, a monster slaughtered scores of travelers and sometimes whole farmsteads, leaving behind twisted displays of corpses. Armed militias searched the forests, towns hired demon hunters, Wuju masters patrolled the roads - but nothing slowed the beast''s grisly work. In desperation, the Council of Zhyun sent an envoy to beg Great Master Kusho for help. Upon hearing of the region''s plight, Kusho feigned an excuse for why he couldn''t help. But a week later, the master, his son Shen, and star apprentice Zed, disguised themselves merchants and moved to the province. In secret, they visited the countless families emotionally shattered by the killings, dissected the horrific crime scenes, and looked for possible connections or patterns to the murders. Their investigation took four long years, and left the three men changed. The famous red mane of Kusho turned white; Shen, known for his wit and humor, became somber; and Zed, the brightest star of Kusho''s temple, began to struggle with his studies. Upon finally finding a pattern to the killings, the Great Master is quoted as saying: "Good and evil are not truths. They are born from men and each sees the shades differently." Depicted in a variety of plays and epic poems, the capture of the "Golden Demon" would be the seventh and final great feat in the ill.u.s.trious career of Lord Kusho. On the eve of the Blossom Festival in Jyom Pass, Kusho disguised himself as a renowned calligrapher to blend in with the other guest artists. Then he waited. Everyone had assumed only an evil spirit could commit these horrifying crimes, but Kusho had realized the killer was an ordinary man. The famed "Golden Demon" was actually a mere stagehand in Zhyun''s traveling theaters and opera houses working under the name Khada Jhin. When they caught Jhin, young Zed marched forward to kill the cowering man, but Kusho held him back. Despite the horrors of Jhin''s actions, the legendary master decided the killer should be taken alive and left at Tuula Prison. Shen disagreed, but accepted the emotionless logic of his father''s judgment. Zed, disturbed and haunted by the murder scenes he had witnessed, was unable to understand or accept this mercy, and it is said a resentment began to bloom in his heart. Though imprisoned in Tuula for many years, the polite and shy Khada Jhin revealed little of himself - even his real name remained a mystery. But while a prisoner, the monks noted he was a bright student who excelled in many subjects, including smithing, poetry, and dance. Regardless, the guards and monks could find nothing to cure him of his morbid fascinations. Outside the prison, Ionia fell into turmoil as the Noxian empire''s invasion led to political instability. War awoke the tranquil nation''s appetite for bloodshed. The peace and balance Kusho had famously fought to protect was shattered from within as dark hearts rose in power and secret alliances competed for influence. Desperate to counter the power of the ninja and Wuju swordsmen, a cabal within the ruling council conspired to secretly free Jhin and turn him into a weapon of terror. Now with access to the Kashuri armories'' new weapons, and nearly unlimited funds, the scale of Khada Jhin''s "performances" has grown. His work has brought fear to many foreign dignitaries and to Ionia''s secret political underground, but how long will a serial killer, craving attention, be satisfied working in the shadows? "Art requires a certain cruelty." Chapter 135 - Jinx - The Loose Cannon A manic and impulsive criminal from Zaun, Jinx lives to wreak havoc without care for the consequences. With an arsenal of deadly weapons, she unleashes the loudest blasts and brightest explosions to leave a trail of mayhem and panic in her wake. Jinx despises boredom, and gleefully brings her own chaotic brand of pandemonium wherever she goes. No one knows for sure exactly where Jinx came from, but many urban legends and folktales have sprung up around her. Some have her as a young gang member who fell in with the wrong crowd and was either traumatized by one too many killings, suffered too much at the hands of an enemy or was simply driven insane by sump fumes. A few of the old timers in Zaun remember a young girl who might fit Jinx''s description, but the girl they speak of is a far cry from the one who became Piltover''s bane. This girl was sweet and innocent, a tinkerer with big ideas, who never quite fit in and came to a bad end. Some even whisper that Jinx isn''t even human, that she is some kind of avenging spirit of mayhem, come to wreak havoc upon Piltover in revenge for the thousands who died when Zaun sank into the earth. Jinx made her first appearance on Roguery Night, a barely tolerated annual tradition where youthful girls and boys throughout Piltover play practical jokes on their family and neighbors. Jinx hijacked the occasion to unleash the first of many crime sprees; bridges were blocked with stampeding livestock freed from Count Mei''s menagerie, scores of roads were shut down by explosions that made them impassable, and every street sign in the city was moved and placed somewhere new. Jinx had succeeded in spreading chaos throughout the streets and bringing the city to a halt. It had been a good day. The wardens attributed her crimes to chem-punk gangs, rounding up dozens of known troublemakers and sending them back down to Zaun. Having others get the credit for her manic schemes didn''t sit well with Jinx, and so she made sure to be seen at every future crime scene. Reports circulated of a mysterious, blue-haired Zaunite girl, but talk of her carrying chemtech explosives, a shark-mouthed launcher and a repeater gun were dismissed as preposterous. After all, how could a Zaunite chem-punk possibly obtain such lethal firearms? The crime spree escalated in lunacy until Jinx detonated a series of explosives simultaneously throughout the city. A great many of the civic art structures erected by the Piltover clans were destroyed in fiery conflagrations that lit the sky in blazing pyrotechnics until dawn. Due to the late hour, no one was hurt, but numerous clan leaders were outraged at the sight of their great works reduced to rubble. Jinx''s crime wave continued for weeks, with the wardens'' attempts to catch her thwarted at every turn. She tagged her crime scenes with insulting graffiti and taunting messages directed at Piltover''s newest ally in the fight against crime, Enforcer Vi. These bright pink tags finally revealed the name of Piltover''s newest troublemaker; Jinx. With every bold crime, Jinx became ever more legendary, with people in Zaun divided as to whether she was a hero for sticking it to the Pilties or a dangerous lunatic that would bring the full force of the wardens down to the undercity. That moment came even closer when Jinx sabotaged the Sun Gate and delayed the flow of sh.i.p.s by several hours C costing the city''s ruling clans vast sums of lost revenue. Having seen exactly which buttons to press, Jinx offered a challenge that couldn''t be ignored C she threatened Piltover''s money. She daubed the walls of the Ecliptic Vaults, one of Piltover''s most secure treasuries, with a caricature of Enforcer Vi, together with details of exactly when Jinx planned to rob it. An uneasy sense of anticipation settled on Piltover and Zaun in the weeks leading up to the appointed date of Jinx''s heist. Many doubted Jinx would have the guts to show up and risk almost certain capture. When the day of the heist arrived, Vi, Caitlyn and the wardens were taking no chances and had prepared a trap for Jinx around the treasury. The clocktower bells rang at the appointed hour, but nothing happened. It seemed Jinx had chickened out, but she was one step ahead of her would-be captors. Jinx, despite the seeming recklessness of her actions, had a plan and it had been in motion for days. She had hidden herself within a modified coin-crate at the Toll Towers of the Sun Gates and had been delivered to the vaults two days previously. Jinx was already inside, and was even now wreaking havoc, leaving her signature pink tags on every gilded wall, swinging from the chandeliers and leaving explosive surprises in every lockbox. Hearing the cacophony from within, Vi realized what was happening, she stormed inside the building, ignoring Caitlyn''s order to go in as a team. The battle they fought tore the vaults to pieces in a back and forth chase of explosions and demolition. Eventually Jinx and Vi confronted one another in the deepest, most secure vault. No one knows what passed between them, for Vi had pursued Jinx far ahead of the others. With the two of them trapped together underground, Jinx fired her rockets into the ceiling of the vault, and the entire structure collapsed. The wardens in the upper reaches of the vault escaped before the building came down, but Vi was left trapped inside. Only by hiding in the same lockbox Jinx had used to break in was she able to avoid being crushed to death. Eventually she punched her way out from the ruins, wondering for a moment if Jinx lay dead somewhere in the ruins, only to see one last tag left in the patterns of destruction C a final taunt daring Vi to catch her. No trace of the blue-haired hellion could be found, and to add insult to injury, not a single coin had been taken from the vaults. Jinx remains at large to this day, and is a constant thorn in Piltover''s side. Her actions have inspired copycats among the chem-punk gangs of Zaun as well as numerous satirical plays, sayings and the like throughout both cities. Her ultimate end-game (or why she is seemingly obsessed with Vi) remains a mystery, but one thing is certain; her crimes are continuing and growing in sheer audacity. "Volatile explosives are a girl''s best friend!" Chapter 136 - KaiSa - Daughter Of The Void Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the fearless hunter of the Void known as Kai''Sa is how unremarkably her life began. She did not descend from tribal warriors hardened by generations of battle, nor was she summoned from distant lands to fight the unknowable menace lurking beneath Shurima. Rather, she was just an ordinary girl, born to loving parents who called the unforgiving southern deserts their home. This was where she would spend her days playing with friends, and her nights dreaming about her place in the world. In her tenth summer, the young girl Kaisa''s destiny would be changed forever. Had she been older, she might have noticed more of the unusual events that had begun to unfold in the villagesevery day, her mother urged her stay home, for fear of strangers wandering the land, demanding tribute to dark powers below. Kaisa and her friends did not believe it, until one evening they came upon a pen of sacrificial goats bought from nomad herdsmen. Using the knife her father had given her on her eighth birthday, she cut their tethers and set the animals free into a nearby canyon. It seemed like a harmless prank, until the unthinkable happened. The ground began to quake, flashes of light scorched the sky, and the children ran for their lives. The Void had been awakened. A great rift split the bedrock, swallowing up Kaisa''s village and everyone in it, leaving nothing behind but sand pierced with twisted columns as black as night. Kaisa regained consciousness to find herself trapped underground. She was filled with crippling fear, but there was still hope; she could hear the faint cries of other survivors. They called out to each other feebly, repeating their names one by one like a mantra. Sadly, by the third day, hers was the only voice left. Her friends and family were all gone. She was alone in the darkness. It was only when all seemed lost that she saw the light. She followed it down. Along the way, she found meager sustenance. Amid the debris left by the collapse were ragged waterskins, rotting peachesanything to keep starvation at bay. But, eventually, Kaisa''s hunger was replaced by fear once again. She found herself in a vast cavern, illuminated by an otherworldly purplish glow, and she could see she was no longer alone. Skittering creatures swarmed in the depths. The first that came for Kaisa was no bigger than her, and she clutched her knife in both hands, ready to defend herself. The voidling horror knocked her to the ground, but she drove the blade into its pulsing heart, and the two of them tumbled deeper into the abyss. The creature was seemingly dead, but its unnatural skin had taken hold upon the flesh of her arm. The dark shell tingled, but was hard as steel to the touch. In a panic, Kaisa broke her knife trying to remove it. But when the larger beasts came, she used it as a shield to make her escape. Soon enough, she realized the shell was becoming part of her. As her daily struggle to survive drew out into years, this second skin grew with her, and so too did her resolve. Now she had more than hope, she had a plan. Fight hard. Stay alive. Find a way back. She was transformed, from frightened girl to fearless survivor, from prey to predator. For almost a decade, she has lived between two worlds in an attempt to keep them apartthe Void hungers to consume not only the scattered villages of Shurima, but the whole of Runeterra. She will not allow that to happen. Though she has slain countless Void-constructs, she understands that many of the people she protects would see her as a monster herself. Indeed, her name has begun to pass into legend, an echo of the ancient horrors of doomed Icathia. No longer Kaisa but Kai''Sa. "My appearance may frighten you, but make no mistakeI am on your side, and we fight to the bitter end." Chapter 137 - Kalista - The Spear Of Vengeance In life, Kalista was a proud general, niece to the king of an empire that none now recall. She lived by a strict code of honor, serving the throne with utmost loyalty. The king had many enemies, and when they sent an assassin to slay him, it was Kalista''s vigilance that averted disaster. But in saving the king, she damned the one he loved mostthe assassin''s deflected blade was envenomed, and sliced the arm of the queen. The greatest priests and surgeons were summoned, but none could draw the poison from her body. Wracked with grief, the king dispatched Kalista in search of a cure, with Hecarim of the Iron Order taking her place at his side. Kalista traveled far, consulting learned scholars, hermits and mystics but to no avail. Finally, she learned of a place protected from the outside world by shimmering pale mists, whose inhabitants were rumored to know the secrets of eternal life. She set sail on one last voyage of hope, to the almost legendary Blessed Isles. The guardians of the capital city Helia saw the purity of Kalista''s intent, and parted the mists to allow her safe passage. She begged them to heal the queen, and after much consideration, the masters of the city agreed. Time was of the essence. While the queen yet breathed, there was hope for her in the fabled Waters of Life. Kalista was given a talisman that would allow her to return to Helia unaided, but was warned against sharing this knowledge with any other. However, by the time Kalista reached the shores of her homeland, the queen was already dead. The king had descended into madness, locking himself in his tower with the queen''s festering corpse. When he learned of Kalista''s return, he demanded to know what she had found. With a heavy heart, for she had never before failed him, she admitted that the cure she had found would be of no use. The king would not believe this, and condemned Kalista as a traitor to the crown. It was Hecarim who persuaded her to lead them to the Blessed Isles, where her uncle could hear the truth of it from the masters themselves. Then, perhaps, he would find peaceeven if only in accepting that the queen was gone, and allowing her to be laid to rest. Hesitantly, Kalista agreed. And so the king set out with a flotilla of his fastest sh.i.p.s, and cried out in joy as the glittering city of Helia was revealed to him. However, they were met by the stern masters, who would not allow them to pass. Death, they insisted, was final. To cheat it would be to break the natural order of the world. The king flew into a fevered rage, and commanded Kalista to slay any who opposed them. She refused, and called on Hecarim to stand with her but instead he drove his spear through her armored back. The Iron Order joined him in this treachery, piercing Kalista''s body a dozen times more as she fell. A brutal melee erupted, with those devoted to Kalista fighting desperately against Hecarim''s knights, but their numbers were too few. As Kalista''s life faded, and she watched her warriors die, swearing vengeance with her final breath When next Kalista opened her eyes, they were filled with the dark power of unnatural magic. She had no idea what had transpired, but the city of Helia had been transformed into a twisted mockery of its former beautyindeed, the entirety of the Blessed Isles was now a place of shadow and darkness, filled with howling spirits trapped for all eternity in the nightmare of undeath. Though she tried to cling to those fragmented memories of Hecarim''s monstrous betrayal, they have slowly faded in all the centuries since, and all that now remains is a thirst for revenge burning in Kalista''s ruined chest. She has become a specter, a figure of macabre folklore, often invoked by those who have suffered similar treacheries. These wretched spirits are subsumed into hers, to pay the ultimate pricebecoming one with the Spear of Vengeance. "Turncoats, oath breakers and betrayers we hate them all." Chapter 138 - Karma - The Enlightened One Karma is the living embodiment of an ancient Ionian soul, who serves as a spiritual beacon to each generation of her people. Her most recent incarnation came in the form of a 12-year-old girl named Darha. Raised in the northern highlands of Shon-Xan, she was headstrong and independent, always dreaming of a life beyond her provincial village. But Darha began to suffer strange, fitful visions. The images were curiousthey felt like memories, yet the girl was certain they had not happened to her. At first, the problem was easy enough to conceal, but the visions grew in intensity until Darha was convinced she was descending into madness. Just when it seemed she would be confined to the healing huts forever, a group of monks visited her village. They had come from a place known as the Lasting Altar, where the divine leader Karma had passed away some months earlier. The monks were in search of the old man''s next incarnation, believing him to be among the villagers. They applied a series of tests to everyone they met, but eventually prepared to leave empty handed. As they passed the healing huts, Darha threw herself out of her cot and ran to stop them. She wept, telling them of her visions, and that she had known the monks'' voices from the babble in her head. They recognized the signs immediately. This was their Karma. The visions were past lives rushing to fill a new vessel. In that moment, Darha''s life changed forever. She bid farewell to all she''d ever known, and journeyed to the Lasting Altar to learn from the monks. Over the years, they taught her to connect with her ancient soul, and to commune with thousands of previous incarnations, each espousing the wisdom of ages past. Karma had always advocated peace and harmony, teaching that any act of evil would bring about its own repercussions, and so required no response. But Darha questioned these principles, even as she became Karma. Some of her followers were confused. How could she be invested with the Spirit of Ionia, the First Lands'' most sacred manifestation, and yet disagree with their most self-evident philosophies? Indeed, these beliefs were truly tested when Noxus invaded Ionia. Many thousands were killed as the enemy warbands advanced inland, and Karma was forced to face the harsh realities of war. She could feel the immense destructive potential that swelled in her soul, and wondered what the point of this power could be, if it was not to be used. The voices of the past urged her to remain at the Lasting Altar, to comfort her people and allow this conflict to pass. And yet, a far deeper truth compelled her to act... Karma agonized over this, until she could stand it no longer. She confronted a Noxian commander on the deck of his own war frigate, and unleashed her divine fury. This was no single, measured attackshe obliterated the entire vessel and its crew in a heartbeat. Though many Ionians rejoiced at this apparent victory, the monks believed she had made a huge mistake. She had upset the spiritual harmony of their homeland, disgracing all who had borne the name of Karma before her, and tarnished her own undying soul along with those of her followers. Even if it meant a life of solitary meditation and penance, they implored her to do no further injury. Karma silenced them with a raised hand. Though she could still hear the voices in her head, it was the Spirit of Ionia in her heart that guided her and the First Lands were stirring to defend themselves. She did not know if she had been chosen for her courage and strength of will, but Karma knew that sometimes harmony came only at a great cost. Their world was changing, and true wisdom lay not in resisting that fact, but accepting it. Though the war with Noxus is now long over, there are still many in Ionia who have become only too glad to meet violence with violence, even against their own neighbors. Karma has pledged to guide as many of them as she can to a more enlightened pathto peace when possible, to action when necessary. "As Ionia changes, so must I." Chapter 139 - Karthus - The Deathsinger The harbinger of oblivion, Karthus is an undying spirit whose haunting songs are a prelude to the horror of his nightmarish appearance. The living fear the eternity of undeath, but Karthus sees only beauty and purity in its embrace, a perfect union of life and death. When Karthus emerges from the Shadow Isles, it is to bring the joy of death to mortals, an apostle of the unliving. Karthus was born into abject poverty in the sprawl of dwellings built beyond the walls of the Noxian capital. His mother died at the moment of his birth, leaving his father to raise him and his three sisters alone. They shared a crumbling, rat-infested almshouse with scores of other families, subsisting on a diet of rainwater and vermin. Of all the children, Karthus was the best ratter, and regularly brought gnawed corpses for the cook-pot. Death was commonplace in the slums of Noxus, and many mornings began with the wailing of bereaved parents who woke to discover their child cold and lifeless beside them. Karthus learned to love these laments, and would watch, fascinated, as the tally-men of Kindred notched their staffs and bore the bodies from the almshouse. At night the young Karthus would sneak through the cramped rooms, seeking those whose lives hung by a thread, hoping to witness the moment their soul passed from life to death. For years, his nightly travels were fruitless, as it was impossible to predict exactly when a person would die. He was denied witnessing the moment of death until it reached his own family. Outbreaks of disease were frequent in such cramped confines, and when Karthus''s sisters sickened with the plague, he watched over them intently. While his father drowned his grief, Karthus was the ever dutiful brother, caring for his sisters as the disease consumed them. He watched each of them as they died, and a sublime connection seemed to reach into him as the light faded from their eyes - a yearning to see what lay beyond death and unlock the secrets of eternity. When the tally-men came for the bodies, Karthus followed them back to their temple, asking them question after question about their order and the workings of death. Could a person exist at the moment where life ends, but before death begins? If such a liminal moment could be understood and held, might the wisdom of life be combined with the clarity of death? The tally-men quickly recognized Karthus''s suitability for their order and he was inducted into their ranks, first as a digger of graves and pyre-builder, before ascending to the rank of corpse collector. Karthus guided his bone-cart around the streets of Noxus to gather the dead every day. His dirges quickly became known throughout Noxus, mournful laments that spoke to the beauty of death and the hope that what lay beyond was something to be embraced. Many a grieving family took solace in his songs, finding a measure of peace in his heartfelt elegies. Eventually, Karthus worked in the temple itself, tending to the sick in their final moments, watching as whatever death had laid its claim upon them took its due. Karthus would speak to each person laid before him, ushering their souls into death, in search of further wisdom in their fading eyes. Eventually, Karthus reached the conclusion that he could learn no more from mortals, that only the dead themselves could answer his questions. None of the dying souls could tell of what lay beyond, but whispered rumors and tales told to frighten children echoed of a place where death was not the end - The Shadow Isles. Karthus emptied the temple''s coffers and bought passage to Bilgewater, a city plagued by a strange black mist said to draw souls to a cursed island far out at sea. No captain was willing to take Karthus to the Shadow Isles, but eventually he came upon a rum-sodden fisherman with a mountain of debts and nothing to lose. The boat plied the ocean for many days and nights, until a storm drove them onto the rocks of an island that appeared on no charts. A black mist rolled out from a haunted landscape of gnarled trees and tumbled ruins. The fisherman freed his boat and turned its prow in terror for Bilgewater, but Karthus leapt into the sea and waded ashore. Steadying himself with his notched tally-staff, he proudly sang the lament he had prepared for the moment of his own death, and his words were carried on a cold wind to the heart of the island. The black mist flowed through Karthus, ravaging his flesh and spirit with ancient sorcery, but such was the force of his desire to transcend mortality that it did not destroy him. Instead, it remade him, and Karthus was born anew in the waters of the island as a fleshless revenant. Revelation filled Karthus as he became what he always believed he should have been; a being poised at the threshold of death and life. The beauty of this eternal moment filled him with wonder as the wretched spirits of the island rose to behold his transformation, drawn to his passion like predators scenting blood in the ocean. Finally, Karthus was where he belonged, surrounded by those who truly understood the boon undeath truly was. Filled with righteous zeal, he knew he had to return to Valoran and share his gift with the living, to free them from petty mortal concerns. Karthus turned and the Black Mist bore him over the waves to the fisherman''s boat. The man fell to his knees before Karthus, begging for his life, and Karthus granted him the blessing of death, ending his mortal suffering and raising him up as an immortal spirit as he sang his lament for passing souls. The fisherman was the first of many such souls Karthus would free, and soon the Deathsinger would command a legion of unliving wraiths. To Karthus''s awakened senses, the Shadow Isles was in a state of apathetic limbo, where the blessings of death were squandered. He would galvanize the dead in a crusade to bring the beauty of oblivion to the living, to end the suffering of mortality and usher in a glorious age of undeath. Karthus has become the emissary of the Shadow Isles, the herald of oblivion whose laments are paeans to the glory of death. His legions of unbound souls join with his funereal dirges, their haunting song reaching beyond the Black Mist to be heard on cold nights over graveyards and charnel houses all across Valoran. "Death is not the end of the journey, it is just the beginning..." Chapter 140 - Kassadin - The Void Walker Kassadin started life as a lowly offcast, walking the harsh sands of the Great Sai alongside merchant caravans to draw predators away from their more valuable goods. He survived many of these treks across the desert, and began to serve less as bait, and more as a guide. The foreign tongues that sought his talents, "Kas sai a dyn?" or "whom does the desert know?" often slurred their Shuriman, and so he became fondly known as Kassadin in the back alleys and markets of Bel''zhun. He spent many years exploring the ancient ruins of his homeland, making his employers exceedingly wealthy, but it wasn''t until a dig near Zirima that he found a treasure of his ownhe fell in love with a woman from one of the desert tribes. With his wife and newborn daughter, Kassadin settled in a small village in the rocky canyons to the south. He was on the road often, his work sometimes requiring him to accompany particularly valuable relics to some faraway sponsor. But, no matter where his travels took him, Kassadin would always return with exciting tales from the world beyond. Journeying home from distant Piltover, Kassadin and his fellow caravaneers were watering their beasts at an oasis when they encountered the first terrified survivors stumbling out of the desert. They spoke of the disaster that had claimed their homes, as if the maw of the underworld itself had opened up to devour them. They had barely escaped with their lives. Fearing for his own family''s safety, Kassadin left the others behind, riding hard, driving his mount almost to exhaustion. When he finally reached the place where his village had once stood, he found only shifting sand and rubble. He clawed at the debris until his hands bled, screaming out his wife and daughter''s names, though no answer came. Days later, Kassadin''s companions caught up to him, now just a broken and empty man weeping beneath the scorching sun. They dragged him back to Zirima, but Kassadin would go no further. For years, he tried to drown his grief, reduced to little more than a vagrant until word reached town of "the Prophet." Whispers of unspeakable horrors that dwelt beneath the earth, and of sacrifices made in their name, chilled Kassadin to the bone. He knew well the legends of old Icathia, and the fate that befell that accursed placeif the Void had been deliberately drawn toward Shurima once more, then it had likely been the death of his entire village, and countless more besides. He also knew there were few, if any, who could stand against it. In that moment, Kassadin swore that he would avenge his wife and daughter, by destroying this insidious Prophet, and the source of his abyssal power. He was a man who had made his living by finding safe paths through the most dangerous places, and resolved to arm himself with the most arcane and esoteric weapons ever known in Valoran, fused with Zaunite ingenuity, and blessed by Ionian spirit-healers. He called in every favor he could, from scholars of antiquities to common smugglers, for their help in acquiring what he sought. Many called him a madman, believing this the last time they would ever see their old friend aliveKassadin merely thanked them for their concern, and bid them farewell. He would face the Void alone. Last of all, he stole the infamous Nether Blade of Horok, the sword that had slain a thousand deceivers in the latter days of the empire. He could feel the cold pull of oblivion in its edge, but no longer had any regard for his own mortality, and nothing of his old life left to lose. Disguised in the robes of a pilgrim, more than a decade since he had last set foot anywhere near that desolate land, Kassadin made his way into Icathia. He would go where no man was ever meant to walk. He would have his vengeance, even if it killed him. "There are few indeed who may tread the paths between worlds." Chapter 141 - Katarina - The Sinister Blade Born to one of the most respected noble families of Noxus, Katarina Du Couteau found herself elevated above others from an early age. While her younger sister Cassiopeia took after their politically brilliant mother, Katarina was very much her father''s daughter, and the wily General Du Couteau pushed her to learn the way of the blade; to cut away the empire''s enemies not with reckless brutality, but deadly precision. He was a harsh teacher with many pupils, and notoriously difficult to impress. So it was that Katarina''s childhoodif it can be called suchhad little room for kindness or rest. She spent every waking moment honing herself into the ultimate weapon, testing her endurance, her dexterity, her tolerance for pain. She stole poisons from the city''s least reputable apothecaries, testing their efficacy in tiny increments upon herself, gradually building her resistance even as she catalogued their effects. She scaled the tallest towers in the dead of night, unseen by anyone. She yearned to do her part for Noxus. She yearned for the opportunity to demonstrate her hidden strengths in service of the empire, and the throne. Her first mark came straight from her father, camped with his warbands on the eve of one of the military''s innumerable westward invasions She was to assassinate a line officer of the opposing army, a low-born wretch by the name of Demetrius. Katarina was livid. She hadn''t trained her entire life to have her talents wasted on some dungheel barely skilled enough to swing a sword! He simply wouldn''t do. Instead of her assigned target, Katarina stole into the enemy camp and slit the enemy commander''s throat as he slept. It was a flawless execution. It would bring a swift victory, and glory to Noxus. It would make her father proud. At dawn, his face daubed with ashes, the vengeful hero Demetrius led a berzerk charge into her father''s encampment. Dozens of Noxian soldiers were slaughtered, along with the general''s personal retinue. Katarina''s father himself barely escaped with his life. He was furious beyond words, refusing even to look his daughter in the eye. She had shamed him, and their family name. The greatest assassins do not seek recognition or glory, he reminded her. They do not expect to occupy a place of honor at their master''s right hand. Overwhelmed, Katarina struck out into the wilderness, alone. She would complete her original mission. Demetrius would pay with his life. Even so, her mind swam. Could she ever forgive herself? How had she been so foolish? She was so distracted, she didn''t see her attacker until he had nearly taken her eye out. For Katarina''s failure, General Du Couteau had sent another of his protgs after her; a nameless whelp dragged up from one of the lesser assassins'' guilds. But even with blood streaming down her face, the years of rigorous training kicked in, and her blades were in her hands in an instant. Six hours later, she tossed Demetrius''s severed head at her father''s feet. She told the general she had considered taking his head instead, but eventually decidedas much as she hated to admit itthat he had done the right thing in ordering her death. She had failed. Not just as an assassin, or as a daughter, but as a Noxian. And failure must have its consequences. She ran her fingers along the raw, deep gash over her left eye, and thought of the price others had paid for her arrogance. She knew she had lost her father''s favor, and could never regain it. He would raise others in her place, simply to spite her. Still, she vowed to redeem herself, no matter the costto rededicate her talents to the empire, and to become the sinister weapon she always intended to be. "Never question my loyalty. You will never know what I endure for it." Chapter 142 - Kayle - The Righteous As the Rune Wars raged, Mount Targon stood as a beacon against the oncoming darknessKayle and her twin sister Morgana were born beneath that light. Their parents, Mihira and Kilam, began the perilous climb in search of the power to save their tribe from destruction. Even when Mihira learned she was with child, she pushed onward. At the mountain''s summit, she was chosen as a divine vessel for the Aspect of Justice, wielding a sword that blazed with a fire brighter than the sun. Not long after, the twins were born. Kayle, the elder by a breath, was as bright as Morgana was dark. But Mihira had become a fearsome warrior, far greater than any mortal. Kilam began to fear her new divinity, and the sorcerous enemies that were drawn to her light. He resolved to take the girls out of harm''s way, journeying across the Conquerer''s Sea to a settlement where the land itself was said to offer protection against magic. In their new homeland, Kilam raised the twins, their temperaments growing more different with each passing day. Kayle was precocious, often arguing with the settlement''s leaders about their rulesshe had no real memory of her mother''s powers, but knew the laws were meant to keep them all safe. Her father rarely spoke of such things, but Kayle was certain Mihira had saved them by ending the Rune Wars on some distant battlefield. When the twins were teenagers, a streak of flame split the sky. A sword smoldering with celestial fire struck the ground between Kayle and her sister, breaking in twoKilam was distraught when he recognized the blade as Mihira''s. Kayle eagerly snatched up one half of the weapon, feathered wings springing forth from her shoulders, and Morgana cautiously followed her example. In that moment, Kayle felt more connected to her mother than ever, certain that this was a sign she was alive and wanted her daughters to follow the same path as her. The people of the settlement believed the girls had been blessed by the stars, destined to protect the fledgling nation of Demacia from outsiders. These winged protectors became symbols of light and truth, and were revered by all. Kayle fought in many battles, flying at the head of the growing militia and imbuing the weapons of the worthy with her own sanctified fire but in time, her pursuit of justice began to consume her. Seeing threats within and without, she founded a judicator order to enforce the law, and hunted down rebels and reavers with equal fervor. But there was one person she softened her judgment toward. To the dismay of her followers, Kayle allowed Morgana to rehabilitate wrongdoers who appeared humble enough to admit their guilt. Kayle''s protege, Ronas, was the most disapproving of allhe swore to do what Kayle would not, and attempted to imprison Morgana. Kayle returned to find the people rioting, and Ronas dead. Consumed by rage, she looked down upon the city, and summoned her divine fire to cleanse the city of its sins. Morgana flew up to meet her, raising her blade. If Kayle was to purge the darkness she saw in mortal hearts, she would have to start with her own sister. The two battled across the heavens, each matching the other''s terrible blows and striking the buildings beneath them to rubble. Abruptly, the fight was halted by their father''s anguished cry. Kayle watched Kilam die in her sister''s arms, a senseless victim of the violence that had overtaken the city that day. Then she held the two halves of their mother''s sword in her hands, and vowed she would never again let mortal emotions rule her. As she leapt back into the sky, soaring high above the clouds, she felt she could almost see Mount Targon beyond the horizon, its formidable peak bathed red by the setting sun. There she would seek perfect, celestial clarity. There she would stand at her mother''s side, and fulfill her legacy to the Aspect of Justice. Though she has been absent from Demacia for many centuries, Kayle''s legend has inspired much of the kingdom''s culture and law. Grand statues and icons of the Winged Protector give strength to the heart of every warrior who marches to illuminate the night, and banish all shadows from their land. In times of strife and chaos, there are many who cling to the hope that Kayle might eventually return and others who pray that such a day will never come. "No human is perfect. But I am not human." Chapter 143 - Kayn - The Shadow Reaper Noxian by birth, Shieda Kayn and others like him were conscripted as child soldiers, a cruel practice employed by only the most devious commanders in Boram Darkwill''s empire. Following the disastrous battle at the Placidium of Navori, the invasion was deliberately reformulated into a protracted war of attrition. Ionian compassion was a weakness to be exploitedtheir warriors would hesitate before striking down a supposed innocent. Thus, barely able to lift the blade he had been given, Kayn''s first day in battle was also expected to be his last. Striking against the province of Bahrl, Noxian forces landed at the mouth of the Epool River. Kayn and the others were a reluctant vanguard, facing disorganized bands of locals defending their home from these returning invaders. While his young comrades were cut down or fled the battlefield, Kayn showed no fear. He dropped his heavy sword and snatched up a fallen sickle, turning to face the shocked Ionians just as the Noxian regulars swept in from the flank. The carnage was staggering. Farmers, hunterseven a handful of vastayaall were butchered without ceremony. Two days later, after word had spread throughout the southern provinces, the Order of Shadow came upon the grisly scene. Their leader, Zed, knew this area had no tactical significance. This massacre was intended as a message. Noxus would show no mercy. A flickering glint of steel caught his eye. A child of no more than ten lay in the mud, leveling his broken sickle at the master assassin, bloody knuckles straining white. The boy''s eyes harbored a pain that belied his age, yet still burned with all the fury of a hardened warrior. This tenacity was not something that could be taught. Zed saw in this child, this abandoned Noxian survivor, a weapon that could be turned against those who had sent him here to die. The assassin held out his hand and welcomed Kayn into the Order of Shadow. Acolytes traditionally spent years training with a single weapon of their choosing, but Kayn mastered them allto him, they were mere tools, and he was the weapon. Armor he viewed as a c.u.mbersome burden, instead cloaking himself in shadows and slaying his enemies with quickness and stealth. These swift executions instilled fear in the hearts of those fortunate enough to be spared. And as Kayn''s legend grew, so did his arrogance. He truly believed that one day his power would eclipse even that of Zed himself. This hubris led Kayn to embrace his final test: to seek out a darkin weapon recently unearthed in Noxus, and prevent it from ever being used against the weary defenders of Ionia. He accepted without hesitation, never questioning why he had been chosen for this task. Indeed, where any other acolyte would have destroyed the living scythe known as Rhaast, Kayn took it for himself. The corruption took hold the moment his fingers closed around the weapon, locking them both in a fateful struggle. Rhaast has long awaited the perfect host in order to rejoin its darkin brethren and lay waste to the world, but Kayn will not be easily dominated. He returns to Ionia in triumph, convinced that Zed will name him the new leader of the Order of Shadow. "The child is gone. The killer remains." Chapter 144 - Kennen - The Heart Of The Tempest There exists an ancient order originating in the Ionian Isles dedicated to the preservation of balance. Order, chaos, light, darkness -- all things must exist in perfect harmony for such is the way of the universe. This order is known as the Kinkou and it employs a triumvirate of shadow warriors to uphold its causes in the world. Kennen is one of these shadow warriors, entrusted with the sacred duty of Coursing the Sun - tirelessly conveying the justice of the Kinkou. Kennen was born in Bandle City and it was said that in his first living moments he bolted first from the w.o.m.b and second from the midwife who delivered him. His parents had thought that he would outgrow his boundless energy, but as he matured his energy found no limits and was matched only by his unnerving speed. Despite his astonishing gifts, he remained unnoticed (or at least uncaught, as he was quite the prankster) until, on a dare, he ran straight up the great outer wall of the Placidium. When word of this feat reached Kinkou ears, Kennen was quickly and quietly brought in for an audience. He found that the role of the Heart of the Tempest suited him, frenetically delivering both the word and the punishments of the Kinkou across the realm. He now works with his fellows Akali and Shen to enforce the balance of Valoran. "The Heart of the Tempest beats eternal...and those beaten remember eternally." Chapter 145 - KhaZix - The Voidreaver A vicious Void predator, Kha''Zix infiltrated Valoran to devour the land''s most promising creatures. With each kill he absorbs his prey''s strength, evolving to grow more powerful. Kha''Zix hungers most to conquer and consume Rengar, the one beast he considers his equal. When Kha''Zix crossed over into this world, he was fragile and ravenous. The animals he first encountered were too small to fuel the rapid evolution he craved. Kha''Zix focused his hunger on the most dangerous creatures he could find, risking his life to satisfy his need. With each kill he feasted and changed, becoming a stronger, faster predator. Kha''Zix soon chased his prey with unrestrained aggression, believing he was unstoppable. One day, while savoring a fresh kill, the predator became the prey. From cover a creature pounced in a blur of fangs and steel, tackling him to the ground. It roared in his face slashing and clawing, and Kha''Zix felt his blood spill for the first time. Screeching in fury, he sliced at the brute''s eye driving it back. They fought from sunset to sunrise. Finally, near death, they reluctantly separated. As his wounds closed, Kha''Zix burned with anticipation at the idea of devouring one who could match the Void''s strength. He resumed his search for powerful prey with renewed vigor. Someday, Kha''Zix will feast on Rengar. "Kill. Consume. Adapt." Chapter 146 - Kindred - The Eternal Hunters Separate, but never parted, Kindred represents the twin essences of death. Lamb''s bow offers a swift release from the mortal realm for those who accept their fate. Wolf hunts down those who run from their end, delivering violent finality within his crushing jaws. Though interpretations of Kindred''s nature vary across Runeterra, every mortal must choose the true face of their death. Kindred is the white embrace of nothingness and the gnashing of teeth in the dark. Shepherd and the butcher, poet and the primitive, they are one and both. When caught on the edge of life, louder than any trumpeting horn, it is the hammering pulse at one''s throat that calls Kindred to their hunt. Stand and greet Lamb''s silvered bow and her arrows will lay you down swiftly. If you refuse her, Wolf will join you for his merry hunt, where every chase runs to its brutal end. For as long as its people have known death, Kindred has stalked Valoran. When the final moment comes, it is said a true Demacian will turn to Lamb, taking the arrow, while through the shadowed streets of Noxus, Wolf leads the hunt. In the snows of the Freljord, before going off to fight, some warbands "kiss the Wolf," vowing to honor his chase with the blood of their enemies. After each Harrowing, the town of Bilgewater gathers to celebrate its survivors and honor those granted a true death by Lamb and Wolf. Denying Kindred is to deny the natural order of things. There are but a wretched few who have eluded these hunters. This perverse escape is no sanctuary, for it only holds a waking nightmare. Kindred waits for those locked in the undeath of the Shadow Isles, for they know all will eventually fall to Lamb''s bow or Wolf''s teeth. The earliest dated appearance of the eternal hunters is from a pair of ancient masks, carved by unknown hands into the gravesites of people long-forgotten. But to this day, Lamb and Wolf remain together, and they are always Kindred. "Tell me again, little Lamb, which things are ours to take?" "All things, dear Wolf." Chapter 147 - Kled - The Cantankerous Cavalier A warrior as fearless as he is ornery, Kled is a popular folk hero in Noxus. Embodying the furious bravado of his nation, he is an icon beloved by the empire''s soldiers, distrusted by its officers, and loathed by the nobility. Tall tales such as "The Great Hussar," "The High General Marshal Sergeant," and "The Mountain Admiral" trace back to the founding of the empire. Many soldiers claim Kled has fought in every campaign the legions have waged, has "acquired" every military title, and has never once backed down from a fight. Though the veracity of the details is often questionable, one part of his legend is undeniable: Charging into battle on his un-trusty steed, Skaarl, Kled fights to protect what''s his and to take whatever he can get. The earliest known story of Kled traces back to the empire''s infancy and the Battle of Drugne. In the dusty hills of those badlands, the First Legion was on the run from a barbarian horde. Having lost the two previous battles, the men''s morale was low, the army had been forced to abandon its supply train in the rout, and they were a week''s march from the nearest outpost. In command of the Legion was a gaggle of wealthy nobles bedecked in spotless golden armor. They were more concerned with their appearances and the intrigues of their class than the men they were commanding. Worse, these commandersthough well versed in assassination and tournament fightinghad proven hopeless on the field. With the remains of the army surrounded by enemy forces, the nobles ordered the Legion into a defensive circle in hopes of negotiating ransoms for themselves. Then, as the morning sun rose, the mysterious figure of Kled appeared on the hilltop overlooking the battlefield. He rode Skaarl, an immortal desert drakalops. The mount stood on only two legs; its ear-like forelimbs fanned from the side of its head, hanging down apologetically, like a butler who had accidently dipped his hands in soup. The lone rider stood on his steed''s saddle. His weapon was rusted, his armor was worn, and his clothes were tattered but a relentless anger burned from his one good eye. "I''ll give you one chance to get off my land!" Kled announced to the barbarian horde, but the yordle didn''t wait for their answer. He spurred his steed and angrily screamed his charge. Desperate, starving, and furious with the nobles, the Legion''s anger ignited like blasting powder at the yordle''s insane act of bravado. The enlisted men rushed after Kled and Skaarl as they tore into the center of the enemy formation. What followed was the bloodiest melee the Legion had ever fought. The initial success of its surprise attack was crushed when the barbarians'' reserve forces smashed into the Legion''s flanks. With the battle turning against the Noxians and the enemy attacking from every side, Skaarl panicked, threw Kled, and abandoned the fight. Like the cowardly lizard creature, the Noxian soldiers faltered. But at their center, Kled fought on, chopping down foes, kicking out teeth, and biting faces. Enemy bodies piled around Kled, and his clothes were soaked with blood. Despite the casualties he inflicted with every swing of his long axe, he was still forced back by the barbarians'' relentless tide. He screamed louder challenges and cruder insults. Clearly, the yordle was willing to die before ever backing down. Courage and cowardice are as infectious as the plague, however, and seeing Kled''s determination, the legionnaires pressed on. Even Skaarl stopped running and turned to watch the Legion''s last stand. Then, as the Noxian line was breaking and the enemy''s superior numbers pulled Kled to the ground, the drakalops triumphantly returned and crashed into the barbarians'' rear. Snarling and clawing, it dove into the churning melee until it freed its master. With his mount again beneath him, the reinvigorated Kled became a whirlwind of death, and it was the barbarians who broke and ran. Though precious few of the Noxian soldiers survived, the battle was won. The tribes of Drugne were defeated, and their lands were added to the empire. The bodies of the nobles, and their fine golden armor, were never found. In time, most of the empire''s other legions acquired similar stories of Kled, proving no defeat is certain in the face of insane courage. It is said he rides wherever the legions travel, claiming the spoils of war and land for himself and Skaarl. Most Noxians find the truth of these tall tales questionable at best. But in the legions'' wake, signs can always be found proclaiming each new territory "Property of Kled." "A sane man would run but I ain''t the runnin'' kind!" Chapter 148 - KogMaw - The Mouth Of The Void When the prophet Malzahar was reborn in Icathia, he was led there by an ominous voice which thereafter anchored itself to his psyche. From within, this voice bestowed upon him terrible purpose, and though Malzahar was no longer tormented by its call, the voice did not cease its unrelenting summons. This baleful beacon''s gentle flicker - now fastened to Runeterra - drew forth a putrid beast that ambled across a threshold it did not understand, widening a fissure between the spaces which were never meant to meet. There amongst the haunting ruins of Icathia, Kog''Maw manifested in Valoran with unsettling curiosity. The spark which led him to Runeterra teased him still, urging him gently towards Malzahar. It also encouraged him to familiarize himself with his new environment, to the stark horror of everything he encountered on his journey. The enchanting colors and aromas of Runeterra intoxicated Kog''Maw, and he explored the fruits of the strange world the only way he knew how: by devouring them. At first he sampled only the wild flora and fauna he happened across. As he traversed the parched Tempest Flats, however, he came upon a tribe of nomads. Seemingly unhampered by conventional rules of physics, Kog''Maw consumed every nomad and any obstacles they put in his way, amounting to many times his own mass and volume. The most composed of his victims may have had time to wonder if this was due to the caustic enzymes which stung the ground as they dripped from his gaping mouth, although such musings were abruptly concluded. Even this feeding frenzy did nothing to satiate Kog''Maw''s appetite. His swathe of destruction continues still as he is inexorably drawn towards Malzahar. What happens when he finds him is anyone''s guess. "If that''s just hungry, I don''t want to see angry." Chapter 149 - LeBlanc - The Deceiver Matron of the Black Rose, LeBlanc''s identity is as intangible as the whispers that describe her, as ephemeral as the illusions that give her shape. Perhaps it is unknown even to herself, after so many centuries of mimicry and deception Remnants of an order that has existed far longer than Noxus itself, initiates of the Black Rose have schemed from the shadows for centuries, drawing the rich and powerful to their ranks. Though they do not often learn the origins of their matron, many have uncovered legends of a pale sorceress who aided the broken barbarian tribes, in their struggle against the infamous Iron Revenant subjugating lands already ravaged by the darkin. Even today, his name is whispered in fear: Mordekaiser. Uniquely skilled among the revenant''s inner circle before she betrayed him, the sorceress pledged to neutralize the source of his power, the Immortal Bastion, cutting him off from the well of death that fueled his nightmarish empire. Yet, even as the barbarians built an empire of their own in the bastion''s shadow, they failed to realize that the arcane secrets it held had not completely been locked away. The pale sorceress had always been gifted at illusion, and her greatest trick was to make Noxus forget the dark power roiling in its own heart, before she was burned from the pages of history around the time of the Rune Wars. The Black Rose exists now to further the clandestine interests of those who can wield such magicwith its rank-and-file composed of mundane nobles, drawn to rumors of miracles, kept in thrall and ruthlessly exploited. Even the most powerful military commander could only ever serve the cult''s true masters, as they fight one another for influence in games of intrigue and conquest, both in the Noxian capital and beyond its borders. For centuries, LeBlanc has served in secret as an advisor to foreign dignitaries, appearing in many nations at once, her illusions driving order into chaos. Rumors of a new matron rising with each generation only raise further questionswhich is the "true" version of herself? When she speaks, is it with her own voice? And what will the price be, for the favor she offers? Boram Darkwill was but the latest to learn this last answer for himself. Though the Black Rose had aided his bid for the throne, he refused the counsel of their hand-picked advisors, requiring LeBlanc to take drastic measures. Manipulating a young nobleman named Jericho Swain into revealing the cult''s involvement, LeBlanc allowed herself to be executed along with the most prominent conspirators or at least, so it appeared. In time, she reached out to Darkwill herself, and found an increasingly paranoid ruler, fearful of his own mortality. After promising him the secrets to extend his life, LeBlanc slowly poisoned Darkwill''s mind, even as she empowered him. Under his rule, the Noxian reverence of strength became something far more sinister, and together they ensured Swain''s legend would end in disgrace on the battlefields of Ionia. But Swain, emboldened by forbidden lore from within the Immortal Bastion, did something wholly unexpected, managing to drag Darkwill from the throne and seize Noxus for himself. This new Grand General was not interested in his own legacy, but the glory of the empireand such a man could not so easily be corrupted. After countless centuries, LeBlanc wondered, had she finally found a worthy nemesis? Her actions have pushed Runeterra to the brink of all-out war many times. In the wake of desperate campaigns across the Freljord, on Targon''s peaks, and deep in Shurima''s deserts, the darkest magic has begun to spread once more, circling closer and closer to Noxus. Whether LeBlanc is still the same pale sorceress who betrayed the Iron Revenant, or merely one of countless hollow reflections, her influence clearly stems from ancient roots. The Black Rose has yet to truly bloom. "A rose cannot grow in darkness. It dies, and the darkness grows" Chapter 150 - Lee Sin - The Blind Monk Among the many spirits Ionians revere, none are as storied as that of the dragon. While some believe it embodies ruin, others view it as a symbol of rebirth. Few can say for certain, and fewer still have ever been able to channel the dragon''s spirit, and none so completely as Lee Sin. He arrived at the Shojin monastery as a boy, claiming the dragon had chosen him to wield its power. The elder monks saw flashes of its fire in the talented child, but also sensed his reckless pride, and the disaster it could bring. Warily, they nonetheless took him as a pupilthough, as others advanced, the elders kept him cleaning dishes and scrubbing floors. Lee Sin grew impatient. He longed to fulfill his destiny, not waste time on chores. Sneaking into the hidden archives, he found ancient texts describing how to call upon the spirit realm, and chose to flaunt his skill during a combat lesson. Brashly, he unleashed the dragon''s rage in a wild kick, paralyzing his learned instructor. Consumed with shame and banished for his arrogance, the young man set out to atone. Years passed. Lee Sin wandered far, to distant places, benevolently aiding those in need. Eventually he reached the Freljord, where he met Udyr, a wildman who channeled the primal beasts of his homeland. The so-called Spirit Walker struggled to control the powers that warred within him, and Lee Sin began to wonder if controlling the dragon was even possible. Sharing a need for spiritual guidance, the two men forged a bond, and he invited Udyr on his journey back home. The two were dismayed to hear that the empire of Noxus had invaded and occupied Ionia. Monks from every province had fallen back to defend the holy monastery at Hirana, high up in the mountains. Lee Sin and Udyr found it besieged. Noxian soldiers had broken through to Hirana''s great hall. As Udyr leapt to join the fray, Lee Sin hesitated, seeing his former peers and elders fall to the enemy''s blades. The wisdom of Hirana, Shojin, so much of Ionia''s ancient cultureall would be lost. With no other choice left, he invoked the dragon spirit. A tempest of flames engulfed him, searing his skin and burning the sight from his eyes. Imbued with wild power, he crippled the invaders with a flurry of breakneck punches and rapid kicks, the untamable spirit flaring brighter and hotter with each blow. The monks were victorious, but Lee Sin''s desperate actions left the monastery in ruins, and his vision would never return. At last, in the blind darkness, he understood that no mortal could ever bend the might of the dragon spirit to their will completely. Devastated, agonized, he bound a cloth over his sightless eyes and tried to stagger away down the mountain paths. But the surviving elders stopped him. In forsaking all desire for power, their disgraced pupil was finally ready to begin anew. Although they would not forget his previous arrogance, the monks offered absolution: the dragon''s wrath was deadly and unpredictable, true enough, but the humblest and worthiest mortal souls could counter its fiery nature, and direct it from time to time. Gratefully, Lee Sin stayed with the monks to rebuild their monastery, and after the work was done and the Spirit Walker returned to the Freljord, Lee Sin devoted himself fully toward the pursuit of enlightenment. In the years since the war with Noxus ended, he has continued to meditate on his role in Ionia. Knowing his homeland has not faced the last of its trials, Lee Sin must master himself, and the dragon spirit within, to face whatever foe is yet to come. "Enlightenment is knowing the value of one''s ignorance." Chapter 151 - Leona - The Radiant Dawn Imbued with the fire of the sun, Leona is a warrior templar of the Solari who defends Mount Targon with her Zenith Blade and Shield of Daybreak. Her skin shimmers with starfire while her eyes burn with the power of the celestial Aspect within her. Armored in gold and bearing a terrible burden of ancient knowledge, Leona brings enlightenment to some, death to others. To live in the lands surrounding the towering peak of Mount Targon is to embrace a life of hardship. That many willingly do so is testament to the power of the human spirit to endure anything in search of meaning and higher purpose. As harsh as the rugged foothills of the mountain''s base are, it is nothing compared to the hardsh.i.p.s borne by those who dwell on the mountain itself. Living high on Targon is fraught with danger. When the glittering mist wreathing the summit descends, it does not come alone. All manner of otherworldly things are left behind when it withdraws; radiant creatures that kill at random and muttering voices that whisper unspeakable secrets to drive mortals mad. Eking a living from mountain plants and their precious herds, the Rakkor tribe dwells at the very limits of human endurance; honing their warrior skills to fight the war at the end of the world. Rakkor means Tribe of the Last Sun, and its people believe that many worlds have existed before this one, each of which has been destroyed by a great catastrophe. Its seers teach that when this sun is destroyed there will be no more, so its warriors must be ready to fight those who seek to extinguish its light. To the Rakkor, battle is an act of devotion, an offering to keep the sun''s light shining. All members of the tribe are expected to fight and kill without mercy or hesitation, and Leona was no exception. She learned to fight as soon as she could walk, mastering sword and shield with ease. She was fascinated by the mists wreathing the summit and often wondered what might lie beyond them. That fascination did not stop her from fighting the ferocious beasts, inhuman entities and pallid, eyeless strangers that came down the mountain. She fought and killed them as she had been taught until one day when young Leona encountered a golden-skinned boy with horns and bat-like wings wandering on the mountainside. He did not speak her language, but it was clear he was lost and frightened. His skin shimmered with soft light, and though everything she had been taught since birth told her to attack, Leona could not bring herself to murder someone so obviously helpless. Instead, she led the boy to a pathway leading to the summit, watching as he walked into a ray of sunlight and vanished. When she returned to the Rakkor, she found herself accused of failing in her duty to the sun. A boy named Atreus had seen her leading a creature of the mountain to safety instead of killing it. Atreus had told his father what Leona had done and he in turn denounced her as a heretic for going against the beliefs of her people. Leona did not dispute this, and the laws of the Rakkor allowed only one sentence for such a transgression C trial by combat. Leona would face Atreus in the fighting pits beneath the noonday sun, and by its light would judgment be rendered. Leona and Atreus were evenly matched; her warrior skills were formidable, but Atreus had ever been single-minded in his pursuit of martial excellence. Leona took up her sword and shield, Atreus his long spear, and none who gathered around the pit could predict the battle''s outcome. Leona and Atreus fought beneath the blazing sun, and though both bled freely from dozens of wounds, neither could land a deathblow. As the sun dipped toward the horizon, an elder of the Solari marched into the Rakkor camp with three gold-armored warriors and called a halt to the duel. The Solari were adherents of a martial faith built around sun worship, whose unforgiving tenets dictated life around and upon Mount Targon. The elder had been led to the Rakkor by dreams and an ancient Solari prophecy that spoke of a warrior whose fire burned brighter than the sun, a daughter of Targon who would bring unity to the celestial realm. The elder believed Leona was that daughter and upon learning the nature of her transgression, his belief was only strengthened. The tribal seers warned against interfering in the duel, but the elder was adamant; Leona must come with him and become one of the Solari, to be fully instructed in their beliefs. The Rakkor were fiercely independent, but even they paid heed to the holy decrees of the Solari. The warriors lifted Leona from the pit and bore her wounded body from the Rakkor toward her new life. The Solari temple was a towering citadel on the eastern slopes of Mount Targon, a glittering spire of gold-veined marble and polished granite. Here, Leona learned the ways of the sacred order C how they worshipped the sun as the source of all life and rejected all other forms of light as false. Its strictures were absolute and unyielding, but fueled by her belief in the elder''s prophecy, Leona excelled in this disciplined environment, devouring her new faith''s teachings as a parched man in a desert seizes upon fresh water. Leona trained every day with the warrior order of the Solari, the Ra-Horak - a Rakkor title which means Followers of the Horizon - honing her already fearsome skills with a blade into something sublime. In time, Leona rose to command the Ra-Horak, becoming known around Mount Targon as a just, devoted and, some might say, zealous servant of the Sun. Her path changed forever when she was called to escort a young member of the Solari to the heart of the temple. The girl''s hair was purest white and a shimmering rune glowed upon her forehead. Her name was Diana, a troublemaker well known to Leona from the exasperated woes of the temple elders. Diana had gone missing months before, but now returned, clad in a suit of pale armor that glinted with strange silver light. Diana claimed to bring great news, revelations that would shake the Solari to its foundations, but which she would only reveal to the temple elders. Leona brought Diana in under armed guard, for her warrior instinct sensed something awry in the girl''s demeanor. Presented to the elders, Diana spoke of the Lunari, an ancient and proscribed faith that venerated the moon, and how all the truths the Solari clung to were incomplete. She described a realm beyond the mountaintop, a place where the sun and moon were not enemies, where new truths could show them fresh ways to look at the world. Leona felt her anger build with every word Diana spoke, and when the elders rejected her words and named her a blasphemer, Leona knew it would be her blade that ended the heretic''s life. Leona saw Diana''s incredulous fury at the elders'' denial, but before she could react, the white-haired girl hurled herself forward. Blinding light exploded from Diana''s outstretched hands, and orbs of silver fire burned the elders to dust in the blink of an eye. White flames surged in a hurricane of cold lightning and blasted Leona from the chamber. When she regained consciousness, she found Diana gone and the Solari leaderless. As its remaining members struggled to come to terms with this attack on their most sacred space, Leona knew there was only one path open to her. She would hunt down and destroy the heretic Diana for the murder of the Solari elders. Diana''s trail was easy to find. The heretic''s footsteps were like shimmering mercury to Leona''s eyes, leading ever higher up the slopes of Mount Targon. Leona did not falter, climbing through a landscape that seemed strange and unfamiliar, as though she followed paths that had never existed until this moment. The sun and moon passed overhead in a blur, as if many days and nights passed with her every breath. She neither stopped to eat nor drink, letting fury sustain her beyond what should have been humanly possible. Eventually Leona reached the top of the mountain, breathless, exhausted, starved and stripped of all thought save punishing Diana. There, sitting on a rock at the top of the mountain was the same golden-skinned boy whose life she had spared as a child. Behind him, the sky burned with blazing light, a borealis of impossible colors and the suggestion of a majestic city of gold and silver. In its fluted towers and glittering minarets, Leona saw how the Solari temple echoed its magnificence and fell to her knees in rapture. The golden-skinned boy spoke to her in the old Rakkor tongue, telling her he had been waiting for her to follow him since that day, and that he hoped she wasn''t too late. He held out his hand and offered to show her miracles and to know the minds of gods. Leona had never turned from anything in her life. She took the boy''s hand as he smiled and led her into the light. A column of searing illumination stabbed down from the heavens and engulfed Leona. She felt an awesome presence filling her limbs with terrifying power and forgotten knowledge from the earliest epochs of the world. Her armor and weapons burned to ash in the cosmic fire and were in turn reborn as ornate warplate, a shield of sunlight wrought in gold and a sword of chained dawnlight. The warrior who came down the mountain looked the same as the one who had climbed it, but inside Leona was much changed. She still had her memories and thoughts, was still master of her own flesh, but a sliver of something vast and inhuman had chosen her to be its mortal vessel. It gifted her with incredible powers and awful knowledge that haunted her eyes and weighed heavily upon her soul; knowledge she could only ever share with one person. Now, more than ever, Leona knew she had to find Diana. "If you would shine like a sun, first you must burn like one." Chapter 152 - Lissandra - The Ice Witch In a time long forgotten, before the sands birthed and then swallowed Shurima, beings of old magic freely walked Runeterra. The borders between the mortal realm and what lay beyond it were hotly contested. Into this dangerous and volatile age, Lissandra and her sisters, Serylda and Avarosa, were born. Each sought to harness the powers at war, and each paid a terrible price. Attempting to command the heavens above them, Serylda lost her voice to the first twilight. Avarosa faced the twisting dark beneath the world, and was deafened by its emptiness, waiting to consume all creation. It was Lissandra who stood against the wild magic of the mortal world itself. For this defiance, the savage claws of a primal god raked across her eyes, blinding her. Though each sister had lost a part of themselves, it was on the frozen fields of Lissandra''s many battles that they were able to unite and prevail. Together, they were unstoppable but even a bond of blood could only weather so much. With her sight taken, Lissandra chose instead to walk in dreams. As she navigated the fitful visions of those around her, she realized only she could see the darkness below for what it was: the lingering abyss promised not only an ending, but infinity. It was death, both dangerous and full of potential. Unknown to her sisters, Lissandra struck a deal on their behalf with the god-like entities she had communed withthe Watchers would grant them near-immortality in exchange for preparing Runeterra for the coming of the Void. The three sisters and their most powerful followers were named Iceborn. Those with this ability to withstand the worst of the numbing frost would be spared until the very end. However, Lissandra''s sisters grew displeased. Avarosa argued that the only thing worse than death was servitude. Even Serylda bristled against what would become of the world they had fought so hard for. Caught in the middle, Lissandra tried to soothe her sisters'' concerns while appealing to the Watchers for more time, but the unknowable nothingness cared not for such platitudes. The Void erupted into the mortal world in the far north, and with it, Lissandra''s hidden allegiance to the Watchers became undeniable. In that moment, her only choices were to let all the world be consumed, or to give up what she cared for mostLissandra sacrificed her sisters and the allies they had gathered, entombing the Watchers beneath a glacial barrier of magical ice that could never be melted. Lissandra soon discovered that even this elemental power was not enough. The monstrous beings she had frozen were merely slumbering, slowly tainting the True Ice around them into something darker. Now, they wandered through Lissandra''s dreams as easily as she had theirs, and always she would wake, terrified, professing her loyalty to the chilling eternity they promised. Ever the survivor, she gathered her remaining followers to venerate her and her departed sisters. If True Ice would delay the inevitable end of all things, then they had to gather as much of it as they could find, and scour the frozen lands for any of Iceborn descent to join their cause. Lissandra and the first among her Frostguard did everything in their power to rewrite history, seizing all records of what had truly happened and yet, rumors and prophecies persisted in myth and song. It was whispered that Avarosa and Serylda would one day return to unite the disparate tribes, and so Lissandra had any who were hailed as their reincarnations quietly killed. Even she retreated into the shadows, periodically renewing herself with the powers she had been gifted. Like the threat that lies trapped beneath the ice, Lissandra has never been able to completely control her sisters'' legends. Whether from guilt or arrogance, her failure to eradicate their legacy has manifested once more in two powerful Icebornone an idealist, the other a conquerorand now, between them, they lead many tribes within the Freljord. Lissandra watches them carefully, seeking any opportunity to pit them against one another, all the while redoubling her own efforts to lock away the terrible secrets she has buried deep under her citadel. And she must hurry, for the ice is beginning to melt. "So many secrets, buried in ice..." Chapter 153 - Lucian - The Purifier Lucian wields relic weapons imbued with ancient power and stands a stalwart guardian against the undead. His cold conviction never wavers, even in the face of the maddening horrors he destroys beneath his hail of purifying fire. Lucian walks alone on a grim mission: to purge the spirits of those ensnared in undeath, his eternal beloved among them. Like the twin relic weapons they wielded, Lucian and his wife Senna were carved from the same stone. Together they battled evil in Runeterra for years, bringing light to darkness and purging those taken by corruption. They were beacons of righteousness: Senna''s dedication to their cause never faltered, while Lucian''s kindness and warmth touched the hearts of the many lives they saved. Two parts of one whole, they were devoted and inseparable. Though Lucian and Senna witnessed terror that would break most warriors, nothing they had seen compared to the horrors wrought by the Shadow Isles. When the spectral denizens of that accursed place began to manifest across Runeterra, Lucian and Senna hunted them down wherever they appeared. It was grim work, but the fearless pair prevailed until one tragic encounter with the soul-collector Thresh. Lucian and Senna had faced such nightmarish undead before, but never one so deviously clever and cruel. As the terrible battle unfolded, Thresh sprung an unexpected ploy. To Lucian''s horror, the creature tricked Senna and ensnared her soul, trapping her in a spectral prison. Nothing could bring her back. Senna was lost, and for the first time, Lucian faced his mission alone. Though the Warden had taken half of Lucian''s heart, he had also created the Shadow Isles'' most dangerous foe. Lucian became a man of dark determination, one who would stop at nothing to purge the undead from the face of Runeterra. In honor of Senna''s memory, he took up her fallen weapon and vowed to see their mission through to the end. Now wielding both relic weapons, Lucian fights to slay the undead and cleanse the souls of the Shadow Isles. He knows that Senna''s soul is lost, but never loses hope that one day he will bring her peace. "Be grateful. By slaying you now, I spare you an eternity of torment." Chapter 154 - Lulu - The Fae Sorceress Lulu was always a caring and deeply empathetic yordle, who lived as much in her whimsical daydreams as in reality. One day, while wandering the material realm, she came upon what appeared to be a bird with a broken wing. She ran to help, at which point the bird turned into a tiny, mischievous fae spirit. Before she could react, the faerie grabbed her walking stick and took off. Giggling, Lulu gave chase. The spirit led her far into the forest. They went over boulders, under logs, and around ancient, overgrown stone circles. The faerie darted into a cave hidden behind a waterfall, and Lulu went after it. It flittered ahead, always just out of reach. Down and down and down they went. Lulu tumbled and scrambled around twisted roots and glowing mushrooms, and at some point they crossed over into the spirit realm without her realizing it. Their surroundings became progressively stranger and more disorienting; up became down, forward became backward, big became small. Finally, after what seemed forever, Lulu caught up with the faerie, whose name, she discovered, was Pix. With a click of his tiny fingers, Pix turned her humble walking stick into a spiraling staff, and tossed it back to her. It sprouted leaves and flowers, making Lulu gasp in delight. So began their forever-friendship, built of mischief, fun, and love of nature. Pix had led her to the Glade. Bandle City, Lulu''s home, was a bizarre and magical place that defied logic, where time was meaningless and the natural laws of the material realm did not wholly apply. And yet the Glade was a place stranger stillit existed long before yordles came into the world, and it was perhaps from the Glade that Bandle City itself sprung. A place of raw primordial magic, it was hidden away so deeply that no yordle had ever found it until now. Here, Lulu''s own magic became wildly magnified. Laughing joyfully, she discovered she could reshape her surroundings at will, as well as alter her form to whatever she wanted. Everything and anything from her overactive imagination came to life. Lulu didn''t know if Pix had brought her here because he saw in her a kindred soul and simply wanted someone to play with, or if the Glade needed her for some other purposebut she fell in love with it instantly. Her life became one of endless creation and play, and she soon forgot anything else existed. When finally she remembered, it was like waking from a dream. She found herself back in the material realm, not knowing if a single day had passed, or a thousand years. To her surprise and joy, she found that some of her newfound power had come with her, allowing her to make small things large, change colors to those more pleasing to her, and cause creatures to fall spontaneously asleep. To Pix''s endless amus.e.m.e.nt, she turned the mightiest beasts into tiny, bewildered frogs or squirrels with a flick of her staff. Nevertheless, she began to miss the Glade. She decided to go back, but realized she didn''t remember the way. Pix was no help, claiming to have forgotten as well, though it was possible he just didn''t want to return quite yet. Unperturbed, Lulu set out anyway. She was certain the route back to the Glade was always shifting, making one way as good as another. She simply picked whatever direction took her fancy at any particular moment, and even threw herself into seemingly terrible danger whenever it looked fun. Her travels took her far and wide, and magic, mayhem, and mishap tended to follow wherever she went. In Demacia, she freed a group of children from their boring history lessons, and led them off into a nearby meadow. Her game resulted in them being turned into toadstools for a full turn of the moon, while their desperate parents and the local militia searched for them in vain. It wasn''t quite what Lulu had intended, but fun nonetheless. When the children finally returned home and told everyone what had happened, no one believed them. In the borderlands of the Freljord, Lulu thought it would be hilarious to change the weapons of two rival tribes into flowers just as they clashed, which resulted in absolute chaos and confusion. More recently, she has found herself happily lost in Ionia, playing in the glowing everblooms of Qaelin, and playing pranks on bewildered acolytes of the Order of Shadow, who she thinks are far too serious for their own good. While Lulu seeks to return to the Glade, and misses it, she is happy, for every day brings more opportunity for adventure and fun. And besides, she has come to realize that she carries a part of the Glade in her heart, wherever she goes. "The best path between two points is upside-down, between, then inside-out and round again." Chapter 155 - Lux - The Lady Of Luminosity Luxannaor Lux, as she prefers to be calledgrew up in the Demacian city of High Silvermere, along with her older brother Garen. They were born to the prestigious Crownguard family, which had served for generations as protectors of the kings of Demacia. Their grandfather saved the king''s life at the Battle of Storm''s Fang, and their aunt Tianna was named commander of the elite Dauntless Vanguard regiment before Lux was born. Garen took to his family''s role with fervor, joining the military when he was still little more than a boy. Lux, in his absence, was expected to help run the family''s many estatesa task she resented, even as a young child. She wanted to explore the world, to see what lay beyond the walls and borders of Demacia. She idolized Garen, but railed against his insistence that she put her own ambitions aside. To the endless frustration of Lux''s tutors, who sought to prepare her for a life of dutiful service to the Crownguard family, she would question their every teaching, examine differing perspectives, and seek out knowledge far beyond what they were prepared for. Even so, few could find it in themselves to stay angry at Lux, with her zest for life and intoxicating optimism. Little did any of them know a time of change was approaching. Magic had once brought Runeterra to the brink of annihilation, and Demacia had been founded as a place where such powers were forbidden. Many of the kingdom''s folktales told of pure hearts turned dark by the lure of magic. Indeed, Lux and Garen''s uncle had been slain by a rogue mage some years earlier. And there were fearful whispers, rumors from beyond the great mountains, that magic was rising once more in the world Riding home one fateful night, Lux and her horse were attacked by a ravenous sabrewulf pack. In a moment of fear and desperation, the young girl let loose a torrent of magical light from deep within her, routing the beasts but leaving her shivering in fear. Magic, the terror of Demacian myths, was as much a part of Lux as her Crownguard lineage. Fear and doubt gnawed at her. Would she become evil? Was she an abomination, to be imprisoned or exiled? At the very least, if her powers were discovered, it would see the Crownguard name disgraced forever. With Garen spending more time away from High Silvermere, Lux found herself alone in the halls of their family home. Still, over time, she became more familiar with her magic, and her sleepless nightsfists clenched, willing her inner light to fadebecame fewer and fewer. She began experimenting in secret, playing with sunbeams in the courtyards, bending them into solid form, and even creating tiny, glowing figures in her palm. She resolved to keep it a secret, as much as she could. When she was sixteen, Lux traveled with her parents Pieter and Augatha to their formal residence in the Great City of Demacia, to witness Garen''s investiture into the honored ranks of the Dauntless Vanguard. The city dazzled Lux. It was a monument to the noble ideals of the kingdom, with every citizen protected and cared for; and it was there that Lux learned of the Illuminators, a charitable religious order working to help the sick and the poor. Between her family''s courtly engagements, she became close with a knight of the order named Kahina, who also taught Lux more martial skills, sparring and training with her in the gardens of the Crownguard manor. Spending more time in the capital, Lux has finally begun to learn about the wider worldits diversity, and its history. She now understands that the Demacian way of life is not the only way, and with clear eyes she can see her love for her homeland standing alongside her desire to see it made more just and perhaps a little more accepting of mages like her. "The light inside is what makes me different, and I''m always careful where I shine it." Chapter 156 - Malphite - The Shard Of Monolith A massive creature of living stone, Malphite was born from the heart of the great Ixtali construct known as the Monolith. He has studied the elemental balance of Runeterra for thousands of years, using his tremendous strength to maintain order in a frequently chaotic world. Now, roused all too often from his slumbers, Malphite endures the fluid temperaments of mortals, while struggling to find a cause worthy of the last of his kind. "Beware, minions of chaos! The Shard of the Monolith has come." Chapter 157 - Malzahar - The Prophet Of The Void Beneath the glare of the Shuriman sun, there have always been those blessed with the power of foresight. The only son of aging trinket peddlers, Malzahar did not realize his gift until his parents had already succ.u.mbed to a wasting sickness, leaving the young, traumatized boy to fend for himself on the city streets of Amakra. He read fortunes in the gutter, for a coin or scraps of bread. As his auguries proved more and more accurate, his reputation grew. He used his second sight to predict who a curious cameleer might marry, or where throwing daggers would land in games of chance at the bazaar. Soon, he began to receive patrons dressed not in dirtied sandals, but jeweled slippers. However, for all this, Malzahar could never see his own destiny. His future was hidden. Increasingly disillusioned with his success, he noted the common disparities of wealth, and witnessed those unhappy with their lives acting out in spiteful violence against one another. It was apparent to him that people were bound up in a never-ending cycle of pain, often of their own making, and no hopeful prophecy seemed able to break it. Malzahar himself soon felt nothing but a sense of emptiness, finally relinquishing his mortal possessions and leaving Amakra for good. For years, he roamed the land, from the trackless wastes of the lesser sai to the ruins of old Shurima. By distancing himself from others, he was alone with his thoughts at last. He divined not just how callous people could be, but also how corrupt the world might yet become. Feverish visions began to plague his waking hours, along with otherworldly whispers of war and strife, and endless suffering. He wandered far, until the sands turned to salt. He could not know that he had arrived in Icathia, a lost city ravaged in the wars of a bygone age. There, gazing into the depths of a ragged abyss, Malzahar opened his unsteady mind, desperate for understanding. And the Void answered. That would have been the end of any other tale, and yet somehow Malzahar endured. What lay in the darkness below brushed against the soul of the broken seer, only for an instant, and yet its strange and unknowable energies saturated his mind completely. The lone figure that eventually strode out of Icathia was no longer just a man, but something greater. Malzahar had seen in the abyss an end to all the suffering he had witnessed in his mortal lifetime. He realized the future he had believed hidden from him all this time was in fact a vision of his true calling: to accelerate the world toward inevitable oblivion. He had to return to the people, and spread word of the holy nothingness that would gladly embrace them, the willing and non-believers alike. He would become the herald of the world''s salvation. Among the nomads of the deep desert, he found his first disciples. Before their astonished eyes, he used his new Void-given powers to rend the very earth itself, summoning chittering, nightmarish creatures to carry away any who dared to deny him. Within a matter of months, strange rumors began to travel with the merchant caravans; rumors of men and women gladly sacrificing themselves to unseen powers, and of powerful quakes opening up the bedrock of Shurima in new fault lines hundreds of miles long. In the years since, Malzahar''s legend has spread even to the northern ports. As followers of "the Prophet" grow in number, nearby settlers are said to experience malefic visions grasping at their hearts, and fear gives rise to superstitioneven the hardy villagers of the far wastes now make offerings of livestock to appease the voidling creatures below. Little do they know, this only helps Malzahar in shepherding the coming of the end. "We are timeless. We demand sacrifice." Chapter 158 - Maokai - The Twisted Treant Maokai is a rageful, towering treant who fights the unnatural horrors of the Shadow Isles. He was twisted into a force of vengeance after a magical cataclysm destroyed his home, surviving undeath only through the waters of life infused within his heartwood. Once a peaceful nature spirit, Maokai now furiously battles to banish the scourge of unlife from the Shadow Isles and restore his home to its former beauty. Long before living memory, a chain of islands erupted from deep beneath the ocean tides as blank slates of rock and clay. With its creation, the nature spirit Maokai was born. He took the form of a treant, with his tall body covered in bark and long limbs resembling branches. Maokai felt the profound loneliness of the land and its potential for teeming growth. He wandered from island to island in search of signs of life, growing ever more forlorn in his solitude. On a hilly isle covered in soft, rich soil, Maokai sensed a boundless energy radiating from deep beneath the ground. He plunged his great roots downward until they reached a spring of magical, life-giving water and drank deeply. From this potent liquid, he grew hundreds of saplings and planted them across the islands. Soon the land was shawled with verdant forests, groves of towering virenpine, and tangled woods, all steeped in wondrous magic. Magnificent skytrees with expansive canopies and thickly winding roots covered the isles with lush green foliage. Nature spirits were drawn to the lavish vegetation, and animals reveled in the fertile greenery. When humans eventually came to the islands, they too thrived in the land''s abundance and formed an enlightened society of scholars devoted to studying the world''s mysteries. Though Maokai was wary of their presence, he saw how they respected the sanctity of the land. Sensing the deep magic within the woods, the humans built their homes in areas not heavily forested, to avoid disturbing any nature spirits. Maokai occasionally revealed himself directly to those he trusted and blessed them with knowledge of the verdant isles, even its greatest gift C the underground spring that could heal mortal wounds. Centuries passed, and Maokai lived in idyllic contentment until a fleet of soldiers from across the sea beached upon the shores of the isles. Maokai sensed something was terribly wrong. Their grief-maddened king bore the corpse of his queen and in hopes of reviving her, bathed her decayed flesh in the healing waters. Reanimated as a rotting corpse, the queen begged to return to death. The king sought to reverse what he had done, unwittingly casting a terrible curse upon the land. From leagues away, Maokai felt the first ripples of the disaster that would soon devastate the isles. He sensed a horrific force gathering beneath the soil, and a bitter chill washed over him. As the ruination spread, Maokai desperately plunged his roots deep into the ground and drank of the healing waters, saturating every fiber of his being with their magic. Before the cursed water reached him, Maokai withdrew his roots, severing all connection to the pool. He howled in rage as the sacred reservoir he had entrusted to men was fully corrupted C the spiraling coils churning underwater until nothing pure remained. Moments later, the mists surrounding the islands blackened and spread over the land, trapping all living things in an unnatural state between life and death. Maokai watched in helpless agony as all he knew C plants, nature spirits, animals, and humans alike C twisted into wretched shades. His fury grew; the great beauty he had cultivated from tiny saplings fell to ruin in an instant at the careless hand of man. The enervating mist coiled around Maokai, and he wept as the bright flowers adorning his shoulders crumbled and fell to dust. His body shuddered and contorted into a mass of gnarled roots and tangled branches as the mist leached life from him. But Maokai''s heartwood was saturated with the precious waters of life, saving him from the terrible fate of undeath. As grotesque wraiths and horrific abominations flooded the land, Maokai was overcome by a host of lifeless men. He struck the spirits with his branchlike limbs in manic violence, realizing the force of his blows could shatter them to dust. Maokai shuddered with revulsion: he had never killed before. He flew at the breathless shapes in a frenzy, but hundreds more overwhelmed him, and eventually he was forced to retreat. With his home all but decimated and his companions turned to deathless horrors, Maokai was tempted to try and escape the nightmare of the isles. But from deep within his twisted form, he felt the sacred waters giving him life. He had survived the Ruination by carrying the very heart of the islands within him, and he would not abandon his home now. As the Blessed Isles'' first nature spirit, he would remain and fight for the soul of the land. Though surrounded by endless hosts of malicious foes and darkening mist, Maokai fights with furious vengeance to conquer the evil that plagues the isles. His only pleasure comes from dealing savage violence to the soulless wraiths who roam his land. Some days, Maokai subdues the mist and its deathless spirits, breaking their hold on a grove of trees or a small thicket. Though new life has not bloomed in such cursed soil for an age, Maokai strives to carve havens, however temporary, free from regret and decay. So long as Maokai continues to fight, hope remains, for steeped within his heartwood are the uncorrupted waters of life, the last remaining chance of restoring the isles. If the land returns to its joyous state, Maokai, too, will shed his twisted form. The nature spirit brought life to these isles long ago, and he refuses to rest until the isles bloom once more. "All around me are empty husks, soulless and unafraid... but I will bring them fear." Chapter 159 - Master Yi - The Wuju Bladesman In Ionia''s central province of Bahrl, a mountain settlement once stood, hidden away in its serene beauty. Here, in the village of Wuju, the boy Yi grew up learning the ways of the sword, chasing a dream that later turned to tragedy. Like most children, he admired those who wore silk robes and carried blades with poems to their name. His parents being swordsmiths, Yi made a strong impression on the local warriors who frequented their workshop. He spent his mornings in the garden, sparring with his mother, and his nights reciting poetry to his father by candlelight. When it came time for Yi to study under Wuju''s masters, his parents could not have been prouder. Carrying his talent and discipline over to his training, he surpassed every expectation. Soon, the whole village knew of the "Young Master" Yi. Still, the humble student wondered about the rest of Ionia. From atop the tallest pagodas, he spotted faraway towns no one else ever mentioned, but when he sought to journey down the mountain with blade in hand, his mentors forbade him. Wuju was founded by those believing their swordsmanship to be too precious to share, too sacred to draw bloodso for centuries, it flourished in isolation, with no outsiders knowing its true nature. All this changed the day Yi saw vast plumes of smoke rising above the distant towns. Noxian warbands had invaded from the coast, conquering settlement after settlement in waves that washed the provinces red. Choosing the people of Ionia over Wuju''s hallowed tradition, Yi ventured down to help defend the First Lands. To astonished eyes, he swept across the front lines in a blur, routing the enemy with blinding swordplay never before seen by outsiders. Word of the one-man army spread far and wide, like mist in the mountains. Inspired by his courage, even his fellow disciples joined the fight, and together they journeyed to Navori where the greater war was raging. The Noxian commanders saw in Wuju a threat that could not be ignored. They scouted the origin of these peerless warriors, and elected to strike at their home without mercy. In a single night, the entire village was destroyed, its people and culture obliterated by chemical fire that no steel could hold back. After the war finally ended, Yi returned as the only surviving disciple, to find nothing but ruins. The very magic of the land had been defiled, and everyone he had known and loved was no more. Slain in spirit, if not in body, Yi became the attack''s final casualty. With no other practitioners of Wuju left alive, he realized the title of master was his to bear alone. Grief-stricken, he chose seclusion, training obsessively to bury the guilt of his survival, but the wisdom of bygone masters seemed to fade with the haze of time. He began to doubt if one man could preserve an entire heritage until he encountered the least expected of individuals. A curious, monkey-like vastaya challenged him to a duel. Reluctantly, Master Yi entertained the creature''s demands, defeating him with ease. But the vastaya refused to give up, returning day after day with increasingly clever tricks that forced Yi to react and improvise. For the first time in years, Yi felt the spirit of Wuju once more. The two clashed for weeks, until the bruised stranger finally knelt on the ground and introduced himself as Kong, of the Shimon tribe. He begged to learn from Yi, who saw in this reckless but determined fighter the makings of a new disciple. Through teaching, Yi found his purpose restored. He would pass on the ways of Wuju, and gifted his pupil an enchanted staff and an honorific as a sign of this vowfrom that day onward, Kong was known as Wukong. Together, they now travel the First Lands, as Yi seeks to honor the legacy of his lost home, allowing him to fully embody the "master" in his name. "The edge of the sharpest blade is no match for the calm of the peaceful mind." Chapter 160 - Miss Fortune - The Bounty Hunter Beauty and danger: There are few who can match Miss Fortune in either. One of Bilgewater''s most infamous bounty hunters, she built her legend upon a swathe of bullet-riddled corpses and captured ne''er-do-wells. The booming echoes of her twin pistols in the port city''s reeking wharfs and scavenger shanties are sure signs of another warrant from the Bounty Board being settled. Like most who rise to notoriety in the twisting, salt-encrusted labyrinth of Bilgewater, Miss Fortune has no shortage of blood on her hands. Yet, it was not always this way, for she was once known as Sarah, the beloved daughter of a renowned gun-dame who lived peacefully at her isolated island workshop. Young Sarah helped her mother in the forge, filing wheel locks, calibrating trigger pulls, or casting custom pistol shot. Her mother''s skill in crafting firearms was legendary, and her bespoke handguns were to be found in the collections of many a wealthy noble. But ofttimes, they were desired by those with more meager means and darker hearts. One who desired such a weapon was an up-and-coming reaver of Bilgewater called Gangplank. C.o.c.ksure and certain of his power, he demanded Sarah''s mother fashion a pair of pistols the likes of which no other man possessed. A reluctant deal was struck, and a year later to the day, Gangplank returned for his weapons. He had donned a red scarf face-mask and had no intention of paying for the guns C he was there to take them by force. The pistols Sarah''s mother had crafted were masterpieces, twin hand cannons of pinpoint lethality and exquisite beauty. Too fine for the likes of him, declared Sarah''s mother, seeing the brutish pirate that Gangplank had become. Enraged, Gangplank seized the pistols and gunned her down with her own creations before turning them on her husband and Sarah herself. Then, for spite''s sake, he set the workshop ablaze and smashed both pistols on the ground, declaring that if they were too good for the likes of him, then no one would ever bear a weapon with her mark upon them. By killing her and destroying her weapons, her legacy would be wiped from living memory. Sarah awoke to agony, straw-colored hair stained red with her mother''s blood and bullets lodged on either side of her heart. She crawled from the burning ruins of her home with the broken remains of the two pistols clutched to her bleeding chest. Her body healed, but a part of her mind remained trapped in her mother''s burning workshop, and no amount of soap could wash the vivid red from Sarah''s hair C or at least, so the story is told. Waking nightmares and night terrors would forever torment her, but Sarah endured them with an all-consuming obsession with vengeance. She rebuilt her mother''s pistols and learned all she could of the red-masked reaver during his rise to power, preparing for the day when she would be ready to slay him. Taking ship to Bilgewater, Sarah killed her first man within minutes of setting foot on the crooked timbers of the quayside, a drunken pirate with a gallon of Myron''s Dark in his gut and a bounty on his head. Sarah shot him in his stupor and dragged his corpse to the Bounty Board, before tearing off a dozen more warrants. Within a week, every one of them was settled, and those criminals who''d had the misfortune to be hunted by Sarah were either dead or in chains. She quickly earned a fearsome reputation in the taverns and gambling dens of Bilgewater, becoming Miss Fortune to inspire fear in those she hunted and to mask her true intent with flamboyant exploits. Gangplank would never see her coming; she would be just another bounty hunter among many in the crowded streets of Bilgewater. In the years that followed, tales of Miss Fortune spread far and wide, each more fanciful than the last. She captured the Syren from a captain who learned the hard way what it meant to slip a hand where it wasn''t wanted, drowned the master of the Silk-Knife Corsairs in a barrel of her own rum, and dragged the insane Doxy-Ripper from his lair in the belly of a half-dismembered leviathan in the slaughter docks. Gangplank was still too powerful to confront openly, so Miss Fortune spent the years wisely, surrounding herself with a small but loyal cadre of allies and lovers she would eventually use to lay her demons to rest. But just killing Gangplank would never be enough for Miss Fortune. Only his abject humiliation and the burning to ash of all he cared for would satisfy the bloody-haired bounty hunter. And that day has come at last. Miss Fortune has risked everything to make her opening move against Gangplank. Plots within plots have seen the Dead Pool blown to flaming wreckage at the quayside and the self-professed King of Bilgewater overthrown. Best of all, everyone in Bilgewater saw him fall. Now, with Gangplank deposed, every reaver captain and ganglord in the port city is vying to take his position. The battle for Bilgewater has begun. "The bigger the risk, the bigger the bounty." Chapter 161 - Mordekaiser - The Revenant In a previous epoch, the fierce warlord Sahn-Uzal rampaged across the northern wildlands. Driven by dark faith, he crushed every tribe and settlement in his path, forging an empire in blood and death. As his mortal life neared its end, he took great satisfaction in knowing he had doubtless earned a seat at the gods'' table, in the glorious Hall of Bones, for all eternity. Yet, when he died, he found no halls or glory awaiting him. Instead, Sahn-Uzal stood in an empty, gray wasteland, shrouded by ethereal fog and plagued by discordant whispers. Occasionally, other lost souls drifted nearbylittle more than ghostly shapes, wandering their own personal oblivion. Anger consumed Sahn-Uzal. Had his faith been false? Or was his domination of the world simply not enough to grant him the immortality he craved? Surely this emptiness could not be all there was yet there seemed no end to it. He watched as the lesser spirits slowly faded into the fog, unmade and lost to time. But Sahn-Uzal refused to fade. His will, tempered by rage and torment, held him together. Over time, the unknowable, disembodied whispering in that place crystalized into words he could almost comprehendthis, he learned, was Ochnun, a profane tongue unspoken by any among the living. Slowly, a deceitful plan began to form in what was left of Sahn-Uzal''s mind. He began to whisper temptations across the veil between realms, promising his indomitable strength to any who dared listen. And, sure enough, the day came when a coven of sorcerers resolved to bring Sahn-Uzal back from the dead. Lacking any flesh or bone, he spurred them to make him stronger than any mortal, binding his spirit-form in dark metal plates wrought in the likeness of his old armor. So he rose, a hulking revenant of iron and hate. These power-hungry sorcerers had hoped to use him as a weapon in their trivial wars. Instead, he slew them where they stood, their weapons and magic useless against him. In desperation, they screamed out his name to bind himbut to no avail, for Sahn-Uzal was no more. With an ethereal rumble, he spoke his spirit-name in Ochnun: Mordekaiser. Thus began his second conquest of the mortal realm. As before, his ambitions were great, only now empowered by necromantic sorceries he could never have previously imagined. From the fearful, dissipating souls of the sorcerers, Mordekaiser forged a weapon fit for an emperor of deathhis brutal mace, Nightfalland seized control of the army they had raised. To his foes, it seemed he cared only for massacre and destruction. Entire generations perished under his relentless campaigns. However, there was far more to Mordekaiser''s plan. He raised the Immortal Bastion at the center of his empire; while most assumed it was merely a seat of power, some came to know the secrets it held. Mordekaiser hungered for all the forbidden knowledge of spirits and death, and a true understanding of the realm or realms beyond. Such tyranny could only bring him enemies. The Iron Revenant was defeated, surprisingly, by an alliance of the Noxii tribes, and betrayal from within his own inner circle. This hidden cabal managed to sever the anchors of his soul from his armor, and sealed the empty iron shell away in a secret place. And so, Mordekaiser was cast out of the material realm. However, unbeknownst to anyone, he had planned for thisindeed, it was a pivotal part of his design. Domination and deceit had carried him far, but he knew that a destiny far grander than the Hall of Bones awaited him. There, in the once empty wasteland, all those who had died under his latest reign were waiting. Perverted by dark sorcery, their spirits would never fade. The strongest became his devout, eternal army, bound to his will but even the weak were given purpose. From the subtle matter of their souls, Mordekaiser would forge a new empire. They would be the building blocks and mortar of his Afterworld. Centuries have passed on Runeterra, and another empire has arisen around the Immortal Bastion. Mordekaiser''s name is still whispered in fear and awe by those who study the old histories, and remembered unkindly by the few ancient souls who knew him. For them, the greatest terror would be for Mordekaiser to find his own way to return permanently. It is something they pray will not come to pass, for they know of no way to stop him. "Destiny. Domination. Deceit." Chapter 162 - Morgana - The Fallen Whether through destiny or circ.u.mstance, Morgana and her sister were born to a world in conflict. The cataclysmic Rune Wars had ripped through most of Valoran and Shurima, and seemed poised to engulf even the peaks of Targon. Morgana''s parents, Mihira and Kilam, knew the legends of the great mountain granting divine powerthey saw no other choice than to attempt the long and perilous journey, if their tribe was to be saved. Even when they learned Mihira was with child, they could not turn back. Finally, where Runeterra touches the stars, Kilam watched in wonder and fear as Mihira was chosen to embody the Aspect of Justice. The couple returned not only with the salvation they sought, but twin daughtersMorgana and Kayle. However, the celestial power that claimed Mihira began to overshadow her mortal personality and affections. She would often push the girls into their father''s arms, abandoning them to answer battle''s call. For many months, uncertainty gnawed at Kilam. The wars still raged on countless fronts, and his beloved wife was slipping away. Fearing for his daughters'' safety, he waited for Mihira to leave once more, then fled Targon with them both. Though their destination did not yet have a name, it would become known as a haven from magic and persecution: the kingdom of Demacia. There the twins grew different as day and night. While Kayle studied the settlement''s growing set of laws, dark-haired Morgana became troubled by their distrust of new arrivals. Knowing what it was to be a refugee, she wandered the wilds, talking to wayward mages and others cast out for the dangers they might bring. At home, she felt her father''s heartbreak at leaving Mihira behind, and grew bitter at her mother for causing such pain. Morgana''s fears that she and Kayle might carry some remnant of the Aspect''s power were eventually confirmed, when a great blade wreathed in shadow and starfire fell from the heavens. As it pierced the ground, splitting in two, feathered wings burst from the girls'' shoulders. Their father wept at the sight of them each taking up half of the weapon, and turned away even as Morgana reached out to comfort him. While Kayle embraced their new calling, rallying an order of judicators to enforce the laws, Morgana resented her gifts until the night their settlement was raided. Kilam found himself surrounded as the fighting spread. In that moment, Morgana rushed to shield him, burning his attackers to ash. Together, the sisters saved countless lives, and were hailed as the Winged Protectors of Demacia. But Kayle grew more extreme in her ideologies, and Morgana increasingly found herself pleading the case of those who wanted to atone for their crimes. An accord was struck between the sisters and their mortal devoteesthough it was uneasy, and did not last. Kayle''s most ardent disciple, Ronas, came to arrest Morgana herself. Attempting to protect her penitent followers, she shackled him with dark flame until he fell to the floor, dead. Divine fire lit the city from above as Kayle swore to bring Ronas'' killer to justice, and Morgana met her sister in the skies. They raised their blades, each matching the other with arcs of blinding light and burning darkness that lashed down at the buildings beneath them. It seemed certain that one of them would win but Morgana faltered when she heard their father''s anguished voice. Kilam lay in the rubble, mortally wounded. Howling with grief, Morgana hurled her half of their mother''s sword at Kayle, and plunged to the surface like a meteorite. She cradled her father, cursing their inheritance for the destruction around them. Kayle landed, dumbstruck, and Morgana demanded to know if the smiting of wicked mortals included Kilam, whose crime was stealing them away from their mother. Kayle gave no answer, but soared into the heavens without looking back. Morgana''s wings became an inescapable reminder of her pain. She tried to cut them from her flesh, but could find no blade strong enough. Instead, she bound them with iron chains, resolving instead to walk the world of mortals. Over the centuries, her tale fell into myth, and the name Morgana was all but forgotten. To this day, the people of Demacia venerate "the Winged Protector," but recall only the glory and truth of one sister, while Morgana''s dark outbursts and belief in personal redemption became the mysteries of "the Veiled One." Through all of this, she still refuses to abandon those who would seek her aid. Bitter, betrayed, she bides her time in the kingdom''s shadows, knowing with certainty that Kayle''s light will someday return to Runeterra, and all will face her judgment. As magic begins to rise again, Morgana sees that dawn is nearly upon them. "Only those you love can break your heart." Chapter 163 - Nami - The Tidecaller A headstrong young vastaya of the seas, Nami uses her mystical Tidecaller staff to reshape the tides and defend her fellow Marai from danger. The first of her kind to leave the ocean and venture onto dry land, Nami faces the unthinkable with grit, determination, and daring mettle. In the seas to the west of Mount Targon dwells a tribe of vastaya known as the Marai. Long ago, these mermadic creatures discovered a rift in the depths. The rift bore a horrible, creeping darkness which sought to exterminate all forms of life. At the center of their village, the Marai placed a glowing rock known as a moonstone, which is said to be infused with the celestial magic of the heavens. Its haunting, ethereal light protects the Marai from the creatures that crawl from the abyss. Every hundred years or so, the moonstone''s light begins to dim. At that moment, the tribe chooses their fiercest warrior and bestows upon them the title of Tidecaller. The Tidecaller must plunge into the icy darkness of the rift, survive the horrors within and retrieve an abyssal pearl. If successful, the Tidecaller rises to shore where a luminous wanderer from Targon''s peak awaits with a moonstone to trade for the pearl. It is an arduous ritual that holds the fate of many in its illusive hands, but the exchange has kept the creatures of the dark contained. In the past, the Marai had sent troops of their most elite warriors to collect the pearl, but they learned the more forces they sent into the rift, the stronger the monsters became, as if it fed on their energy. While an army would be annihilated by the abominations below, a single scout C armed with a legendary Marai staff capable of controlling the tides C could potentially elude the dangers of the deep long enough to escape with the pearl. Nami had always wanted to be the Tidecaller, but she was impulsive and young. A fierce fighter, she was known amongst the Marai for her stubborn determination, which often got her in trouble. In Nami''s adolescence, the moonstone once again dimmed for the first time in a century. Nami attempted the trial of the Tidecaller. Due to her impulsiveness, however, the elders chose Rasho, a prudent warrior known for his level head in battle, as their Tidecaller. Rasho dove into the depths of the abyss. A week passed, then another. An entire month the Marai waited for their Tidecaller''s return, but there was no sign of Rasho. No Tidecaller had ever failed to return. The elders waited and argued while the moonstone grew faint, but Nami knew SOMEONE had to take up the mantle of Tidecaller soon, or all would be lost. It might as well be her. Nami grabbed her mother''s bathystaff and plunged into the abyss. After several days, she returned with the pearl, the fallen Tidecaller''s staff, and a look of quiet horror in her eyes. Though furious at her impertinence, the village elders nonetheless admired Nami''s bravery and officially designated her Tidecaller. Nami ascended to the surface and rode the tide to shore to meet the landwalker. The stonebearer, however, was nowhere to be found. Instead, an elderly woman waited on the beach. The woman, whose grandparents bore witness to the last Tidecaller exchange, explained that there was no moonstone. The Aspect of the Moon was the only being who could conjure a moonstone, but she had fled Targon. Nami was unwilling to accept this. She vowed to find the Aspect and retrieve the moonstone. The lives of her people depended on it. Using the power of the mystical Tidecaller staff to summon a perpetual pool of moving water beneath her fins, Nami took to land to continue her quest. Determined, the Tidecaller swam into a brand new world. "I decide what the tide will bring." Chapter 164 - Nasus - The Curator Of The Sands Nasus is an imposing, jackal-headed Ascended being from ancient Shurima, a heroic figure regarded as a demigod by the people of the desert. Fiercely intelligent, he was a guardian of knowledge and peerless strategist whose wisdom guided the ancient empire of Shurima to greatness for many centuries. After the fall of the empire, he went into self-imposed exile, becoming little more than a legend. Now that the ancient city of Shurima has risen once more, he has returned, determined to ensure it never falls again. Nasus''s brilliance was recognized from a young age, long before he was chosen to join the ranks of the Ascended. A voracious scholar, he read, memorized and critiqued the greatest works of history, philosophy and rhetoric within the Library of the Sun before he''d seen ten summers. His passion for reading and critical thinking were not passed down to his younger brother Renekton, who was quickly bored, and spent his time fighting with other local children. The brothers were close, and Nasus kept a protective eye over his younger brother, helping to ensure he didn''t get into too much trouble. However, it wasn''t long before Nasus was welcomed into the exclusive Collegium of the Sun, leaving home to take up his place in this prestigious academy. While the pursuit of knowledge would always be his passion, Nasus''s grasp on military strategy and logistics ensured he became the youngest general in Shuriman history. While he was a competent soldier, his genius lay not in fighting battles, but in planning them. His strategic foresight became legendary. In war, he was always a dozen moves ahead of the enemy, able to predict their movement and reactions, as well as pinpoint the exact moment to push the attack or pull back. A deeply empathetic man who took his responsibilities incredibly seriously, he always ensured his soldiers were well provisioned, paid on time, and treated fairly. Every loss of life pained him deeply, and he often refused to rest as he planned and replanned his troop movements and battle dispositions until they were perfect. He was loved and respected by all who served in his legions, and he guided the armies of Shurima to countless victories. His brother Renekton often served on the front lines of these wars, and the two of them quickly garnered an aura of invincibility. Despite the acclaim Nasus won, he did not enjoy war. Though he understood its importance - for now at least - in ensuring the continued progress of the empire, he firmly believed his greatest contribution to Shurima was in the knowledge he gathered for future generations. At Nasus''s urging, all the books, scrolls, teachings and histories of the cultures he defeated were preserved in great libraries and repositories throughout the empire, the greatest of which bore his name. His hunger for knowledge was not for selfish reasons, but to share wisdom with all of Shurima, to enhance understanding of the world and bring enlightenment to the empire. After decades of dutiful service, Nasus was cruelly struck down by a terrible wasting sickness. Some say he encountered Amumu, a long-dead child-king said to bear a terrible curse; others believed he was laid low by the evil magicks of an Icathian cult-leader. Whatever the truth, the emperor''s own physician declared, with a heavy heart, that Nasus was incurable, and would be dead within a week. The people of Shurima went into mourning, for Nasus was its brightest star and beloved by all. The emperor himself begged the priesthood for an augury. After a day and night of communing with the divine, the priests declared it the will of the sun-god that Nasus be blessed with the Ascension ritual. Renekton, now a great war-leader, raced back to the capital to be with his brother. The terrible sickness had advanced dramatically, and Nasus was little more than a skeleton, his flesh wasted away and his bones as fragile as glass. So weak was he that as the golden light from the sun disc streamed onto the Ascension dais, Nasus was unable to climb the final stairs and step into the light. Renekton''s love for his brother was stronger than any sense of self-preservation, and he nobly bore Nasus onto the dais. Ignoring his brother''s protests, he willingly accepted oblivion in order to save Nasus. However, Renekton was not destroyed, as was expected. When the light faded, two Ascended beings stood before Shurima. Both brothers had been deemed worthy, and the emperor himself dropped to his knees to give thanks to the divine. Nasus was now a towering, jackal-headed being of great strength, his eyes glittering with fierce intelligence, while Renekton had been transformed into a heavily muscled behemoth bearing the likeness of a crocodile. They took their place alongside the other rare Ascended beings of Shurima, and became its protectors. While Renekton had always been a great warrior, now he was virtually unstoppable. Nasus too had been gifted with powers far beyond the understanding of mortal men. The greatest boon of his Ascension - his newly extended longevity, which allowed him countless lifetimes to spend in study and contemplation - would, after the fall of Shurima, also prove to be his curse. One side-effect of the ritual that disturbed Nasus was the increased savagery he saw within his brother. At the culmination of the siege of Nashramae, which finally brought that ancient city under Shuriman rule, Nasus witnessed the victorious Shuriman soldiers butchering everyone they came across and setting the city ablaze. Renekton led the massacre, and it was he who set fire to the great library of Nashramae, destroying countless irreplaceable volumes before Nasus was able to contain it. This was the closest the brothers ever came to bloodshed, standing in the center of the city, weapons drawn against each other. Under the stern, disappointed gaze of his brother, Renekton''s bloodl.u.s.t waned, and he finally turned away in shame. Over the following centuries, Nasus bent his every effort to learning all he could, scouring the desert for years in search of ancient artifacts and wisdom, eventually going on to discover the legendary Tomb of the Emperors hidden beneath the Shuriman capital. Nasus and Renekton had both been lured away when the Ascension ritual of Emperor Azir went terribly wrong, the young emperor betrayed by his closest advisor, the magus Xerath. The brothers returned as fast as they could, but were too late. Azir was dead, along with most of the capital''s citizens. Filled with rage and grief, Nasus and Renekton battled the malevolent being of pure energy that Xerath had become. Unable to kill Xerath, they sought to bind him in a magical sarcophagus, but even that was not enough to hold him. Renekton, perhaps attempting to atone for Nashramae years earlier, grabbed Xerath and bore him into the Tomb of the Emperors, bidding Nasus seal them in. Nasus refused, desperate to find another way, but there was no other option. With a heavy heart, he sealed Xerath and his brother within the fathomless darkness, locking them away for all eternity. The Shuriman empire collapsed. Its great central city sank into ruin, and the holy sun disc fell from the sky, drained of power by Xerath''s magic. Without it, the divine waters flowing from the city ran dry, bringing death and famine to Shurima. Bearing the heavy burden of guilt for having damned his brother to darkness, Nasus took to roaming the sands, accompanied only by the ghosts of the past and his grief. A melancholy figure, he stalked the now dead cities of Shurima, watching as they were slowly swallowed by the desert, lamenting the fallen empire and its lost people. He embraced isolation, a lean, solitary nomad who the occasional traveler claimed to glimpse before he disappeared into a sandstorm or an early morning haze. Few believed such stories, and Nasus became little more than a legend. Centuries passed, and Nasus all but forgot his old life and former purpose, until the moment when the now buried Tomb of the Emperors was rediscovered, and its seal broken. In that moment, he knew Xerath was free. Ancient vigor stirred in his b.r.e.a.s.t, and as Shurima rose from the sands, Nasus traversed the desert, angling toward the newly reborn city. Though he knew he had to battle Xerath once more, hope stirred within him for the first time in millennia. Not only was this potentially the dawn of a new Shuriman empire, but he dared believe it might also herald a long-awaited reunion with his beloved brother. "What was fallen will be great again." Chapter 165 - Nautilus - The Titan Of The Depths To understand the legend of Nautilus, one must first know the manfor even the tallest of tavern tales agree, he was indeed a man. Though the waves have washed away the name he was born with, most remember Nautilus as no mere sailor, but as a salvage diver. Just beyond the southernmost reach of the Blue Flame Isles lies a graveyard of sh.i.p.s, rumored lost while searching for a blessed land, looking to trade wealth for immortality. On a fair day, their glittering holds beckon from beneath the surface. Many crews sought divers to collect the lost fortune, and none could match the skill of the quick-sinking hulk of solid muscle that was Nautilus. With lungs that could steal the air from a galleon''s sails, Nautilus preferred to freedive. Always bringing up plenty of gold or jewels for the crew, the man demanded no special wageshe asked only that the captain toss a coin overboard as they set out, honoring and appeasing the vast ocean. A sailor''s superstition to be sure, but many a sea-fearing crew made such offerings to ensure a safe return. Years of salvage depleted the easy treasure, each haul becoming less and less, until one day Nautilus''s crew learned that their ship and working papers had been bought out from under them. The dawn was scarlet the morning the new captain came aboard. Hailing from a foreign port, he brought with him a giant suit of brass and iron. He zeroed in on Nautilus; indeed, he had purchased the command because of Nautilus. It was clear the captain was obsessed with a specific wreck, one shrouded in darkness even on a fair day. The diving armor could withstand the pressures of the ocean floor far longer than any man, long enough to collect what was hidden in the abnormal murk. The crew agreed working was better than starving, and Nautilus found himself being bolted into the suit, the wooden deck groaning under the load. Panic rose in his throat when he realized that they had nothing to pay the tithe. The foreign captain laughed as Nautilus was lowered into the water. He assured the crew that whatever the Bearded Lady was protecting would make them all rich beyond their wildest dreams. When Nautilus returned to the surface, they would make their silly sacrifice. As Nautilus sank, the light above dimmed, and all grew quiet, the man''s own breath the only sound echoing in the iron suit. Then something reached out from the depths. He was being pulled down, and for the first time Nautilus felt liquid fear wrap itself around his heart. It was not treasure his captain sought, but some slumbering, eldritch power. Nautilus grabbed the anchor chain, his last connection to the world above, and hauled himself up even as the thing below sought to drag him down. But the weight was too much. Just as his giant metal fingers were about to breach the surface, the chain snapped. Nautilus screamed within the suit, but none could hear him. He tumbled back into the inky maelstrom, clutching the sinking anchor in desperation. Dark tendrils enveloped him, and he could only watch as the dimming outline of his ship faded away. Then everything went black. When Nautilus awoke on the ocean floor, he was something different. The darkness could no longer hurt him. The great metal suit had become a seamless shell around him, concealing the bond that the primordial power had made with his spirit. Trapped in the sunless depths, he could remember only one thingthe new captain''s broken promise. Nautilus vowed, there and then, that all would pay the ocean''s tithe. He would see to it himself. Driven ever forward by this thought, he trudged toward the shore. But by the time he reached Bilgewater, years had passed, and he could find no traces of his captain or crew. There was no life to which he could return, no revenge he could take. Instead he returned to the sea, allowing his anger to surface on the greedy, gutting their sh.i.p.s with his mighty anchor. Sometimes, in the tumble of waves, distant memories of who he was push up above the waterline but always the man who is Nautilus stays drowned just below the surface. "When consumed by utter darkness, there is nothing left but forward." Chapter 166 - Neeko - The Curious Chameleon Neeko was born on a remote and largely unknown island, far to the east, where the last members of an ancient vastayan tribe remained isolated from the rest of the world. They were called the Oovi-Kat, and could trace their lineage generation by generation back to the legendary Vastayashai''reithe ancestors of all vastaya. The Oovi-Kat were peaceful beings, of unrivaled potential. Their harmonious society blended seamlessly with the spirit realm, so that their sho''matheir spiritual essencecould intermingle with other beings through mere proximity, and even help them mimic other physical forms. No secrets existed between the Oovi-Kat, but few were as curious, resilient, or energetic as young Neeko. She developed a fondness for games, hiding trinkets and thoughts to see if others could find them. Her inquisitive nature knew no bounds, and she was pure and innocent in her charmed existence. But it was not to last. Cataclysm loomed on the horizon. Thanks to the quick thinking and self-sacrifice of the Oovi-Kat elders, Neeko escaped the death of her homeland. She clumsily took the form of a bird, and fled the smoldering destruction, feeling the screams of her people fading into the ethereal gulf between realms. Days later, desperate and exhausted, Neeko plummeted into the sea. She clung to driftwood, entirely at the mercy of the currents, until an odd silhouette rose into view. She could hear voices carrying over the waves, and so she swam toward the strange structure. With the last of her strength, she crept aboard what turned out to be a mercantile vessel destined for Harelport. Neeko rested where she could, calling out into the spirit realm for her lost tribe. She felt only scattered, sad echoes in response, and images of towering, dead trees that lay somewhere over a fragile horizon When Neeko emerged from the ship into the city, it was a strange and unfamiliar new world. All her senses tingled. Many a creature, even another Oovi-Kat, might be afraid in that situationbut not Neeko. The society bustled with unique personalities, strangers with a vast array of motives and shapes. This was a place of countless stories and experiences, and it entranced her completely. Before she could get far, she was spotted by a vastayan sailor named Krete. Neeko could not understand all his words, but he demanded to know which tribe she belonged to. Neeko reached out with her sho''ma, mimicking his face and expression to make her peaceful intentions understood, but Krete did not seem to like this at all. Overwhelmed by his darkening thoughts, Neeko fled into the crowd, altering her shape many times until she escaped. Surrounded by lush, tropical greenery in the hinterlands beyond Harelport, Neeko grappled with her recent experiences. She simply could not understand how anyone might rely solely on words as their singular form of communication. It seemed so limiting? Seeking solace, she took on the shape of the sleek jungle cats she encountered among the trees, and tried to run with them. Neeko loved being fast and agile, and their bright, keen eyes reminded her of homeuntil, quite unexpectedly, the leader transformed into a beautiful, strong, dark-haired woman. After a tense standoff, she introduced herself as Nidalee, and reluctantly accepted Neeko into the group. Neeko hesitated to entrust the truths of the Oovi-Kat to others, but she felt a deep kinship with Nidalee, because she suspected this bestial huntress might share some forgotten connection with the vastayan race. Their friendship blossomed, and for many months they roamed the wilds together. But the towns and cities, with all their flaws, still called to Neeko. Her ancestors came to her in dreams, showing her the pale branches of those dead trees, over and over. The trees needed color, to bloom againof that much, Neeko was certain. She asked her friend to join her on this new journey, but Nidalee could not be persuaded. Crestfallen, but determined, Neeko set out alone. Her old life among the Oovi-Kat may be lost forever, but Neeko envisions a magical futurea larger tribe of like-hearted vastaya, yordles, humans, and whatever other creatures might share her dream. As far as she is concerned, everyone has the potential to find a place in her new tribe. She has pledged to seek these souls out, to befriend them, and defend their sho''ma with her life. To know Neeko is to love Neeko, and to love Neeko is to be Neeko. "The Oovi-Kat are gone. Neeko must build her own tribe, now." Chapter 167 - Nidalee - The Bestial Huntress Far, far from the harsh deserts of the Great Sai, over savanna plains and mountain steppes, lie the great eastern jungles of Shurima. Swathed in mystery, they are home to wild, fantastical beasts, and dense forests blooming with life. But while there is overwhelming beauty to be found there, danger and death lurk nearby in equal measure. No one knows how Nidalee came to be alone in the heart of the jungle. Dressed in little more than rags, the infant child sat alone on the leafy soil, her cries echoing between the trees. Undoubtedly, that was what brought the cougars. A mother, roaming with her cubs, approached the abandoned girl, perhaps catching the scent of something familiar or at least something worth saving. She accepted Nidalee without hesitation, half leading, half dragging her back to their den. The girl lived in the company of beasts, scrapping and playing alongside her new siblings, with no connection to her own kind, or mortal society at large. The cougars raised Nidalee as a creature of the forest, and as the years passed she grew into a capable huntressbut where her guardians favored tooth and claw, Nidalee learned to take advantage of her surroundings. She worked up healing salves from honeyfruit, sought out curiously glowing flowers to illuminate the night, and even used explosive seeds to send territorial murk wolves flying. Even so, at times Nidalee began to lose control of her own body. Without warning, her hands and feet flickered between human and bestial forms. Occasionally she would stumble from the den, delirious with fever, following the hazy silhouettes of two strange figuresthey whispered after her, their voices jumbled but sweet. They brought Nidalee a sense of comfort and warmth, even though the cougars had taught her to be wary of outsiders. And with good cause. It was at the height of the summer rains when she first encountered the Kiilash. These vastayan hunters ranged into the forests every season in search of prestigious kills, and trophies to show their prowess. Nidalee''s adopted mother tried to chase them away, but fell, wounded by their blades and spears. But before the Kiilash could finish the ageing cougar, Nidalee lunged from the undergrowth, howling with grief and rage. Something had changed. She felt the spirit of the jungle cats within her, and was transformed like never before. Lashing out as a beast, she brought down the nearest hunter with her razor-sharp claws, before whirling around in human form once more to snatch up his spear. The other Kiilash growled and hissed at this sight, and to her surprise Nidalee found she understood some of their speech. They cursed her, invoking the name of their Vastayashai''rei ancestors as they retreated from the fight, empty-handed. Hurling the spear aside, Nidalee held the dying cougar close. Her siblings approached warily, but with the passing of their mother they came to accept this shapechanger as their new leaderfrom that day forth, she vowed to defend her adopted home against any who would seek to plunder it. Over time, she learned to better control her powers, eventually shifting between both forms with ease. Perhaps it was a yearning to find others of her kind that led her to the chameleon-like wanderer Neeko, but the two became inseparable for a time. Nidalee delighted in mentoring her inquisitive new companion, and they reveled in exploring the jungle''s numerous wonders together, before Neeko eventually departed to follow her own destiny beyond Shurima''s shores. Even now, the dense forests remain the last truly untamed wilderness in the known world, and something of an enigma even to Nidalee. Still, in rare, quiet moments, the huntress finds herself dwelling on her own originsand her encounter with the Kiilashand whether she will learn the truth behind any of it "The untamed know no fear." Chapter 168 - Nocturne - The Eternal Nightmare While all magic can be dangerous and unpredictable, there are some forms or disciplines that even the most skilled mages and sorcerers will shun, and with good reason. For centuries, the practice of "shadow magic" was all but forbidden across Runeterra, for fear of reawakening the horrors it once unleashed upon the world. The greatest of those horrors has a name, and its name is Nocturne. Towards the end of the Rune Wars, desperate for victory, cabals of warrior-mages sought any advantage they could find over their foes. Although no record names the first of them to cast off their flesh and enter the spirit realm, it is known that they came to stalk one another not only on the battlefield, but in landscapes shaped by their own subconscious thoughts and emotions. Unconstrained by the laws of physical reality, they fought in ways that more mundane minds could scarcely comprehend, even conjuring subtle, etheric assassins to do their bidding. Shadow mages seemed particularly skilled at such thingsand so it was, for a time, that they came to dominate the spirit realm, casting it into twilight. The thoughts of mortals everywhere were touched by this darkness. It sapped their morale and infected their dreams, with nameless fears hounding them day and night, driving some to commit ever more horrendous acts against their own kin. No one can say for certain whether all this suffering created Nocturne from nothing, or if it merely corrupted a lesser assassin-construct into something more willful and deadly, but the shadowy creature that resulted was one of insubstantial form and fathomless dread. Nocturne understood nothing of kindness, honor, or nobilityit was terror made manifest, with none of the restraint necessary to control itself. This demonic creature howled within the spirit realm, and set upon those foolish, errant mages who had given it life, thrashing in desperation for an end to its own suffering. It was in pain, and that pain made it cruel, but it quickly acquired a taste for mortal fear. Time has little meaning in that other place, but Nocturne dragged out each and every pursuit for as long as possible, savoring the prey''s anguish before cutting their life''s silvery thread in an instant. Soon enough, there were none left who dared to enter Nocturne''s domain. Would the outcome of the Rune Wars have been different if the demon had not played its part beyond the veil? It is difficult to say for certain, but afterwards, what little remained of the lore of shadow magic was hidden away, and its practice carried the sentence of death in many lands. Trapped in the spirit realm, and with precious few intruders to sustain it, Nocturne began to starve. The only thing close to the delectable feasts of fear it had once tasted was when mortal minds unknowingly drifted through the ether in the hours of sleep. Drawn on currents of magic to where the two realms divideand where peaceful dreams can easily become night terrorsNocturne found a way to manifest itself into the waking world. Existing now as a shade, eyes burning with cold light, Nocturne has become a sinister reflection of the most primal fears of the many peoples of Runeterra. From the bustling cities to the desolate plains, from the mightiest king to the lowliest peasant, the demon is drawn to any weakness of spirit it can twist into mortal terror, and everlasting darkness. "The darkness is closing in..." Chapter 169 - Nunu & Willump - The Bot And His Yeti One of the Notai, a nomadic tribe that long traveled the Freljord, Nunu learned from his mother, Layka, that behind every thing is a story. Together, they gathered tales that Layka turned into songs. For Nunu, nothing was better than journeying from village to village, hearing his mother sing of ancient heroes. With music and dance, the Notai brought one last celebration to everyone they met, as each winter''s chill set in. Riding the wave of frost spilling from Anivia''s wings, his heart beating the rhythm of a jubilant song, Nunu''s world was full of possibility. On his fifth nameday, Layka gave Nunu a special gift: a flute, so he could learn to play her melodies himself. In the safety of their cart, the two bundled together and followed the knotted string that served as Layka''s heart-song, recording everywhere they''d been together, as the years came and went. When the caravan was attacked by raiders, Nunu was separated from his mother. Dragged to safety by a band of Frostguard, the surviving Notai children were taken to a village near their towering citadel. Nunu was left to wonder what happened to Layka, waiting to hear her songs on the wind. Snow fell. Weeks passed. Nunu missed his mother desperately, but the Frostguard assured him no child could safely search for her. They weren''t even impressed when he showed them the flute he now called Svellsongurthe name of a mighty blade existing only in his imagination. Nunu spent more and more time alone, escaping into his mother''s songsthe legends and heroes of old. He yearned to be one of these heroes, a warrior like the Frostguard, who could have saved his mother. He even met their leader, Lissandra, who asked countless questions about his mother''s stories, always seeking information about one particular song. No one believed Nunu could be a hero, not even the other Notai children, who teased him for his flute when they now had daggers. But Nunu knew the songs in his heart, and one night, he realized how he could prove himself and earn the Frostguard''s help to find his mother. From Lissandra, he''d learned of a fierce monster that killed all who sought its power, thwarting the Frostguard who were sent each year, never to return. There was a song that Nunu''s mother sang could it be the one Lissandra would always ask about? Suddenly, Nunu understood. Lissandra wanted to know about the yeti. Nunu could name the beast. It would answer his challenge, and feel the wrath of Svellsongur! Using his flute to tame a herd of elkyr, Nunu snuck out into the snow. One lonely child traveled to face a monster, finally living out a legend that not even he could imagine. An ancient and noble race that once ruled over the mountains of the Freljord, the yeti civilization was destroyed in a cataclysm of ice. Forced to watch his brethren descending into savagery after being stripped of their magic, one yeti swore to protect what remained of their powera gem that swirled with the frozen dreams of any mortal mind nearby. As the last magical yeti, the guardian was also shaped by perception. Though he had been chosen to safeguard the magic until it would be needed again, he could find no worthy vessel. The men who intruded upon his ruined home had only malice in their hearts and so a monster greeted them with fang and claw. But the guardian knew he was forgetting something. His name and the names of those he had loved... Once, there had been song. That all changed when a young boy stumbled into the ruins. After centuries of unbroken vigil, the monster was prepared to end the boy''s life, snarling as he sensed the human approach. Unexpectedly, the gem brought forth images of heroes slaying dragons and beheading ancient serpents from the boy''s mind. The child roared, drawing his flute like a fearsome sword. But the blow never came, for even as the boy saw visions of heroes swirling around him, he realized the deeper truths of the songs his mother sang When he looked at the guardian, he didn''t see a monster. He saw someone who needed a friend. Still enraged, the yeti did not expect the first snowball to the face. Or the second. Snowball fight! In anger, then shock, then joy, the guardian joined in, shaped not by fear, but by a child''s imagination. He was growing furrier and friendlier. His growl was becoming a laugh. Until the beast accidentally broke the boy''s flute. As the child began to cry, the guardian felt a kindred grief take shape around the gem. For centuries, he had looked into it and seen the end of his peoplethe threat they had buried, betrayal by the blind oneand now, instead, he saw a caravan burning. He heard a voice on the wind. He sensed something else within the boy, something he had never felt from a human, not even the three sisters who had come to him long ago. It was love, fighting back despair. In that moment, the guardian knew the Freljord''s only hope lay in the power already within this child. The magic he''d been guarding was a tool; what truly mattered was the heart that would shape it. With a gesture, the magic passed from the gem into the boy, giving him the ability to make his imagination real. To repair his flute, freezing it in dreams that hardened into True Ice. To imagine a best friend named "Willump." Escaping into the Freljordian plains, Nunu''s heart and Willump''s strength now enable the pair to do what they never could alone: to have an adventure! Following the songs of Nunu''s mother, they snowball wildly from one place to the next, holding onto the hope that she is still out there, somewhere. But Willump knows that with magic and dreams come responsibility. One day the games will end, as the dark ice at the heart of the Freljord thaws, and thaws "Pull the fur outta your earholes, Willump! This is gonna be the bestest story ever!" Chapter 170 - Olaf - The Beserker Most men would say that death is a thing to be feared; none of those men would be Olaf. The Berserker lives only for the roar of a battle cry and the clash of steel. Spurred on by his hunger for glory and the looming curse of a forgettable death, Olaf throws himself into every fight with reckless abandon. Surrendering to the bloodl.u.s.t deep within his being, Olaf is only truly alive when grappling with the jaws of death. The coastal peninsula of Lokfar is among the most brutal places in the Freljord. There, rage is the only fire to warm frozen bones, blood is the only liquid that flows freely, and there is no worse fate than to grow old, frail, and forgotten. Olaf was a warrior of Lokfar with no shortage of glories and no hesitation to share them. While boasting one evening with his clansmen over the burning embers of a razed village, one of the elder warriors grew tired of Olaf''s bl.u.s.ter. The old fighter goaded Olaf to read the omens and see if Olaf''s fortunes matched his gloating. Emboldened by the challenge, Olaf mocked the aged raider''s envy and tossed the knuckle bones of a long-dead beast to predict the heights of glory he''d achieve in death. All mirth left the gathering as the clansmen read the portents: the bones spoke of a long life and a quiet passing. Infuriated, Olaf stormed into the night determined to prove the prediction false by finding and slaughtering Lokfar''s feared frost serpent. The monster had consumed thousands, man and ship alike, in its long lifetime and to die in battle with it would be a fitting end for any warrior. As Olaf hurled himself into the blackness of its maw, he fell deeper into the blackness of his mind. When the shock of freezing water roused him from the dark, there was only the butchered carcass of the beast afloat beside him. Thwarted but not defeated, Olaf set out to hunt down every legendary creature with claws and fangs, hoping that the next battle would be his last. Each time he charged headlong toward his coveted death, only to be spared by the frenzy that washed over him while on its brink. Olaf concluded that no mere beast could grant him a warrior''s death. His solution was to take on the most fearsome tribe in the Freljord: the Winter''s Claw. Sejuani appeared amused by Olaf''s challenge to her warband, but his audacity would earn him no mercy. She ordered the charge and sent scores of her warriors to overwhelm Olaf. One by one, they fell until he lost himself in the bloodl.u.s.t once again, effortlessly cutting a path to the leader of the Winter''s Claw. The clash between Olaf and Sejuani rocked the glaciers with its force, and though he seemed unstoppable, Sejuani battled the berserker to a standstill. As they stood deadlocked, Sejuani''s glare penetrated Olaf''s berserker haze in a way no weapon ever could. His frenzy abated long enough for her to make him an offer: Sejuani swore that she would find Olaf his glorious death if he would lend his axe to her campaign of conquest. In that moment, Olaf vowed he would carve his legacy into the Freljord itself. "When you meet your ancestors, tell them Olaf sent you." Chapter 171 - Orianna - The Lady Of Clockwork Nestled among the eclectic storefronts of Piltover sat the workshop of the renowned artificer Corin Reveck. Famous for his masterful craft in artificial limbs, Corin''s intricate brass designs made the prosthetics both breathtakingly beautiful and often superior to the originals. His daughter, Orianna, served as his apprenticefriendly and inquisitive, she was a natural fit to run the shop, and blossomed into a capable artisan in her own right. Orianna had an adventurous spirit, but her father, fearing for her safety, never allowed her to venture beyond their neighborhood. Instead, he took her to the theater, where dancers, through leaps and pirouettes, told stories of distant lands. Orianna dreamed of visiting these strange and marvelous places, and would scurry home to build clockwork dancers of her own. News of disaster in the undercity of Zaun made its way to their shop. An explosion had ruptured a chemical line, venting clouds of poisonous gas. Orianna insisted they help the victims, but Corin forbade it. Zaun was far too dangerous. So, with as many supplies as she could carry, Orianna snuck away in the night and rode the hexdraulic descender into the depths. The devastation was overwhelming. Debris still filled the streets, and Zaunites walked through the toxic haze, faces covered with little more than oily rags. Night after night, Orianna repaired respirators and installed esophilters. She even gave her own mask to a child who could scarcely breathe. Her father was furious, but soon after her return, Orianna fell gravely ill. Her lungs were ravaged past all hope of recovery. Refusing to accept this, Corin threw himself into his most ambitious project yet: a fully functional set of artificial lungs. After weeks of sleepless nights, he completed his desperate task and carried out the surgery himself. To keep her from ever venturing too far again, the lungs were wound with a special key Corin kept in his safe. Orianna returned to work, and yet the poison continued to spread throughout her body. Father and daughter worked feverishly to develop new implants and prosthetics, replacing each of her organs as they failed. Piece by piece, Orianna''s body was transformed from mortal to mechanical until only her healthy heart remained. This longand expensiveprocess cost Corin his fortune, but saved his daughter''s life. For a time, they were happy. Gradually, Orianna began to feel disconnected from who she had been before. Old memories felt like stories. Even her creativity began to fade, and her beloved clockwork dancers became more like masterfully tuned mechanisms than works of art. But, even as time seemed to stand still for Orianna, it marched onward for her father. Long, lean years brought Corin agonizing chest spasms that meant he could no longer work, and Orianna was forced to provide for him. She''d become profoundly adept at crafting her figurines, even if she took only distant pleasure in recalling what once inspired their creation. The miniature dancers brought in good coin and barter, but never enough to afford the one thing she believed could save her father. For that, she turned to a local chem-baron. Orianna never asked how the man came by a hextech crystal. She simply paid what he asked. Even so, before she could use it, the chem-baron returned demanding a second payment. Then a third. When the money ran out, Orianna knew his next visit would end in violence. She looked to the crystal device, still incomplete, too unrefined and powerful for a human body. She saw the logical solution. Corin needed a heart no one could ever take from him. He needed hers. She spent weeks in preparation, building a clockwork orbintegrating it into her own mechanisms, preparing it to house the crystal. Slipping her father a sleeping draught, she commenced the surgery. Corin became one with the last remnant of the daughter he had known and loved. She listened to his steady heartbeat through the night, the quiet hum of hextech in the beautifully intricate ball by her side. Only then did she realize she had shed the last of her humanitybut she felt no fear or remorse, merely acceptance. She had become something entirely new, a lady of clockwork, and she needed to find where in the world''s vast machine she might fit. At dawn, she collected the key that wound her lungs, a single pulse from her ball welding it firmly to her back. Then she left for good. Corin woke to find his workshop filled with hundreds of figurines. But among them was one he vowed never to sell: pirouetting to an endless ballet, a golden dancer that needed no key. "When a moth emerges from its chrysalis, does it remember its life as a caterpillar?" Chapter 172 - Ornn - The Fire Below The Mountain Ornn is the Freljordian demi-god of forging and craftsmanship. He works in the solitude of a massive smithy, hammered out from the lava caverns beneath the volcano Hearth-Home. There he stokes bubbling cauldrons of molten rock to purify ores and fashion items of unsurpassed quality. When other deitiesespecially Volibearwalk the earth and meddle in mortal affairs, Ornn arises to put these impetuous beings back in their place, either with his trusty hammer or the fiery power of the mountains themselves. More than any other of his kind, Ornn values privacy, solitude, and focus. Beneath a dormant volcano that bears scars from some ancient eruption, he labors day and night, forging whatever his heart desires. The results are priceless tools destined for feats of legendthe lucky few who have stumbled upon these relics note their bewilderingly high quality. Some claim that Braum''s shield was made by Ornn thousands of years ago, as it remains as sturdy as the day it was finished. No one can be sure, however, for none can find the forge-god to ask him. Ornn''s name was once spoken throughout the lands that would one day become known as the Freljord. However, almost all of his legends were excised from history by his enemies and the slow march of timenow only a few of his exploits are known, by the handful of tribes who can trace their lineage back to a forgotten culture of blacksmiths, architects, and brewmasters. This long-lost populace was called the Hearthblood, apprentices who journeyed from all corners of the world and gathered on the slopes of Hearth-Home to follow Ornn''s example. Despite this imitative form of worship, Ornn never considered himself their patron. He would only give them curt nods or frowns when they offered up their work, and yet the Hearthblood accepted this and were determined to hone their craft. As a result, they came to create the finest tools, design the sturdiest structures, and brew the tastiest ales the world had ever beheld. Ornn secretly approved of the Hearthblood''s perseverance, and the fact that they were always looking to improve. But, in one catastrophic night, all they had accomplished was destroyed when Ornn battled with his brother Volibear at the mountain''s peak, for reasons no mortal could comprehend. The resultant cataclysm was a storm of fire and ash and lightning so intensely violent that it was seen ten horizons away. When the dust settled, Hearth-Home was a smoldering caldera, and the Hearthblood were reduced to scattered bones and cinders. Though he would never admit it, Ornn was devastated. Through the Hearthblood he had glimpsed the sweeping potential of mortal life, only to see it all lost beneath the indiscriminate wrath of the immortals. Wracked with guilt, he retreated to the isolation of his foundry, and buried himself in his work for an age. Now, he senses that the world is on the cusp of a new era. Some of his siblings have taken physical form once more, their cults of followers growing restless and aggressive. The Freljord itself is fractured and leaderless, and ancient horrors are lurking in the shadows, waiting for any opportunity to strike. A great change is coming. During the wars to come, and in their aftermath, Ornn knows the Freljordand the rest of Runeterrawill have need of a good blacksmith. "I have said enough." Chapter 173 - Pantheon - The Unbreakable Spear Atreus was born on the hostile slopes of Targon, and named after a star in the constellation of War, known as the Pantheon. From an early age, he knew he was destined for battle. Like many in his tribe, he trained to join the Rakkor''s militant order, the Ra''Horak. Never the strongest or the most skilled warrior, Atreus somehow persevered, standing up, bloodied and bruised, after each bout. In time, he developed a fierce rivalry with a fellow recruit, Pylasbut no matter how often Atreus was cast onto the stones, he stood back up. Pylas was impressed by his unrelenting endurance, and through the blood they spilled in the training circle, a true brotherhood was born. Atreus and Pylas were among the Rakkor who stumbled across a barbarian incursion, surviving the ambush that left the rest of their patrol dead. When the Aspect of the Sun refused to destroy these trespassers, Atreus and Pylas swore to capture the power of the Aspects themselves by climbing to the peak of Mount Targon. Like so many before them, they underestimated how arduous the ascent would be, with Pylas shivering his last upon finally reaching the summit. Only Atreus remained as the skies opened, making him host to a divine Aspect, with the power to take revenge. But it was not a man who returned to the Rakkor afterward, spear and shield gleaming with celestial might. It was the Aspect of War itself, the Pantheon. Judging Atreus unworthy, a warrior who had known only defeat, it had taken control of his body to pursue its own endsa task it considered too great for mortal men. Cast into the furthest corners of his own mind, Atreus endured only vague visions as the Aspect scoured the world for Darkin, living weapons created in a bygone age. Eventually, Pantheon was goaded into battle not far from Mount Targon by the Darkin Aatrox, who sought the mountain''s peak. Their fight raged into the skies, and swept through the armies of men beneath until the impossible occurred. The Darkin''s god-killing blade was driven into Pantheon''s chest, a blow that carved the constellation of War from the heavens. But as the Aspect faded, Atreusthe man it had considered weakawoke once more. Impaled upon Aatrox''s blade, and with the power of the Aspect''s weapons dimming, he took a ragged breath, and spit in the Darkin''s face. Aatrox sneered, and left Atreus to die. Hours later, as the crows descended, Atreus painfully stood back up, stumbling back to the Rakkor in a trail of blood. After a lifetime of defeat, his will to live, and his anger at betrayal, were enough to stave off the death that had claimed War itself. Atreus recovered on Pylas'' homestead, nursed back to health by his friend''s widow, Iula. There, Atreus realized he''d spent his life looking to the stars, never considering what lay beneath. Unlike gods, mortals fought because they must, knowing that death lay in wait. It was a resilience he saw in all life, the threats unending. Indeed, barbarian invaders now threatened the Rakkor''s northern settlements, including Iula''s farm. Though it was months before he could lift a spear, Atreus was determined to end this scourge himself, and eventually set out with the Aspect''s dulled weapons in hand. Yet, when he arrived, he found his sworn enemies already under siege. He knew from their cries, from the overwhelming stench of blood they faced Aatrox. It was Aatrox who had driven the barbarians into Targon, Atreus realized. Though he''d considered them his foes, they were much like the Rakkormortals who suffered in the conflicts between greater powers. Atreus felt a cold rage at both the Darkin and the Aspects. They were no different. They were the problem. Atreus put himself between the barbarians and Aatrox. Recognizing the battered shield and spear of the fallen Aspect, the Darkin mocked himwhat hope had Atreus now, without the Pantheon''s power? But even though Aatrox''s blows cast him to his knees, Atreus'' own will reignited the Aspect''s spear, upon hearing the cries of the people around him and with a mighty leap, he struck a blow that severed the Darkin''s sword arm. Both blade and Darkin fell to the ground. Only Atreus still stood, and watched his namesake star blaze back to life in the heavens. Though he often yearns to return to Iula''s farm, Atreus vowed that day to stand against Aspects, Ascended, demons, and any who wield power so great, it can only destroy. Forsaking his own name, he has become a new Pantheonthe Aspect''s weapons fueled by the will to fight that can only exist in the face of death. For with the divine Pantheon gone, War must be reborn in man. "Here is my eternity a day the gods will remember!" Chapter 174 - Poppy - Keeper Of The Hammer Runeterra has no shortage of valiant champions, but few are as tenacious as Poppy. Bearing a hammer twice the length of her body, this determined yordle has spent untold years searching for the "Hero of Demacia," a fabled warrior said to be the rightful wielder of her weapon. As legend describes it, this hero is the only person who can unlock the full power of the hammer and lead Demacia to true greatness. Though Poppy has searched the furthest corners of the kingdom for this legendary fighter, her quest has proven fruitless. Each time she has attempted to pass the hammer on to a potential hero, the results have been disastrous, often ending in the warrior''s death. Most people would have abandoned the task long ago, but most people do not possess the pluck and resolve of this indomitable heroine. Poppy was once a very different yordle. For as long as she could remember, she had been in search of a purpose. Feeling alienated by the chaotic whimsy of other yordles, she preferred to soak up stability and structure where she could find it. This drive brought her to the human settlements of western Valoran, where she gazed in wonder at the caravans striping the countryside in an endless file. Many of the people there looked tattered and weary, but they stumbled on in pursuit of some ephemeral better life that might lie just beyond the horizon. One day, however, a different sort of caravan passed through. Unlike the other travelers, these people seemed to move with purpose. They all awoke at the exact same time each morning, roused by the sound of a watchman''s horn. They took their meals together every day at the same hour, always finishing within a few minutes. They set up their camps and took them down with remarkable efficiency. While yordles used their innate magic to fashion extraordinary things, these humans achieved equally astounding feats through coordination and discipline. They acted in concert like the cogs of a gear, becoming something much larger and stronger than any single person could ever be. To Poppy, that was more marvelous than all the magic in the world. As Poppy watched the camp from the safety of her hiding place, her eyes caught the gleam of armor emerging from a tent. It was the group''s commanding officer, wearing a brigandine of gleaming steel plates, each piece overlapping, each an integral part of the whole. The man''s name was Orlon, and his presence seemed to stir the souls of everyone there. If someone became discouraged, he was there to remind them of why they pressed on. If someone collapsed from exhaustion, he inspired them to get up. It reminded Poppy of certain yordle charms, though again, without magic. Poppy crept in for a closer look. She found herself following this shining commander, as if drawn to him by fate itself. She observed Orlon as he led his soldiers in training exercises. He was not a large fellow, yet he swung his massive battle hammer with surprising alacrity. At night, Poppy listened intently to his hushed discussions with the elders of the camp. She heard them making plans to pull up stakes and head west to build a permanent settlement. Poppy''s mind was overwhelmed with questions. Where was Orlon going? Where did he come from? How did he assemble this meticulous band of travelers, and was there a place for a yordle in it? At that moment, she made the most important decision in her life: For the first time ever, she would reveal herself to a human, as this was the first time she''d ever felt a connection with one. The introduction was a jarring one, with Orlon having just as many questions for Poppy as she had for him, but the two soon became inseparable. He became a mentor to her, and she a devotee to his cause. In the training grounds, Poppy was an invaluable sparring partnerCthe only member of Orlon''s battalion who was unafraid to strike him. She was never obsequious, questioning his decisions with an almost childlike innocence, as though she didn''t know she was supposed to meekly follow orders. She accompanied him to the site of the new settlementCan ambitious new nation called Demacia, where all were welcome, regardless of station or background, so long as they contributed to the good of the whole. Orlon became a beloved figure throughout the kingdom. Though few had actually seen him wield his hammer, he always bore it on his back, and the weapon quickly became a revered icon for the fledgling nation. People whispered that it had the power to level mountains and tear the earth itself asunder. Orlon passed the hammer to Poppy on his deathbed, and with it, his hope of an enduring kingdom. It was only then that Orlon told her the story of his weapon''s creation, and how it was never truly intended for his hands. He explained to Poppy that the hammer was meant to go to the Hero of DemaciaCthe only one who could keep Demacia whole. As her friend drew his last breath, Poppy swore to him that she would find this hero and place the weapon in his hands. But what Poppy possesses in resolve, she lacks in ego, as it never even occurred to her that she might be the hero Orlon described. "I''m no hero. Just a yordle with a hammer." Chapter 175 - Pyke - The Bloodharbor Ripper As a youth, Pyke started out like many in Bilgewater: on the slaughter docks. All day, every day, monstrous creatures of the deep were hauled in for rendering in the butcheries that lined the waterfront. He found employment in a district known as Bloodharbor, as even the tide itself was not strong enough to wash away the red slick that ran constantly down its wooden slips. He became well acquainted with the tradeboth the gruesome work and meager paychecks. Over and over, Pyke watched heavy purses of gold being handed to captains and crews in exchange for the daunting carcasses that he and his fellows would hack into salable chunks. He became hungry for more than a few copper sprats in his pocket, and managed to talk his way onto a ship''s crew. Few individuals dared to hunt in the traditional Serpent Isles manner: launching themselves at their targets to secure tow-hooks with their bare hands, and beginning to butcher the creatures while they yet lived. Fearless and highly skilled in this regard, Pyke soon cut a name for himself as the best harpooner a golden kraken could buy. He knew meat was worth pennies compared to certain organs from the larger, more dangerous beasts organs that needed to be harvested fresh. Depending on the difficulty of the hunt, each sea monster commanded its own price, and the most desired by Bilgewater traders was the jaull-fish. From its razor-toothed maw, priceless sacs of sapphilite were coveted across Runeterra for various sorcerous distillations, and a small flask of the glowing blue oil could pay for a ship and its crew ten times over. But it was while hunting with an untested captain that Pyke learned where a life of blood and guts would land him. Days into their journey, a huge jaull-fish breached, opening its maw wide to reveal rows of sapphilite sacs. Several harpoon lines secured the beast, and though it was far bigger and older than any he had encountered before, Pyke leapt into its mouth without hesitation. As he set about his work, a deep vibration began to stir in the creature''s cavernous gullet. Roiling bubbles broke the ocean''s surface, and an entire pod of jaulls began to push against the tethered ship''s hull. The captain lost his nerve, and cut Pyke''s lifeline. The last thing the doomed harpooner saw before the beast''s jaws snapped shut was the look of horror on his crewmates'' faces, as they watched him being swallowed alive. But this was not the end for Pyke. In the deepest fathoms of the unknowable ocean, crushed by the titanic pressure, and still firmly trapped within the jaull''s mouth, he opened his eyes once more. There were blue lights everywhere, thousands of them, seemingly watching him. Tremulous echoes of something ancient and mysterious filled his brain, crushing his mind, showing him visions of all he had lost whilst others grew fat. A new hunger overtook Pyke, one for vengeance and retribution. He would fill the depths with the corpses of those who had wronged him. Back in Bilgewater, no one thought much of the killings at firstfor so dangerous a place, the occasional red tide was nothing new. But weeks became months, and a pattern began to emerge. Captains from many sh.i.p.s were found carved up and left out for the dawn. Bar-room patrons whispered it was a supernatural killer, wronged at sea, gutting his way through the crew manifest of some damned ship called the Terror. Once a mark of respect and celebrity, the question "You a captain?" became a cause for alarm. Soon it was the caulkers, too, and the first mates, merchant officers, bankers indeed, anyone associated with the bloody business of the slaughter docks. A new name went up on the bounty boards: a thousand krakens for the infamous Bloodharbor Ripper. Driven by memories twisted by the deep, Pyke has succeeded where many have failedstriking fear into the hearts of unscrupulous businessmen, killers, and seafaring scoundrels alike, even though no one can find any mention of a ship named the Terror ever docking in Bilgewater. A city that prides itself on hunting monsters now finds a monster hunting them, and Pyke has no intention of stopping. "There''s plenty of room for everyone at the bottom of the sea..." Chapter 176 - Qiyana - The Empress Of Elements The youngest child in a ruling family, Qiyana grew up believing she would never inherit the high seat of the Yun Tal. As her parents governed Ixaocan, a city-state hidden deep in the jungles of Ixtal, they raised their children to succeed them, schooling them in the proud traditions of their isolated nation. Primed to rule before her, Qiyana''s nine older sisters received most of the attention, and she often longed to find her own meaningful place in the family. That place became clear the day young Qiyana began to learn the ancient elemental magic of Ixtal. Soon after she took up lessons, she realized she was blessed with extraordinary talent. Though Qiyana was only seven years old, she mastered advanced techniques within weeks, while some of her older sisters had yet to grasp the basics after years of study. One by one, Qiyana surpassed her sisters in the elemental arts, and the more she progressed, the more resentful she became. Why did her parents waste so much effort grooming her inferior siblings? Each time they were chosen to preside over the grand rituals that shrouded Ixtal from the outside world, Qiyana lashed out in frustration, picking fights to prove her worth. It wasn''t long before Inessa, the eldest sister and immediate successor, became the target for Qiyana''s aggression. Rather than defusing the conflict, Inessa bristled at the disrespect from her sister, who was twelve years her junior. As both grew older, their words became increasingly heated, culminating in physical threats from Inessa, and a challenge from Qiyana: they should decide who was strongest in ritual combat, for all of Ixaocan to seeand for the right to succeed their parents. Inessa accepted the challenge to teach her sister some much needed humility. When the contest was over, Inessa was never to walk again, while Qiyana stood unscathed. She was eager to take her place as the rightful heir, but Qiyana''s parents were furious at her actions. They denied her the prizetradition decreed that Qiyana would always be tenth in line to inherit the high seat of the Yun Tal. Though the news was bitter, Qiyana soon discovered that the duel had made her elemental prowess known across all of Ixaocan. At last, she had found what had long eluded her: respect. That respect quickly became an addiction. Qiyana felt a burning need to be recognized for her exceptional skill. In fact, all of Ixaocan should stand proud with her, and put the world in its place with their powerful elemental magic. Instead, they were hiding from foreign explorers, and miners who were uprooting the jungle on their borders. In her parents'' court, Qiyana laid out her ambitionsto drive off the miners and restore the lands. Qiyana''s parents rejected the idea. Contact with the "outlanders" would bring hatred, war, and disease, jeopardizing what their dynasty had protected for centuries. Qiyana stewed, impatient to prove her strength to the world, and determined to prove her parents wrong. Acting against their will, Qiyana raided the mining site, killing all the miners but one. As the man''s eyes shone brightly with fear, Qiyana knew he would spread her messagehe would tell everyone in his Pilt-over about the grand elementalist who destroyed their mine. In Ixaocan, Qiyana gladly took credit for the slaughter, infuriating her mother and father. They told her the Piltovan merchants were sending fresh miners and armsmen into the jungle. Qiyana''s parents would not risk their insubordinate daughter drawing even more outlanders toward their borders, and regretfully ordered her imprisoned for her crime. Just as she was detained, several elementalists of the court came to Qiyana''s defense. The elemental talent displayed in the jungle was unheard of, and they convinced her parents that Qiyana should aid them in powering and defending the city. Qiyana was released, once she swore renewed fealty to her elders, and vowed to never cross paths with an outlander again. As a growing number of admirers throw their support behind Qiyana, she has finally realized her true place in the world. She holds a power stronger than tradition, and she will climb the ladder of succession by any means necessary. She is the greatest elementalist the world has ever seen. She is the inevitable ruler of Ixaocan, and the future empress of all Ixtal. "Some day, all this will be Ixaocan. A glorious empire, with an empress to fit." Chapter 177 - Quinn - Demacias Wings Quinn is an elite ranger-knight of Demacia who undertakes dangerous missions deep in enemy territory with her legendary eagle, Valor. The two share an unbreakable bond that is uniquely deadly, and their foes are often slain before they realize they are fighting not one, but two Demacian heroes. Quinn and her twin brother, Caleb, were born in Uwendale, a remote mountain hamlet in the northeastern hinterlands of Demacia. Raised to believe in the nobility and righteousness of their homeland''s values, the two were inseparable. Uwendale was a thriving town of hunters and farmers, protected by mountain rangers expert in intercepting and killing any monsters that came down from the high peaks to hunt. While the twins were young, King Jarvan III visited Uwendale on an inspection tour of the East Wall, the barrier between Demacia and the lawless, tribal states beyond. Hoisted high on her father''s shoulders, Quinn thrilled to the pageantry of the king and his warriors, resplendent in gleaming sunsteel plate. Quinn and Caleb were captivated, vowing to become knights of Demacia and one day fight alongside the king. Their childhood games cast them as heroic knights, bravely defending the land from vile monsters, savage Freljordians or black-hearted Noxians. They spent every moment they could in the wilds surrounding Uwendale. Their mother - one of the village''s foremost rangers - taught them how to track beast of the forest, how to survive in the wild, and, most importantly, how to fight. Over the years, Quinn and Caleb developed into a formidable team, working together in a way that brought out the best in both of them; her keen eye for tracks, his skill at baiting their prey, her aim with a bow, his prowess with a hunting spear. But one excursion high into the mountains north of Uwendale ended in tragedy when the twins encountered a party of Buvelle nobles hunting a giant tuskvore, a predatory killer known for its thick hide, long razorhorns and ferocious temperament. The nobles had failed to kill the creature outright, and the wounded beast turned on them, goring several of the family''s young scions to death. Quinn and Caleb were quick to intervene. They drove the tuskvore off with a flurry of arrows to its skull, but not before Caleb was gored to death by the creature while saving the Buvelle matriarch''s life. The nobles thanked Quinn profusely and helped her bury her brother before gathering their dead heirs and returning home to mourn. Caleb''s death almost broke Quinn. They had dreamed of fighting as a pair, and without her twin by her side, Quinn''s hopes of becoming a knight seemed hollow. She fulfilled her duties to her village, as was expected of any daughter of Demacia, but her heart was broken and the joy that had previously energized her dimmed like the last light of summer. Without her brother by her side, her prowess in the wilderness waned and she started making mistakes. Nothing life threatening, but she missed easy tracks, her aim was off, and became dour and uncommunicative. Quinn regularly visited Caleb''s grave at the site of their battle with the tuskvore, unable to move on and forever reliving her moment of loss. A year to the day after Caleb''s death, she returned to the mountain clearing as she had many times before. Lost in grief and reflection, Quinn didn''t hear the approaching tuskvore. Amid the razorhorns crowning its skull were the broken shafts of arrows she and Caleb had loosed in their previous battle with the beast. The monster charged, and Quinn desperately fought for her life against the enraged beast. She fired a dozen shafts at the creature, but none of her arrows were accurate enough to find the weaknesses in its thick hide. Exhausted from the battle, Quinn stumbled, and the beast was upon her. She dived from its path, but not quickly enough, and the tip of its horn sliced her from hip to collarbone. Badly wounded, Quinn fell as the beast circled around to finish her. Quinn looked the beast in the eye and knew this was her death. She reached for the last arrow in her quiver as a flash of blue sliced through the air. A beautiful, blue-pinioned bird swooped in and raked its claws over the tuskvore''s face. The bird was an Azurite Eagle, the breed said to have inspired the winged symbol of Demacia and long thought extinct. The screeching bird dived again and again, its claws and beak ripping bloody gouges in the tuskvore''s skull even as the beast''s horns gouged its body and tore its wings. Quinn slowed her breathing and drew back her last arrow as the monster bellowed in fury and charged. She loosed, her bowstave snapping with the force of her draw. But her aim was true, and the arrow flew into the monster''s open mouth to pierce its brain. The tuskvore''s body plowed a great furrow in the earth toward her, but it was dead and Quinn let out a shuddering breath of relief. She crawled to where the eagle lay, its wing broken, and saw in its eyes a deep well of kinship. She bound the wounded bird''s mighty pinion and returned to Uwendale with the tuskvore''s horns as a trophy. The wounded bird perched on her shoulder the entire way, refusing to leave her side. She named the eagle Valor, and nursed him back to health. The bond that formed between them rekindled the fire in Quinn''s heart, and, once more, her thoughts turned to serving Demacia in battle. With her father''s help, she crafted a new weapon from the horns of the tuskvore, a finely-wrought repeater crossbow capable of firing multiple bolts with a single pull of the trigger. With her parents'' blessing, Quinn and Valor traveled to the capital and petitioned the drill-masters of the Demacian army to join their ranks as a ranger-knight. Ordinarily, years of training were required to serve in the highly disciplined Demacian military. Quinn did not have such training, but she easily passed every test the full ranger-knights set her. The drill-masters had no idea how such an individualistic hunter and her unique eagle might fit within their rigid command structure, so prepared to reject her petition. But before their verdict was delivered, Lady Lestara Buvelle, the noblewoman whose life Caleb had saved, intervened and vouched for Quinn''s courageous heart and great skill. Quinn was immediately inducted into the Demacian army and though she proved a fine ranger-knight, she struggled with the inflexible hierarchy and (in her view) needlessly prescriptive regulations. Her fellow warriors acknowledged her skills, but still viewed her as something of a wild card, a Demacian who preferred operating outwith the established order, who crafted her own missions and came and went as she pleased. She never remained within the city walls for long, preferring to live out in the wild as opposed to keeping the company of her fellow soldiers. Only the fact that she was so successful in uncovering nascent threats and rooting out hidden enemies allowed her a degree of leeway unheard of in Demacian ranks. When a Noxian assassin struck down Castle Jandelle''s commander on the Day of Lost Light, Quinn''s talents proved themselves once again. The killer escaped battalions of knights dispatched to capture him, but Quinn and Valor tracked and killed the assassin after a night of lethal traps, counterattacks and ambushes. She returned with the assassin''s blade, earning the nickname, Demacia''s Wings. Quinn remained in Jandelle just long enough to receive her commendation before she and Valor once again departed the city to return to the wilderness where they were most comfortable. Since then, Quinn has ventured far and wide in service of Demacia, risking journeys to the far north of the Freljord and deep into the Noxian empire. Each time she and Valor have returned with intelligence vital to the security and defence of Demacia''s borders. While her methods do not easily fit within the heavily codified strictures of the Demacian military, none can doubt Quinn and Valor''s preternatural brilliance in the field. "Most soldiers only rely on their weapons. Few truly rely on each other." Chapter 178 - Rakan - The Charmer As mercurial as he is charming, Rakan is an infamous vastayan troublemaker and the greatest battle-dancer in Lhotlan tribal history. To the humans of the Ionian highlands, his name has long been synonymous with wild festivals, uncontrollable parties, and anarchic music. Few would suspect this energetic, traveling showman is also partner to the rebel Xayah, and is dedicated to her cause. On the ancient, mystical borders of Ionia''s deep forests live the last of the Lhotlan vastaya. It is a place where magic is breathed like air and time has little meaning. To these chimeric creatures, the mortal realms have become like an unforgiving desert, virtually devoid of magic. Few willingly travel far from their shrinking lands, but Rakan has long walked a riskier path. He journeys along the edges of the world''s magical streams, as an explorer, emissary, and song catcher for his tribe. An entertaining rogue, a welcome performer for any tavern or village carnival, Rakan was content with the simple adventures of this life on the road until he had a chance encounter with Xayah at the harvest festival in Vlonqo. Seeing her in the crowd, Rakan performed one of his old songs, entrancing the entire town with his gleaming plumage. Though countless human and vastayan women had fallen for him in the past, this violet raven seemed immune to his charms, though not uninterested. How could she see him and yet choose not to follow him? It was a puzzle with no easy answer. Intrigued, the battle-dancer decided he would accompany Xayah on her travels. He became fascinated by how she interacted with the world. She seemed always prepared, aloof, and focused where he was uninformed, affable, and frivolousbut in any dangerous situation, they fought together with uncanny harmony. Soon enough, the pair became inseparable. After months of courtship, Rakan began to see the world through Xayah''s eyes. Inspired by his partner''s singular drive, he joined her crusade to reclaim the power of the vastaya, and take back all that their people had lost. Through Xayah, he had found purpose, and Rakan had fallen in love. "I got freedom. I got a lady. I got a cause I''d die for." Chapter 179 - Rammus - The Armordillo Idolized by many, dismissed by some, mystifying to all, the curious being, Rammus, is an enigma. Protected by a spiked shell, Rammus inspires increasingly disparate theories on his origin wherever he goes - from demigod, to sacred oracle, to a mere beast transformed by magic. Whatever the truth may be, Rammus keeps his own counsel and stops for no one as he roams the desert. Some believe Rammus is an Ascended being, an ancient god amongst men who rolls to Shurima''s aid as an armored guardian in its times of need. Superstitious folk swear he is a harbinger of change, appearing when the land is on the verge of a great shift in power. Others speculate he is the last of a dying species that roamed the land before the Rune Wars sundered the desert with uncontrolled magic. With so many rumors of great power, magic, and mystery surrounding him, Rammus compels many Shurimans to seek his wisdom. Soothsayers, priests, and deranged lunatics alike claim to know where Rammus dwells, but the Armordillo has proved elusive. Despite this, proof of his presence predates living memory, with crumbling mosaics depicting his image on the most ancient walls of Shuriman ruins. His likeness adorns colossal stone monuments made in the early days of Ascension, leading some to believe he is no less than an immortal demigod. Skeptics often point to a simpler explanation: that Rammus is just one of many such creatures. It is said that he appears only to worthy pilgrims in great need of his aid, and those blessed by his presence experience great turning points. After the Armordillo rescued the heir to a vast kingdom from a terrible fire, the man renounced his position to become a goat farmer. An elderly mason was inspired by a profound, yet brief conversation with Rammus, and constructed an enormous marketplace which became the bustling heart of Nashramae. Knowing Rammus''s guidance can pave an enlightened path, devout believers perform elaborate rituals designed to attract the favor of their deity. Disciples of the cult devoted to Rammus demonstrate their unwavering faith in a yearly ceremony by imitating his famous roll and somersaulting through the city in droves. Every year, thousands of Shurimans trek through the most treacherous and remote corners of the desert on a quest to find Rammus, for many teachings indicate he will answer a single question of those he finds deserving, if they are able to find him. Knowing his enthusiasm for desert treats, the pilgrims arm themselves with offerings thought to attract his blessing, packing their mules with flasks of sweet goat''s milk, chests filled with colonies of ants sealed in wax, and jars of honeycombs. Many never return from the deep desert, and fewer still with stories of the demigod, though travelers describe waking to find their packs mysteriously emptied of all edible provisions. Whether he is truly a wise oracle, Ascended deity, or a mighty beast, Rammus is known for his miraculous feats of endurance. He entered the impenetrable Fortress of Siram, an imposing bastion designed by a crazed sorcerer. The structure was said to contain untold magical horrors - fearsome beasts mutated beyond recognition, corridors wreathed in flames, impenetrable tunnels guarded by shadow demons. Not an hour had passed when the enormous fortress collapsed in a plume of dust, and Rammus was seen rolling away. None knew why Rammus entered the darkened gate, nor what secrets he learned within the basalt walls of the fortress. In the year of the great flood he crossed the vast lake of Imalli in just two days, and dug many miles deep to destroy a giant anthill and kill its queen, whose daughters had devastated the nearby farmland. Sometimes he appears as a benevolent hero. When invading Noxian warbands attacked a Northern Shuriman settlement, disparate tribes banded together to defend the territory beneath the Temple of the Ascended. They were no match for the invaders in size or skill, and the battle was all but lost when Rammus entered the fray. Each side was so shocked to see the elusive creature that fighting halted completely as they watched him roll between them. As Rammus passed the towering temple, the foundations of the building shook, and enormous stone blocks toppled onto the invading army, crushing many of its warriors. Now outnumbered, the army retreated to elated cheers from the Shurimans. While many swear Rammus saved the town out of love for Shurima, others argue he was merely defending the territory in which his favorite cactus flowers grew. At least one tribesman claims Rammus was simply sleeprolling and had no intention of taking down a temple. Whatever the truth, stories of Rammus are treasured by the people of Shurima. Any Shuriman child can list a dozen theories on the question of his origin, half of which they likely invented on the spot. Tales of the Armordillo have only increased with the rise of Ancient Shurima, as they did just before its fall, giving way to a belief that his presence heralds darker times to come. But how can such a benevolent, epicurean soul herald an age of destruction? "OK." Chapter 180 - RekSai - The Void Burrower The largest and fiercest of her species, Rek''Sai is a merciless predator that tunnels through the earth to ambush and devour her prey. Her insatiable hunger has laid waste to entire regions of the once-great Shuriman empire. Merchants, traders and armed caravans will go hundreds of miles out of their way to avoid these vast areas, though cunning bandits have been known to lure the unwary into her killing grounds. Once Rek''Sai detects you, your fate is sealed. There is no hope of escape; she is death from below the sand. "Fear not ambush from the hills, nor winged beasts from the skies. The true terror of Shurima comes from the sand, and gives no warning of her presence." Chapter 181 - Renekton - The Butcher Of The Sands Renekton is a terrifying, rage-fueled Ascended being from the scorched deserts of Shurima. Once, he was his empire''s most esteemed warrior, leading the armies of Shurima to countless victories. However, after the empire''s fall, Renekton was entombed beneath the sands, and slowly, as the world turned and changed, he succ.u.mbed to insanity. Now free once more, he is utterly consumed with finding and killing his brother, Nasus, who he blames, in his madness, for the centuries he spent in darkness. Renekton was born to fight. From a young age he was constantly getting into vicious brawls. He had no fear, and was able to hold his own against much older children. It was often pride that led to these confrontations, as Renekton was unable to back down, or let any insult pass. Every evening, he came home with cuts and fresh bruises, and while his more scholarly older brother, Nasus, disapproved of his street-fighting, Renekton relished it. Nasus soon moved away, having been chosen to join the elite Collegium of the Sun, and in the years he was absent, Renekton''s skirmishes became increasingly serious. On a rare visit home, Nasus was horrified to see his bloodied young brother return home from yet another street fight. Fearing Renekton''s violent nature would see him imprisoned or in an early grave, Nasus helped him enlist in the Shuriman army. Officially, Renekton was too young for this duty, but his older brother''s influence smoothed away this detail. The discipline and regimentation of the army was a blessing for Renekton. Within a few years, he rose to become one of Shurima''s most feared and capable war-captains, and he fought on the front line in numerous wars of conquest to expand the empire. He garnered a reputation for ferocity and toughness, but also for honor and bravery. Nasus became a decorated general, and the two of them served in a number of campaigns together, remaining very close despite their inherent differences and frequent disagreements. Nasus''s skill lay in strategy, logistics and history; Renekton''s lay in battle. Nasus planned the wars, and Renekton won them. Renekton earned the title Gatekeeper of Shurima after fighting a desperate battle in one of the mountain passes bordering Shurima. An invading force had landed on the south coast, striking toward the isolated city of Zuretta. If it was not halted, the city was certain to be razed, and its populace massacred. Outnumbered ten to one, Renekton and a small contingent faced these aggressors, determined to buy time for the city to be evacuated. It was a battle that none expected Renekton to survive, let alone win. He held the pass for a day and a night, long enough for a relief force led by Nasus to arrive. With barely a handful of warriors left standing, none uninjured, Renekton was hailed a hero. Renekton served on the frontlines for decades, and never lost a battle. His presence was inspiring to those fighting alongside him, and terrifying to his enemies. Victory after victory were his, and such was his reputation that some wars were won without a sword even being lifted, enemy nations surrendering as soon as they heard Renekton was marching on them. Renekton was of middling years, a grizzled and battle-scarred veteran, when word reached him that his brother was close to death. He raced back to the capital to find Nasus a pale shadow of his former self, having been struck down by a debilitating wasting malady. The sickness was incurable, similar to the rotting curse said to have cut down an entire noble line in antiquity. Nevertheless, Nasus''s greatness was recognized by one and all. As well as being a highly decorated general, he curated the great library of Shurima, and penned many of the finest literary works in the empire. The priesthood proclaimed it to be the sun''s will that he undertake the Ascension ritual. The whole city gathered to witness the holy rite, but the tragic illness had taken a terrible toll, and Nasus no longer had the strength to scale the stairs to the Ascension dais. In the ultimate act of self-sacrifice and love, Renekton lifted his brother in his arms, and climbed the final steps, fully expecting to be obliterated in the process by the holy energies of the sun disc. He deemed his sacrifice a small thing to ensure that his brother would live on. He was just a warrior, after all, albeit a talented one, while his brother was a peerless scholar, thinker and general. Renekton knew that Shurima would need Nasus in the years to come. Renekton was not destroyed, however. Beneath the blinding radiance of the sun disc, both brothers were raised up and remade. When the light faded, two mighty Ascended beings stood before the onlookers, Nasus in his lean, jackal-headed body, and Renekton in his immense, crocodilian form. Their forms seemed apt; the jackal was often regarded as the most clever and cunning of beasts, and the fearless aggression of the crocodile fit Renekton perfectly. Shurima gave thanks to have these new demigods as guardians of the empire. Renekton had been a mighty war hero before, but now he was an Ascended being, blessed with power beyond mortal understanding. He was stronger and faster than any regular man, and seemed virtually immune to pain. Though Ascended beings were not immortal, their lifespans were dramatically increased, so that they might serve the empire for hundreds of years. With Renekton at the head of the Shuriman armies, the empire''s military was all but unstoppable. He had always been a ruthless commander and ferocious fighter, but his new form gave him power beyond belief. He led the soldiers of Shurima to many bloody victories, neither giving nor expecting mercy. His legend spread far beyond the borders of the empire, and it was his enemies that gave him the name Butcher of the Sands, a title he embraced. There were those, Nasus among them, who came to believe that a portion of Renekton''s humanity had been lost in his transformation. As the years progressed, he seemed to become crueler, relishing the spilling of blood more than was natural, and whispers circulated of atrocities he committed in the name of war. Nevertheless, he was a staunch defender of Shurima, and he faithfully served a succession of emperors, ensuring the security and greatness of Shurima for hundreds of years. During the reign of the Emperor Azir, word arrived that a magical being of fire had escaped the magical sarcophagus that bound it in its underground prison. It had laid waste to a Shuriman town, before fleeing across the desert to the east. Renekton and his brother Nasus set forth to recapture this legendary foe. While they were absent, the young emperor, guided by the manipulations of his magus, Xerath, attempted to join their ranks and become one of the Ascended. The results were catastrophic. Renekton and Nasus were a day''s ride from the capital, but even so, they felt the shockwave as the Ascension ritual went awry. Knowing that something terrible had come to pass, they raced back to find the glorious city in ruins. Azir had been killed, along with most of the city''s populace, and the great sun disc was falling, drained of all its power. At the epicenter of the ruin, they encountered Xerath, now a being of pure, malevolent power. The brothers sought to bind Xerath in the magical sarcophagus that had held the ancient being of fire. For a day and a night they battled, but the magus was powerful, and would not be held. He shattered the sarcophagus, and assailed them with spells fueled by the power of sun disc, which crashed to the ground as they fought. Knowing that they could not destroy Xerath, Renekton finally wrestled him into the depthless Tomb of the Emperors, and bade his brother seal them inside forever. Knowing there was no other way to stop Xerath, Nasus reluctantly did as his brother ordered. As Renekton and Xerath fell into darkness, Nasus sealed the tomb for all eternity. In the darkness, Xerath and Renekton continued their battle. For uncounted years they fought, as the once-great civilization of Shurima collapsed to dust in the world above. Xerath whispered poison in Renekton''s ear, and gradually, as the centuries rolled on, his viperous words and the ever-present darkness took its toll. The magus implanted the notion in Renekton''s mind that Nasus had sealed him in on purpose, jealous of his success, and unwilling to share his Ascension. Piece by piece, Renekton''s sanity cracked. Xerath drove a wedge into these cracks, corrupting his mind and twisting his perception of what was real and what was imagined. Thousands of years later, the Tomb of the Emperors was opened by the mercenary Sivir, freeing Renekton and Xerath. Renekton roared his fury and thundered out into the Shuriman desert, sniffing the air for the scent of his brother. Renekton now roams the deserts, seeking the death of Nasus, the traitor he believes left him to die. His grip on reality is tenuous at best, and while there are moments when he resembles the proud, honorable hero of the past, much of the time he is little more than a devolved hate-maddened beast, driven on by the thirst for blood and vengeance. "Blood and vengeance." Chapter 182 - Rengar - The Pridestalker Rengar is a ferocious vastayan trophy hunter who lives for the thrill of tracking down and killing dangerous creatures. He scours the world for the most fearsome beasts he can find, especially seeking any trace of Kha''Zix, the void creature who scratched out his eye. Rengar stalks his prey neither for food nor glory, but for the sheer beauty of the pursuit. Rengar hails from a tribe of Shuriman vastaya known as the Kiilash, whose society venerated the honor and glory of the hunt. Rengar was born the runt of the litter to the tribe''s chieftain, Ponjaf. Ponjaf believed Rengar''s diminutive size would make him a worthless hunter. He ignored his child, assuming the runt would starve to death. Eventually, the young Rengar fled the camp, ashamed that he had disappointed his father. He subsisted on grubs and plants for weeks until, one day, he was nearly killed by a legendary human hunter named Markon. Upon seeing Rengar''s state, he took pity on the creature and let it live. Besides, this was no mighty vastayan warrior worthy of Markon''s blade. Rengar spent months following Markon, feeding off the corpses the hunter left behind. He still hoped to one day rejoin his tribe, and so took great care in observing how Markon took down his quarries. After some time, Markon grew sick of the pathetic Kiilash following him around. He put a knife to Rengar''s throat and informed him that the only way to be a hunter was to hunt. He tossed Rengar the blade and kicked him down a ravine, where he was forced to make his first kill to survive. From then on, Rengar spent years pushing himself almost to breaking point. He scoured Shurima for the most powerful and dangerous prey. Though he would never be as big as other Kiilash, Rengar was determined to be twice as ferocious. Over time, instead of coming back to his camp each time with fresh scars, he began to come back with trophies. He polished a sandhawk''s skull to a sheen; he braided the teeth of a shrieker into his hair. Then, when he decided the time had come, Rengar returned to his tribe, ready to be accepted as a true hunter. Ponjaf scoffed at Rengar and his trophies. He decreed that only by bringing back the head of the elusive and legendary Void-abomination known as Kha''Zix would Rengar be welcomed back into the tribe. Blinded by his eagerness, Rengar allowed this cunning beast to get the drop on him. The Void creature ripped out one of Rengar''s eyes and escaped. Furious and defeated, Rengar admitted his failure to Ponjaf. As expected, his father chastised him. But as Ponjaf spoke, Rengar noticed all the trophies adorning his father''s hut were dusty and old. The chieftain had not hunted anything in a long timehe had likely sent Rengar after Kha''Zix because he was too afraid to do it himself. Rengar interrupted his father and called him a coward. Many Kiilash were blessed with strong bodies or comfortable homes. Rengar, conversely, was born facing death. He had taught himself how to hunt, and had the trophies and scars to prove it. Even his own bloody eye socket was a trophy: proof that though Rengar was born with disadvantages, he never gave up. Rengar leapt onto his father and gutted him from neck to belly. The fiercest hunters of the tribe crowned him with flame-roses, marking him as their new chieftain. But Rengar didn''t need his village''s acceptance. All he needed was adrenaline pumping through his veins as he chased down his prey. He left the village, without even pausing to take a trophy from what was left of Ponjafhis father was not a kill worthy of remembering. Instead, he set off determined to find and slay the Void creature that had tried to blind him. Not to satisfy the Kiilash, but to satisfy himself. "Prey on the weak and you may survive. Prey on the strong and you will truly live." Chapter 183 - Riven - The Exile Built on perpetual conflict, Noxus has never had a shortage of war orphans. Her father lost to an unnamed battle and her mother to the girl''s own stubborn birth, Riven was raised on a farm run by the empire on the rocky hillsides of Trevale. Physical strength and ferocious will kept the children alive and working on the hard scrap of land, but Riven hungered for more than simply bread on the table. She watched conscriptors from regional warbands visiting the farms, year after year, and in them, she saw a chance at the life she dreamed of. When she finally pledged the empire her strength, she knew Noxus would embrace her as the daughter she longed to be. Riven proved a natural soldier. Young as she was, her years of hard labor allowed her to quickly master the weight of a longsword taller than herself. Her new family was forged in the heat of battle, and Riven saw her bond to her brothers- and sisters-in-arms as unbreakable. So exceptional was her dedication to the empire, that Boram Darkwill himself recognized her with a runic blade of dark stone, enchanted by a pale sorceress within his court. The weapon was heavier than a kite shield and nearly as broadperfectly suited to Riven''s tastes. Not long after, the warhosts set sail for Ionia as part of the long-planned Noxian invasion. As this new war dragged on, it became clear that Ionia would not kneel. Riven''s unit was assigned to escort another warband making its way through the embattled province of Navori. The warband''s leader, Emystan, had employed a Zaunite alchymist, eager to test a new kind of weapon. Across countless campaigns, Riven would gladly have given her life for Noxus, but now she saw something awry in these other soldierssomething that made her deeply uncomfortable. The fragile amphorae they carried on their wagons had no purpose on any battlefield she could imagine The two warbands met increasingly fierce resistance, as if even the land itself sought to defy them. During a heavy rain storm, with mud pouring down the hillsides, Riven and her warriors were stranded with their deadly cargoand it was then that the Ionian fighters revealed themselves. Seeing the danger, Riven called to Emystan for support. The only answer she received was a flaming arrow, fired out from the ridgeline, and Riven understood this was no longer a war to expand the borders of Noxus. It was to be a complete annihilation of the enemy, no matter the cost. The wagon was hit straight on. Instinctively, Riven drew her sword, but it was too late to protect anyone but herself. Chemical fire burst from the ruptured containers, and screams filled the nightboth Ionian and Noxian falling victim to an agonizing, gruesome death. Shielded from the scorching, poisonous mists by the magic of her blade, she bore unwilling witness to scenes of horror and betrayal that would haunt her forever. For Riven, memories of the hours that followed come only in fragments, and nightmares. She bound her wounds. She mourned the dead. But, most of all, she came to hate the sword that saved her life. The words carved into its surface mocked her, reminding her of all she had lost. She would find a way to break it, severing her last tie to Noxus, before the dawn. But when the blade was finally shattered, still she found no peace. Stripped of the faith and conviction that had bolstered her entire life, Riven chose to exile herself, wandering Ionia''s battle-scarred landscape. When she finally returned to the village where she had broken the sword, it was revealed that her self-destructive needs had cost the life of their most revered elder but where Noxus would certainly have condemned Riven to death for such a crime, Ionia embraced her with forgiveness. Though the empire has long since withdrawn from the shores of the First Lands, Riven remains haunted. The balance of power has shifted across Valoran, and she can no longer be sure what she will become, when she is made whole once more. "A warrior''s blade reflects the truth in their heart. Mine is black, and broken." Chapter 184 - Rumble - The Mechanized Menace Even amongst yordles, Rumble was always the runt of the litter. As such, he was used to being bullied. In order to survive, he had to be scrappier and more resourceful than his peers. He developed a quick temper and a reputation for getting even, no matter who crossed him. This made him something of a loner, but he didn''t mind. He liked to tinker, preferring the company of gadgets, and he could usually be found rummaging through the junkyard. Rumble showed great potential as a mechanic, and his teachers recommended him for enrollment at the Yordle Academy of Science and Progress in Piltover. He may very well have become one of Heimerdinger''s esteemed proteges, but Rumble refused to go. He believed that Heimerdinger and his associates were ''''sellouts'''' trading superior yordle technology to humans for nothing more than a pat on the head while yordles remained the butt of their jokes. When a group of human graduates from the Yordle Academy sailed to Bandle City to visit the place where their mentor was born and raised, Rumble couldn''t resist the temptation to see them face-to-face (so to speak). He only intended to get a good look at the humans, but four hours and several choice words later, he returned home bruised and bloodied with an earful about how he was an embarrassment to ''''enlightened'''' yordles like Heimerdinger. The next morning, Rumble left Bandle City without a word, and wasn''t seen again for months. When he returned, he was at the helm of a clanking, mechanized monstrosity. He marched it to the center of town amidst dumbfounded onlookers and there announced that he would show the world what yordle-tech was really capable of achieving. "Ugh, it''s gonna take forever to scr.a.p.e your face off my suit!" Chapter 185 - Ryze - The Rune Mage Ryze was just a young apprentice when he first learned of the arcane powers that had shaped the world. His master, a sorcerer named Tyrus of Helia, was a member of an ancient order whose mission had been to gather and protect the most dangerous artifacts in Runeterra. Ryze overheard Tyrus speaking in hushed tones with another mage, discussing something called "World Runes." When Tyrus noticed his apprentice, he abruptly ended the conversation, tightly clutching the scroll that never left his side. In spite of the order''s best efforts, knowledge of the Runes began to spreadfew could even begin to understand their importance, or the sheer power held within them, and yet all saw them as weapons that could be turned against their rivals. Ryze and Tyrus traveled between the various peoples of Valoran, trying to quell paranoia and encourage restraint. But over time, their missions became increasingly precarious, and Ryze could sense his master''s growing desperation. Finally, in the Noxii territories where Ryze was born, the first cataclysmic blow was struck in what would eventually be known as the Rune Wars. Two nations were pitted against one another, and tensions were running high. Tyrus pleaded with their leaders in parley at the village of Khom, but he saw this conflict had already escalated beyond his ability to mediate. Fleeing into the hills, he and Ryze bore horrified witness to the destructive power of the World Runes firsthand. The earth fell away beneath them, the bedrock itself seeming to retch and squeal, while the sky above them recoiled as if mortally wounded. They looked back upon the valley where the rival armies had stood, and beheld insanitydestruction on a scale so massive that it defied all physical sense. The buildings, the people, all were gone, and the ocean, once a day''s journey to the east, now rushed to meet them. Ryze fell to his knees and stared into the great hole torn in the world. Nothing remained. Not even the village he once called home. Open warfare soon raged across Runeterra. Ryze felt compelled to join the conflict, to pick a side and lend his magical strength to the cause, but Tyrus stayed his hand. The two of them had to guide others back toward peace, and pray there was anything left of the world by the time it was all over. Wherever they met those who held the World Runes, Tyrus pleaded for restraint. Many were deeply sobered by the threat of total annihilationindeed, those who had already suffered most bitterly in the war might have agreed to turn over their Runes to him, and yet none of them wished to be the first to do so. As time passed and the conflict spread, Ryze noticed his master growing more distant. While Tyrus attended clandestine meetings with great leaders and archmages, he sent his apprentice on errands that seemed of little importance, often for many weeks at a time. Eventually, Ryze decided to confront him and, to his horror, discovered that Tyrus of Helia had secretly come into possession of not one Rune, but two. Bitter and angry, the older mage insisted that common mortals were like reckless children, toying with powers they did not understand. He would no longer play diplomat to ignorant power-mongers. He had to stop them. Ryze tried to reason with Tyrus, but it was no usebefore him stood a flawed man, susceptible to the same temptations as those he decried. The allure of the Runes had left its mark upon him. Where once he desired only peace, now he had the means to bring about the end of all things. Ryze had to act, even if it meant destroying his only true friend and ally in the world. In an instant, he unleashed all the magic he could muster. A moment later, Tyrus''s corpse lay smoldering on the floor. Ryze trembled as his mind struggled to process what he had done. If these deadly artifacts could corrupt a mage with the strength and integrity of Tyrus, how was Ryze to handle them? At the same time, he knew he could not entrust them to any other living soul... Soon, the greatest civilizations all but destroyed one another, ending the war. Ryze now understood the task he had inheritedas long as any World Rune remained unsecured, Runeterra was surely doomed. This knowledge was to become a lonely burden indeed, for ever since that day he has scoured the world in search of the last remaining Runes. He continues to reject the promise of power within each one, choosing instead to bind them in secret locations, far from prying and greedy eyes. Even with his life abnormally prolonged by the magic he is exposed to, Ryze cannot afford to rest, for rumors of the World Runes have begun to emerge once more, and the peoples of Runeterra seem to have forgotten the price of wielding them. "Take care with this world. What is made can be unmade." Chapter 186 - Sejuani - The Winters Wrath Sejuani was the child of a Freljordian political marriage that ended as coldly as it began. Her mother, the Iceborn warrior Kalkia of the Winter''s Claw, abandoned her new family to pursue the man who had captured her heart years before, and the tribe fell into decline and chaos without a young Warmother to lead it. Sejuani was instead raised by her grandmother, Hejian. Though Sejuani tried her best to earn Hejian''s love, she was never able to meet her arduous expectations. As the tribe''s troubles grew in the years that followed, Hejian had even less time for the girl. Wealth, love, safetythese were things Sejuani only experienced secondhand, through visits to the Winter''s Claw''s sister tribe, the Avarosans. During the summers, Grena, the most famous warrior in the region, took Sejuani into her household. After discovering Grena had in fact once bested Kalkia in a duel, the Avarosan Warmother instantly became Sejuani''s idol and Grena''s daughter Ashe became the only person she ever truly considered a friend. After Grena questioned the treatment of the young girl by her grandmother, an affronted Hejian cut all ties with the Avarosans. The Winter''s Claw then instigated a series of conflicts with other neighboring tribes, attempting to reclaim the lands and honor they had lost with Kalkia''s flight, but these desperate tactics only led them further into ruin. Somehow, word of this reached Kalkia. Hearing of her former tribe''s misfortunes, she returned and took up the mantle of Warmother once more. Even so, quelling these hostilities left the Winter''s Claw with game-poor lands and precious few other resources, forcing them to rely on the grim Frostguard for protection. Sejuani was galled by this, and resolved to seize leadership from her mother. She swore a sacred oath to lead a perilous raid against a Noxian warship, hoping that fulfilling this oath would be enough to rally the tribe to her, with enough support to wrest power from Kalkia and the Frost Priests. During the vicious assault, Sejuani freed a juvenile drvask from the ship''s butchery stores, naming it Bristle for the feel of its hide. Though she could not have guessed it at the time, this creature would grow to become one of the largest drvasks ever seen, and remained with Sejuani as her loyal steed. Her raid a success, Sejuani decided it was time to challenge her mother directly for the tribe. By the ancient customs, a duel between a mother and her daughter was unthinkablebut Sejuani would not be deterred. Outraged, the Frost Priests were forced to intervene, and Kalkia died in the struggle before Sejuani could reach her. As the new Warmother of the Winter''s Claw, Sejuani began attacking and absorbing nearby tribes, consolidating her power and gathering a veritable horde of followers. Her defiance of the Frostguard also attracted outcast shamans, spirit walkers, Iceborn and Stormborn, and unrepentant worshippers of all the old gods from across the Freljord. Where once they had been weak, disgraced, and preyed upon by their neighbors, in only a few years the Winter''s Claw had become feared throughout the northlands for their speed, brutality, and absolute devotion to their Warmother. Now, as the seasons turn, Sejuani marches on the southern tribes, Noxian interlopers, and even the borderlands of Demaciaraiding, pillaging, and conquering any who stand against her. Ultimately, she seeks to cast down and destroy the burgeoning coalition of tribes formed by her childhood friend, Ashe. As far as Sejuani is concerned, the Avarosan Warmother has betrayed not only their friendship but, far worse, she has also betrayed Grena''s legacy. And so, Sejuani will prove that only she is worthy of ruling the Freljord. "I was cut from the ice. Shaped by the storms. Hardened in the cold." Chapter 187 - Shaco - The Demon Jester Most would say that death isn''t funny. It isn''t, unless you''re Shaco - then it''s hysterical. He is Valoran''s first fully functioning homicidal comic; he jests until someone dies, and then he laughs. The figure that has come to be known as the Demon Jester is an enigma. No one fully agrees from whence he came, and Shaco never offers any details on his own. A popular belief is that Shaco is not of Runeterra - that he is a thing from a dark and twisted world. Still others believe that he is the demonic manifestation of humanity''s dark urges and therefore cannot be reasoned with. The most plausible belief is that Shaco is an assassin for hire, left to his own lunatic devices until his services are needed. Shaco certainly has proven himself to be a cunning individual, evading authorities at every turn who might seek him for questioning for some horrendous, law-breaking atrocity. While such scuttlebutt might reassure the native inhabitants of Valoran, it seems unimaginable that such a malevolent figure is allowed to remain at large. Whatever the truth of his history might be, Shaco is a terrifying, elusive figure most often seen where madness can openly reign. "Whatever you do, don''t tell him you missed the punch line." Chapter 188 - Shen - The Eye Of Twilight An enigma to the spirit realm, as well as the mortal world, Shen belongs to neither. Although born to one of the most revered families of northern Navori, it was his father''s role as the Eye of Twilight that set his destiny in the Kinkou Order. As the son of Great Master Kusho, he was immersed in the order''s culture, and its core tenets were as familiar to him as the Ionian sunset. He knew the necessity of Pruning the Tree, the determination of Coursing the Sun, but above all, he learned the wisdom of Watching the Stars. He meditated and studied throughout his childhood, and was considered exemplary by all his teachers. His closest friend, the only one who could match him in practice bouts, was the young acolyte Zed. They grew up as brothers, often confiding in each other their personal hopes and dreams. Shen could turn to Zed for a fresh perspective on any matter, and the two became known as the Kinkou''s most promising students. As their skills developed, Kusho brought them on dangerous missions, including a hunt for the Golden Demon plaguing the province of Zhyun. Their search took years, but Shen stayed committed even after uncovering countless gruesome murders. When they at last captured the "demon", it was revealed to be Khada Jhin, a mere stagehand from a traveling theater. Instead of execution, Great Master Kusho ordered the criminal imprisoned. Though he and Zed both thought the killer deserved heavier punishment, Shen accepted his father''s decision. He strived to emulate the Eye of Twilight''s dispassion, and so found himself failing to console a bitter and resentful Zed. Even when Noxian invaders threatened the peace of the First Lands, Shen reluctantly supported Kusho''s inaction. But when Zed abandoned the Kinkou to join the fight, Shen stayed within the temple walls. Many of the provinces were soon occupied by the enemy. Despite this, Shen focused on maintaining Ionia''s spiritual harmony. So it was, when he was far from home, he felt a jolting imbalance within the Kinkou Orderrushing back, he came upon the survivors of a bloody coup. From them, he learned Zed had raised acolytes of his own, and seized the temple. Worst of all, Shen''s father had been slain by the man he once saw as kin. Repressing his anguish, he led the remnants of the Kinkou to safety in the mountains. Shen took up his father''s spirit blade, as well as the title of Eye of Twilight. His role was not to seek vengeance, but to rebuild the order. Following the core tenets, he began to recruit and train others, hoping to restore its strength. One acolyte in particular showed boundless potential. Shen taught the girl, Akali Jhomen Tethi, to master the arts of stealth and subterfuge. Her mother, Mayym, had stood alongside Kusho as the Fist of Shadow, and it seemed as though her daughter could follow the same path. Even so, Shen found himself forced to urge restraint whenever Akali would seek to strike back at their mortal foes. When Noxus finally withdrew, many Ionians celebrated the victorious resistance. Others, like Shen, endured the consequences of warhe persisted in his duty, while in private he wrestled with his hatred for Zed, and doubt in his own ability to lead. The years of conflict had taken a heavy toll on the First Lands, and Shen was uncertain whether the rebuilt Kinkou would ever be able to redress the balance. Indeed, even as Akali became the new Fist of Shadow, he felt her beginning to drift away. In time, she openly denounced his teachings, and left the order. Shen meditated, watching the stars, and understood that Akali would need to find her own way and so would the Kinkou. Sometimes, between unseen struggles in the spirit realm, Shen still contemplates the value of his beliefs. He has never let his emotions stop him from preserving tradition, but the question remains: how long can one man walk two worlds, before the acts of one destroy the other? "The Eye is blind to fear, to hate, to love C to all things that would sway equilibrium." Chapter 189 - Shyvana - The Half-Dragon Though they are rare creatures now indeed, there exist a handful of places across Runeterra where the great elemental dragons still nest. Long after the fall of the Shuriman empire, in the chambers beneath a lost volcano, the elder beast known as Yvva guarded her clutch of eggs. Beyond the depredations of rival drakes, dragon eggs were priceless almost beyond a mortal''s comprehension, and so many were daring or foolish enough to try their luck. Yvva feasted upon the charred remains of a score or more would-be thieves over the years before one succeeded in his attempt. This upstart mage fled the mountains with the large egg hugged close to his chest, the jungle at his heels set ablaze by Yvva''s fury. Against all odds, he reached the coast and left the dragon to slink back to her lair in defeat. She had lost one egg. She would not lose another. The mage traveled north to Piltoverbut before he could find a buyer, the egg began to hatch. Whether it was the act of removing it from the nest, or the last moon of autumn giving way to winter, something had changed. It was no infant dragon that emerged, but an apparently humanoid baby girl with pale, violet skin, and the mage found he could not bear to abandon her. He raised the child as his own, naming her Shyvana after the dark legend of her brood-mother. It became clear that Shyvana was no mortal. From an early age, she was able to shift her form into something monstrous, akin to the half-dragons of ancient myth. This made living among the common folk of Valoran difficult, to say the least. One thing was clear: Yvva retained some connection with her lost daughter, and it grew stronger over time. When her other offspring finally took flight, Yvva left her empty nest and soared far over the ocean in search of Shyvana. The land was wracked by fierce border wars, but armies and villagers alike scattered at the great dragon''s approach. Seeking refuge in a ruined farmhouse, Shyvana saw her adopted father engulfed in flames as Yvva swept low overheadthe young woman dragged him into the nearby forest, but there was nothing more she could do. She buried him in a simple grave beneath a spreading oak, and set off alone. After many weeks in hiding in the wilds, always on the move, Shyvana picked out the faint scent of blood among the trees. She found a wounded warrior, close to death, and knew this was someone she could save. Without a thought for the beast that hunted her, she assumed her half-dragon form and carried the unconscious man far away, to an outpost on the borders of Demacia. There, in the castle at Wrenwall, Shyvana discovered that this warrior was none other than Prince Jarvanthe king''s only son, and heir to the throne. Though the stationed soldiers regarded her violet skin and strange manners with some suspicion, she was made welcome. Demacians, it seemed, always looked out for one another, and her time in the town was the most peaceful she had ever known. The peace was not to last. Shyvana sensed darkness on the wind. Yvva was coming. The recovering prince, knowing that he had to marshal Wrenwall''s garrison, brought the terrified locals inside the stronghold in preparation for the coming battle. Even so, Shyvana prepared to make her escape. Jarvan confronted her, and she admitted that the creature in pursuit of her was of her own blood. She could not allow innocent people to die for that. Jarvan refused to let her go. Shyvana had saved his life, so it was only right that he fight at her side, now. Moved by his offer, she accepted. As Yvva came into view, Demacian archers loosed volleys of arrows to keep her distracted. In retaliation, she bathed the battlements in flame, tearing at the stonework with her powerful talons and sending armored warriors tumbling from the par.a.p.et. It was then that Shyvana leapt forth, transforming in mid-air and bellowing a challenge to her brood-mother. In a sight seldom witnessed in Valoran since the Rune Wars, the two dragons clashed, tooth and claw, in the skies over Wrenwall. And finally, bleeding from a dozen wounds, Shyvana grappled Yvva to the ground, and broke the creature''s neck upon the flagstones. The prince himself honored Shyvana''s bravery, and promised that she would always have a place at his side, if she would return with him to his father''s halls. With Yvva''s skull as proof of their triumph, they set out for the Great City of Demacia together. Shyvana has learned that King Jarvan III''s realm is somewhat dividedwith the people''s distrust of mages and magic putting them at odds with the noble ideals upon which it was founded. While she has found a measure of acceptance as one of the prince''s most trusted guardians, she is left to wonder whether that would still be the case if her true nature were more widely known "I am of two worlds, yet I belong to neither." Chapter 190 - Singed - The Mad Chemist Singed is a deranged chemist from Zaun who is as brilliant as he is amoral. A child prodigy, he taught himself the ways of chem-tech and biological experimentation, constantly testing the boundaries of conventional science. For over a century he has continued to refine his art, having extended the natural span of his life through a mix of volatile chemicals and extensive self-performed surgery. He lets nothing C not morality, and certainly not other people C come between him and the knowledge he seeks. "You mustn''t die yet; I have far too much to learn from your fragile anatomy." Chapter 191 - Sion - The Undead Juggernaut Over a century past, the brutal warlord Sion rose to prominence, slaughtering all who dared stand in his way. Greatly feared by friend and foe alike, he was the last of a proud warrior culture that had been part of Noxus since its founding. Sion had sworn oaths to his ancestors to never take a backward step in battle, and to die a proud warrior''s death when his time came. While not noted for his subtlety or strategic ac.u.men, Sion''s methods were ruthlessly effective, and he won many vicious triumphs for Noxus. The empire''s might was at a peak not seen for hundreds of years, and so it took the generals of high command by surprise when a nation from the west first resisted, then began pushing back their steady advance. These Demacians drove the Noxian warbands eastward, harrying them back behind the walls of Hvardis. Sion, who had been campaigning in the Argent Mountains, now turned south, filled with fury. He arrived at the city to find the Demacians on the horizon. They had no intention of besieging Hvardishaving driven the Noxians from the lands neighboring their own, they were preparing to return home. Sion readied his troops, determined to punish these upstarts for their impudence. The Noxian commander at Hvardis, however, had already suffered several defeats to the enemy, and was content to hide behind the city walls and let them leave unscathed. It had been Sion and his warriors who had paid the claim to the land now lost in blood; outraged, he hurled the commander from the city walls, and ordered the attack. Sion tore straight through the Demacian lines, seeking out their leaderKing Jarvan the First. But while his own warband charged with him, fearless of death, those who had been cowering in Hvardis were weak. Their spirit broke, and they retreated back to the city, leaving Sion and his trusted few surrounded. One by one, they fell, but Sion ploughed on. Alone, pierced by a dozen swords and a score of crossbow bolts, he finally reached Jarvan. The fight was brutal, and it was the Demacian who delivered the killing blow. Sion dropped his axe and, with a final burst of strength, tore the king''s crown from his head with one hand, clamping the other around his throat. Jarvan''s guards stabbed Sion again and again, but his grip did not loosen. Only when the enemy king was slain did Sion allow death to claim him. His body was recoveredalong with the Demacian king''s crown, still in his gripand borne back to the Immortal Bastion in honor. Noxus mourned Sion''s passing, and his corpse was interred within a towering monument constructed to honor him for all time. Half a century passed before Sion''s tomb was reopened. Noxian dominance had waned in the years since Sion''s death, and the ruling Grand General of the empire, Boram Darkwill, was willing to pay almost any price to restore its lost glory. Darkwill''s allies, a mysterious cabal known as the Black Rose, reanimated the long-dead hero using forbidden magics, and presented him to the Grand General. He could not refuse this gift, and so Sion returned to life, driven by unnatural bloodl.u.s.t and utterly inured to pain. He hurled himself like a living battering ram against the enemies of Noxus, destroying all he faced. More so than before his death, the victories Sion brought were costly. He was uncontrollable, killing friend and foe without remorse, and those forced to fight alongside him began to desert. Finally, Darkwill ordered Sion reinterred. Hundreds of warriors died trying to restrain him before he was finally bound in chains and dragged back to the Immortal Bastion. Without slaughter, the blood magic that sustained him quickly engulfed his mind in an all-consuming rage. His roars finally fell silent as he was sealed in beneath his giant statue. There he languished for many years, neither alive nor truly dead. When his tomb opened once more, it was to a very different empire. Darkwill was gone, overthrown by the general Jericho Swainbut Sion cared little, roaring and pulling against his bindings in a frenzy that could only be sated in battle. Chained within an iron cage, he returned to Hvardis, which had broken away from Noxian rule under Darkwill''s reign; Sion was the new Grand General''s punishment for their rebellion. He butchered the defenders of Hvardis and leveled the city, laughing as he ripped its towers apart with his bare hands. Other regions that had abandoned Noxus soon bent the knee, fearing the undead juggernaut would be unleashed upon them next. When harsh daylight floods his opening tomb, Sion now welcomes it for with it comes the chance to shed his chains and sate his hunger for bloodshed, to briefly silence the screaming madness drowning out all thought of rest. Sion remembers only fragments of his life, and less of the times since, but one truth has remained as stark as on the day of his deathnow, as then, the world trembles before him. "War is eternal... as am I." Chapter 192 - Sivir - The Battle Mistress From an early age, Sivir learned firsthand the harsh lessons of Shuriman desert life. With her entire family slain by marauding Kthaonsone of the Great Sai''s most infamous raider tribesthe young girl and other orphans like her could only hope to survive by stealing food from local markets, and delving into half-buried ancient ruins in search of trinkets to sell. They would brave cramped tunnels and forgotten crypts, hunting for anything of value, often scrapping viciously with one another over the best finds. Sivir would lead others into the depths, but could rarely hold on to what few treasures she managed to unearth. After being robbed by her supposed friend Mhyra, she swore she would never allow herself to be betrayed again, and in time she joined a group of mercenaries led by the renowned Iha Ziharo, serving as their guide and general lackey. Though her flourishing skill at arms eventually led her to become Ziharo''s personal sergeant, Sivir noted that the domineering leader took the greatest share of gold and glory from every raid even when it was Sivir''s clever strategies that brought them their wealth. Rallying her fellow sellswords, Sivir decided to strike against Ziharo, and replace her as leader. Unwilling to kill her former mentor, though, Sivir left her alone in the desert with a hollow offer of good luck. Over the years, Sivir and her new followers earned a fearsome reputation. They accepted any task for good pay, including a commission from a Nashramae patriarch looking for a lost heirlooma blade known as "the Chalicar". Accompanied by his personal guards, Sivir searched for many months, until she finally pried a cross-shaped blade from the sarcophagus of some hero of the old Shuriman empire. This was a treasure indeed, crafted by cunning and magic in a long-forgotten age. Sivir marveled at itnever had a weapon felt so natural in her grip. When the captain of the guard demanded they return it to their master, Sivir threw the blade in a curved arc, decapitating the captain and cutting down the three men behind him in an instant. She fought her way from the tomb, leaving only the dead in her wake. Sivir''s reputation soon spread beyond the desert. Indeed, when Noxian expeditions began to move inland from the northern coast, she found herself in the employ of Cassiopeia, the youngest daughter of General Du Couteau, to help plunder Shurima''s lost capital. As they traversed twisting catacombs, many of Sivir''s mercenaries fell to ancient traps, but Cassiopeia refused to turn back. When they finally reached a great tomb door, surrounded by statued guardians and bas-reliefs depicting the mighty god-warriors of old, Sivir felt her blood stir. She was mesmerized by these beast-headed heroes, and their wars against the foul creatures of the underworld. Taking advantage of Sivir''s inattention, Cassiopeia thrust a dagger into the mercenary''s back. Sivir collapsed in agony, her blood soaking the sand. Using the Chalicar itself, Cassiopeia unlocked the tomb door, unknowingly triggering the sorcerous curse that had been placed upon it. On the verge of death, Sivir watched as a stone serpent came to life before her eyes, searing Cassiopeia''s skin with venom. The last thing the sellsword heard before her senses dimmed were the roars of maddened gods, unleashed from the tomb to walk the earth once more But fate, it seemed, was not yet done with Sivir. Unknown to her, she carried the last trace of an ancient, royal bloodline in her veins. She awoke to find herself tended by none other than Azirthe last ruler of the empire, who had been denied his rite of Ascension and passed into legend. Her spilled blood had reawakened his spirit after almost three thousand years, completing the ritual and imbuing him with all the celestial power of a god-emperor. There, in the Oasis of the Dawn, he used the healing waters of that sacred pool to miraculously undo Sivir''s mortal wound. She had heard tales of Azir and his prophesied return, and always thought only fools could believe in such fantasy and yet she could not deny what was unfolding before her very eyes.The earth split, and great plumes of dust whirled into the air as the ancient city of Shurima rose from its grave, crowned by an enormous golden disc that shone with the heavenly rays of the sun. Shaken to her very core, Sivir fled with the Chalicar on her back. While she would have liked nothing more than to return to her former life, she instead found herself caught up in the struggles of powers greater than most mortals could comprehend. At the city of Vekaura, she crossed paths with another Ascended beingthe freed magus Xerath, now seeking to end Azir''s bloodline for goodbut with the help of the scholar Nasus and a young stoneweaver named Taliyah, Sivir survived once more. The time has now come when she must choose a path, either embracing the destiny she has been given, or forging her own amid the shifting sands of Shurima. "Coin may buy you skill for a day, but never loyalty." Chapter 193 - Skarner - The Crystal Vanguard Long before the rise of Shurima''s great empire, the remote northwestern valleys were home to an age-old race known as the brackern. These noble creatures were quite unlike any other. While individually they may have seemed primitive and aggressive, their arachnoid bodies held a wondrous secretthey existed as custodians of a truly ancient gestalt consciousness, perhaps one of the very oldest in Runeterra. Each brackern was host to a single magical crystal, which retained their memories, their hopes and dreams, and everything that made them who they were. After the body''s death, the core of the crystal was buried with great reverence in the deepest valleys. There they waited for new, younger brackern to inherit them, and take up the mantle of all those who had come before. So it was, through the eternal harmony of their crystals'' song, the brackern had all but achieved immortality. The one who would become known as Skarner heard his crystal calling to him from somewhere beneath the earth. Day and night, he burrowed in a methodical pattern that covered the entire valley with intricate spirals, until his claws finally closed around a crystal larger than any he had seen before. Its surface was cracked and dull, yet the dim glow within it pulsed in response to his presence, and its song enveloped him. When Skarner emerged once more, the crystal was fused with his body, and he was one with all his kin in a wordless meeting of countless minds. He could feel the magic of the material realm all around hima deep connection to the world, like a low constant hum that resonated through every facet of his being. Mortals, such as they were, knew and respected the brackern but also feared them. They would sometimes leave offerings at the entrances to the valleys, which they named things like "the Crystal Scar" in their imperfect, fleshy languages. Over time, though, their focus began to turn toward conflict and conquest, and the brackern resolved to hibernate until this danger was passed. Even if the mortal races wiped each other from existence, it would amount to little more than a single, somber note in the crystals'' unending song. And so, the brackern slept. Then, without warning, the song became a scream. Skarner was jolted awake as explosions tore through the brackern''s hiding place. The land had become parched and barren, but mortals persistedthey came armed with fire and metal, delving down beneath the surface to hack the living crystals from his sleeping kin. Skarner erupted from the sand in a frenzy. He killed many of the murderous thieves, and the rest fled in terror, leaving him to revive his dormant companions. But those brackern whose crystalline forms had been damaged died moments after they woke, and most of the others could not be roused at all, so deep was the trauma to their collective psyche. He stumbled through the valleys in mourning, He was certain that, even if the magic of the crystals still endured, it would quickly fade in the hands of mortals. Yet, as the sun broke over the horizon many weeks later, Skarner heard the faintest of echoes calling out in his mind. These were not the soaring harmonies he had known before, but a terrified, urgent keening, imploring him to act. He hesitated for just a moment, knowing that if he went in search of his stolen kin, then those who still lay beneath the sands would be defenseless But as the cries died away, he knew he had no other choice, and strode out eastward into the desert. Though Skarner''s search is lonely, he sometimes hears the cold, disembodied song of a lost crystal drawing nearer, only to fade once more. It is a feeling that brings hope and anguish in equal measure, and he focuses his sorrow into unshakable determination, knowing that the survival of the brackern race is all that matters. "We are one. We cannot be shattered." Chapter 194 - Sona - Maven Of The Strings Sona has no memories of her true parents. As an infant, she was found abandoned on the doorstep of an Ionian adoption house, nestled atop an ancient instrument in an exquisite case of unknown origins. She was an unusually well-behaved child, always quiet and content. Her caretakers were sure she would find a home quickly, but it soon became apparent that what they mistook for uncommon geniality was actually an inability to speak or to produce any sound whatsoever. Sona remained at the adoption house until her teens, watching in hopeless silence as prospective adopters passed her by. During this time, the caretakers sold her unusual instrument to anxious collectors, hoping to build her a trust. For a myriad of bizarre and unexpected reasons, however, it would be returned, or simply appear again outside the house. When a wealthy Demacian woman named Lestara Buvelle learned of the instrument, she immediately embarked to Ionia. When the caretakers showcased the instrument for her, she rose wordlessly and explored the house, stopping outside Sona''s room. Without hesitation, Lestara adopted her and left a generous donation for the instrument. With Lestara''s guidance, Sona discovered a deep connection with the instrument which Lestara called an ''etwahl''. In her hands, it played tones which stilled or quivered the hearts of those around her. Within months, she was headlining with the mysterious etwahl for sold-out audiences. She played as though plucking heartstrings, effortlessly manipulating the emotions of her listeners - all without a single written note. In secret, she discovered a potent and deadly use for her etwahl, using its vibrations to slice objects from a distance. She honed this discipline in private, mastering her gift, that she might be prepared should a fitting recital require the harmony of her talents. "Her melody moves the soul, her silence sunders the body." Chapter 195 - Soraka - The Starchild An age ago, when time itself was young, the inhabitants of the celestial realm regarded the fledgling races of Runeterra with growing concern. These creatures deviated wildly, unpredictably, and dangerously from the great designs intended for them by those above. The guidance and fates that had been woven into the night sky often went unseenor worse, were misinterpreted by their simple mortal minds, leading to chaos, uncertainty, and suffering. No longer able to merely watch, one celestial being chose to descend to the mortal realm, determined to untangle the knots in the tapestry of the world. This child of the stars took on a form of flesh and blood, and though the powerful magic coursing through her veins burned this new body from the inside out, she knew her suffering meant little if she could help to heal all that was broken and incomplete. And so Soraka came to be, and set upon her journey to soothe the mortals she encountered. Even so, she quickly learned the capacity for cruelty that the peoples of Runeterra possessed. Whether on the battlefields of inescapable conflicts, in the seedy underbellies of sprawling cities, or on the frontiers of the untamed wilderness beyond them, there seemed to be no end to the fighting, betrayal, and suffering Soraka witnessed. She watched, helpless, as mortals ignorantly broke the threads of destiny they could have woven together. Their lives were too short, she reasoned. They were simply unable to see the greater patterns, now lost. But as Soraka lived among them, as one of them, trying to repair what little of the damage she could something incredible and wholly unforeseen happened. From the snarls and tangles and knots, the messy breaks in the great patterns, Soraka noticed a new, unintended design emergingintertwined, and of a staggering complexity. Unintended and wild, the mortals were forging new and unknown futures for themselves. From the celestial realm above, it had seemed like pure chaos; but with her new perspective, and blessed by the stars to stand against the erosion of time, Soraka now beheld an almost perfect beauty. Just as mortals had the deepest capacity for cruelty, so too did they possess infinite potential for kindness, and inspiration to rival anything among the stars. Soraka realized her place was not to repair or replicate the celestial pattern. While a part of her craved the fixed, comforting destinies of the stars, she knew in her heart that static fates could not contain the unbridled, dynamic potential of mortality. And so her work took on renewed vigor, driven to unlock the untapped possibilities of all she met. Soraka sought now to inspire and guide rather than shepherd, to see what unblazed trails each mortal would discover for themselves in their brief, radiant moment. Over the millennia, legends of the Starchild have filtered through all the lands of Runeterra. Some tribes of the Freljord still speak of a far wanderer, a horned healer who soothed the icy bite of the most brutal winters. In the depths beneath Zaun, rumors float of a lilac skinned medic who would purify weary lungs from the ravages of the alchemical Gray. In troubled Ionia, the oldest myths of the Vastayashai''rei recall a seer who communed with the stars themselves, and called upon their light both to heal the wounded and scorch those who would do further harm to the First Lands. Currently, Soraka calls the westernmost peaks of Targon her home. She watches over an isolated tribe of vastaya, teaching them her healing ways, and tending quietly to her own needsthough what brings her so close to the great mountain, or how long she will stay, only Soraka knows. Many times, she has watched entire civilizations dance close to the brink of destruction, and she has learned that she cannot save those who do not wish it, nor force them to see what they will not. All the same, Soraka is determined never to stop trying. "Two paths lie before you, but you can only take one." Chapter 196 - Swain - The Noxian Grand General Born into a patrician family, one of many to exist since the first walls were raised around Noxus, Jericho Swain seemed destined for a life of privilege. The noble houses had played a key role in Boram Darkwill''s rise to power, stoking rhetoric that their proud heritage was the nation''s greatest strength. However, many hungered for greater influence, plotting against Darkwill in a secret cabal united by nothing more than the symbol of a black rose. Uncovering their intrigue, Swain personally executed the most prominent conspirators. Among them were his own parents, whose whispers of a "pale woman" had first alerted him of the danger to Noxus, which he valued more than house or kin. They sought a power, a shapeless voice cackling in the darkness of the Immortal Bastion. Something like a raven''s caw For exposing the cabal, Swain was granted a commission in the Noxian army, far from anything he had ever known. There, he learned firsthand that the empire was not strong because of Noxians, as he had believed, but because of the way it could unite all men in spite of their origins. On the front lines, a foreign slave could be the equal of a highborn noble. But still, Swain found only darkness in the wake of each battle. Clouds of carrion crows After securing the western borders, Swain''s own reputation was secured in Shurima, where his forces raised countless noxtoraa above the desert sands. Yet, in time, it became clear that greed was the sole purpose driving the empire forward. Fighting wars on too many fronts, l.u.s.ting over magical relics, the aging Boram Darkwill was clearly growing unhinged. When Noxus invaded Ionia, Darkwill began to move even more brazenly, retasking entire warbands to scour the land for anything rumored to extend a mortal lifespan. With Swain''s forces depleted, it became nearly impossible to engage the enemy. Finally, at the Battle of the Placidium, after luring the local militia into what should have been a trap, Swain''s warhost was overrun. His veterans were routed, and Swain was gravely wounded, his knee shattered, Ionian blades cleaving through his left arm. As he lay on the verge of death, a raven approached to feed, and Swain felt an old, familiar darkness press upon him again. But he would not let it take him. He could not. Staring into the the bird''s eye, he saw reflections of the evil strangling the heart of Noxus. A black rose. The pale woman... and her puppet emperor. Swain realized that he had not defeated the hidden cabal, and they had betrayed him to what should have been his death, after seducing Darkwill, the man they failed to overthrow. All this was glimpsed, not in the mind of a raven, but something more. The power his parents had been seeking, the demonic eyes blazing in the dark Cast out of the military for his "failure," considered nothing more than a cripple, Swain set about uncovering what truly lay within the Immortal Bastionan ancient entity, preying upon the dying and consuming their secrets, as it had attempted to consume his own. Swain stared into that darkness, seeing what even it could not: a way to wield it. Though his meticulous preparations took many years, Swain and his remaining allies seized control of Noxus in a single night. Physically restored by the demon, he crushed Darkwill in full view of his followers, leaving the throne shattered and empty. Swain''s vision for the future of Noxus is one of strength through unity. He has pulled back the warhosts from Darkwill''s unwinnable campaigns and, with the establishment of the Trifarix, ensured that no individual can rule unopposed. He embraces any who will pledge themselves to the empireeven the Black Rose, though he knows, in secret, they still plot against him. Gathering knowledge as the demon did before him, Swain has foreseen far greater dangers lurking just beyond. However, many Noxians secretly wonder if the darkness they face will pale in comparison to the dark things Swain has done The sacrifices are only beginning, for the good of Noxus. "I have learned enough to detest all men. Only nations may be revered." Chapter 197 - Sylas - The Unshackled As a mage born to a poor Demacian family, Sylas of Dregbourne was perhaps doomed from the start. Despite their low social standing, his parents were firm believers in their country''s ideals. So, when they discovered their son was "afflicted" with magical abilities, they convinced him to turn himself in to the kingdom''s mageseekers. Noting the boy''s curious ability to sense magic, they used Sylas to identify other mages living among the citizenry. For the first time in his life he felt he had a future, a life in service to his country, and he performed these duties faithfully. He was proud, but lonelyforbidden from associating with anyone but his handlers. Through his work, Sylas began to notice that magic was far more prevalent than Demacia cared to admit. He could sense glimmers of hidden power even among the wealthy and prominent some of whom were the most outspoken decriers of mages. But while the poor were punished for their afflictions, the elite seemed above the law, and this hypocrisy planted the first seeds of doubt in Sylas'' mind. Those doubts finally bloomed in one deadly, fateful event, when Sylas and his handlers encountered a mage living in hiding in the countryside. After discovering it was only a young girl, Sylas took pity on her. When he tried to shield the child from the mageseekers, he accidentally brushed against her skin. The girl''s magic rushed through Sylas''s bodybut rather than killing him, it shot forth from his hands in raw, uncontrolled bursts. It was a talent he did not know he possessed, and it resulted in the deaths of three people, including his mageseeker mentor. Knowing he would be called a murderer, Sylas went on the run, and quickly gained notoriety as one of the most dangerous mages in Demacia. Indeed, when the mageseekers found him, they showed no mercy. Though he was still just a youth, Sylas was sentenced to life imprisonment. He languished in the darkest depths of the mageseeker compound, forced to wear heavy shackles of magic-dampening petricite. Robbed of his arcane sight, his heart turned as hard as the stone that bound him, and he dreamed of vengeance on all who had put him there. After fifteen wretched years, a young volunteer from the Illuminators named Luxanna began to visit him. Even with his shackles, Sylas recognized her as a singularly powerful mage, and over time the two forged an unusual and secretive bond. In exchange for Sylas'' knowledge of the control of magic, Lux educated him about the world outside his cell, and brought him whatever books he desired. Eventually, through careful manipulation, he convinced the girl to smuggle a forbidden tome into his cellthe original writings of the great sculptor Durand, detailing his work with petricite. The work revealed the secrets of the stone to Sylas. It was the foundation of Demacia''s defenses against harmful sorcery, but he came to see that it did not suppress magic, but absorb it. And if the power was held within the petricite, Sylas wondered, could he release it? All he needed was a source of magic. A source like Lux. But she never visited Sylas again. Her family, the immensely powerful Crownguards, had learned of their contact, and were furious that Lux had broken the law to help this vile criminal. Without explanation, it was arranged for Sylas to be executed. On the scaffold, Lux pleaded for her friend''s life, but her cries fell on deaf ears. As the headsman pushed past her to raise his sword, Sylas managed to touch Lux. As he had predicted, her power surged into the petricite shackles, ready for him to unleashand with that stolen magic, Sylas blasted his way free, sparing only the terrified young Crownguard. He left the mageseeker compound not as an outcast, but as a new, defiant symbol of the broken and persecuted in Demacia. Traveling the kingdom in secret, he has amassed a following of exiled mages, all now aligned toward a common goal: to topple the throne, and demolish the oppressive system that has made them suffer for so long. "I am no traitor. I am the true Demacia." Chapter 198 - Syndra - The Dark Sovereign As a young child of Navori, Syndra was prone to distraction. She would often get lost in the magical beauty of a pond eclipsed in shadow, or a trail of sugarbeetles climbing the wall. Whenever her chores at home went unfinished, she was scolded harshly by her mother for her lack of focus. Syndra was even blamed when the milk soured, or when any other minor misfortunes befell the family. Her older brother, Evard, teased her more than anyone. Syndra often fled to her favorite hiding spotthe ghost-willow, a tree sacred to the people of her village. Alone, she would whisper to the tree for hours, seeking solace. Unbeknownst to her, one warm evening, Evard and his friends followed her in secret. They snickered at her childish tears. Her shame and rage grew as she tried to ignore their insults, until one of them threw a clump of dirt at her head. Syndra could no longer control her emotions. All her anger erupted from deep within her, in the form of darkly shining magical orbs, heavy with the weight of her anguish. This powerful ability had been dormant until now. It flared with volatile strength, the orbs like pearls of negativity that leached the spirit magic from the world around her, draining the ghost-willow of its life essence. Evard and his friends backed away in horror as the ancient tree twisted, its bark withering to a tarry black. Deprived of the ghost-willow, the villagers grew concerned that their connection to the Spirit of Ionia had been severed, and Syndra''s family was to blame. Forced to move on in search of a new home, all had become fearful of her magic. After months of travel, they reached the coast and encountered a hermit-priest named Konigen. He spoke of his home on the island of Fae''lor, where he taught those who wished to learn to control their wild magic, and Syndra''s family could see no other optionperhaps he could succeed where they had not. Young Syndra climbed the steps to a cliffside temple, crafted long ago from dark stone, and overlooking the sea. Though she missed her old life, she tried to embrace her teacher''s wisdom, and put all her effort into tempering her emotions. However, Syndra grew frustrated as, instead of gaining more control, over the years her magic seemed to weaken. Konigen now locked himself away each morning, meditating in solitude rather than teaching her anything new, and so she confronted him. His teeth gritted with exhaustion, he confessed that he was deliberately dampening her power, for her own safety. Such negativity had a strange, unpredictable effect on reality, and Syndra had grown far beyond his ability as a mentor. She felt more betrayed than she ever had before. Konigen tried to calm her, which only fueled her anger and in that moment, his focus was lost. The foundations of the temple shook. The morning light seemed to pale. Syndra rose from the floor, as her frustrations surged within her. She snatched dark orbs from the air, and cast them through her mentor''s body, forcing him to feel all of her bitter outrage as he died. The ceiling gave way, rubble raining down, burying the sacred gardens in dust. Syndra turned her powers against what was left of the temple, sending shockwaves throughout Fae''lor, and draining raw magic from the island itself. Never had such negative energy been so concentrated in one place, and it was the Spirit of Ionia that swelled to counter it. The bedrock opened up beneath Syndra, dragging her down to a cavern deep undergroundroots pulled her into a pool of living water to suppress her powers, and trap her in a magical slumber. Syndra dreamed for what seemed an eternity. Most of the world forgot she had ever existed. War with the Noxian empire divided the people of Ionia, and Syndra was eventually awakened by those who had once stood guard over Fae''lor. Some came to kill her, while others hoped she would aid them against Noxus, but she unleashed chaos upon them all. She refused to be a pawn in someone else''s game. Ripping apart the walls of the fortress that had been built on top of her island prison, Syndra raised the greatest tower into the skies to carry her far away. She would not be controlled. Not ever again. "My potential is limitless. I will not be restrained." Chapter 199 - Tahm Kench - The River King The waterways of Valoran are old, but far older still is the demon Tahm Kench. From muddy gambling tents along the Serpentine River, through the salt-crusted dice halls of Bilgewater, to the gilded wagering tables of Piltover and Zaunall those who have given a covetous glance to another''s wealth know the unending hunger that comes from an encounter with the River King. The first tales of the creature were told by a traveling people who plied the Serpentine. They warned of a giant fish with a cavernous mouth, who would lure in the dissatisfied with the promise of more. One such story was that of a young man renowned for his honesty. Though born to the ways of a raftsman, he desired a life beyond the poor banks he knew so well, and the River King promised him an unforgettable experience if only he would tell one little lie. It seemed harmless enough, so the raftsman bent the truth in conversation with his own brother. That night the demon appeared, revealing a fork in the river the raftsman had never noticed before. He followed it to a camp of foreign folk who offered him food and drink, and fresh companionship. As dawn neared, and the raftsman was full and ready to return to his people, the demon appeared again, promising an even greater experience for another lie. His interested piqued, the man accepted the bargain, telling falsehoods to his hosts. The river parted again and he followed it to an evening of even greater luxury. This continued, night after night, until the once-honest raftsman''s deceits came as easily as breathing. When the river finally emptied into the sea, he found himself alone and lostthere was no one left to lie to. So many dark choices, all of them his own, had left the raftsman with no way back home. The brackish rivers of the mainland carried the tales of the River King to the Blue Flame Isles, where the creature gained a name as his legend grewTahm Kench. In Bilgewater, fortunes are boom or bust, with as much wealth going out with the tide as comes in. Many a tavern yarn tells of ol'' Tahm, a demon of the water with an unending appetite for games of chance, such that the loquacious beast became a symbol for many of the city''s gambling dens and houses of sin. Once the Sun Gates opened easy trade from Bilgewater to Piltover, tales of Tahm Kench became more common in the City of Progress and its underbelly, Zaun. There, children know Tahm as "Two-Coats," a fish so monstrously large that he wears two fine jackets stitched together. With a jaunty top hat and a smile wider than the Pilt itself, he drives the jealousies of young artificers. It is said he came one Progress Day to a struggling Piltovan inventor, and offered her an idea certain to make a wealthy clan take notice. All he asked in return was a single lock of her hair. The ambitious woman made the trade and, true enough, her work landed her a lucrative contract. But one invention would not satisfy, and Two-Coats wandered by, this time asking for all of her lovely braids. Not wishing to disappoint her new patrons, the inventor agreedand Two-Coats ate them up on the spot. Still the woman was unable to find the one great innovation that would make her name. The demon came again, offering a deal that would take the tip of one finger. The following week it was an ear. A year passed, and by then there was little left of the woman to give. Finally she called Two-Coats herself, begging him to make it all stop. He laughed as he opened his jaws wide, telling her he would protect her from herself, and promptly swallowed her whole. The River King. The Great Waddler. Old Yawn-Belly. Two-Coats. The demon Tahm Kench is known by many names, but all who speak them have learned a singular truth: no matter how alluring his words may be, in his mouth you will be lost. "The whole world''s a river, and I''m its king." Chapter 200 - Taliyah - The Stoneweaver Taliyah is a nomadic mage from Shurima who weaves stone with energetic enthusiasm and raw determination. Torn between teenage wonder and a.d.u.l.t responsibility, she has crossed nearly all of Valoran on a journey to learn the true nature of her growing powers. Compelled by rumors of the rise of a long-dead emperor, she returns to protect her tribe from dangers uncovered by Shurima''s shifting sands. Some have mistaken her tender heart for weakness and paid the price for their error, for beneath Taliyah''s youthful demeanor is a will strong enough to move mountains, and a spirit fierce enough to make the earth tremble. Born in the rocky foothills bordering Icathia''s corrupted shadow, Taliyah spent her childhood herding goats with her tribe of nomadic weavers. Where most outsiders see Shurima as a beige and barren waste, her family raised her to be a true daughter of the desert and to see beauty in the rich hues of the land. Taliyah was always fascinated by the stone beneath the dunes. When she was a toddler, she collected colorful rocks as her people followed the seasonal waters. As she grew older, the earth itself seemed drawn to her, arcing and twisting to follow her tracks through the sand. After her sixth high summer, Taliyah wandered from the caravan in search of a lost goatling that had been placed in her charge. Determined not to disappoint her fatherthe master shepherd and headman of the tribeshe tracked the young animal into the night. She followed the hoofprints through a dry wash to a box canyon. The little beast had managed to get high up the rock wall, but could not get down. The sandstone called to her, urging her to pull handholds from the sheer wall. Taliyah laid a tentative palm against the rock, determined to rescue the scared animal. The elemental power she felt was as urgent and overwhelming as a monsoon rain. As soon as she opened herself to the magic, it poured over her, the stone leaping to her fingertips, bringing both the canyon wall and the beast down on top of her. The next morning, Taliyah''s panicked father tracked the skittish bleats of the goatling. He fell to his knees when he found his daughter unconscious, covered loosely in a blanket of woven stone. Grief-stricken, he returned to the tribe with Taliyah. Two days later, the girl awoke from fevered dreams in the tent of Babajan, the tribe''s grandmother. Taliyah began to tell the wise woman and her concerned parents of her night in the canyon, of the rock that called to her. Babajan consoled the family, telling them that the patterns of rock were evidence the Great Weaver, the desert tribe''s mythical protector, watched over the girl. In that moment, Taliyah saw her parents'' deep worry and decided to conceal what really happened that night: that shenot the Great Weaverhad pulled at the desert stone. When children in Taliyah''s tribe were old enough, they performed a dance under the face of the full moon, the manifestation of the Great Weaver herself. The dance celebrated the children''s innate talents and demonstrated the gifts they would bring to the tribe as a.d.u.l.ts. This was the start of their path to true learning, as those children then became apprenticed to their teachers. Taliyah continued to hide her growing power, believing the secret she carried was a danger, not a blessing. She watched as her childhood playmates spun wool to keep the tribe warm on cold desert nights, demonstrated their skill with shears and dye, or wove patterns that told the stories of her people. On those nights, she would lie awake long after the coals had burned to ash, tormented by the power she felt stirring within. The time finally came for Taliyah''s dance beneath the full moon. While she had talent enough to be a capable shepherd like her father, or a pattern mistress like her mother, the young girl dreaded what her dance would truly reveal. As Taliyah took her place on the sand, the tools of her peoplethe shepherd''s crook, the spindle, and the loomsurrounded her. She tried to concentrate on the task at hand, but it was the distant rocks, the layered colors of the land, that called to her. Taliyah closed her eyes and danced. Overwhelmed by the power flowing through her, she began to spin not thread, but the very earth beneath her feet. Startled cries from Taliyah''s tribe broke her out of her spell. An imposing braid of sharp rock reached up to the light of the moon. Taliyah looked at the shocked faces of the people who surrounded her. Her will over the stone broken, the earthen tapestry crashed down. Taliyah''s mother ran to her only daughter, to protect her from the falling rock. When the dust finally settled, Taliyah saw the destruction she had woven, the alarm on the faces of her tribe. But it was the small cut across her mother''s face that justified Taliyah''s fear. Though the cut was minor, Taliyah knew in that moment that she was a threat to the people she loved most in this world. She ran into the night, so weighed down by despair that the ground trembled beneath her feet. It was her father who found her again in the desert. As they sat in the light of the rising sun, Taliyah confessed her secret in choked sobs. In turn, he did the only thing a parent could do: He hugged his daughter tightly. He told her that she couldn''t run from her power, that she must complete her dance and see where her path would take her. Turning her back on the Great Weaver''s gift was the only danger that could truly break his and her mother''s heart. Taliyah returned with her father to the tribe. She entered the dancer''s circle with her eyes open. This time, she wove a new ribbon of stone, each color and texture a memory of the people surrounding her. When it was over, the tribe sat in awe. Taliyah waited nervously. It was time for one of her people to stand as her teacher and claim the student. What felt like eons stretched between Taliyah''s hammering heartbeats. She heard gravel shift as her father stood. Next to him, her mother stood. Babajan and the dye mistress and the master spinner stood. In a moment, the whole tribe was on its feet. All of them would stand with the girl who could weave stone. Taliyah looked at each of them. She knew that a power like hers had not been seen in generations, perhaps longer. They stood with her now, their love and trust surrounding her, but their worry was palpable. None among them heard the earth call as she did. As much as she loved these people, she did not see the one who could show her how to control the elemental magic that coursed within her. She knew that to stay with her tribe was to risk their lives. Though it pained all of them, Taliyah said farewell to her parents and her people, and set off alone into the world. She journeyed west toward the distant peak of Targon, her natural connection to rock drawing her toward the mountain that brushed the stars. However, at the northern edge of Shurima, it was those who marched beneath the banner of Noxus who discovered her power first. In Noxus, magic like hers was celebrated, they told her; revered, even. They promised her a teacher. The land had raised Taliyah to be trusting, so she was unprepared for the smooth promises and practiced smiles of Noxian dignitaries. Soon, the desert girl found herself on an unbending path, passing under the many Noxtoraa, the great iron gates that marked the Empire''s claim over a conquered land. The crush of people and the layers of politics within the capital city were claustrophobic to a girl from the open desert. Taliyah was paraded through the tiers of Noxian magical society. Many took an interest in her power, its potential, but it was a fallen captain who swore to take her to a wild place across the sea, a place where she could hone her abilities without fear, who made the most convincing case. She accepted the young officer''s offer and crossed the sea to Ionia. However, it was made clear as their ship dropped anchor that she was intended as a glorified weapon for a man desperate to regain his place at the highest ranks of the Noxian navy. At dawn, the captain gave her a choice: Bury a sleeping people in their homes, or be discarded in the surf. Taliyah looked across the bay. The cooking smoke had not yet risen from the village''s sleeping hearths. This was not the lesson she had come so far to learn. Taliyah refused, and the captain threw her overboard to drown. She escaped the tide and the fighting on the beach and found herself wandering, lost, in the wintry mountains of Ionia. It was there she finally discovered her teacher, a man whose blade harnessed the wind itself, someone who understood the elements and the need for balance. She trained with him for a time and began to find the control she had long sought. While resting at an isolated inn, Taliyah heard that the Ascended Emperor of Shurima had returned to his desert kingdom. Rumor had it this emperor turned god sought to gather his people, the disparate tribes, back to him as slaves. Even with her training unfinished, there was no other choice; she knew she must return to her family to protect them. Sadly, she and her mentor parted ways. Taliyah returned home to the sand-swept dunes of Shurima. As the punishing rays of the sun beat down on her, Taliyah pushed farther into the desert, determined to find her people. Hers was a will of stone, and she would do whatever was necessary to protect her family and her tribe from the danger that loomed on the horizon. "This world is a tapestry of our own making." Chapter 201 - Talon - The Blades Shadow Talon''s earliest memories are the darkness of Noxus'' underground passages and the reassuring steel of a blade. He remembers no family, warmth, or kindness. Instead, the clink of stolen gold and the security of a wall at his back are all the kinship he has ever craved. Kept alive only by his quick wits and deft thievery, Talon scr.a.p.ed out a living in the seedy underbelly of Noxus. His mastery of the blade quickly marked him as a threat, and Noxian guilds sent assassins to him with a demand: join their ranks or be killed. He left the bodies of his pursuers dumped in Noxus'' moat as his response. The assassination attempts grew increasingly frequent until one assailant met Talon blade-for-blade in a match of strength. To his surprise, Talon was disarmed and facing down his executioner''s sword when the assassin revealed himself to be General Du Couteau. The General offered Talon the choice between death at his hand, or life as an agent of the Noxian High Command. Talon chose life, on the condition that his service was to Du Couteau alone, for the only type of orders he could respect were from one he could not defeat. Talon remained in the shadows, carrying out secret missions on Du Couteau''s orders that took him from the frigid lands of the Freljord to the inner sanctums of Demacia itself. When the general vanished, Talon considered claiming his freedom, but he had gained immense respect for Du Couteau after years in his service. He became obsessed with tracking down the general''s whereabouts, and scours the land in search of those responsible for Du Couteau''s disappearance. "The three deadliest blademasters in all of Valoran are bound to the house of Du Couteau: my father, myself, and Talon. Challenge us, if you dare." Chapter 202 - Taric - The Shield Of Valoran Taric is the Aspect of the Protector, wielding incredible power as Runeterra''s guardian of life, love, and beauty. Shamed by a dereliction of duty and exiled from his homeland Demacia, Taric ascended Mount Targon to find redemption, only to discover a higher calling among the stars. Imbued with the might of ancient Targon, the Shield of Valoran now stands ever vigilant against the insidious corruption of the Void. Expected to serve as a stalwart guardian of Demacia, Taric''s life was meant to be the model of focused, selfless dedication to the ideals of king and country. Though he always saw himself as a protector, he never felt the need to limit or define whom and what he protectedbe it an ideal, a piece of art, or a stranger''s life. Each could be considered worthy. Each could be seen as beautiful. Most of Taric''s contemporaries were focused on the martial principles of battle (things that came naturally and effortlessly to him). The young warrior was drawn instead to the fragile wonders that give life meaning, not endless brutish contests for flag or crown. This was a potentially treasonous philosophy, especially for one of Taric''s standing and role within the Demacian military hierarchy, but he chose to dedicate himself to understanding the simple truths of love, beauty, and life, so he could become their champion. Admired by all, Taric used his disarming manner and innate warmth to charm his way past most obstacles, and on the rare occasion they failed, his skill with hammer and sword could be counted on to settle the matter. As his quest for understanding broadened, Taric would miss combat training to wander the forest in search of a glimpse of a rare animal, neglect parade drills to sit in a tavern and listen to a bard''s hauntingly simple ballad, and skip regimental meetings to take horseback rides to observe the silver cloak of night settle across the countryside. Taric knew that, in his own way, he was training in a manner just as dedicated and focused as his fellow Demacians, but it wasn''t seen that way by his superiors. Taric''s casual nature, disregard for orders, and disinterest in his patriotic calling finally put him at odds with nearly everyone in authorityhis family, his king, and especially his long-time friend Garen. And while the commoners saw Taric as a charming rogue, Garen recognized him for what he truly wasa man with the potential to become one of Demacia''s greatest heroes. The fact that Taric seemed to be thumbing his nose at his destiny as well as his country enraged Garen. Eventually, even his former friend could no longer protect him, and Taric''s military career started to crumble. Demotion after demotion pushed Taric further from Demacia''s heart, until, at last, he found himself commanding a small squad of lowly recruits assigned to guard an inconsequential ruined fortress out in the borderland wilds. After weeks spent standing in the rain and mud as ordered, and with no threat evident, Taric decided to let his men sleep while he wandered to a nearby temple to take in its cyclopean architecture. As morning lit up the temple''s overgrown cloisters, Taric finally decided to head back and check on his men. He was greeted by a scene of carnage. His troops had been butchered in their sleep, their corpses bearing the jagged hallmarks of the Void''s monstrous predators. Taric had failed his men, his country, and most painfully, his self-avowed mission to protect life. Returning to Demacia in shame, Taric was stripped of his rank and sentenced by Garen to endure "the Crown of Stone," a ceremony that demanded a dishonored soldier ascend Mount Targon, known to all as a death sentence, as few mortals had ever survived the climb. And while the Crown of Stone was traditionally used by the dishonored to simply flee Demacia and make a new life in exile, Taric decided to actually atone for his mistake and set out for the towering spire of Mount Targon. The ascent nearly claimed him, body and soul, numerous times, but Taric pushed past the pain, past the memories of his mistake, the ghosts of his dead men, and other tests inflicted upon him by the mountain. As he approached the summit, Taric was challenged by a seemingly neverending myriad of conflicting realities, each warped existence offering a new, horrifying vision. Taric experienced the infinite fates that could befall those who had no one to protect them in their times of crisis. He saw the Alabaster Library engulfed in pitch and flame, and still he dashed into the roiling inferno to retrieve the poetry of Tung. He screamed in rage as the Frostguard ran the last dreamstag off a blind cliff, and then leapt into the abyss himself in a desperate attempt to save it. Before the ebon gates of Noxus, Taric slumped to his knees at the sight of Garen''s shattered body chained aloft as a warning. Between Taric and his friend stood the sum total of Noxus''s might. And yet still, without hesitation, Taric raised his shield and drove all before him. Claiming Garen from the gates, the young warrior marched toward Demacia, heavy with his burden, knowing full well that his return would ensure his execution. As he walked, Taric looked upwardand the blood-strewn fields of Noxus gave way to the star-filled expanse above Mount Targon. His trials complete, and freed from all illusion, Taric found himself at the pinnacle of the mountain, and he was not alone. Before him, cut from the sackcloth of night itself, stood something wearing the shape of a man. Its features composed from the pinpoints of stars, Taric was struck by the odd familiarity of its nature. Its voice spoke in a thousand whispers that cut through Taric like a mountain wind. Though he heard no recognizable words, he understood the figure''s intent with utter clarity. It called itself "the Protector." Impressed by Taric''s steadfast resolve, the otherworldly being deemed the fallen Demacian hero a worthy avatar, imbuing him with its ethereal powers. The Protector spoke of the truths Taric had known his entire life, and of the mantle that he had unknowingly been preparing for with every decision that brought him to the top of the mountain. As the Protector''s whispers faded, Taric received a final warning: He would stand as the Shield of Valoran, but crashing against him would be a wave of howling madness, an ocean of gnashing teeth intent on consuming all, a squalid horror born of the Void. Reborn with power and purpose, Taric gladly accepted the seemingly impossible challenge and now dedicates himself to his sworn dutyas the steadfast guardian of an entire world. "The best weapons are beautiful." Chapter 203 - Teemo - The Swift Scout Teemo is a legend among his yordle brothers and sisters in Bandle City. As far as yordles are concerned, there is something just slightly off about him. While Teemo enjoys the companionship of other yordles, he also insists on frequent solo missions in the ongoing defense of Bandle City. Despite his genuinely warm personality, something switches off inside Teemo''s mind during combat so that the lives he must end while on patrol do not burden him. Even as a young recruit, the drill instructors and other trainees found it a little disconcerting that, while Teemo was normally charming and kind, he turned deadly serious and highly efficient the minute combat exercises began. Teemo''s superiors quickly steered him toward the Scouts of the Mothership, which is one of Bandle City''s most distinguished Special Forces unit alongside the Megling Commandos. While most yordles do not handle solo scouting missions with a great deal of finesse, Teemo is remarkably efficient at them. His record of success in defending Bandle City from infiltrators easily makes him one of the most dangerous yordles alive, though you''d never know it by having a cup of honey mead with him at his favorite inn. His signature weapon - a blowgun - uses a rare ajunta poison he personally gathers from the jungles of Kumungu. To help cope with his lengthy periods of isolation, Teemo recently struck up a friendship with Tristana, a fellow member of Bandle City''s Special Forces. Teemo is a pint-sized foe that many have come to fear and whose small size belies his fearsome resolve. "Teemo rides a thin line between chipper compatriot and unrepentant killer, but there''s no one else I''d rather have as a friend." Chapter 204 - Thresh - The Chain Warden Sadistic and cunning, Thresh is a restless spirit who prides himself on tormenting mortals and breaking them with slow, excruciating inventiveness. His victims suffer far beyond the point of death, for Thresh wreaks agony upon their souls, imprisoning them in his lantern to torture for all eternity. In an age history has all but forgotten, the man who would later be known as Thresh was once a member of an order devoted to gathering and protecting knowledge. The masters of this order tasked him with guarding a hidden underground vault filled with dangerous and corrupted magical artifacts. Thresh was incredibly strong-willed and methodical, which made him well-suited to such work. The vault Thresh guarded was buried deep beneath the citadel at the center of an island chain and protected by runic sigils, arcane locks and potent wards. Spending such time in the presence of dark spells began to affect Thresh as the magic sought out his innate malice. For years the relics preyed on his insecurities, taunting him with his deepest fears and feeding his bitterness. Thresh''s spite surfaced through wanton acts of cruelty, as his talent for exploiting vulnerability bloomed. He slowly tore pages out of a living book, binding it back together when it was all but spent. He scratched the glass of a mirror bound with the memory of an ancient mage until it was opaque, trapping the man in darkness, only to polish it anew and repeat. Just as a secret wants to be told, a spell wants nothing more than to be cast, and Thresh denied this each day. He would start to recite an incantation, then let the words trickle off his tongue, halting just before the last syllable. He became exquisitely skilled at covering all evidence of his cruelty, such that no one in the order suspected he was anything other than a disciplined guard. The vault had grown so vast that no one knew its contents as completely as Thresh, and the lesser artifacts faded from the order''s memory, as did Thresh himself. He resented that he had to hide his meticulous work. Everything under his watch was evil, or corrupted in some way - why shouldn''t he be free to do as he would? The vault held many peculiar magical artifacts but no people, until one day when a chained man was dragged into the sunken catacombs. He was a warlock who had infused his body with raw sorcery, which gave him the power to regenerate his flesh, no matter how grievous the wound. Thresh was delighted at his new ward - a being who could feel the full range of human suffering, but would not perish, a plaything he could torment for years to come. He started methodically separating the warlock''s skin from his flesh with a hook, and used his chains to lash and tear the open wound until it healed. He took to wearing the chains as he patrolled the vault, reveling in the warlock''s fear at the long, dragging sound of his approach. With ample charges to torment in the vault, Thresh became even more distanced from the order above. He began to take his meals in his underground chamber lit by a single lantern, rarely emerging from the catacombs. His skin developed a pallid complexion from lack of sunlight, and his face became gaunt and hollow. Members of the order avoided him, and when a series of mysterious disappearances plagued the order, none thought to investigate Thresh''s lair. When the disaster known as the Ruination struck, magical shockwaves claimed the lives of all who lived on the isles and transformed them into a state of undeath. While others screamed in anguish, Thresh reveled in the ruin. He rose from this cataclysm as a spectral abomination, but unlike many who have passed into the shadow world, Thresh did not lose his identity. Rather, his penchant for cruel torture and ability to discern weakness was only heightened. He relished the chance to continue his cruelty without fear of reprisal, unfettered by the limits of mortality. As a wraith, Thresh could torment the living and the dead endlessly, delighting in their despair before claiming their soul for an eternity of suffering. Thresh now seeks only particular victims: the most clever and resilient, and those with a strong will. His greatest joy comes from tormenting his victims until they lose any last glimmer of hope, before facing the inevitable hook of his chains. "The mind is a wondrous thing to tear apart." Chapter 205 - Tristana - The Yordle Gunner Like most yordles, Tristana was always fascinated by the world beyond Bandle City. She traveled far and wide, full of wonder and enthusiasm for the varied places, people, and creatures she encountered. Using the hidden pathways that only yordles know, she explored the length and breadth of the material realm, remaining mostly unseen. She witnessed such breathtaking sights as ice trolls migrating across the floes of the far north beneath kaleidoscopic auroras. She marveled as warsh.i.p.s blasted each other to pieces in naval battles that churned the seas. She watched, awestruck, as great armies marched with unity and precisionincredibly strange concepts to a yordle!across the endless sands to the south. But Tristana''s carefree, wandering ways changed the day she witnessed the destruction of a bandlewood. These places are steeped in the magic of the gateways they grow around, giving yordles a safe haven from the world. Tristana, dozing in the dappled sunshine, was shaken awake as the trees around her began to burn and topple. A warband of armored marauders rampaged through the woodland with fire and axes, led by a sorcerer wreathed in dark energy. Tristana hid in horror. The sorcerer focused his power upon the portal at the heart of the bandlewood, speaking one final utterance. Her ears still ringing with pain, Tristana watched the gateway collapse, never to be opened again. The ripples of that destruction were felt in Bandle City itself, causing great despair among the yordles. Tristana had never experienced anything like the pain of this loss, or the guilt she felt for not acting. Never again would she allow such a terrible thing to happen. In that moment, she dedicated herself to become the guardian of all bandlewoods, and her fellow yordles. Tristana had often marveled at how mortals protected the things that were dear to them. While she couldn''t comprehend their reasons to guard shiny metals, or walls of stone, she respected their methods, and decided to emulate them. Other yordles watched with curiosity as she took to marching around the borders of Bandle City stern-faced, and watching out for danger. She started calling her food "rations", and set herself strict times for rest and relaxation. But something was missing. In her travels, she had seen many powerful inventions, including the black powder cannons of Bilgewater. Inspired by them, she collected enough precious metal discs to commission a gun suited to her diminutive size. With a wry smile, she named it Boomer. Since then,Tristana has defended the bandlewoods from innumerable threats. In the jungles of the Serpent Isles, she intervened in a clash between the local Buhru people and treasure hunters from Valoran that was getting too close to a hidden portal, sending them all running for their lives after she leapt into their midst, Boomer roaring. And in the burning deserts at the edge of Shurima, she destroyed a Void-horror after it began consuming a secret bandlewood oasis, killing it with an explosive bomb down the gullet. Tristana has become something of a legend in Bandle City, and recently, a number of yordles have started to imitate her, tryingand mostly failingto copy her disciplined ways. Some have even had weapons mimicking Boomer constructed for them by the scrappy inventor Rumble, who is always seeking to win Tristana''s approval. While Tristana finds this all rather embarrassing, she has come to the conclusion that if they are going to defend the pathways to Bandle City, they had better do it properly. As such, she has started training these new recruits, and they have adopted a new monikerthe Bandle Gunners. Nevertheless, Tristana can often be found out in the wilds on patrol by herselfsimultaneously protecting the bandlewoods and also getting away from her new, and rather annoying, trainees. "Boomer says hi." Chapter 206 - Trundle - The Troll King Trundle is a hulking and devious troll with a mischievous streak. There is nothing he can''t beat into submission and bend to his will, not even the ice itself. With his massive, frozen club, he chills his enemies to the core and runs them through with jagged shards of ice. Fiercely territorial, Trundle chases down anyone foolish enough to enter his domain and laughs as they bleed onto the tundra. Trundle''s warband once followed a foolish and cowardly chieftain. Under such a weak leader, Trundle feared he and his kin would fall prey to the other troll hordes scattered across the tundra. When his challenge to the chieftain ended in humiliation, Trundle did something that wasn''t very troll-like: instead of his fists, he turned to his wits. Thinking on his hairy feet, he spun a tall tale about the troll leaders of old, claiming they wielded weapons of great power as symbols of their right to rule. Though he''d made up the story on the spot, Trundle wagered that if he could find or steal such a weapon, he would become the rightful leader of the warband. The trolls believed him, but none thought him capable of undertaking such a challenge. Knowing the boastful troll would die trying, the foolish chieftain agreed and Trundle departed to the familiar sound of laughter. Alone but undaunted, Trundle ventured into the foreboding realm of the dreaded Ice Witch. There, hidden among the many ancient and dangerous secrets, he hoped to find a weapon to prove his elaborate tale. He out-muscled the Ice Witch''s guards and outsmarted her dark magic traps, but nothing he scavenged matched the power he''d described to his kin. Finally, he found an unexpected prize: a huge and magical club of never-melting True Ice. Grasping the weapon, he marveled at the cold power that ran through him. But then the wrathful Ice Witch herself appeared. As she summoned her dark magic, Trundle believed he had met his end, but another clever idea struck him. With a knowing grin, he offered the Ice Witch a devious proposition: a troll army, he told her, would be of much more use to her than one troll corpse.... When Trundle returned to the warband, his fellow trolls bowed to his conquest. Calling his weapon ''''Boneshiver'''' he took a moment to enjoy the look of numb shock on his chieftain''s face before he caved it in. Seizing command, Trundle announced that there would no longer be chieftains - only a Troll King before whom all of his kind would kneel. The trolls rallied behind their brash, new leader and prepared for the coming war. With Trundle leading the charge, the time of the trolls had finally come. "Outsmart anyone you can''t beat, and beat anyone you can''t outsmart." Chapter 207 - Tryndamere - The Barbarian King Tryndamere came into the world knowing only the harshness of survival, for the frozen steppes where his clan made their home never truly thawed. Though they praised all the Freljord''s old gods, as well as the Cult of the Three, they prayed most often to a spirit-deity known to ravage the tundraa hearty and unkillable tusklord. Since the raw materials required for armor were scarce, the clan instead put its resources toward the forging of great blades, inspired by their god''s ivory canines. The stamina and dueling prowess of Tryndamere''s people became legendary. They were able to fend off other raiding tribes, slay the great beasts of the mountains, and repel Noxians encroaching to the south. Tryndamere himself grew to be a brash and formidable warrior, but it wasn''t until a particularly cruel midwinter night that his strength was truly tested. An unusual storm swept in from the east, bringing with it an icy darkness, and a towering, horned figure silhouetted against the full moon. Some in the clan knelt, believing that their boar-god stood among them. This creature dripped with ancient magic, true enough, but he was not of the Freljord and those that knelt were the first to die. Tryndamere looked on in horror. He could feel unhinged brutality rising in his heart at the sight of the invader''s cruel, living sword. Whether taken by bloodl.u.s.t or some other madness, Tryndamere raised his own blade, and let out a defiant roar. The dark figure swatted him aside like an insect. Tryndamere lay surrounded by the dead, in snow soaked almost black with blood. He drew what he thought would be his last breaths as the creature approached and spoke. Tryndamere tried to hold onto the strange, archaic words, but as his life force slipped away, it was the thing''s laughter that burned itself into the young warrior''s memory. For Tryndamere did not die that night. He was revived by a rage unlike anything he had ever experienced. He looked to the eastern horizon, intent on avenging not only the destruction of his clan, but the desecration of his own martial pride. However, retribution was not what the steppes offered him. There were survivors, and they would not be long for this world if Tryndamere could not find others to shelter them. There were Noxians to the south, Frostguard to the north, and the dark figure had come from the east. To the west, it was said that some tribes were gathering before the supposed reincarnation of Avarosaonce, he might have dismissed such fanciful rumors, but now he knew this was his only recourse. Tryndamere and the remnants of his people arrived in the valley as little more than beggars. The young warrior was determined to show his clan''s worth, and win them the Avarosan leader''s protection so that he could return to thoughts of revenge. Brandishing his tusked sword, he did what came naturally, and challenged others to duels. Holding the image of the dark figure and its echoing laughter in his mind, Tryndamere quickly bested anyone who stepped forward. His singular fury was deeply unsettling to the Avarosans. The northern warriors, too, noted his rapid healing between boutsunlike the Iceborn that walked among them, the more Tryndamere gave in to his rage, the more quickly his body healed. Many suspected he and his clan practiced strange and unnatural magics, and so Tryndamere''s plan to prove his worth was now endangering the wider acceptance of his people. But not all of the Avarosans had turned against him. Their warmother, Ashe, was looking to strengthen her position with a political marriage to someone who could face down the endless challengers for her hand, and to her rule. Seeing an opportunity in the handsome barbarian, she pledged to take in his clan as Avarosans, if Tryndamere became her first and only bloodsworn. As he spent more time in Ashe''s company, he began to believe what others had whisperedthat she was indeed the divine reincarnation of Avarosa herself. His rage found temperance in her thoughtful leadership, and a genuine affection grew between them. Even so, serving as Ashe''s champion, Tryndamere now looks to an uncertain future. The barbarian king can see war brewing all too clearly on the Freljord''s horizon, yet he still thirsts for his own, personal vengeance, and begins to wonder if his predestined fate might not be at his queen''s side after all "Rage is my weapon." Chapter 208 - Twisted Fate - The Card Master Twisted Fate is an infamous card sharp and swindler who has gambled and charmed his way across much of the known world, earning the enmity and admiration of the rich and foolish alike. He rarely takes things seriously, greeting each day with a mocking smile and an insouciant swagger. In every possible way, Twisted Fate always has an ace up his sleeve. Born to the nomadic river-folk of the Serpentine, the boy was taught the magic of the cards at an early age and soon learned what it was to be hated. Tolerated for the exotic goods they peddled, but shunned for their strange ways, the boy''s people found only short welcomes wherever they berthed their colorful river barques. His elders claimed this was the way of the world, but their refusal to fight back against this prejudice always rankled the young boy''s sensibilities. When men who''d lost their fortunes in the gambling tents of the river folk returned in the dead of night to exact vengeance, they came bearing cudgels and emboldened by cheap rotgut. They beat the river folk back to their boats with curses and blows, eventually turning their weapons upon the boy''s family. The boy could take no more and fought back, driving the men away with swift blows from their own clubs. Proud of what he had done, the boy was stunned when his people turned their back on him. Retaliation went against the code of the river, and there could be only one punishment. Exile. His whole world falling apart around him, the boy watched helplessly as the barques of his folk sailed away without him, leaving him with nothing, alone for the first time in his life. The boy grew to manhood drifting from town to town, trawling the gambling dens of every city he came to, using his preternatural skill at cards to earn coin to survive. That he was able to relieve the boastful, the arrogant, and the cruel of their cash was just an added bonus. Though always careful to let his opponents win at least some hands, he soon learned more ways to fight when many a disgruntled opponent sought to reclaim their lost fortunes. Across one table, he met a fellow named Malcolm Graves and, recognizing a kindred soul, joined forces with him. The two spent years cutting a ruinous swathe across Valoran. With every con, swindle, and heist, he sought ever more dangerous means to make the cards bend to his will. That search ended badly when a heist went wrong, resulting in Graves being taken alive, though the riverman ran free. The exact circ.u.mstances of that night and its dire consequences for both men remain shrouded in mystery, for the gambler never speaks of it. Seeking to begin again, he returned his birth name to the waters and took another: Twisted Fate. In the time since, Twisted Fate has continued to ply his games of chance in the high parlors and low dens of every city he visits, earning countless fortunes along the way C though none can say what becomes of these winnings (other than his fine clothes) or why he seems driven to amass such wealth. He has been imprisoned with great fanfare on dozens of occasions, but there is no cell in Runeterra that has been able to hold him. Twisted Fate is always gone with morning''s light, leaving only a mocking calling card to speak to his being there at all. In Bilgewater, Twisted Fate and Graves finally had their day of reckoning. After a highly destructive running battle, and narrowly avoiding death at the hands of Gangplank, the pair finally put aside their differences, and are now once again working together. Nigh-on impossible to track, Twisted Fate has been said to vanish into thin air every time an enemy believes they have him cornered. A useful skill indeed for a man who has parted thousands of souls from their gold... "It''s not gambling if you can''t lose..." Chapter 209 - Twitch - The Plague Rat A plague rat by birth, a connoisseur of filth by passion, Twitch is a paranoid and mutated rat that walks upright and roots through the dregs of Zaun for treasures only he truly values. Armed with a chem-powered crossbow, Twitch is not afraid to get his paws dirty as he builds a throne of refuse in his kingdom of filth, endlessly plotting the downfall of humanity. "They threw this away? But it''s so shiny!" Chapter 210 - Udyr - The Spirit Walker In the harsh lands of the Freljord, there are those gifted with a deep connection to spiritual magic. These warrior-shamans, known as "spirit walkers", serve among the many different tribes, offering their abilities in exchange for a community where they may live and train. Born under a blood-red moon, Udyr displayed an awareness for the intangible at an early age. He could feel the raw emotions of nearby creatures, understanding the mournful howls of tundra wolves before he even uttered his first words. Destined to become a great spirit walker, he was taken in by the Winter''s Claw, and set on a path to mastering his innate talents. While his mentors expected him to grow into his powers with ease, the boy soon found himself crippled by his own gifts. The chaotic thoughts of so many other living beings flooded his mind to the point of near insanity. Day and night, Udyr wished desperately for even a moment of solitude but his wish was to be granted in the worst possible way. One dreary evening, his tribe fell victim to an ambush by the Frostguard. Merciless and cruel, these sworn followers of a mysterious Ice Witch slaughtered entire families, taking special care to eliminate anyone displaying hints of spirit magic. If not for the heroic sacrifice of his mentors, Udyr may have met his end on that frightful night. Filled with sorrow, and tormented by the pained screams of his tribespeople, Udyr lost control. He unleashed his fury, causing an explosion of spiritual energy so strong that it shook the nearby mountaintops. The packed snow crumbled. Within seconds, an avalanche rained down upon the battlefield, forcing the Frostguard to flee. When the young spirit walker clawed his way out, he found few survivors. Fearing his destructive power, the Winter''s Claw abandoned himall save for one. A sympathetic Iceborn looked past Udyr''s inner turmoil. She saw a man with strengths and flaws like any other, and the two cherished what little time they had together, between the bitter demands of Freljordian life. Outside of this relationship, however, Udyr grew accustomed to being alone. The mere sight of him scared most others away, until the day he met a stern monk who had traveled far, from foreign lands. This man sought the wisdom of those who could tap into the spirits of primal beasts. Wary of all strangers, Udyr lunged at the monk again and again, only to find him dodging every blow. When they were both exhausted, the monk introduced himself as Lee Sinin him, Udyr saw someone who truly shared his struggles. The two men forged a quick friendship, with Lee Sin offering to take Udyr east to Ionia, a place where generations had studied how to keep the spirits at peace. On their travels, they learned that the empire of Noxus had invaded Ionia, and Udyr offered to fight alongside his friend in defending the monastery at Hirana. The spirit walker''s skills proved invaluable as he drew upon the strength of mighty beasts, channeling their untamed vigor into his mortal fists. After a fierce and fiery battle, he stood beside the wounded monks. They were victorious. Encouraged by the Ionians'' understanding of the spirit realm, Udyr chose to stay and train under Hirana''s esteemed elders. He appreciated how the people here valued harmony and, over the seasons, felt his mind and body calmed by their compassion. But still, Udyr could not deny the call of his homeland. He heard the anxious cries of Freljordian spirits carried by the westerly winds, and sensed great danger stirring beyond the horizon. Bidding farewell to Ionia and Lee Sin, he set out to rejoin the Winter''s Claw, knowing not how he would be received "Through us, nature''s will is done." Chapter 211 - Urgot- The Dreadnought Once a powerful Noxian headsman, Urgot was betrayed by the empire for which he had killed so many. Bound in iron chains, he was forced to learn the true meaning of strength in the Dredgea prison mine deep beneath Zaun. Emerging in a disaster that spread chaos throughout the city, he now casts an imposing shadow over its criminal underworld. Raising his victims on the very chains that once enslaved him, he will purge his new home of the unworthy, making it a crucible of pain. Urgot always believed that he was worthy. As a headsman, an executioner of the weak, he was a living embodiment of the Noxian ideal that strength should rule, making it a reality with every swing of his axe. His pride swelled as the bodies piled ever higher behind him, and his intimidating presence kept countless warbands in line. Even so, a single word was all it took to seal his fate. Sent to distant Zaun to eliminate a supposed conspiracy against the ruler of Noxus, Urgot realized too late the mission was a setup, removing him from the capital even as the usurper Swain seized control of it. Surrounded by agents of the chem-barons, and enraged that everything he believed was a lie, Urgot was dragged down into the chemtech mines beneath Zaun. He was defeated. He was enslaved. He was not worthy after all. He endured the mine''s hellish conditions in grim silence, waiting for death. In the Dredge, death came in many forms The mine''s warden, Baron Voss, would sometimes offer freedom in return for a prisoner''s tortured confessiongranting it with the edge of her blade. From the screams that echoed through the tunnels, Urgot learned about the wonders of Zaun. There was something special about the city, something marvelous and evident even in the secrets that spilled from slit throats. Urgot didn''t know what it was until he was finally brought before Voss, fearing that she would break him. But as the baron''s blade cut into his flesh, Urgot realized that his body was already wracked with agony, far beyond anything Voss could inflict. The Dredge had made him stronger than he''d ever been as a headsman. Pain was Zaun''s secret. His laughter drove Voss back to the surface, and a reign of anarchy began in the depths. Seizing control of the prison, Urgot reveled in new trials of survival. He found the parts of his body that were weakest, and replaced them with scavenged machinery, technology created by those who would die without itnecessity being the mother of pain. The guards could no longer enter the areas Urgot had carved out of Voss'' grasp. The prisoners themselves were more afraid of their new master than they were of her. Many even grew to hold a fanatical respect for Urgot, as they were forced to hear his feverish sermons on the nature of power, his grip tightening around the necks of those who would not listen. Only when a Noxian agent arrived in the Dredge was Urgot was finally forced to confront his own past. Though the spy recognized him and sought his aid in escaping, Urgot beat him mercilessly, and hurled his broken body into the darkness. It was not strength that ruled Noxus, Urgot now realized, but men and men were weak. There should be no rulers, no lies, nothing to interfere with the pure chaos of survival. Starting a riot that ignited a chemtech vein within the mine, Urgot shook the city above, and cracked the prison open in an explosion that rivaled the birth of Zaun itself. Many prisoners died, and thousands more disappeared into the Sump beneath the city. But the worthy, as ever, survived. Since then, Urgot''s reign of terror has only grown. A hideous fusion of industrial machinery and Noxian brutality, he slaughters chem-barons and their lackeys one by one, gathering his own following among Zaun''s downtrodden masses. To any who find themselves spared in his murderous rampages, he delivers a message: he is not here to lead, but to survive. If you are worthy, you will survive too. And the trials they are only just beginning. "There is only one way to measure a man. Tear him into pieces." Chapter 212 - Varus - The Arrow Of Retribution Regardless of what he would later become, Varus was once a paragon of loyalty and honor. A skilled archer of the ancient Shuriman empire, he was appointed as a temple warden in the eastern states, and he held this duty sacred above all else. During the earliest stages of the war with Icathia, even though it lay far from that cursed place, Varus'' homeland was attacked. While other wardens abandoned their posts to join the defense of the outlying villages, he alone remained, screaming in anguish with every arrow he loosedfor he had chosen to uphold his oaths rather than return home to protect his own family. Emissaries from the Ascended Host found him kneeling in solemn meditation amid the corpses of his foes. It was said that his cold gaze unsettled even the god-warriors themselves, and yet, in recognition of his noble sacrifice, Varus was offered a place in their ranks. As one of the great Ascended, he was utterly consumed by his pursuit of vengeance against the Icathians, and the voidling horrors they had unleashed. It is likely that Varus did not even fully comprehend Shurima''s ultimate victory in that war, so twisted had his mind becomenor the empire''s fall centuries later. Atrocity after atrocity blurred together, leaving him as a withdrawn, callous killer, reshaped and sent into battle countless times by his degenerate brethren. Their name became feared throughout the known world. The darkin. Warring among themselves, they destroyed any other who stood against them. With his crystalline bow, Varus assassinated enemy commanders and champions, helping the darkin defeat entire mortal armies with ever greater ease. Eventually, Varus was cornered by vastayan moon-stalkers and human mages in service of a golden-armored warrior queen of Valoran. They bound him within his bow, leaving him to howl in impotent rage. By then, the raw, corrupting influence of the darkin was known, and yet still the queen chose to wield the deadly weapon in the final days of the war, gladly sacrificing herself for a greater victory. In the months that followed, the queen carried Varus to the First Landsthose that would later be known as Ionia. Now made monstrous by the bow''s power, her last act was to command her followers to bury her alive in a lightless well, sunk deep beneath a mountain temple overlooking the village of Pallas. And there Varus was imprisoned, both by the natural magic of Ionia, and the ritual ministrations of the temple guardians. The bow remained hidden for centuries, unknown, untouched, and all but forgotten, until Noxian invaders attacked the First Lands. Two beast huntersValmar and his heartlight, Kaifought against the first wave at the Temple of Pallas. Though their courage was great and they drove off the attackers, Kai was mortally wounded, and a grief-stricken Val carried him inside, believing the well''s forbidden magic could restore him. But the temple held only damnation, and both hunters were consumed by the unleashed power of the darkin within it. The very matter of their bodies was unraveled and bound together again to craft a new body, a body fit to free Varus from his imprisonment. What emerged from the well was a gestalt creature, pale and inhumanly beautiful, part human and part darkin. After more than a thousand years, Varus was reborn. Even so, the human and darkin elements of this imperfect form are in constant flux, with each managing to wrest control for a short time before being reined in by the other. Varus fights to silence the two mortal souls once and for all, and wreak vengeance for the destruction of his race. Still, Kai and Val struggle against his malevolent influence, hoping against hope that their love can overcome the darkin''s hatred. How long they can keep Varus conflicted is anyone''s guessbut should this sadistic and egotistical killer come to fully dominate his new host, it is certain he will seek to reunite with others of his kind, and reduce all of Runeterra to an ashen wasteland. "You didn''t destroy us all. And that mistake will be your undoing." Chapter 213 - Vayne - The Night Hunter Shauna Vayne is a deadly, remorseless monster hunter who has pledged her life to finding and killing the demon who murdered her family. Armed with her wrist-mounted crossbows and a heart full of vengeance, Vayne is only truly happy when she''s slaying practitioners or creations of the dark arts. As the only child to a wealthy Demacian couple, Vayne enjoyed an upbringing of privilege. She spent most of her childhood indulged in solitary pursuits C reading, learning music, and avidly collecting the various insects found on their manor''s grounds. Her parents had traveled across Runeterra in their youth, but settled in Demacia after Shauna''s birth because more than any place they''d found, Demacians looked out for one another. Shortly after Vayne''s sixteenth birthday, she returned home from a midsummer banquet and saw something she would never forget. An unspeakably beautiful, horned woman stood before the bloodied corpses of her parents. Vayne screamed in agony and terror. Before disappearing, the demon looked down at the young girl and flashed her a terrible, l.u.s.tful smile. Vayne tried to brush the bloody hair out of her mother''s eyes, but that haunting smile lingered in her mind, growing and consuming her. Even as she shakily smoothed her father''s eyelids closed C his mouth still agape, frozen in his last horrific moments of confusion C the demon''s smile seeped through her thoughts. It was a smile that would fill Shauna''s veins with hatred for the rest of her days. Vayne tried to explain what happened, but no one truly believed her. The thought of a demon on the loose C in the well-defended, magic-averse kingdom of Demacia, of all places C was too far-fetched to consider. Vayne knew better. She knew from the demon''s smile the enchantress would strike again. Even Demacia''s tall walls couldn''t keep dark magic from creeping through the cracks. It may disguise itself with subtleties or keep to shadowed corners, but Vayne knew it was there. And she was done being afraid. Vayne had a heart full of hatred and enough coin to outfit a small army, but where she would go, no army dared follow. She needed to learn everything about dark magic: How to track it. How to stop it. How to kill those who practiced it. She needed a teacher. Her parents had told her stories of iceborn warriors who fought against an Ice Witch in the north. For generations, they had defended themselves from her unknowable forces and dark minions. This, Vayne knew, would be where she would find her tutor. She evaded her appointed custodians and booked passage on the next ship to the Freljord. Shortly after arriving, Vayne set out in search of a monster hunter. She found one, although not in the way she intended. Traversing a frozen ravine, Vayne was ensnared by a cleverly carved icetrap. After tumbling to the bottom of a jagged, crystalline pit, Vayne stared up to see a ravenous ice troll, lips smacking with anticipation as he gazed upon his catch. His gigantic blue tongue fell limp as a spear whistled through the air, pierced the troll''s skull and planted itself deep in his brain. The giant toppled into the pit and Vayne rolled aside just in time to escape being crushed. A sticky pool of drool and blood collected at her boots. Vayne''s savior was a grizzled, middle-aged woman named Frey. She bandaged Vayne''s wounds as they clung to the warmth of a campfire that struggled to stay ablaze in the frigid canyon. Frey told Vayne of her life''s work spent fighting the Ice Witch''s minions who had murdered her children. Vayne implored the woman to take her on as a student and teach her to track the dark creatures of the world, but the Freljordian had no interest. Vayne stank of privilege and money, neither of which kept your teeth gritted or your blade sharp through the grueling perseverance of a fight. Vayne couldn''t accept Frey''s answer and challenged her to a duel: if she won, Frey would train her. If she lost, she''d offer herself as bait to the Ice Witch''s minions, so Frey could ambush them. Vayne had no reason to think she''d win C her training amounted to a single afternoon of studying fencing before she wearied of trying to fight with one hand behind her back C but she refused to back down. To reward Vayne''s mettle, Frey threw snow in Vayne''s eyes and subsequently taught her the first rule of monster hunting: don''t play fair. Frey saw a determination in Vayne she couldn''t help but respect. The girl had a long way to go as a fighter, but each time Vayne pushed her bruised body up from the dirtied snow to continue the fight, Frey saw a little more of the relentless hunter this girl could become. Beaten in skill, but never in spirit, Vayne beseeched Frey one last time: both of their families were dead. Frey could spend the rest of her days tracking ice trolls until one of them caved her head in, or she could teach Vayne. Together, they could kill twice as many monsters. Together, they could save twice as many families from experiencing the pain that defined them both. Frey saw the same hatred and loss in Vayne''s eyes her own had burned with for years. Frey agreed to accompany Vayne back to Demacia. Together they made the journey south, heavily disguising Frey to illude Demacia''s border guards. Once back at Vayne''s estate, the two spent years training. Despite the pageant of suitors who solicited Vayne''s company, Shauna had no interest in anything other than training with Frey. As a result, the two became incredibly close. Frey taught Vayne the fundamentals of dark magic, conjured beasts, and vile spells. Vayne committed every word of Frey''s teachings to heart, but found it slightly unnerving that Frey never explained how she came to know so many specifics of these malefic practices. Due to the kingdom''s watchful soldiers and antimagic trees, dark creatures were rare within Demacia''s walls, so Frey and Vayne would venture into the border forests at night to hunt. Vayne earned her first kill C a bloodthirsty creature who preyed on traveling merchants C at the age of eighteen. Soaked in the creature''s viscera, something awoke within Vayne: pleasure. The hot flush of vengeance and violence raced through her blood, and she relished in the sensation. Vayne and Frey spent several years hunting dark creatures, their respect for one another growing with every kill. One day, Vayne realized that she loved Frey like a mother, but her emotions of familial love were so tangled with pain and tainted by trauma, Vayne fought them as she would any beast out to hurt her. Vayne and Frey traveled Valoran, until tavern tales from the highlands caught their ear, whispering of a demonic horned creature of mesmerizing beauty. According to the stories, the demon had been busy: she''d formed a cult, designed to attract worshippers who would do her bidding. People would walk into the hills, never to be heard from again. It was said the cult''s high priests had a holy grounds near the cliffside, where they''d prepare the demon''s sacrificial offerings. Vayne and Frey immediately set off on the hunt. As they journeyed into the hills by cover of night, Vayne found herself distracted. For the first time since their partnership began, she felt worried for Frey C worried she might lose her mother figure for a second time. Before she could confess her fear, one of the demon''s priests lunged from the brush, swinging a mace into Vayne''s shoulder. Vayne was badly wounded. Frey had a brief moment of hesitation, but her eyes steeled with certainty as she apologized to her friend and transformed into a monstrous Freljordian wolf. As Vayne watched in shock, Frey C in her animalistic form C tore the priest''s tendons from his throat with a swift snap of her mighty jaws. With the priest''s body laid strewn at Vayne''s feet, Frey retook her human form, yet her eyes betrayed the scared animal within. She explained that after the death of her family, she had become a shaman, inviting the curse upon herself in order to gain the power to change shape and fight against the Ice Witch. The ritual that gave her these powers involved dark magic, but she made this sacrifice to protectC CVayne put an arrow through Frey''s heart without allowing her another syllable. Whatever affection she had felt for Frey evaporated upon discovering her true nature. A tear formed in Frey''s eye as she collapsed, but Vayne didn''t notice C whatever warmth the two had shared died with Frey. There were still hours left before dawn, which meant hours left to continue the hunt. Vayne thought only of the demon. The kill that would be hers to savor. And all the kills to come. Runeterra''s underworld would come to fear her, just as she had once feared them. For the first time since her parents'' death, Vayne smiled. "I don''t kill creatures like you because it''s the right thing to do. I kill you because I enjoy it." Chapter 214 - Veigar - The Tiny Master Of Evil For most of the peoples of Runeterra, yordles are not typically something to be feared. Their fabled home of Bandle City is said to be a mysterious, spiritual place, filled with odd trinkets and keepsakes gathered from across the material realm. While these curious creatures often leave to dwell among mortal races for a time, they generally return with fresh tales and new experiences to recount. Yet, sadly, there are also those yordles who lose their way. Among them is the sorcerer Veigar. After the Great Darkin War left the world in ruin many centuries ago, the only light that seemed to shine on Valoran came from the skies above. Scattered survivors looked to the heavens, and their renewed study of ancient celestial magic piqued Veigar''s interest. Imagining himself already a master of these mystical arts, the yordle joined an order of mages in the Noxii territories, hoping to learn more of their craft. They did not think to question this eager newcomer, and he taught them to draw hope from the patterns created by the movements of the stars. But while many toiled to rebuild the world, others sought to conquer it. The brutal warlord Mordekaiser and his armies swept across the lands, crushing and enslaving any who would oppose his rule, and the mages of the orderunskilled in warwere of little value to this tyrant. Looming over them in his accursed battleplate, his keen eye fell upon Veigar, and Mordekaiser recognized the yordle for what he truly was. He snatched him up in one iron gauntlet, and dragged his prize away as the other mages were put to the sword. Imprisoned in the heart of the warlord''s new, monolithic fortress, Veigar was forced to turn his magic to darker purposes. Knowing that yordles were craftier than any of the mortal races, Mordekaiser bound Veigar to the physical plane, preventing him even from escaping to Bandle City. He was not the only captive in that hellish place, but such isolation was the worst and most cruel form of torture for a yordle. Veigar performed grisly enchantments against his willsome strengthening his master''s dominion, others simply evoking terror for terror''s sake. Indeed, terror was what seemed to fuel this dreadful empire. Miserable beyond imagining, Veigar became a reluctant witness as Mordekaiser''s vile deeds empowered him to near-immortality. Whether it was over the course of decades or centuries, Veigar never knew, but eventually the yordle''s magic and appearance started to twist in response Memories of his past faded. Why had he come to Valoran? Where had he come from? Had he known any other life before this? Questions such as these weighed on his fragile mind, like the last flickers of light before an eclipse. When the revenant warlord''s own followers conspired against him, the nightmare of his reign was ended, but by this point Veigar was nigh unrecognizable. His eyes blazed. Even his voice had become a sneer of malice. Fleeing from his ensorcelled cage, the wretched creature had no interest in the wars of succession that inevitably followed. Deep down, he most likely yearned to regain the sense of safety and freedom that all living things crave. And yet, he chose not to turn away from evil, but to embrace it. Clad in armor befitting a sinister warlock, he vowed to seize respect in the only way he could rememberthrough ruthless villainy, inspiring fear in all who encountered him. He would call down the fury of the stars themselves upon his foes, and trap them in the timeless infinities between moments. And yet Veigar could not quite find the same success as his former captor. Certainly, the good people of Valoran did learn to fear him, to some extent. More often than not, they would find their pastures scorched, or the local baron''s mansion razed to its foundations. Sometimes though, inexplicably, bands of brigands would be driven from their woodland hideouts, or the remains of feral murk wolves found scattered through the town square, and it was difficult to tell whether these acts were malicious or actually reasonably helpful. For all his aspirations of evildoing, it seemed Veigar would always come up a tiny bit short. Still, the nefarious yordle has not abandoned his quest to become the world''s most wicked villain. With his diabolic staff in hand, he seeks nothing less than to bring all before him to their knees, and revels in the timely demise of those who dare to underestimate him. "You deny the darkness in your soul..." Chapter 215 - VelKoz - The Eye Of The Void To truly understand the horror that is Vel''Koz, one must first know of the Watchers, and how they were blinded to the mortal realm. Beyond the material plane, outside and somehow below it, lies the unknowable abyss. It is the realm of the Void, where no mortal or immortal creature may ever walk. It is not necessary to know how such a place ever came to be, nor whyonly that it did. The Void is eternal. The Void consumes all. In that place, in the cold, endless dark, all is equal and empty. For timeless eons, there was purity in that fact. There was peace, if such a term could have any meaning there. Then, something changed. Not in the Void realm, but elsewhere. It was existence, it was... something, where before there had been nothing, and its mere presence scr.a.p.ed against the vast, cold, formless entities that drifted in the blackness. Before this, they had not even been fully aware of their own sentience, and yet now they knew that they could not tolerate the presence of this other place; this other-realm of mercurial, overwhelming creation. The entities watched. They scrutinized. And soon enough, the Watchers found themselves being scrutinized in return. The tiny, mortal minds that reached out to them were insignificant, little more than fleeting motes of light at the very edges of the abyss. Yet, in them, the Watchers saw a chance to invade the material realm, to destroy it, to silence the intolerable pulsing of reality beyond the Void. The boldest of them tore open the veil and hurled themselves upward, only to be horribly disoriented by the sudden shift between the abyss and the corporeal, linear nature of reality. In an instant, there was time, and heat, and pain... Then there was only cold. The way was shut, and dozens of the Watchers were trapped in the liminal space between two realms, frozen in the moment of transition. Those that remained in the Void recoiled. They had no concept of what had happened, yet they knew they had been betrayed. And so, they adapted. Reaching into the material realm, the Watchers took from the crude matter that comprised it, shaping, corrupting and imbuing it with consciousness. These constructs were the first of the Voidborn, and would be their masters'' eyes and ears, sent forth into the nightmare of existence to watch, listen, and learn. Among them, one stands apart. As perhaps the oldest surviving Voidborn, certainly existing the longest outside of the abyss, he has been known by countless names to those unfortunate enough to encounter him. Thousands of years before Icathia unleashed the Void in battle, the primitive cultures of Shurima feared the devil Vel''Koz, who crept forth from the underworld to steal the dreams of wiser men. Though his name has no literal translation in the modern tongue, it equates roughly as "to understand by unmaking." His insatiable hunger for knowledge has led Vel''Koz across the world, to its highest peaks and darkest depths. Cunning and methodical, he has quietly watched entire civilizations rise, stagnate and decay, spent centuries combing the ocean floor for its secrets, even scrying the movements of the stars in the heavens above him. He carries all of this knowledge back to the great rifts in the fabric of Runeterraso that the Watchers might know what he knowsand will annihilate, without hesitation, any mortal who stands in his path. For the Void is eternal, and it will consume us all. "Only by deconstruction is truth revealed." Chapter 216 - Vi - The Piltover Enforcer Vi remembers little of her childhood in Zaun, and what she does remember, she wishes she didn''t. Running with the sump-snipe gangs, she quickly learned to use her wits, as well as her fists, to survive. Everyone who encountered Vi knew she could talkor punchher way out of trouble. More often than not, she chose the latter. None of the old-timers from her youth could tell her anything of her parents. Most assumed they had died in one of the industrial accidents that were, sadly, all too common in the undercity. Though she had ended up in the crumbling Hope House orphanage, a notoriously mad sump-scrapper claimed to have found her adrift in a bassinet large enough for two in the ruins of a collapsed chem-lab. In the end, Vi figured some things were best left unknown. With her wild pink hair, she became a distinctive sight on the streets of Zaunhightailing from angry shopkeepers in the boundary markets, swaggering through the colorful bazaars of the Black Lanes, or hitching rides up into Piltover aboard the hexdraulic conveyors. Wherever there was a scr.a.p.e to be gotten into or a scam to be run, Vi was in the thick of it, though she never stole from those that couldn''t cover the loss and never hurt those that didn''t deserve it. As she got older, the capers of childhood became more audacious and daring, and Vi formed a gang of her own. Brash and quick to anger, she still relied on her fists a little too much, and was rarely without a black eye or split lip. She found a mentor in the owner of a bar on the edge of the Lanes, who tempered some of her more self-destructive tendencies. He tried to reinforce her moral code, and showed her how to fight with discipline, as well as teaching her ways to better direct her simmering anger. In time, Vi earned a reputation as someone who got things done, no questions asked. Listening to the chatter of the Zaunite miners who frequented the bar, she came to learn when big deals were being made, and how payments were to be delivered. To a chem-baron, this was chump changebut to her and her friends, it would be a fortune. She planned a heist, but knew it would require extra bodies to pull off, so Vi reluctantly brought a rival gang, the Factorywood Fiends, in on her score. Everything was going fine, until the leader of the Fiends killed the mine owner with a pair of oversized pulverizer gauntlets, and trapped the rest of the workers in the tunnels. Even as both gangs fled with the loot, Vi knew she could not leave these innocent people to die. She snatched up the gauntlets, the wrist mechanisms clamping down painfully on her arms, but she endured the agony long enough to smash open a path to free the miners. The following day, Vi paid a visit to the Factorywood Fiends. Still wearing the powered gauntlets, she took on the entire gang, administering a beating so legendary that it is still spoken of in the Lanes to this day. Vi eventually disappeared from Zaun during a time of great upheaval, when tensions with Piltover were running high. Rumors circulated between the gangs that she had been killed in a huge explosion in the heart of the undercity, or that she had turned her back on her friends and struck out for distant lands. The truth, however, finally came to light when Old Hungry''s Scarsa vicious gang whose murder sprees had spread topsidewere brought down by the Sheriff of Piltover and her new ally Vi. The former gang leader was now in the employ of the Wardens, and she had replaced the chem-powered pulverizer gauntlets with a pair of brand new hextech Atlas prototypes. No one yet knows the exact reason why or how Vi came to be working alongside Caitlynbut given the anarchic nature of the crime wave now sweeping Piltover, speculation runs rife that it might involve a certain blue-haired hellion from Zaun "We can either do this the hard way or Oh wait, no. There''s just the hard way." Chapter 217 - Viktor - The Machine Herald The herald of a new age of technology, Viktor has devoted his life to the advancement of humankind. An idealist who seeks to lift people to a new level of understanding, he believes that only by embracing a glorious evolution of technology can humanity''s full potential be realized. With a body augmented by steel and science, Viktor is zealous in his pursuit of this bright future. Viktor was born in Zaun on the borders of the Entresol level, and, encouraged by his artisan parents, discovered a passion for invention and building. He devoted every waking minute to his studies, hating to interrupt his work even to eat or sleep. Even worse was having to rapidly relocate if there was a nearby chemical spill, accidental detonation or incoming chem-cloud. Abandoning his work, even for a short time, was anathema to Viktor. In a bid to impose a level of order and certainty on his world, Viktor researched Zaun''s many accidents and came to realize that almost all of them were the result of human error, not mechanical failure. He offered his services to the local businesses, developing inventions that made them far safer working environments. Most turned him away, but one - the Fredersen Chem-forge - took a chance on this earnest young man. Viktor''s inventions in automation reduced the number of accidents in the forge to zero within a month. Soon, other establishments sought his work and Viktor''s designs became common in Zaun, improving production with every innovation that removed human error from a process. Eventually, at the age of nineteen, he was surprised to be offered a place in Zaun''s prestigious Academy of Techmaturgy. But Viktor''s work had attracted the eye of Professor Stanwick of Piltover, who convinced him to leave Zaun and travel to Piltover''s academy instead. There, he could work in the most advanced laboratories and gain access to all the resources the City of Progress could offer. Thrilled to be singled out, Viktor accepted his offer and took up residence in Piltover, where he refined his craft and sought to perfect his theorems in ways that would benefit everyone. Viktor worked with Piltover''s best and brightest; including an insufferable genius named Jayce. The two were equally matched in intellect, but where Viktor was methodical, logical and thorough, Jayce was flamboyant and arrogant. The two worked together frequently, but never truly became friends. Often, the two would butt heads over their perceptions of intuition vs logic in the process of invention, but a level of mutual respect developed as each saw the flawed brilliance in the other. In the midst of his studies in Piltover, a major chem-spill devastated entire districts of Zaun, and Viktor returned home to offer his help in the rescue efforts. By grafting a sophisticated series of cognitive loops upon existing automata-technology, he crafted a custom-built golem, Blitzcrank, to help in the clean-up. Blitzcrank was instrumental in saving scores of lives and appeared to develop a level of sentience beyond anything Viktor had envisioned. Even with the spill contained, Viktor remained in Zaun to help those afflicted by the released toxins. With the golem''s help, he attempted to use his techmaturgical brilliance to save those whose lives had been blighted by the spill. Their attempt was ultimately unsuccessful in preventing more deaths, and the two parted ways. Though Viktor was distraught at the loss of life in Zaun, the work taught him a great deal about the merging of human anatomy with technology and how mortal anatomy could be enhanced with technology. When Viktor returned to Piltover, weeks later, it was to find that Professor Stanwick had held a symposium on Blitzcrank and presented Viktor''s researches as his own. Viktor lodged formal complaints with the masters of the college, but his impassioned claim that he had designed Blitzcrank fell on deaf ears. He turned to Jayce to verify his claims, but his fellow student refused to speak up, further widening the rift between them, and the matter was decided in Professor Stanwick''s favor. Bitter, but resigned, Viktor returned to his studies, knowing that his ultimate goal of making people''s lives better and enhancing humanity was more important than one stolen project and a bruised ego. He continued to excel, finding ever new ways to eliminate human error and weakness from his work, a facet of his researches that came to dominate his thinking. He saw human involvement in any part of a process as a grossly inefficient aberration - a view that put him at odds with a great many of his fellow students and professors, who saw the very things Viktor sought to remove as the source of human ingenuity and creativity. This came to a head during a reluctant collaboration with Jayce to improve the diving suits used to keep Piltover''s docks clear of underwater debris and lingering chemical waste. Viktor and Jayce''s enhanced suits allowed the wearer to go deeper, remain underwater for longer, and lift heavier weights. But many wearers claimed they saw phantom corpse lights in the depths or suffered from chem-induced hallucinations. When divers experienced such symptoms, they panicked and often got themselves or their fellow divers killed. Viktor saw the problem was not technical, but with the wearer''s nerves unraveling in the inky depths. He devised a chem-shunt helm that allowed an operator on the surface to bypass the wearer''s fear response and, effectively, control the diver. A heated discussion between Viktor and Jayce on free will and mental enslavement turned bitter - almost violent - and the two vowed never to work together again. Jayce reported the incident to the college masters, and Viktor was censured for violating basic human dignity - though, in his eyes, his work would have saved many lives. He was expelled from the college, and retreated to his old laboratory in Zaun, disgusted by the narrow-minded perceptions of Piltover''s inhabitants. Alone in the depths, Viktor sank into a deep depression, enduring a traumatic period of introspection for many weeks. He wrestled with the ethical dilemma he now faced, finding that, once again, human emotion and weakness had stood in his way. He had been trying to help, to enhance people beyond their natural capabilities to avoid error and save lives. Revelation came when he realized that he too had succ.u.mbed to such emotions, allowing his naive belief that good intentions could overcome ingrained prejudice to blind him to human failings. Viktor knew he could not expect others to follow where he did not go first, so, in secret, he operated on himself to remove those parts of his flesh and psyche that relied upon or were inhibited by emotion. When the surgery was done, almost no trace of the young man who had traveled to Piltover remained. He had supplanted the majority of his anatomy with mechanical augmentations, but his personality had also changed. His idealistic hope to better society was refined into an obsession with what he called the Glorious Evolution. Viktor now saw himself as the pioneer of Valoran''s future - an idealized dream where man would renounce flesh in favor of superior hextech augmentations. This would free humanity from fatal errors and suffering, though Viktor knew it was a task that would not be completed easily or quickly. He threw himself into this great work with a vengeance. He used technological augmentations to help rebuild Zaunites injured in accidents, perfected breathing mechanisms, and worked tirelessly to reduce human inefficiency by decoupling physicality from emotion. His work saved hundreds of lives, yet seeking Viktor''s help could be dangerous, as his solutions often brought unexpected consequences. But if you were desperate, Viktor was the man you went to. Some in Zaun, hearing fragments of his philosophy and seeing the successes of his work, saw him as a messianic figure. Viktor couldn''t care less for them, viewing their quasi-religious cult as an aberration; yet another reason to eliminate emotional foibles and the belief in that which could not be empirically proven. After a toxic event in the Sump saw hundreds of men and women in the Factorywood transformed into rabid psychotics, Viktor was forced to use a powerful soporific to sedate the victims and bring them back to his labs to try and undo the damage. The toxins had begun to eat away portions of their brains, but Viktor was able to slow the degenerative process by opening up their craniums and employing machinery to slowly filter their bloodstreams of poison. The technology available to him wasn''t up to the task, and Viktor knew many people were going to die unless he found a way to greatly enhance his purgative machinery. As he fought to save these people, he detected a surge in hextech energy from Piltover and saw immediately that this could give him the power he needed. He followed the powerful energy surge to its source. Jayce''s lab. Viktor demanded Jayce hand over the source of this power, a pulsing crystal from the Shuriman desert. But his former colleague refused, leaving Viktor no option but to take it by force. He returned to Zaun and hooked the strange crystal to his machinery, readying a steam golem host for each afflicted person in case their body gave out under the stress of the procedure. Empowered by the new crystal, Viktor''s machines went to work and, gradually, the damage from the toxins began to reverse. His work would save these people - in a manner of speaking - and had Viktor retained more than a fragment of his humanity, he might have celebrated. As it was, the barest hint of a smile was all he allowed himself. Before the process could complete, a vengeful Jayce burst in and started smashing the laboratory with an energized hammer. Knowing an arrogant fool like Jayce would never listen to reason, Viktor ordered the automatons to kill Jayce. The battle was ferocious, and only ended when Jayce shattered the crystal Viktor had taken, bringing the entire warehouse down in an avalanche of steel and stone, thus ending the existence of those Viktor was trying to save. And for this, Jayce returned to Piltover, feted as a hero. Viktor escaped the destruction of the laboratory, and returned to his mission of bettering humanity by ridding it of its destructive emotional impulses. In Viktor''s mind, Jayce''s impetuous attack only proved the truth of his cause and strengthened his desire to unburden humanity of the failings of flesh. Viktor did send chem-augmented thugs to raid Jayce''s laboratory not long afterward. This was - Viktor told himself - not for revenge, but to learn if there were any more shards of the Shuriman crystal he could use for the advancement of mankind. The raid was unsuccessful, however, and Viktor thought no more of Jayce. Instead, he intensified his efforts to find ways in which humanity could be shepherded beyond their emotional weaknesses and brought into a new, more reasoned stage of their evolution. Such researches sometimes transgress the boundaries of what would be considered ethical in Piltover (and Zaun), but they are all necessary steps in bringing about Viktor''s Glorious Evolution. "A mechanized heart never misses a beat, and never falters with emotion. So why would anyone trust their life to a fragile muscle of flesh and blood?" Chapter 218 - Vladimir - The Crimson Reaper A master of ancient, forbidden sorcery, Vladimir is among the oldest enigmas of Noxus. He was present at the dawn of the empire, and has since woven his influence deep into its foundations but he remembers little of those days. His mind is mortal, and so most of his unnaturally extended life endures not in his memory, but in his chronicles. History has lost track of Vladimir on many occasions, though its pages are littered with figures suspected to have been him. Legend once told of a prince in a kingdom threatened by the infamous darkin, as their great war spilled into Valoran. With his father''s crown at stake, and many more heirs ahead of him in the line of succession, the unfortunate youth was traded to the fallen god-warriors as a hostage. Mortals were little more than cattle under the tyranny of the darkin, their supremacy apparent in the sorceries they had conceivedthe arts of crafting flesh and transmuting blood, granting them mastery over life itself. Believing himself above other mortal vassals, and therefore worthy of such power, Vladimir was the first of his kind permitted to study this terrifying magic. His devotion earned him a place of favor in his patron''s warhost, and the right to practice hemomancy and enforce the darkin''s will on lesser beings. Over time, the god-warrior watched with amus.e.m.e.nt as Vladimir came to govern his subjects with as little mercy as the darkin themselves. The fall of these cruel tyrants is, likewise, the stuff of legend. An account of it, written in the dead High Shuriman language, is kept hidden within the Immortal Bastion. It speculates that Vladimir''s master was not imprisoned like so many of his kin, but instead died at the hands of his own warhost. The few surviving mortals fled, taking what knowledge they had of blood magic with them. Unknown to all but Vladimir himself, it was he who struck the killing blow. Scarred, blinded, driven mad by the radiance of a darkin''s undoing, he absorbed enough power to renew flesh that was never meant to last beyond a mortal lifespan. And he has done this countless times since, through rituals too vile to speak of. At the height of Mordekaiser''s dark reign, it was said that a mythic and bloodthirsty fiend haunted the coastal cliffs of eastern Valoran, demanding young lives and savage worship from the local tribes. Few were welcome in his lair, until the day a pale sorceress approached this barbarian god with an offer. The two feasted together as equals, weaving magic so dark that the wine at their table soured, and the roses withered, vibrant red turning to black. Thus began the pact between Vladimir and LeBlanc, rife with disputes, and games of politics and war. Over the centuries, others joined thempowerful nobles, exalted masters of magic, and beings darker still. This cabal grew into the hidden power that would guide the throne of Noxus for more than a thousand years, orchestrating many of the empire''s most ambitious campaigns. Uniquely among the leaders of the Black Rose, Vladimir has rarely limited himself to scheming from the shadows. In the past, he deigned to join the Noxian noble courts during the most interesting of times, only to fade into seclusion decades later, his extreme ageand the atrocities his sorcery could wreaka well-kept secret. Even so, under Vladimir''s tutelage, the art of hemomancy has found a place in the military of Noxus, and among scions of the old aristocracy. Among these diverse practitioners is the Crimson Circle, a youthful cult dedicated as much to Vladimir''s personality as to blood magic itself. With the death of the previous Grand General and the rise of Jericho Swain, the political landscape of the empire changed dramatically, and Vladimir has been forced to rouse himself once more. Wearing the guise of a benevolent socialite, he has returned to the public eye as a vocal opponent of the ruling Trifarix council much to the concern of more cautious members of the Black Rose. Indeed, his reappearance may have come too soon, as time has not yet washed away all the stains of his previous lifetime, and it seems likely that Swain himself has begun to grasp Vladimir''s true nature. As a new and darker conflict approaches Noxus, Vladimir drinks deeply from the renewed vitality of the empire, reminding himself of his past glories. To him, this life is a mere revelry, a masquerade spanning centuries, and the prologue to greatnessfor though the darkin eventually fought amongst themselves and lost their immortal grip on the world, Vladimir knows he is strongest alone. "Time has made me wiser, but no more patient." Chapter 219 - Volibear - The Thunders Roar The unforgiving northern reaches of the Freljord are home to the Ursine, a fierce and warlike race that has endured the barren tundra for thousands of years. Their leader is a furious adversary who commands the force of lightning to strike fear within his foes: Volibear. Both a warrior and a mystic, Volibear seeks to defend the ancient ways and the warrior spirit of his tribe. Though history recorded their once legendary feats in battle, the Ursine now lived in tranquil seclusion. The warriors were headed by a triumvirate of leaders who maintained a long-lived isolation, avoiding the petty affairs and conflicts of others. As shaman to the three, Volibear was a respected sage known for his insight. It was an era of unprecedented peace, but Volibear felt dread stirring within him. Prosperity was turning the tribe soft and weak, and many had long forgotten the sacred art of war. In time, Volibear felt the fire of their souls would be extinguished. When he revealed his misgivings to the triumvirate, they refused to listen and warned him to know his place. Seeking wisdom, Volibear undertook a perilous climb to the peak of the Ursine''s sacred mountain, a place forever shrouded in a thundering maelstrom. The eye of the storm was said to bestow portents, and legend held that the tempest would mark the next great chieftain of the tribe. As Volibear ascended the peak, he was struck by an unnatural bolt of lightning. When the shaman awoke, he was possessed by a horrific vision of the Freljord utterly consumed by darkness. Volibear saw an unprepared and complacent Ursine force slaughtered by terrible creatures of ice. In an instant, he knew his race would perish if they did not prepare for war. Volibear rushed down the mountainside to recount what he had seen, but found the path blocked by three Ursine - the triumvirate. Knowing he would end the lasting peace, they refused to heed Volibear''s warning and demanded his silence, by his word - or his death. Resolute and adamant, Volibear swore that the Ursine''s very survival depended on his message, and launched into ferocious combat against the three. A terrible clash ensued, and just as Volibear succ.u.mbed to his opponents, he called upon the power of the maelstrom. Unleashing raw lightning, he struck the trio down with a thunderous blow. Stunned and astonished, the triumvirate beheld the sign of Ursine leadership: the force of the sacred storm. Recognizing his foretold ascendance, the triumvirate appointed Volibear as the Ursine''s new leader. His influence was swift and decisive: he roused his tribe from complacency, revived their battle-hardened traditions, and allied with Sejuani, the warrior who would fight with them against the coming evil. With time, the tribe grew lean and fierce, becoming known again as fearsome warriors of legend. Volibear and the Ursine now stand ready for the dark day that looms on the icy horizon. "The Ursine cannot know peace without war." Chapter 220 - Warwick - The Uncaged Wrath Of Zaun Warwick is a monster who hunts the gray alleys of Zaun. Transformed by agonizing experiments, his body is fused with an intricate system of chambers and pumps, machinery filling his veins with alchemical rage. Bursting out of the shadows, he preys upon those criminals who terrorize the city''s depths. Warwick is drawn to blood, and driven mad by its scent. None who spill it can escape him. Though many think of Warwick as no more than a beast, buried beneath the fury lies the mind of a mana gangster who put down his blade and took up a new name to live a better life. But no matter how hard he tried to move on, he could never escape the sins of his past. Memories of that time come to Warwick in flashes before they''re inevitably lost, replaced by searing echoes of the days he spent strapped to a table in Singed''s lab, the mad chemist''s face looming above him. His world a haze of pain, Warwick could not recall how he fell into Singed''s grasp and even struggled to remember a time before the suffering began. The scientist patiently carved into him, installing pumps and hoses to inject chemicals into his veins, seeking what an alchemist always seeks: transmutation. Singed would reveal his subject''s true naturethe deadly beast hidden within a "good man." The chemicals pumped into Warwick''s veins boosted his healing, allowing Singed to gradually and painfully reshape the man. When his hand was severed in the course of the experiment, Singed was able to reattach it, augmenting it with powerful, pneumatic claws, and bringing Warwick ever closer to his true potential. A chemical chamber was installed on Warwick''s back and integrated with his nervous system. Whenever he felt rage, or hate, or fear, it would drive liquid fury deeper into his veins, fully awakening the beast within. He was forced to endure it all, every cut of the mad chemist''s scalpel. Pain, Singed assured his subject, was necessary; it would prove to be the "great catalyst" of his transformation. Though the chemicals enabled Warwick''s body to heal through most of the physical damage, his mind was shattered by the unending agony. Warwick struggled to recall a single memory from his past... All he could see was blood. But then he heard a little girl screaming. Screaming something he couldn''t understand. It sounded like a name. He''d already forgotten his. He sensed that was for the best. Pain soon overwhelmed all other thoughts. Blood was the only thing left. Though his body and mind were broken after weeks on the slab, Warwick stubbornly resisted the chemicals transmuting him. Toxins leaked from his eyes in place of tears. He coughed up gobs of caustic phlegm that sizzled against his chest, before burning shallow holes in the floor of the lab. Restrained against the cold steel of the table, Warwick writhed in agony for hours on end, until his body finally gave out. With the untimely death of his subject, Singed disposed of the corpse in a charnel pit deep in Zaun''s Sump, before turning his mind to the next experiment. But death proved to be the true catalyst needed for Warwick''s transformation. As he lay cooling atop the pile of corpses, the chemicals could finally complete their work. The chamber on his back began to pump. His body contorted unnaturally, bones bending and snapping, teeth growing, sinews tearing and then healing with a faint alchemical glow, dead flesh replaced by something new and powerful. By the time his heart started beating once again, the man Warwick had been and the lives he''d lived were gone. He awoke to hunger. Everything hurt. Only one thing mattered. He needed blood. First, it was the blood of a nearby sump-scrapper, rooting through the charnel pile. And then a priestess of the Glorious Evolved, seeking a member of her flock. Then a Piltovan apprenta taking a shortcut, and a philter-faced merchant avoiding a gang, and a dram-dealer, and a tallyman, and a chem punk... He set up a den not far from a place that itched at the back of his now-animal mind. There, he continued the slaughter, not caring who fell to his claws. So long as blood dripped from gnashing teeth, he would feel nothing but a smear of red on his conscience, the hunger in his gut overwhelming any concern for his random victims. Yet, even as he surrendered to the beast, glimpses of his past began to haunt him. He saw a bearded man reflected in the eyes of a beggar as he tore out his throat. The other man looked somber, somehow familiar; there were scars on his arms. Sometimes, as he fed in dark alleys on stray gangers, the flash of knives would remind him of an old blade covered in blood. Blood passing from the blade to his hands. From his hands, to everything he touched. Sometimes, he remembered the girl again. And still there was blood. It had always been there, he realized, his entire life, and nothing he did could wash it off. He''d left so many scars that even if he didn''t remember his past, the city would. When he peered into the eyes of Zaun''s criminalsthe gang bosses, murderers, and thieveshe saw himself. The chamber on his back would fill his body with hate. His claws tore out of his fingers. He hunted. No longer content to kill indiscriminately, Warwick now pursues those already covered in the stench of blood. Just as he was the day he was dragged to Singed''s door. He still wonders if he''d truly wanted this. He can''t remember details, but he remembers enough. Enough to know Singed had been right all alongthe good man had been a lie, before disaster had burned it away, revealing the truth. He is Warwick. He is a killer. And there are so many killers to hunt. "Spill blood... draw the beast!" Chapter 221 - Wukong - The Monkey King Wukong is a vastayan trickster who uses his strength, agility and intelligence to confuse his opponents and gain the upper hand. After finding a lifelong friend in the warrior known as Master Yi, Wukong became the last student of the ancient martial art known as Wuju. Armed with an enchanted staff, Wukong seeks to prevent Ionia from falling to ruin. Within Ionia''s treetops dwells a vastayan tribe known as the Shimon. These apelike creatures are a wise, cautious people, and as pacifists, chose to build their society away from landwalkers, cultivating their society atop the tallest trees in Ionia. The Shimon see life as an evolutionary climb to wisdom, thus upon death, the Shimon believe they become stones, returning to the soil to begin the climb of life again. Even from an early age, Kong had very little in common with his fellow Shimon. Impulsive, clever, and fun-loving, Kong was a constant thorn in his village''s side. When war came to Ionia, Kong was engrossed by the sounds and colors of the battles below C they awoke something true and undeniable in him, a calling. Kong left his tribe to prepare for what he knew to be his destiny. Armed only with instinct and with no training under his belt, Kong wandered Ionia, in search of challengers to learn the art of combat. Though Kong often earned bruises and broken teeth for his trouble, with each fight, he was carving himself into the warrior he felt called to become. In his travels, Kong ran across a goggle-wearing man meditating in a glade. Kong challenged him to a fight. The man stood up and knocked Kong to the ground in a single motion before returning to his meditations. Kong had challenged many opponents, but he''d never experienced anything like this. For weeks, Kong came back to the glade every day and attempted to defeat the warrior. Though stronger and faster than the begoggled man, Kong was outmaneuvered at every turn. Eventually, Kong decided to try something he''d never attempted in his many years of life: humility. He kneeled before the man and humbly asked for training. Without missing a beat, the swordsman asked a question of Kong: why do you fight? Kong realized he''d never thought about that before. He could have stayed in his peaceful society, but something inside him had demanded otherwise. Kong asked the same question of the man, who only replied that he did not fight anymore. Kong spent the next several days sitting in the glade with the warrior, pondering the question. The man saw Kong''s change of heart and quiet determination. He introduced himself as Master Yi, and agreed to train Kong in the virtues of discipline, patience and combat, which Yi called Wuju. Kong''s technique and precision improved with each lesson as Yi channeled Kong''s propensity for recklessness and impulsiveness into a lethally swift and surprising fighting style. The two grew to respect each other over the course of this training, yet Kong sensed a deep sadness in Yi that even Kong''s most hilarious pranks couldn''t lighten. More than that, he still hadn''t found an answer to Yi''s question. Maybe if he''d known what Yi had once fought for, he could answer the question for himself. Kong made Yi a proposition. The two would engage in a friendly spar. If Kong won, Yi would have to tell him what he''d fought for. If Yi won, Kong wouldn''t speak for an entire year. Yi eagerly accepted. Kong lured Yi from the glade into a field of smokepoppies, and each time Yi attempted one of his swift attacks, Kong would disappear into the haze the poppies burst with when agitated. In the confusion, Yi struck out at what he believed to be Kong, but instead was a straw doll Kong had woven in his own image and planted in the field as a decoy. Kong seized his opportunity and felled Yi with a blow to the temple. Yi smiled at Kong''s cleverness. The smile disappeared, however, as he explained why he had given up the sword. Yi was once an integral part of Ionia''s defense against Noxus during the invasion. Yi and his disciples had been so effective at meeting the Noxians in combat that the invaders had eventually turned to chemical warfare. Yi blamed himself for the hundreds of lives lost to their Zaunite scientist''s chem-bombs. No longer able to answer why he fought, he banished himself to the glade to meditate upon the question. Kong had come from a people who chose to stay out of the world''s fights, but all that did was leave those who might be less equipped to face those threats alone. Kong admired that, whatever the outcome, Yi had fought to protect others. Kong realized he wished to do the same. Through Kong''s eyes, Yi saw that he had been running from the truth: that, as much as he may try to deny it, he was a warrior and his people needed his help. A thankful Yi granted Kong an enchanted staff, crafted by the legendary blacksmith Doran, and a new honorific, reserved only for the brightest students of Wuju. From that day forward, Kong was known as Wukong. Yi and Wukong walked out of the Ionian wilderness, intent on finding a new cause to fight for. Together. "Just try to stop me!" Chapter 222 - Xayah - The Rebel Deadly and precise, Xayah is a vastayan revolutionary waging a personal war to save her people. She uses her speed, guile, and razor-sharp feather blades to cut down anyone who stands in her way. Xayah fights alongside her partner and lover, Rakan, to protect their dwindling tribe, and restore their race to her vision of its former glory. As a child, Xayah loved listening to her father sing the ancient folk-hymns about vastayan heroes. The haunting melodies transported her to a long-forgotten time, when the spirit realm danced freely throughout the physical world. But, with every new generation, humans encroached further into the Lhotlan tribelands, disrupting the raw, chaotic essence of Ionia for their own purposes. Unwilling to stand by and watch her kind fade, Xayah ignored the decrees of her people and set out to reason with the humans. She ventured into villages beyond her secluded tribal home, and learned how little she knew of the outside world. A group of poverty-stricken villagers mobbed her, some of them trying to steal her feathers as priceless trophies. Others were fearful of her strange appearance and summoned the authorities, forcing her to defend herself. Xayah''s attackers were soon taught the dangers of getting in her way, as she skewered them with her lethal quills. Dismayed, she returned to her home, only to discover that her tribe, including her father, was missing without a trace. An ancient vastayan temple had been tainted by unnatural shadow magic, disrupting its connection to the spirit realm. Xayah destroyed the temple in order to dispel the corruption. Almost instantly, magic flowed back into the surrounding lands. It was a beautiful sight, but her tribe was still nowhere to be found. After years spent flitting in and out of the most fortified strongholds and leaving a trail of bodies in her wake, she became known as "The Violet Raven." She lived alone, focused only on the next mission, and the next step toward freedom for her kind. But then she met another vastayan who would change her life forever. As she entered the remote mountain town of Vlonqo in search of a stolen vastayan artifact, she was struck by the strange sight of a braying crowd of excitable humans. Onstage before them stood a preening, flamboyant performer, a veritable golden peac.o.c.k, who sang old vastayan songs for his captivated audience. As he finished his show with a dazzling array of cheap tricksas Xayah saw themthe crowd erupted and chanted his name: "Rakan." He took a theatrical bow. She dismissed him as a buffoon. Xayah willed herself to ignore the entertainer, and completed her mission. She made her escape, which she had to admit had become far easier thanks to the buffoon''s distraction of Vlonqo''s inhabitants. Despite vowing never to see this "Rakan" again, she couldn''t seem to get him off her mind. It was a strange and complicated feeling; there was a lightness to his spirit that she found aggravatingly alluring. As she left town, Xayah was preoccupied by these strange thoughts, leaving her momentarily distracted to an ambush from a group of mercenaries. She had been expecting a fight, so she was glad to get her feathers bloody. A good brawl seemed the perfect antidote for useless diversions and unwanted feelings. That was when Rakan made his grand entrance. Xayah insisted she didn''t need the swaggering vastayan''s help. Rakan insisted he didn''t carehe just didn''t want to miss the party. Through the course of the fight, Rakan proved an unorthodox, but surprisingly dauntless and effective, ally. He leapt and pirouetted through the attackers who couldn''t take their eyes off him, providing Xayah ample time to strike them down with devastating accuracy. In spite of her protestations, Rakan continued to follow Xayah. Over time, she grew to welcome his company andthough she was initially loath to admit itthe world didn''t feel so broken and lonely. They became inseparable, with her passion for the vastayan cause infecting the showboating battle-dancer. She has adapted to his free-spirited ways, utilizing the chaos Rakan creates as perfectly timed distractions. Together, they fight to release Ionia''s abundant flow of magic so that the vastaya might thrive once again. "Ever been stabbed by a feather?" Chapter 223 - Xerath - The Magus Ascendant Xerath is an Ascended Magus of ancient Shurima, a being of arcane energy writhing in the broken shards of a magical sarcophagus. For millennia, he was trapped beneath the desert sands, but the rise of Shurima freed him from his ancient prison. Driven insane with power, he now seeks to take what he believes is rightfully his and replace the upstart civilizations of the world with one fashioned in his image. The boy who would eventually be called Xerath was born a nameless slave in Shurima thousands of years ago. He was the son of captured scholars, with only the prospect of endless servitude ahead. His mother taught him letters and numbers, while his father told him tales from history in the hopes that such skills might allow him a better life. The boy vowed he would not end up bent-backed and whipped like every other slave. When the boy''s father was crippled during the excavations for the foundations of a monument to the Emperor''s favorite horse, he was left to die at the site of the accident. Fearing her son would suffer a similar fate, the boy''s mother begged an esteemed tomb architect to take him on as an apprentice. Though at first reluctant, the architect was impressed with the boy''s eye for detail and innate understanding of mathematics and language, and accepted. The boy never saw his mother again. He was a swift learner and his master dispatched him on errands to the Great Library of Nasus to retrieve specific texts and plans on an almost daily basis. On one trip, the boy met Azir, the least-favored son of the emperor. Azir was struggling to read a difficult passage in an ancient text, and, despite knowing that to talk to royalty was to invite death, the boy paused to help the young prince with its complex grammar. In that moment, a tentative friendship was established, and over the coming months that friendship only grew stronger. Though slaves were forbidden names, Azir gave one to the boy. He named him Xerath, which means ''one who shares,'' though that name was only ever spoken between the two boys. Azir saw to it that Xerath was appointed to his household''s slaves, and made him his personal attendant. Their shared love of knowledge saw them devour texts from the library and become as close as brothers. Xerath was Azir''s constant companion, learning all he could from this new proximity to culture, power and knowledge, finally daring to dream that Azir might one day free him. On the annual tour of the emperor''s dominion, assassins struck the royal caravan as it spent the night at a well-known oasis. Xerath saved Azir from an assassin''s blade, but Azir''s brothers were all slain, leaving the young prince a heartbeat away from Shurima''s throne. As a slave, Xerath could expect no reward for his deed, but Azir promised that one day they would be as brothers. In the wake of the assassination attempt, Shurima endured years of horror and fear of the emperor''s retribution. Xerath knew enough of history and the workings of the Shuriman court to understand that Azir''s life hung by the slenderest of threads. That he was heir to the throne meant nothing, for the emperor hated Azir for living while his more beloved sons had died. Of more immediate danger, the emperor''s wife was still young enough to bear other children, and thus far she had borne many healthy sons. The odds were good that she would produce another male heir for her husband, and as soon as she did, Azir''s life was forfeit. Though Azir was a scholar at heart, Xerath persuaded him that to survive, he must also learn to fight. This Azir did, and in return the young heir elevated Xerath, insisting he continue his education. Both youths excelled, and Xerath proved to be an exceptionally gifted pupil, one who took to the pursuit of knowledge with gusto. Xerath became Azir''s confidant and right hand man, a position unheard of for a mere slave. This position gave him great - and some said, undue - influence over the young prince, who came to rely on Xerath''s judgement more each day. Xerath bent his every effort into seeking out knowledge wherever he could find it, no matter the cost, no matter its source. He unlocked long-sealed libraries, delved into forgotten vaults and consulted with mystics entombed deep beneath the sands; all to further his knowledge and ambition, both of which grew with unchecked rapidity. Whenever the whispers around court that spoke of his delving into unsavory places grew too loud to ignore, he would find cunning means to silence them. That Azir never mentioned these whispers was, to Xerath, tacit approval of how he was keeping his emperor safe. Years passed, and Xerath took ever darker steps to keep the emperor''s wife from carrying a child to term, using his nascent magical abilities to corrupt every infant in the w.o.m.b. Without rivals to the throne, Azir would be safe. When rumors of a curse arose, Xerath ensured they were never spoken again, and oft-times those who had voiced such suspicions vanished without trace. By now, Xerath''s desire to escape his roots as a slave had become a burning ambition to achieve power of his own, though he justified every murderous act by telling himself he was doing it to keep his friend alive. Despite Xerath''s best efforts to thwart the queen''s midwives, a new prince of Shurima was brought into the world, but on the night of his birth, Xerath used his growing magical powers to summon the elemental spirits of the deep desert and craft a terrible storm. Xerath brought bolt after bolt of lightning down upon the queen''s chambers, reducing it to burning rubble and killing the queen and her newborn son. The emperor rushed to his queen''s chambers, only to be confronted by Xerath, his hands ablaze with arcane power. The emperor''s guards attacked, but Xerath burned them and the emperor to cindered skeletons. Xerath ensured that the mages of a conquered territory were blamed for these deaths, and Azir''s first act upon taking the throne was to lead a brutal campaign of retribution against its people. Azir was crowned emperor of Shurima with Xerath at his side, the boy who had once been a nameless slave. Xerath had long dreamed of this moment, and expected Azir to end slavery in Shurima before finally naming him brother. Azir did none of these things, continuing to expand his empire''s borders and deflecting Xerath''s overtures regarding the end of slavery. To Xerath, this was further proof of Shurima''s moral bankruptcy, and he raged at Azir''s breaking of his promise. Azir''s face was thunderous as he reminded Xerath that he was a slave and should remember his place. Something once noble died in Xerath that day, but he bowed in supplication, outwardly accepting Azir''s decision. As Azir continued his campaigns of conquest, Xerath remained at his side, but his every action was carefully designed to increase his influence over a realm he now planned to take for himself. To steal an empire was no small thing, and Xerath knew he needed more power. The famous legend of Renekton''s Ascension revealed that a mortal did not have to be chosen by the Sun Priests, that anyone could rise up. So Xerath plotted to steal the power of Ascension. No slave could ever stand upon the sun disc, so Xerath fed the Emperor''s vanity, inflating his ego and filling his head with impossible visions of a world-spanning empire. But such a dream would only be possible if Azir could Ascend as the greatest heroes of Shurima had before. In time Xerath''s perseverance paid off, and Azir announced he would undertake the Ascension ritual, that he had earned the right to stand alongside Nasus and Renekton as an Ascended being. The Sun Priests protested, but such was Azir''s hubris that he ordered them to comply on pain of torture and death. The Day of Ascension arrived and Azir marched toward the Dais of Ascension with Xerath at his side. Nasus and Renekton were absent from the day''s events, for Xerath had arranged a distraction for them by weakening the seal on a magical sarcophagus containing a beast of living fire. When that creature finally broke its bindings, Renekton and Nasus were the only warriors capable of defeating it. Thus Xerath had stripped Azir of the only two beings who might save him from what was to come. Azir stood beneath the sun disc and in the final moment before the priests began the ritual, events took a turn Xerath had not anticipated. The emperor turned to Xerath and told him that he was now a free man. He and all Shurima''s slaves were now released from their bonds of servitude. He embraced Xerath before naming him his eternal brother. Xerath was stunned. He had been given everything he desired, but the success of his plans hinged upon Azir''s death and nothing was going to dissuade him from acting. Too many pieces were in motion and Xerath had already sacrificed too much to turn back now C no matter how much that part of him wanted to. The emperor''s words pierced the bitterness enclosing Xerath''s heart, but came decades too late. Unaware of his peril, Azir turned as the priests began the ritual and brought down the awesome power of the sun. With a roar of anger and grief combined, Xerath blasted Azir from his place on the dais, watching through tears as his former friend burned to ash. Xerath took Azir''s place and the light of the sun filled him, reshaping his flesh into that of an Ascended being. But the power of the ritual was not his to take, and the consequences of his betrayal of Azir were devastating. The unbound power of the sun all but destroyed Shurima, sundering its temples and bringing ruination upon the city. Azir''s people were consumed in a terrifying conflagration as the desert rose up to claim the city. The sun disc fell and an empire built by generations of emperors was undone in a single day. Even as the city burned, Xerath held the sun priests in the grip of his magic, preventing them from ending the ritual. The energies filling him were immense, alloying with his dark sorcery to create a being of incredible power. As he drew ever more of the sun''s power into his body, his mortal flesh was consumed and remade as a glowing vortex of arcane power. With Xerath''s treachery revealed, Renekton and Nasus rushed to the epicenter of the magical storm destroying the city. They bore with them the magical sarcophagus that had imprisoned the spirit of eternal fire. The Ascended brothers fought their way to the Dais of Ascension just as Xerath fell from the deadly radiance engulfing the city. Before the newly-Ascended Magus could react, they hurled his crackling body within the sarcophagus and sealed it once more with blessed chains and powerful sigils of binding. But it was not enough. Xerath''s power had been great as a mortal, and that power - combined with the gift of Ascension - made him all but invincible. He shattered the sarcophagus, though its shards and chains remained bound to him. Renekton and Nasus hurled themselves at Xerath, but such was his newfound strength that he fought them both to a standstill. The battle raged throughout the collapsing city, destroying what had not already sunk beneath the sands. The brothers were able to drag Xerath toward the Tomb of Emperors, the greatest mausoleum of Shurima, a vault whose locks and wards were impossible to break and which answered only to the blood of emperors. Renekton wrestled Xerath within and called upon Nasus to seal the vault behind them. Nasus did so with heavy heart, knowing it was the only way to prevent Xerath''s escape. Renekton and Xerath fell into eternal darkness, and there they remained, locked in an endless battle as the once-great civilization of Shurima collapsed. Uncounted centuries passed and, in time, even Renekton''s mighty strength waned, leaving him vulnerable to Xerath''s influence. With poisoned lies and illusions, Xerath twisted Renekton''s mind, filling him with misplaced bitterness toward Nasus, the faithless brother who had - in Xerath''s fictive narrative - abandoned him so long ago. When the Tomb of Emperors was finally discovered beneath the desert and broken open by Sivir and Cassiopeia, both Xerath and Renekton were freed in an explosion of sand and rubble. Sensing his brother still lived, Renekton charged from the ruins, his distorted mind leaving him little better than a savage beast. After an age lost to legend, Shurima was reborn, and as it rose majestically from the desert, Xerath felt another soul return to life beneath the sand, one he had thought long dead. Azir was also newly resurrected as one of the Ascended, and Xerath knew there could be no peace for either of them while the other yet lived. Xerath sought the heart of the desert to regain his strength and understand how the world had changed in the millennia since his imprisonment. His stolen power grew with every passing moment, and he beheld a world ripe for conquest, a world brimming with mortals ready to worship at the feet of a new and terrible god. Yet for all his newfound power, however far he has come from that nameless slave boy, a part of Xerath knows he is still in chains. "A lifetime as a slave has prepared me for eternity as your master." Chapter 224 - Xin Zhao - The Seneschal of Demacia Rumored to have never lost in one-on-one combat, Xin Zhao spent much of his life fighting an uphill battle. Some of his earliest memories are of the Viscero, an Ionian fishing boat he served aboard off the coast of Raikkon. A diligent cabin boy, he obeyed his elders'' every requestfrom cleaning grimy decks to fixing tangled netsand enjoyed a peaceful existence until the day they unknowingly ventured too deep into foreign waters. A pair of privateer sh.i.p.s from Noxus chased down the smaller vessel. Their commander cited the glory of the empire as he boarded, claiming the Viscero and its crew as his rightful property. They were mostly ageing fishermen, unfit for military service, but they would be taken back to Noxian territory regardless. After enduring a tough journey across the open ocean, Xin Zhao found himself in a strange new land. There was no delicate beauty in the waters here, no magic in the trees. Imposing gateways and fortified stone walls unlike anything he had ever seen lined the streets, and the people were crammed into every available inch of space. He learned this was the capital of Noxus, and it was from here that a man known as "Darkwill" ruled the vast empire. Separated from the rest of the Viscero''s crew, and with no means of returning home, Xin Zhao entered the service of the man who had taken him prisoner. His skill with a spear did not go unnoticed, and soon he was promised a better lifewith meals served on platesin exchange for his martial prowess. Noxus celebrated strength, and his patron deemed him to be a strong fighter. Having nothing to lose, the young man accepted. He shed his ragged clothes for crude armor, and entered the Reckoning arenas. Truly, this was a strange form of entertainment. Mighty warriors, known by even mightier titles, fought each other before ravenous crowds, who cheered for displays of skill and showmanship as often as they did for blood. Xin Zhao, taking the name "Viscero", was catapulted into success. His bouts soon filled the seats of every arena and also the pockets of his sponsors. In only a few short years, Viscero became a celebrated nameone that audiences adored, and other Reckoners came to fear. But this good fortune did not last. Beyond the distractions of the Reckoner circuit, the empire faced difficult times. Hostile nations encroached upon its territories, provoking rebellion all along the Noxian frontier. It was rumored that Darkwill and his advisors had offered a fortune in gold for the private release of mercenaries, prisoners, and Reckoners alike, to be conscripted into the empire''s warhosts. With little more than a handshake, Xin Zhao and his fellows were bought out, and placed on a transport ship heading west. Here, at the coastal fortress of Kalstead, the names and reputations of even the most well-known Reckoners counted for little. They were hurled into battle against the elite forces of King Jarvan III of Demacia, who was determined to curb Noxian influence on Valoran and Xin Zhao quickly learned that war was unlike any arena duel. While many of the former Reckoners deserted in the face of inevitable defeat, Xin Zhao held his ground, staining his spear with the blood of hundreds. When the king''s Dauntless Vanguardsome of whom were silently impressed by his skillfinally surrounded him, still he refused to run. Xin Zhao stood tall, welcoming his execution. However, Jarvan thought differently. Unlike the arena crowds, the king of Demacia took no pleasure in needless killing. He granted the defeated Noxians their freedom, if they would swear to leave Kalstead in peace. Surprised by this show of mercy, Xin Zhao thought about what awaited him back in Noxus. He could return to a society where his life had meant little beyond the gold he earned for his patrons or he could fight for those who embodied the virtues to which he, himself, aspired. Compelled by honor, he knelt before Jarvan III, pledging himself to the king''s service. In the decades that followed, Xin Zhao proved his loyalty time and again. As a seneschal of the royal household, he became bodyguard and advisor not only to his friend and master, but also to the king''s sonyoung Prince Jarvan, who would one day inherit the crown. Xin Zhao''s path to becoming a Demacian may have been unusual, yet never once did he falter in his commitment to the kingdom and its ideals. This was not from a sense of duty, he reasoned, but by choice. However, his greatest test came when a mage insurrection threatened the capital. With the nefarious Sylas of Dregbourne wreaking havoc throughout the Great City, Xin Zhao stood ready to defend his liege, but the king commanded him to leave on a personal mission of critical importance. With a heavy heart, Xin Zhao reluctantly obeyed. It was only when the palace bells tolled that he knew the true gravity of his mistake. By the time the seneschal fought his way back, King Jarvan III was dead. Xin Zhao believed his life would be forfeit but instead, Prince Jarvan reminded him of the pledge he had once made, and accepted a renewal of his service to the kingdom. For now, more than ever, Demacia needs its seneschal. The throne lies vacant, as the other noble houses fear that the prince may not yet be fit to rule. Xin Zhao has no such concernshe is utterly devoted to Jarvan, and determined to guide him in the perilous days to come. "Death is inevitable. One can only avoid defeat." Chapter 225 - Yasuo - The Unforgiven As a child, Yasuo often believed what the others in his village said of him: on the best days, his very existence was an error in judgement; on the worst, he was a mistake that could never be undone. Like most pain, there was some truth to it. His mother was a widow already raising a young son, when the man who would be Yasuo''s father blew into her life like an autumn wind. And, just like that lonely season, he was gone again before the blanket of Ionian winter settled over the small family. Even though Yasuo''s older half-brother, Yone, was everything Yasuo was notrespectful, cautious, conscientiousthe two were inseparable. When other children teased Yasuo, Yone was there to defend him. But what Yasuo lacked in patience, he made up for in determination. When Yone began his apprenticeship at the village''s renowned sword school, a young Yasuo followed, waiting outside in monsoon rain, until the teachers relented and opened the gates. Much to the annoyance of his new peers, Yasuo showed natural talent, and became the only student in several generations to catch the attention of Elder Souma, last master of the legendary wind technique. The old man saw Yasuo''s potential, but like trying to bridle a whirlwind, this pupil was known to ignore most teaching. Yone pleaded with his brother to set aside his arrogance, gifting him a maple seed, the school''s highest lesson in humility. The next morning, Yasuo accepted the position as Souma''s apprentice, and personal bodyguard. When word of the Noxian invasion reached the school, some were inspired by the great stand that had been taken at the Placidium of Navori, and soon the village was bled of the able bodied. Yasuo longed to add his sword to the cause, but even as his classmates and brother left to fight, he was ordered to remain and protect the elders. The invasion became a war. Finally, one rain-slicked night, the drums of a Noxian march could be heard in the next valley over. Yasuo abandoned his post, foolishly believing he could turn the tide. But he found no battleonly a raw grave for hundreds of Noxian and Ionian corpses. Something terrible and unnatural had happened here, something that no single blade could have stopped. The land itself seemed tainted by it. Sobered, Yasuo returned to the school the next day, only to be surrounded by the remaining students, their swords drawn. Elder Souma was dead, and Yasuo found himself accused not only of dereliction, but of murder. He realized the true killer would go unpunished if he did not act quickly, so he fought his way free, though he knew this would all but confirm his apparent guilt. Now a fugitive in war-torn Ionia, Yasuo sought any clue that might lead him to the murderer. All the while, he was hunted by his former allies, continually forced to fight or die. This was a price he was willing to pay, until he was tracked down by the one he dreaded mosthis own brother, Yone. Bound by honor, they circled each other. When their swords finally met, Yone was no match and, with a single flash of steel, Yasuo cut his brother down. He begged forgiveness, but Yone''s dying words were of the wind techniques responsible for Elder Souma''s death, and that his brother was the only one who could have known them. Then he fell silent, passing on before he could grant any absolution. Without master or brother, Yasuo roamed the mountains distraught, drinking away the pain of war and loss, a sword without a sheath. There in the snow, he met Taliyah, a young Shuriman stone mage who had fled the Noxian military. In her, Yasuo saw an unlikely student, and in himself, an even more unlikely teacher. He trained her in the ways of elemental magic, wind shaping stone, embracing at last the teachings of Elder Souma. Their world changed with rumors of a risen Shuriman god-emperor. Yasuo and Taliyah parted ways, though he gifted her the treasured maple seed, its lesson now learned. As she returned to her native desert sands, Yasuo set out for his own village, determined to put right his mistakes and find his old master''s true killer. Within the stone walls of the council hall, Elder Souma''s death was revealed to have been an accident, one brought about by the Noxian exile known as Rivenand one for which she felt deep remorse. Even so, Yasuo still could not absolve himself of the choice he had made to abandon his master or, worse yet, how that choice had ultimately led to Yone''s death. To this day, Yasuo continues to wander the land, his sense of guilt the only thing weighing down the free wind. "Death is like the windalways by my side." Chapter 226 - Yorick - Shepherd Of Souls The last survivor of a long-forgotten religious order, Yorick is both blessed and cursed with power over the dead. Trapped on the Shadow Isles, his only companions are the rotting corpses and shrieking spirits that he gathers to him. Yorick''s monstrous actions belie his noble purpose: to free his home from the curse of the Ruination. Even as a child, Yorick''s life was never normal. Raised in a fishing village at the very edge of the Blessed Isles, he always struggled to find acceptance. While most children his age were playing hide-and-seek, young Yorick was making friends of a different kindthe spirits of the recently deceased. At first, Yorick was terrified of his ability to see and hear the dead. Whenever someone in the village passed away, Yorick would lie awake all night, waiting for the chilling cry of a new visitor. He could not understand why they chose to haunt him, and why his parents believed the spirits to be nothing more than nightmares. In time, he came to realize the souls were not there to harm him. They were simply lost and needed help finding their way to the beyond. Since only Yorick was able to see these spirits, he took it upon himself to be their guide, escorting them to whatever awaited in eternity. The task was bittersweet. Yorick found that he enjoyed the company of ghosts, but each one he brought to rest meant saying farewell to another friend. To the dead, he was a savior, but to the living, he was a pariah. The villagers only saw a disturbed little boy who spoke to people who weren''t there. Tales of Yorick''s visions soon spread beyond his village, and drew the attention of a small order of monks who dwelled at the heart of the Blessed Isles. Its envoys traveled to Yorick''s island, believing he could become an asset to their faith. Yorick agreed to journey to their monastery, and there, he learned the ways of the Brethren of the Dusk and the true significance of their trappings. Every monk carried a spade as a symbol of their duty to conduct proper burial rites, which ensured souls would not lose their way. And each brother wore a vial of water drawn from the Blessed Isles'' sacred spring. These Tears of Life represented the monks'' duty to heal the living. Yet, no matter how he tried, Yorick could never gain the acceptance of the other monks. To them, he was tangible proof of things that should only be known through faith. They resented his power to easily perceive what they themselves had struggled their entire lives to understand. Shunned by his brothers, Yorick found himself alone again. One morning, as he tended to his duties in the cemetery, Yorick was interrupted by the sight of a pitch-black cloud roiling across the surface of the Blessed Isles, devouring everything in its path. Yorick tried to run, but the cloud quickly enveloped him and plunged him into shadow. All around Yorick, living things began to writhe and contort, corrupted by the foul magic in the Black Mist. People, animals, even plants began to transform into vile, ghoulish mockeries of their former selves. Whispers emanated from the turbulent air around him, and his brothers began ripping the vials of healing water from their necks, as if the objects were causing them great anguish. A moment later, Yorick watched in abject horror as the monks'' souls were ripped from their bodies, leaving cold, pale corpses behind. Among the quieting screams of his brethren, Yorick alone could hear voices within the mist. "Remove it. Join us. We will become one." He felt his fingers grasping for the vial at his neck. Mustering all his resolve, Yorick forced his hands away from his throat and commanded the howling souls to stop. The Black Mist writhed violently, and darkness overtook him. When Yorick awoke, the winds had calmed, and the once-fertile lands had transformed into the grotesque hellscape of the Shadow Isles. Isolated tendrils of the Black Mist clung to him, trying to overtake the one living thing not yet corrupted. As the Mist wrapped itself around him, Yorick saw it suddenly recoil from the vial at his neck. Yorick clutched the blessed water, realizing it was all that kept him alive. In the days that followed, Yorick scoured the islands for survivors, but found only the twisted remnants of what once lived there. Everywhere he walked, he witnessed wretched spirits rising from the bodies of the dead. As he searched, Yorick slowly pieced together the events that led to the cataclysm: A king had arrived seeking to resurrect his queen, but instead, had doomed the Isles and everything on them. Yorick wished to find this "Ruined King" and undo the curse he had unleashed. But he felt powerless in the face of the seemingly endless death that surrounded him. Almost lost within his grief, Yorick began to speak to the spirits around him, attempting to find solace with them as he had as a child. Instead, as he communed with the Mist, corpses left their graves, guided by his voice. He realized the bodies he once laid to rest were now his to command. A glimmer of hope shone from the heart of his despair. To free the dead of the Shadow Isles, Yorick would wield their power and their strength. In order to end the curse, he would be forced to use it. "These isles How they scream." Chapter 227 - Yunmi - The Magical Cat In the outlands of Bandle City, there was once a wooded glen where the moon-moths glimmered and the riverbanks overflowed with rainbowfish. In a cottage nestled between the verdant trees lived a yordle enchantress named Norra, with her cat, Yuumi. Born with magical powers of protection, Yuumi enjoyed a life of leisure for many years, pouncing on sunbeams and napping beneath the mouse-trees. Whenever adventure sparked her interest, she joined Norra on explorations across the material and spirit realms. Norra spent her time collecting strange objects like broken cups, shards of colored glass, and fabric with funny stitching. She examined each artifact with deep reverence, though Yuumi never understood their purpose. Nevertheless, Yuumi would use her magic to protect Norra from harm, and would warm her feet when they returned home. The doorways between realms are finicky and seldom open, even to creatures as dexterous as cats. Yuumi watched as other yordles waited for days for the eastern star to align with a particular stone archway, or waded impatiently between marsh-lilies, seeking a silver blossom blooming from the mudonly then would a pathway appear. But Yuumi''s yordle, Norra, possessed the powerful Book of Thresholds, which allowed her to instantly travel anywhere depicted in its pages. When Norra opened a portal, she and Yuumi would gleefully dive into its glowing paper and arrive at their destination, joined a moment later by the book. Yuumi never paid the book much attention until one starless night, when she returned home from luring moon-moths with her shinylight to find Norra missing. She saw the book on her master''s desk and flipped through its pages in a panic, noticing that some were torn out entirely. Unable to read its title, Yuumi cried out to it in distress, calling it, simply, "Book". In response, the book wiggled, and Yuumi was surprised to learn she could understand thoughts amidst the rustling paper. Despite not having a voice, Book made itself loud and clear. Yuumi learned that Norra had gone somewhere so perilous, she had destroyed the portal as she traveled. Yuumi knew she had to rescue Norra, and turned to Book for help. Each of its thousand pages led to a different location along the lines of magic that crossed the material and spirit realms. The page Norra had used to travel was lost, but Book might be able to get them close. Yuumi and Book would have to explore every possible threshold. She became Book''s unlikely Keeper, vowing to protect it with the courage of a lionif it fell into the wrong hands, the doorways to Bandle City could open to all kinds of unsavory and ravenous intruders. Yuumi and Book began their arduous journey, visiting dangerous and unfamiliar lands. Yuumi sought Norra''s scent on the wind, to little avail. While Yuumi would sometimes break from their search to follow the scent of a mouse or restore her strength with a quick catnap, Book was frustratingly cautious, grumpy over lost time and nervous about threats they might encounter. Nevertheless, Yuumi and Book were both determined to find their master and bring her home. When Yuumi especially missed Norra, she often sought out other companions. One of her favorites was a door-carrying shepherd with thick whiskers and a deep laugh like a babbling brook. Yuumi rested on his shoulders for a time, protecting him from angry snow-spirits stirring up flurries in a hailstorm, while he brought her wriggling fish. Eventually, Yuumi uncovered the scent of her master lingering in a vast Shuriman ruin. Digging deep into the sand, she unearthed a broken shard of blue pottery that looked like a piece from one of Norra''s teapots. Before she could burrow further, a ferocious beast surfaced from the sand, and Yuumi and Book barely escaped. She could only imagine the chaos if a creature like that ripped its claws into Book''s pages. Though unlikely companions, Yuumi and Book have become fast friends, united by their love for Norra. Yuumi continues to search everywhere for signs of her master, so she can someday return to her life of napping in the sun by Norra''s side. "Cats are made of twilight and tricks, dogs are made of barks and sticks! Book''s just old trees." Chapter 228 - Zac - The Secret Weapon Zac is the product of a toxic spill that ran through a chemtech seam and pooled in an isolated cavern deep in Zaun''s Sump. Despite such humble origins, Zac has grown from primordial ooze into a thinking being who dwells in the city''s pipes, occasionally emerging to help those who cannot help themselves or to rebuild the broken infrastructure of Zaun. A group of Zaunite children first encountered Zac when they were out skimming rocks over a sump pool and some of the stones were thrown back. The "Returning Pool" became well-known to Zaun''s Sump dwellers, and eventually drew the attention of a shadowy cabal of chemtech alchymists. Over the protests of the local residents, the alchymists pumped the contents of the pool into vats and carried the substance back to their laboratories for experimentation. Via a series of experiments designed to test negative and positive reinforcement techniques, the alchymists discovered the coagulate mass within the pool appeared to have psychotropic tendencies. Simply put, it mirrored whatever stimulus was provided to it. If treated well, it responded with childlike glee and playfulness, but when its response to pain and aggression were tested, the alchymists lost numerous augmented sump-scrappers in the ensuing destruction. Most of the alchymists attributed this to nothing more than a simple reflex response, but two among their number weren''t so sure. They questioned the morality of experiments that seemed entirely driven to produce a creature of unmatched aggression. When the pair dug further, they discovered the project was being funded by Saito Takeda, a Chem-Baron with a notoriously violent temperament and reputation for bloody gang warfare. The implication was clear; Takeda sought to develop a fighter who could shrug off mortal wounds, squeeze into places humans could not and who would obey any command. They also discovered the project''s true name; the Zaun Amorphous Combatant. As they pondered the best course of action, the two dissenting alchymists saw more than just a mirroring of whatever stimulus was applied to the viscous gel. They saw behaviors manifest without any obvious stimulus - behaviors consistent with sentience. They came to know the creature as Zac and concluded that he exhibited the behaviors of a thinking, feeling being. They brought their findings to the spindle-limbed leader of their research team, but their concerns were ignored. Unwilling to let the matter drop, they began their own covert efforts to counter the violent teachings of the rest of their team. They sought to show Zac right from wrong, exposing him to acts of altruism and generosity. Their efforts bore fruit, with Zac showing sadness when one of the researchers hurt her hand and reacting badly when another killed a rat in the laboratory. Eventually, they could no longer tolerate the cruel experiments being done to Zac by their fellow alchymists. One night, during Zaun''s Progress Day remembrances, when the laboratory was empty, they drained Zac into a wheeled septic tank and dragged him to a far distant part of Zaun. When their act was later discovered, the footsoldiers of Baron Takeda sought them out. But Zaun is a big place, and the researchers were able to hide from their pursuers. They had thought to give Zac his freedom, but Zac did not want to be released, for he now considered the two researchers his family. They alone had shown him kindness, and he wanted to learn more from them. In truth, they were pleased by his reaction, for they had become so fond of Zac that they considered him their adoptive son. To stay hidden from Takeda''s men, they changed their identities and appearance, taking up residence in a remote part of the Sump, far from prying eyes. Zac learned to mimic their voices, and quickly adapted to shift his gelatinous mass into the required shapes to form sound. He lived alongside his adoptive parents for many years, hiding when necessary in sump pools or in the cracks in the cliffside rocks. His ''parents'' told Zac of the world in which he lived, how it could be beautiful and full of wonder. They showed him the moon rise over the Sun Gates, the play of rainbow light on the stained glass roofs of Zaun''s commercia halls, and the bustling, vibrant beauty of their city''s heart. They also explained how the world could be cruel and harsh, and Zac learned that people were sometimes mean and unkind, hateful and prejudiced. Zac rejected such behaviors and helped his parents where he could as they used their skills to aid the people around them without attracting undue attention. They did what they could to treat the sick, mend broken machinery or otherwise put their chem-knowledge to benign use. These were golden years for Zac, and he roamed Zaun through its almost limitless network of pipes and through the many cracks in its bedrock. As much as Zac was a sentient being, too much stimulus from his environment could sometimes overwhelm his senses and cause him to temporarily absorb the dominant emotions around him, for good or ill. Oft-times he couldn''t help getting involved in aiding the oppressed and downtrodden against thuggish bullies; leading to rumors of his presence spreading through Zaun. Though the majority of tales were of him helping, others attributed destructive events to Zac; a factory destroyed or a crevasse ripping open in a Sump neighborhood. Eventually, those rumors reached the ears of Saito Takeda, and he sent a band of augmented thugs to retrieve what he saw as his property. His alchymists had been attempting - without success - to replicate the process that had created Zac from droplets left behind in his vat. Takeda wanted the creature returned, and his augmented heavies surrounded Zac''s parents'' home and attacked. They fought back, for they were chemtech researchers and not without esoteric means of defending themselves, but their defiance could not last forever and eventually they were killed, despite Takeda''s order that they be taken alive. Zac had been exploring subterranean seams far below Zaun, but sensed his parents'' distress and raced back through the pipes of the city to the rescue. He arrived too late to save them, and the fury that overwhelmed him upon seeing their bodies was unmatched by anything the baron''s men had ever seen. Zac attacked in a ferocious display of stretching, smashing, and crushing. In his grief and anger, he demolished dozens of nearby dwellings, and by the time the battle was over, all the augmented thugs were dead. When the heightened emotions of battle drained from Zac''s consciousness, he was overcome with remorse for the homes he had destroyed, and vowed to continue the good work done by his parents. He helped rebuild what he had destroyed, but as soon as the work was done, he vanished into Zaun''s vast network of pipes. Now Zac lives alone, dwelling in the tunnels and caverns threading Zaun, and bathing in the emotions of the city''s inhabitants. Sometimes this enriches him, but other times it saddens him as he takes on both the good and bad of the city. He has become something of an urban legend among the people of Zaun, a mysterious creature that sometimes emerges from cracks in the rock or a section of damaged pipework. Most times this is to help those in need, but in times of trouble, when the city''s moods turn grim, his appearance can be cause for trepidation. "The angrier you get, the more this is going to hurt..." Chapter 229 - Zed - The Master Of Shadows Beneath Ionia''s veil of harmony lie the tales of those left behind. For Zed, his story began as a boy on the cold steps of the home of the Kinkou Order. Taken in by Great Master Kusho himself, Zed found his place within the temple''s ancient walls. He dedicated himself to understanding the Kinkou''s spiritual tenets, quickly outpacing his peers both in combat and study. Even so, he felt overshadowed by anotherhis master''s son, Shen. Though Zed''s passion shone through in every technique he perfected, he lacked Shen''s emotional balance. In spite of this, the two pupils became like brothers. In time, they journeyed together with their master to track down the infamous Golden Demon. When they finally succeeded in capturing this feared "monster," it was revealed to be a mere man named Khada Jhin. The young Zed marched forward with his blades held high, but Kusho stopped him, ordering that Jhin be imprisoned instead. Returning to their temple, Zed''s heart bloomed with resentment, and he began to struggle in his studies. He was haunted by the memories of Jhin''s grisly murders, and rising tensions between Ionia and the imperialistic forces of Noxus only worsened his disillusionment. While Shen was growing to adopt his father''s dispassion, Zed refused to let lofty notions of balance stand in the way of punishing evil. He ventured deep into the temple''s hidden catacombs, and there he discovered an ornate, black box. Even though he knew it was forbidden to any but the masters of the order, he peered inside. Shadows enveloped Zed''s mind, feeding his bitterness with contempt for the weak, and hinting at an ancient, dark magic. Returning to the light of the temple, he came face to face with Great Master Kusho. Zed demanded the Kinkou strike at the Noxian invaders with every means at their disposal. When Kusho refused, Zed turned his back on the order that had raised him. Unbound by Kinkou doctrine, he raised a following of warriors to resist Noxus. Any soul who threatened his homeland, or stood idle in its defense, was marked for death without mercyincluding native vastaya who wavered in their allegiance. Zed urged his followers to embrace the fervor of war, but soon enough he realized his own abilities would never match his ambitions without the black box. Amassing his new acolytes, he returned to the Kinkou temple, where he was met by Kusho. The elderly man laid his weapons at Zed''s feet, imploring his former pupil to renounce the shadows in favor of a more balanced path. Moments later, Zed emerged back onto the temple steps. In one hand, he grasped the boxand in the other, his freshly bloodied blade. The Kinkou, frozen with shock, fell in droves as Zed''s warriors cut them down. He then claimed the temple for himself, establishing his Order of Shadow, and began training his acolytes in the ways of darkness. They etched their flesh with shadowy tattoos, learning to fight alongside shrouded reflections of themselves. Zed took advantage of the ongoing war with Noxus, and the suffering it brought to the Ionian people. In the wake of a massacre near the Epool River, he came upon Kayn, a Noxian child soldier wielding nothing but a farmer''s sickle. Zed could see the boy was a weapon waiting to be sharpened, and took him as his personal student. In this young acolyte, he saw a purity of purpose to match his own. In Kayn, Zed could see the future of the Order of Shadow. Though he did not reconcile with Shen and the remaining Kinkou, now scattered throughout the provinces, they reached an uneasy accord in the aftermath of the war. Zed knew what he had done could not be undone. In recent years, it has become clear that the balance of the First Lands has been disrupted, perhaps forever. For Zed, spiritual harmony holds little consequencehe will do what needs to be done to see Ionia triumph. "Balance is a fool''s master." Chapter 230 - Ziggs - The Hexplosives Expert Ziggs was born with a talent for tinkering, but his chaotic, hyperactive nature was unusual among yordle scientists. Aspiring to be a revered inventor like Heimerdinger, he rattled through ambitious projects with manic zeal, emboldened by both his explosive failures and his unprecedented discoveries. Word of Ziggs'' volatile experimentation reached the famed Yordle Academy in Piltover and its esteemed professors invited him to demonstrate his craft. His characteristic disregard for safety brought the presentation to an early conclusion, however, when the hextech engine Ziggs was demonstrating overheated and exploded, blowing a huge hole in the wall of the Academy. The professors dusted themselves off and sternly motioned for him to leave. Devastated, Ziggs prepared to return to Bandle City in shame. However, before he could leave, a group of Zaunite agents infiltrated the Academy and kidnapped the professors. The Piltover military tracked the captives to a Zaunite prison, but their weapons were incapable of destroying the fortified walls. Determined to outdo them, Ziggs began experimenting on a new kind of armament, and quickly realized that he could harness his accidental gift for demolition to save the captured yordles. Before long, Ziggs had created a line of powerful bombs he lovingly dubbed ''''hexplosives.'''' With his new creations ready for their first trial, Ziggs traveled to Zaun and sneaked into the prison compound. He launched a gigantic bomb at the prison and watched with glee as the explosion tore through the reinforced wall. Once the smoke had cleared, Ziggs scuttled into the facility, sending guards running with a hail of bombs. He rushed to the cell, blew the door off its hinges, and led the captive yordles to freedom. Upon returning to the Academy, the humbled professors recognized Ziggs with an honorary title - Dean of Demolitions. Vindicated at last, Ziggs accepted the proposal, eager to bring his ever-expanding range of hexplosives to greater Valoran. "Ziggs? Unpredictable, dangerous, yes yes. But quite brilliant!" Chapter 231 - Zilean - The Chronokeeper Icathia, most desolate and cursed of lands, was not always so. Theirs was a rich and diverse civilization, ruled by benevolent Axamuk, last of the Mage Kings of old. As the Shuriman empire expanded across the continent, Axamuk''s calls for peaceful coexistence were ignored, and his armies destroyed by the god-warriors of the Ascended Host. Though humbled by this defeat, many Icathians saw an opportunity for mutual advancement. Accepting an offer of autonomous satrapy, they installed a governing council of distinguished mages, philosophers, and lawmakers to oversee the transition of power. After almost nine centuries of imperial rule, a young man named Zilean joined the council''s ranks. He was an elemental mage with a prodigious understanding of physical reality, who had studied under the greatest minds of the agefrom the great Yun of Ixtal, to the astromancers of Faraj, and countless others besides. There was one component of the material realm that few had ever truly grasped, but Zilean was determined to master. Time. Time was the one inescapable constant, in all things. Even the mighty god-warriors were not immune to its passage though they were revered above all others in Shuriman culture. As part of the political establishment, Zilean now saw more clearly the smoldering discontent among the citizens of Icathia. While their land was home to some of the most heroic leaders and revolutionary thinkers in the empire, not one had ever been deemed worthy of Ascension. Again and again, the council submitted petitions to the distant emperor, yet access to the Sun Disc was denied, without explanation. For all they gave, it seemed Icathians would never be seen as equals. Zilean''s own resentment grew, yet he was worried by open talk of secession among his peers. He was a patriot through and through, but in the face of the Ascended Host, any rebellion could only end in calamity for his people. Seeking a diplomatic solution, he went as an envoy to neighboring Kahleek, Kalduga, and Ixtal. He had made many allies in his lifetime, and he implored them to stand with Icathia. Each time, the answer was the same. They would not defy Shurima. If Zilean''s people wanted to, they would do so alone. Returning home, he was shocked to find the council had decided to crown a new Mage King. Breathlessly, joyously, they told Zilean of the ancient and forbidden power they had discovereda power so great, it would all but guarantee Icathia''s victory. They told Zilean of the power of the Void. He looked to these reasoned, wise Icathians, but saw only madness in their eyes. As much as it grieved him, Zilean would rather his homeland''s revolution be crushed, than to let this abomination be set loose. Zilean''s worst fears proved true. Once unleashed in battle, the Void overwhelmed the mages attempting to control it, and Icathia was doomed. As he tried to escape the capital, the ground shook. Buildings toppled. Such horrors as had no place in this world or the next erupted from the depths, driving terrified citizens before them. They were trapped. Hundreds of thousands of innocents would die. In desperation, Zilean urged as many as he could to take refuge in his tower, and did the impossible. He removed the entire structure from time. Crashing to the cold floor, his power spent, Zilean looked at the frozen figures all around him. The Void was halted, but only within those wallsoutside, where Icathia once stood, there was nothing. Zilean had spent decades trying to comprehend the mysteries of time and causality, and it seemed only he could move freely back and forth within the anomaly he had somehow created. These people had been saved, true enough. He just didn''t know how to undo what he had done to achieve it. Through deep meditations and esoteric devices of his own design, he began to divine the strands of past and present that led to this moment, gradually learning how to move back and forth along them, looking for a future where his efforts had already succeeded It was there that he found the true threat: the end of everything. The great unmaking that awaits Runeterra. Effectively, Zilean now exists everywhere, and always has. Even so, he is only too aware of the consequences of trying to bring about change in the world and sparking other unexpected destiniesoften conflicting, and almost always more dangerous. Perhaps if he can find a way to save his own people, then the greater disaster might also be averted. The only question is, what might he be willing to sacrifice along the way? "There is no greater grief than for a loss that is yet to come." Chapter 232 - Zoe - The Aspect Of Twilight As the embodiment of mischief, imagination, and change, Zoe acts as the cosmic messenger of Targon, heralding major events that reshape worlds. Her mere presence warps the arcane mathematics governing realities, sometimes causing cataclysms without conscious effort or malice. This perhaps explains the breezy nonchalance with which Zoe approaches her duties, giving her plenty of time to focus on playing games, tricking mortals, or otherwise amusing herself. An encounter with Zoe can be joyous and life affirming, but it is always more than it appears and often extremely dangerous. As befits her Targonian Aspect''s nature, Zoe did not ascend to power in one of the traditional ways. She didn''t win a great victory against overwhelming odds, or sacrifice herself for a noble ideal, or overcome the existential trial of climbing Mount Targon. Instead, Zoe was a normal girl, seemingly chosen at random. Her Lunari teachers reported Zoe to be an imaginative child, but willful, lazy, easily distracted, and mischievous. One day, as she skipped away from her studies of the holy magics to pursue something "less boring," she was noticed by the Targonian Aspect of Twilight. It observed as the young girl playfully mocked the angry cries of the Lunari priests chasing her. Then, after an hour-long pursuit, she found herself cornered by her angry teachers. Before they could grab Zoe, the Aspect summoned six objects in front of the girl: a bag of golden coins, a sword, a completed study book, a devotion rug, a silk rope, and a toy ball. Five of these objects could have let her flee or defuse the situation. Zoe chose the sixth option. Unconcerned with escape, she instead grabbed the toy ball, kicked it toward the wall of an adjoining house, and sang gleefully as it ricocheted among the humorless priests. Delighted by Zoe''s carefree exuberance, the Aspect opened a shimmering portal to the apex of Mount Targon, offering the girl a chance to see the universe. She dove backward into the portal, instantly merging with the Aspect, then stuck her tongue out at her dumbfounded teachers as she disappeared. Following this unusual transcendence, Zoe journeyed to dimensions at the very edge of Targon''s control, playing within realities beyond human comprehension. Returning home after millennia, Zoe has aged barely a year. Though Runeterra has changed little from her perspective, she arrives full of teenage curiosity for humans and her fellow Aspects. Perhaps her most curious new relationship is with Aurelion Sol. The cosmic dragon''s arrogance, lies, and world-weariness annoy Zoe. In return, she teases the giant creature relentlessly, but when needed, she also protects her "space d.o.g.g.y" and his stars from Pantheon''s wrath. Whether this is simply a whim, possessiveness, or her function as a disrupter, no one can be certain. Because, with Zoe, one can never be sure of what she''s really aiming for other than her own amus.e.m.e.nt. "Nobody has to grow up if they don''t want to. Or maybe they do. I don''t though." Chapter 233 - Zyra - Rise Of The Thorns Zyra''s memory is long, and runs as deep as the roots of the earth. Her kind was young when the Rune Wars raged, when mortal armies fought one another for the very keys of creation. Hidden in the jungles south of Kumungu, somewhere between the great rivers that divide eastern Shurima, lay the fabled Gardens of Zyr. Elemental magics had turned the soil there in strange and unpredictable ways, giving rise to fierce, carnivorous plants that preyed upon any creature that strayed within reach. They infested and they devoured, caring nothing for the squabbles of mortals, content merely to coil their vines through the forests and swamplands. In their own way, they were all Zyra and nourishment was plentiful, even in the midst of war. A small company of soldiers, their allegiance long since lost to time, advanced through those lands in search of some now-forgotten prize. They were led by an ambitious sorceressbut they were far from home, bound to succ.u.mb to the noxious fumes and spores of that accursed place. The denizens of the Gardens set upon them, spined tendrils lashing through armor and flesh with sadistic ease. Though they fought valiantly, the warriors knew they could not hold out long, and turned to their sorceress to save them. Gathering her powers, she wrought a mighty blast. The air burned with runic symbols, casting their eerie light even as the thorny overgrowth closed in. In that very instant, a rogue spark ignited the gases of the swamp, and the resulting magical explosion obliterated every living thing for miles around. Of the scattered survivors of the Rune Wars, none would ever know what fate had befallen the Gardens of Zyr. Centuries passed. The land where the battle had been fought lay empty and lifeless above ground but in the depths, something stirred. Long had the energies that were unleashed there settled, and curdled, nourished by the fallout. A seedpod bulged, pulsing with unnatural life, until a creature clawed its way free, gasping and confused. It beheld a broken and changed world, brimming with new vitality and new ideas. Its mind was a puzzle of conflicting memories, drawn from the loamy earth and forced into its fledgling consciousness. It could recall the warmth of the sun, the taste of rain, words of power, and the agony of a hundred mortal deaths. Itshecalled herself Zyra, without quite understanding why. As she ventured out into the wildlands beyond her birthplace, Zyra knew she was different from other creatures she encountered. Mortals were fearful and unpleasant things, while more ethereal entities tended to be capricious, or arrogant. None of them seemed to respect the realms they inhabited, despoiling everything with their mere presence, and that filled Zyra with rage and contempt. Almost unbidden, new life sprang up in her footstepsvoracious plant forms that changed and evolved beneath her gaze, hurling poisonous barbs or sprouting fresh tendrils at an alarming rate. Unrooted and free to wander, Zyra and her deadly progeny feed, and grow, strangling all other life from the world. She has blighted farmland, overrun entire settlements, and crushed those warriors brave or foolish enough to confront her, always leaving a menagerie of botanical horrors in her wake. As the rivers of Shurima begin to run anew, strange flora has been sighted on their banks, spreading slowly westward with each passing season. Whether pulled from the earth or purged by fire, the growth does not seem to be slowing "Where are your friends? Mine are all around" Chapter 234 - The Subtle Art Of Not Giving A F.u.c.k[1] In my life, I have given a f.u.c.k about many people and many things. I have also not given a f.u.c.k about many people and many things. And those f.u.c.ks I have not given have made all the difference. People often say the key to confidence and success in life is to simply "not give a f.u.c.k." Indeed, we often refer to the strongest, most admirable people we know in terms of their lack of f.u.c.ks given. Like "Oh, look at Susie working weekends again, she doesn''t give a f.u.c.k." Or "Did you hear that Tom called the company president an asshole and still got a raise anyway? Holy shit, that dude does not give a f.u.c.k." Or "Jason got up and ended his date with Cindy after 20 minutes. He said he wasn''t going to listen to her bullshit anymore. Man, that guy does not give a f.u.c.k." Chances are you know somebody in your life who, at one time or another, did not give a f.u.c.k and went on to accomplish amazing feats. Perhaps there was a time in your life where you simply did not give a f.u.c.k and excelled in some extraordinary heights. I know for myself, quitting my day job in finance after only six weeks and telling my boss that I was going to start selling dating advice online ranks pretty high up there in my own "didn''t give a f.u.c.k" hall of fame. Same with deciding to sell most of my possessions and move to South America. F.u.c.ks given? None. Just went and did it. Everybody just wants to be liked and accepted. Except for Tim. Tim doesn''t give a f.u.c.k. Now, while not giving a f.u.c.k may seem simple on the surface, it''s a whole new bag of burritos under the hood. I don''t even know what that sentence means, but I don''t give a f.u.c.k. A bag of burritos sounds awesome, so let''s just go with it. The point is, most of us struggle throughout our lives by giving too many f.u.c.ks in situations where f.u.c.ks do not deserve to be given. We give a f.u.c.k about the rude gas station attendant who gave us too many nickels. We give a f.u.c.k when a show we liked was canceled on TV. We give a f.u.c.k when our coworkers don''t bother asking us about our awesome weekend. We give a f.u.c.k when it''s raining and we were supposed to go jogging in the morning. F.u.c.ks given everywhere. Strewn about like seeds in mother-f.u.c.k.i.n.g spring time. And for what purpose? For what reason? Convenience? Easy comforts? A pat on the f.u.c.k.i.n.g back maybe? This is the problem, my friend. Because when we give too many f.u.c.ks, when we choose to give a f.u.c.k about everything, then we feel as though we are perpetually entitled to feel comfortable and happy at all times, that''s when life f.u.c.ks us. Indeed, the ability to reserve our f.u.c.ks for only the most f.u.c.kworthy of situations would surely make life a hell of a lot easier. Failure would be less terrifying. Rejection less painful. Unpleasant necessities more pleasant and the unsavory shit sandwiches a little bit more savory. I mean, if we could only give a few less f.u.c.ks, or a few more consciously-directed f.u.c.ks, then life would feel pretty f.u.c.k.i.n.g easy. What we don''t realize is that there is a fine art of non-f.u.c.k-giving. People aren''t just born not giving a f.u.c.k. In fact, we''re born giving way too many f.u.c.ks. Ever watch a kid cry his eyes out because his hat is the wrong shade of blue? Exactly. F.u.c.k that kid. Developing the ability to control and manage the f.u.c.ks you give is the essence of strength and integrity. We must craft and hone our lack of f.u.c.kery over the course of years and decades. Like a fine wine, our f.u.c.ks must age into a fine vintage, only uncorked and given on the most special f.u.c.k.i.n.g occasions. This may sound easy. But it is not. Most of us, most of the time, get sucked in by life''s mean trivialities, steamrolled by its unimportant dramas; we live and die by the sidenotes and distractions and vicissitudes that suck the f.u.c.ks out of us like Sasha Grey in the middle of a gangbang. This is no way to live, man. So stop f.u.c.k.i.n.g around. Get your f.u.c.ks together. And here, allow me to f.u.c.k.i.n.g show you. Chapter 238 - The Most Important Question of Your Life[1] Everybody wants what feels good. Everyone wants to live a carefree, happy and easy life, to fall in love and have amazing s.e.x and relationsh.i.p.s, to look perfect and make money and be popular and well-respected and admired and a total baller to the point that people part like the Red Sea when you walk into the room. Everyone would like that it''s easy to like that. If I ask you, "What do you want out of life?" and you say something like, "I want to be happy and have a great family and a job I like," it''s so ubiquitous that it doesn''t even mean anything. A more interesting question, a question that perhaps you''ve never considered before, is what pain do you want in your life? What are you willing to struggle for? Because that seems to be a greater determinant of how our lives turn out. Everybody wants to have an amazing job and financial independence but not everyone wants to suffer through 60-hour work weeks, long commutes, obnoxious paperwork, to navigate arbitrary corporate hierarchies and the blas confines of infinite cubicle hell. People want to be rich without the risk, without the sacrifice, without the delayed gratification necessary to acc.u.mulate wealth. Everybody wants to have great s.e.x and an awesome relationship but not everyone is willing to go through the tough conversations, the awkward silences, the hurt feelings, and the emotional psychodrama to get there. And so they settle. They settle and wonder "What if?" for years and years until the question morphs from "What if?" into "Was that it?" And when the lawyers go home and the alimony check is in the mail they say, "What was that for?" if not for their lowered standards and expectations 20 years prior, then what for? Because happiness requires struggle. The positive is the side effect of handling the negative. You can only avoid negative experiences for so long before they come roaring back to life. At the core of all human behavior, our needs are more or less similar. The positive experience is easy to handle. It''s a negative experience that we all, by definition, struggle with. Therefore, what we get out of life is not determined by the good feelings we desire but by what bad feelings we''re willing and able to sustain to get us to those good feelings. People want an amazing physique. But you don''t end up with one unless you legitimately appreciate the pain and physical stress that comes with living inside a gym for hour upon hour, unless you love calculating and calibrating the food you eat, planning your life out in tiny plate-sized portions. People want to start their own business or become financially independent. But you don''t end up a successful entrepreneur unless you find a way to appreciate the risk, the uncertainty, the repeated failures, and working insane hours on something you have no idea whether will be successful or not. People want a partner, a spouse. But you don''t end up attracting someone amazing without appreciating the emotional turbulence that comes with weathering rejections, building the s.e.x.u.a.l tension that never gets released, and staring blankly at a phone that never rings. It''s part of the game of love. You can''t win if you don''t play. What determines your success isn''t "What do you want to enjoy?" The question is, "What pain do you want to sustain?" The quality of your life is not determined by the quality of your positive experiences but the quality of your negative experiences. And to get good at dealing with negative experiences is to get good at dealing with life. There''s a lot of crappy advice out there that says, "You''ve just got to want it enough!" Everybody wants something. And everybody wants something enough. They just aren''t aware of what it is they want, or rather, what they want "enough." Because if you want the benefits of something in life, you have to also want the costs. If you want the beach body, you have to want the sweat, the soreness, the early mornings, and the hunger pangs. If you want the yacht, you have to also want the late nights, the risky business moves, and the possibility of pissing off a person or ten thousand. If you find yourself wanting something month after month, year after year, yet nothing happens and you never come any closer to it, then maybe what you actually want is a fantasy, an idealization, an image, and a false promise. Maybe what you want isn''t what you want, you just enjoy wanting. Maybe you don''t actually want it at all. Chapter 239 - The Most Important Question of Your Life[2] Sometimes I ask people, "How do you choose to suffer?" These people tilt their heads and look at me like I have twelve noses. But I ask because that tells me far more about you than your desires and fantasies. Because you have to choose something. You can''t have a pain-free life. It can''t all be roses and unicorns. And ultimately that''s the hard question that matters. Pleasure is an easy question. And pretty much all of us have similar answers. The more interesting question is the pain. What is the pain that you want to sustain? That answer will actually get you somewhere. It''s the question that can change your life. It''s what makes me me and you you. It''s what defines us and separates us and ultimately brings us together. For most of my adolescence and young a.d.u.l.thood, I fantasized about being a musician a rock star, in particular. Any badass guitar song I heard, I would always close my eyes and envision myself up on stage playing it to the screams of the crowd, people absolutely losing their minds to my sweet finger-noodling. This fantasy could keep me occupied for hours on end. The fantasizing continued up through college, even after I dropped out of music school and stopped playing seriously. But even then it was never a question of if I''d ever be up playing in front of screaming crowds, but when. I was biding my time before I could invest the proper amount of time and effort into getting out there and making it work. First, I needed to finish school. Then, I needed to make money. Then, I needed to find the time. Then and then nothing. Despite fantasizing about this for over half of my life, the reality never came. And it took me a long time and a lot of negative experiences to finally figure out why: I didn''t actually want it. I was in love with the result the image of me on stage, people cheering, me rocking out, pouring my heart into what I''m playing but I wasn''t in love with the process. And because of that, I failed at it. Repeatedly. Hell, I didn''t even try hard enough to fail at it. I hardly tried at all. The daily drudgery of practicing, the logistics of finding a group and rehearsing, the pain of finding gigs and actually getting people to show up and give a shit. The broken strings, the blown tube amp, hauling 40 pounds of gear to and from rehearsals with no car. It''s a mountain of a dream and a mile-high climb to the top. And what it took me a long time to discover is that I didn''t like to climb much. I just liked to imagine the top. Our culture would tell me that I''ve somehow failed myself, that I''m a quitter or a loser. Self-help would say that I either wasn''t courageous enough, determined enough or I didn''t believe in myself enough. The entrepreneurial/start-up crowd would tell me that I chickened out on my dream and gave in to my conventional social conditioning. I''d be told to do affirmations or join a mastermind group or manifest or something. But the truth is far less interesting than that: I thought I wanted something, but it turns out I didn''t. End of story. I wanted the reward and not the struggle. I wanted the result and not the process. I was in love not with the fight but only the victory. And life doesn''t work that way. Who you are is defined by the values you are willing to struggle for. People who enjoy the struggles of a gym are the ones who get in good shape. People who enjoy long workweeks and the politics of the corporate ladder are the ones who move up it. People who enjoy the stresses and uncertainty of the starving artist lifestyle are ultimately the ones who live it and make it. This is not a call for willpower or "grit." This is not another admonishment of "no pain, no gain." This is the most simple and basic component of life: our struggles determine our successes. So choose your struggles wisely, my friend. Chapter 240 - Stop Trying To Be Happy[1] If you have to try to be cool, you will never be cool. If you have to try to be happy, then you will never be happy. Maybe the problem these days is people are just trying too hard. Happiness, like other emotions, is not something you obtain, but rather something you inhabit. When you''re raging pissed and throwing a socket wrench at the neighbor''s kids, you are not self-conscious about your state of anger. You are not thinking to yourself, "Am I finally angry? Am I doing this right?" No, you''re out for blood. You inhabit and live the anger. You are the anger. And then it''s gone. Just as a confident man doesn''t wonder if he''s confident, a happy man does not wonder if he''s happy. He simply is. What this implies is that finding happiness is not achieved in itself, but rather it is the side effect of a particular set of ongoing life experiences. This gets mixed up a lot, especially since happiness is marketed so much these days as a goal in and of itself. Buy X and be happy. Learn Y and be happy. But you can''t buy happiness and you can''t achieve happiness. It just isonce you get other parts of your life in order. Chapter 241 - Happiness Is Not The Same As Pleasure[2] When most people seek happiness, they are actually seeking pleasure: good food, more s.e.x, more time for TV and movies, a new car, parties with friends, full body massages, losing 10 pounds, becoming more popular, and so on. But while pleasure is great, it''s not the same as happiness. Pleasure is correlated with happiness but does not cause it. Ask any drug addict how their pursuit of pleasure turned out. Ask an a.d.u.l.terer who shattered her family and lost her children whether pleasure ultimately made her happy. Ask a man who almost ate himself to death how happy pursuing pleasure made him feel. Pleasure is a false god. Research shows that people who focus their energy on materialistic and superficial pleasures end up more anxious, more emotionally unstable and less happy in the long-run. Pleasure is the most superficial form of life satisfaction and therefore the easiest. Pleasure is what''s marketed to us. It''s what we fixate on. It''s what we use to numb and distract ourselves. But pleasure, while necessary, isn''t sufficient. There''s something more. Chapter 242 - Finding Happiness Does Not Require Lowering Ones Expectations[3] A popular narrative lately is that people are becoming unhappier because we''re all narcissistic and grew up being told that we''re special unique snowflakes who are going to change the world and we have Facebook constantly telling us how amazing everyone else''s lives are, but not our own, so we all feel like crap and wonder where it all went wrong. Oh, and all of this happens by the of age 23. Sorry, but no. Give people a bit more credit than that. For instance, a friend of mine recently started a high-risk business venture. He dried up most of his savings trying to make it work and failed. Today, he''s happier than ever for his experience. It taught him many lessons about what he wanted and didn''t want in life and it eventually led him to his current job, which he loves. He''s able to look back and be proud that he went for it because otherwise, he would have always wondered "what if?" and that would have made him unhappier than any failure would have. The failure to meet our own expectations is not antithetical to happiness, and I''d actually argue that the ability to fail and still appreciate the experience is actually a fundamental building block for happiness. If you thought you were going to make $100,000 and drive a Porsche immediately out of college, then your standards of success were skewed and superficial, you confused your pleasure for happiness, and the painful smack of reality hitting you in the face will be one of the best lessons life ever gives you. The "lower expectations" argument falls victim to the same old mindset: that happiness is derived from without. The joy of life is not having a $100,000 salary. It''s working to reach a $100,000 salary, and then working for a $200,000 salary, and so on. So, I say raise your expectations. Elongate your process. Lay on your death bed with a to-do list a mile long and smile at the infinite opportunity granted to you. Create ridiculous standards for yourself and then savor the inevitable failure. Learn from it. Live it. Let the ground crack and rocks crumble around you because that''s how something amazing grows, through the cracks. Chapter 243 - Happiness Is Not The Same As Positivity[4] Chances are you know someone who always appears to be insanely happy regardless of the circ.u.mstances or situation. Chances are this is actually one of the most dysfunctional people you know. Denying negative emotions leads to deeper and more prolonged negative emotions and emotional dysfunction. It''s a simple reality: shit happens. Things go wrong. People upset us. Mistakes are made and negative emotions arise. And that''s fine. Negative emotions are necessary and healthy for maintaining stable baseline happiness in one''s life. The trick with negative emotions is to 1) express them in a socially acceptable and healthy manner and 2) express them in a way that aligns with your values. A simple example: A value of mine is to pursue non-violence. Therefore, when I get mad at somebody, I express that anger, but I also make a point to not punch them in the face. Radical idea, I know. (But I absolutely will throw a socket wrench at the neighbor''s kids. Try me.) There''s a lot of people out there who subscribe to "always be positive" ideology. These people should be avoided just as much as someone who thinks the world is an endless pile of shit. If your standard of happiness is that you''re always happy, no matter what, then you''ve been watching way too much Leave It To Beaver and need a reality check (but don''t worry, I promise not to punch you in the face). I think part of the allure of obsessive positivity is the way in which we''re marketed to. I think part of it is being subjected to happy, smiley people on television constantly. I think part of it is that some people in the self-help industry want you to feel like there''s something wrong with you all the time. Or maybe it''s just that we''re lazy, and like anything else, we want the result without actually having to do the hard work for it. This brings me to what actually drives happiness. Chapter 244 - Happiness Is The Process Of Becoming Your Ideal Self[5] Completing a marathon makes us happier than eating a chocolate cake. Raising a child makes us happier than beating a video game. Starting a small business with friends and struggling to make money makes us happier than buying a new computer. And the funny thing is that all three of the activities above are exceedingly unpleasant and require setting high expectations and potentially failing to always meet them. Yet, they are some of the most meaningful moments and activities of our lives. They involve pain, struggle, even anger and despair, yet once we''ve done them we look back and get misty-eyed about them. Why? Because it''s these sorts of activities that allow us to become our ideal selves. It''s the perpetual pursuit of fulfilling our ideal selves that grants us happiness, regardless of superficial pleasures or pain, regardless of positive or negative emotions. This is why some people are happy in war and others are sad at weddings. It''s why some are excited to work and others hate parties. The traits they''re inhabiting don''t align with their ideal selves. The end results don''t define our ideal selves. It''s not finishing the marathon that makes us happy; it''s achieving a difficult long-term goal that does. It''s not having an awesome kid to show off that makes us happy; it''s knowing that you gave yourself up to the growth of another human being that is special. It''s not the prestige and money from the new business that makes you happy, it''s the process of overcoming all odds with people you care about. And this is the reason that trying to be happy inevitably will make you unhappy. Because to try to be happy implies that you are not already inhabiting your ideal self, you are not aligned with the qualities of who you wish to be. After all, if you were acting out your ideal self, then you wouldn''t feel the need to try to be happy. Cue statements about "finding happiness within," and "knowing that you''re enough." It''s not that happiness itself is in you, it''s that happiness occurs when you decide to pursue what''s in you. And this is why happiness is so fleeting. Anyone who has set out major life goals for themselves only to achieve them and realize that they feel the same relative amounts of happiness/unhappiness knows that happiness always feels like it''s around the corner, just waiting for you to show up. No matter where you are in life, there will always be that one more thing you need to do to be extra especially happy. And that''s because our ideal self is always just around that corner, always three steps ahead of us. We dream of being a musician and when we''re a musician, we dream of writing a film score, and when write a film score, we dream of writing a screenplay. And what matters isn''t that we achieve each of these plateaus of success, but that we''re consistently moving towards them, day after day, month after month, year after year. The plateaus will come and go, and we''ll continue following our ideal self down the path of our lives. The Key to Finding Happiness Map And with that, with regards to finding happiness, it seems the best advice is also the simplest: Imagine who you want to be and then step towards it. Dream big and then do something. Anything. The simple act of moving at all will change how you feel about the entire process and serve to inspire you further. Let go of the imagined resultit''s not necessary. The fantasy and the dream are merely tools to get you off your ass. It doesn''t matter if they come true or not. Live, man. Just live. Stop trying to be happy and just be. Chapter 245 - In Defense Of Being Average[1] There''s this guy. World-renowned billionaire. Tech genius. Inventor and entrepreneur. Athletic and talented and handsome with a jaw so chiseled it looks like Zeus came down from Olympus and carved the f.u.c.ker himself. This guy''s got a small fleet of sports cars, a few yachts, and when he''s not giving millions of dollars to charities, he''s changing out supermodel girlfriends like other people change their socks. This guy''s smile can melt the damn room. His charm is so thick you can swim in it. Half of his friends were TIME''s "Man of the Year." And the ones who weren''t don''t care because they could buy the magazine if they wanted to. When this guy isn''t jetsetting around the world or coming up with the latest technological innovation to save the planet, he spends his time helping the weak and helpless and downtrodden. This man is, you guessed it, Bruce Wayne. Also known as the Batman. And (spoiler alert) he doesn''t actually exist. He is fiction. It''s an interesting facet of human nature that we seem to have a need to come up with these sort of fictional heroes that embody perfection and everything we wish we could be. Medieval Europe had its tales about gallant knights slaying dragons and saving princesses. Ancient Rome and Greece had their myths about heroes who won wars single-handedly and in some cases confronted the Gods themselves. Every other human culture is replete with such fantastical stories as well. And today, we have comic book superheroes. Take Superman. I mean, the guy is basically a God with a human body wearing a blue jumpsuit and red underpants on inside-out. He is indestructible and unbeatable. And the only thing as sturdy as his physical fortitude is his moral fortitude. In Superman''s world, justice is always black/white, and Superman never wavers from doing what''s right. No matter what. I don''t think I''m exactly shaking up the field of psychology by suggesting that, as humans, we have a need to conjure up these heroes to help us cope with our own feelings of powerlessness. There are over 7.2 billion people on this planet, and really only about 1,000 of those have major worldwide influence at any given time. That leaves the other 7,199,999,000 +/- of us to come to terms with the limited scope of our lives and the fact that the vast majority of what we do will likely not matter long after we''ve died. This is not a fun thing to think about or accept. Today, I want to take a detour from our "make more, buy more, f.u.c.k more" culture and argue for the merits of mediocrity, of being blas boring and average. Not the merits of pursuing mediocrity, mind you because we all should try to do the best we possibly can but rather, the merits of accepting mediocrity when we end up there despite our best efforts. Chapter 246 - Behind The Curve[2] Everything in life is a trade-off. Some of us are born with high aptitudes for academic learning. Others are born with great physical skills. Others are athletic. Others are artistic. Others can f.u.c.k like rabbits and never break a sweat. In terms of skills and talents, humans are a wildly diverse group of smelly creatures. Sure, what we end up accomplishing in life ultimately depends on our practice and effort, but we are all born with different aptitudes and potential A bell curve. Any of you who have taken a statistics class and survived will recognize it. A bell curve is quite simple. Take a population of people, like, let''s say people who play golf at least once a year. The horizontal axis represents how good they are at golf. Further to the right means they''re really good, further to the left means they''re really bad. Now, notice that it gets really thin at the far ends of the curve. That means there are a few people who are really, really good at golf. And a few people who are really, really bad. The majority fall into the mediocre middle. We can apply a "curve" in this way to tons of things in a population. Height. Weight. Emotional maturity. Wages. How often people like to f.u.c.k. And so on.1 For example, this is Michael Jordan dunking a basketball. It''s well-known that he''s one of the best to ever do it. Therefore, he''s way on the right side of the bell curve, better than 99.99% of anyone else who has ever dunked a basketball. Few can compare Then you have this guy: This Guy Not Dunking Obviously, he''s no Michael Jordan. In fact, chances are many people reading this right now could do much better than this guy. That means he''s probably towards the bottom end of the bell curve, an extreme on the other side. Dunk Comparison Bell Curve We stand in awe of MJ because he''s more athletic than all of us. We laugh at the trampoline guy because he''s less athletic than most of us. Both are at different extremes of the bell curve. And most of us are the majority in the middle. Chapter 247 - Were All Pretty Much Average At Most Things[3] We all have our own strengths and weaknesses. But the fact is, most of us are pretty average at most things we do. Even if you''re truly exceptional at one thing say math, or jump rope, or making money off the black gun market chances are you''re pretty average or below average at most other things. That''s just the nature of life. To become truly great at something, you have to dedicate time and energy to it. And because we all have limited time and energy, few of us ever become truly exceptional at more than one thing, if anything at all. We can then say that it is a complete statistical improbability that any single person can be an extraordinary performer in all areas of their life, or even many areas of their life. Bruce Wayne does not exist. It just doesn''t happen. Brilliant businessmen are often f.u.c.k ups in their personal lives. Extraordinary athletes are often shallow and as dumb as a lobotomized rock. Most celebrities are probably just as clueless about life as the people who gawk at them and follow their every move. We''re all, for the most part, pretty average people. It''s the extremes that get all of the publicity. We all kind of intuitively know this, but we rarely think and/or talk about it. The vast majority of us will never be truly exceptional at, well, anything. And that''s OK. Which leads to an important point: that mediocrity, as a goal, sucks. But mediocrity, as a result, is OK. Few of us get this. And fewer of us accept it. Because problems arise serious, "My God, what''s the point of living" type problems when we expect to be extraordinary. Or worse, we feel entitled to be extraordinary. When in reality, it''s just not viable or likely. For every Michael Jordan or Kobe Bryant, there are 10 million scrubs stumbling around parks playing pickup games and losing. For every Picasso or DaVinci there have been about a billion drooling idiots eating Play-Doh and slapping around fingerpaints. And for every Leo Motherf.u.c.k.i.n.g Tolstoy, there''s a lot of, well, me, scribbling and playing at the writer. Chapter 248 - The Tyranny Of A Culture Of Exceptionalism[4] So here''s the problem. I would argue that we have this expectation (or this entitlement) more today than any other time in history. And the reason is because of the nature of our technology and economic privilege. Having the internet, Google, Facebook, YouTube and access to 500+ channels of television is amazing. We have access to more information than any other time in history. But our attention is limited. There''s no way we can process the tidal waves of information flowing through the internet at any given time. Therefore the only ones that break through and catch our attention are the truly exceptional pieces of information. The 99.999th percentile. All day, every day, we are flooded with the truly extraordinary. The best of the best. The worst of the worst. The greatest physical feats. The funniest jokes. The most upsetting news. The scariest threats. Non-stop. Our lives today are filled with information coming from the extremes of the bell curve, because in the media that''s what gets eyeballs and the eyeballs bring dollars. That''s it. Yet the vast majority of life continues to reside in the middle. It''s my belief that this flood of extreme information has conditioned us to believe that "exceptional" is the new normal. And since all of us are rarely exceptional, we all feel pretty damn insecure and desperate to feel "exceptional" all the time. So we must compensate. Some of us do this by cooking up get-rich-quick schemes. Others do it by taking off across the world to save starving babies in Africa. Others do it by excelling in school and winning every award. Others do it by shooting up a school. Others do it by trying to have s.e.x with anything that talks and breathes. There''s this kind of psychological tyranny in our culture today, a sense that we must always be proving that we''re special, unique, exceptional all the time, no matter what, only to have that moment of exceptionalism swept away in the current of all the other human greatness that''s constantly happening. For instance, here''s a five-minute video of nothing but some of the most amazing feats you can imagine. The crazy thing is that every single person in this video, for their five seconds of incredible footage, likely spent years and years and years practicing their craft as well as dozens of hours of recording to just get that perfect five-second spot. Yet we are not exposed to those years of practice. Or those hours of drab and failed footage. We''re merely exposed to each person''s absolute finest moment possibly in their entire lives. And then we watch this and forget about it within minutes. Because we''re onto the next thing. And then the next. Chapter 249 - But, If Im Not Going To Be Special Or Extraordinary, Whats The Point?[5] It''s an accepted part of our culture today to believe that we are all destined to do something truly extraordinary. Celebrities say it. Business tycoons say it. Politicians say it. Even Oprah says it. Each and every one of us can be extraordinary. We all deserve greatness. The fact that this statement is inherently contradictory after all, if everyone was extraordinary, then by definition, no one would be extraordinary is missed by most people, and instead we eat the message up and ask for more. (More tacos, that is.) Being "average" has become the new standard of failure. The worst thing you can be is in the middle of the pack, the middle of the bell curve. The problem is that, statistically speaking, pretty much all of us are in the middle of that bell curve almost all of the time, in almost everything we do. Sure, you might be a world-class putt-putt golfer. But then you have to go home and be a lousy father and get drunk on cheap beer faster than 90% of the population and piss the bed at night. Or worse, you could be Tiger Woods. No one stays exceptional for very long. A lot of people are afraid to accept mediocrity because they believe that if they accept being mediocre, then they''ll never achieve anything, never improve, and that their life doesn''t matter. I find this sort of thinking to be dangerous. Once you accept the premise that a life is only worthwhile if it is truly notable and great, then you basically accept the fact that most of the human population sucks and is worthless. And ethically speaking, that is a really dark place to put yourself. But most people''s problem with accepting being average is more practical. They worry that, "If I accept that I''m average, then I''ll never achieve anything great. I''ll have no motivation to improve myself or do something great. What if I am one of the rare few?" This, too, is a misguided belief. The people who become truly exceptional at something do so not because they believe they''re exceptional. On the contrary, they become amazing because they are obsessed with improvement. And that obsession with improvement stems from an unerring belief that they are, in fact, not that great at all. That they are mediocre. That they are average. And that they can be so much better. This is the great irony about ambition. If you wish to be smarter and more successful than everybody else, you will always feel like a failure. If you wish to be the most loved and most popular, then you will always feel alone. If you wish to be the most powerful and admired, then you will always feel weak and impotent. All of this "every person can be extraordinary and achieve greatness" stuff is basically just jerking off your ego. It''s shit sold to you to make you feel good for a few minutes and to get you through the week without hanging yourself in your cubicle. It''s a message that tastes good going down, but in reality, is nothing more than empty calories that make you emotionally fat and bloated, the proverbial Big Mac for your heart and your brain. The ticket to emotional health, like physical health, comes from eating your veggies that is, through accepting the bland and mundane truths of life: a light salad of "you''re actually pretty average in the grand scheme of things" and some steamed broccoli of "the vast majority of your life will be mediocre." This will taste bad at first. Very bad. You will avoid eating it. But once ingested, your body will wake up feeling more potent and more alive. After all, that constant pressure to always be something amazing, to be the next big thing, will be lifted off your back. The stress and anxiety of feeling inadequate will dissipate. And the knowledge and acceptance of your own mundane existence will actually free you to accomplish what you truly wish to accomplish with no judgments and no lofty expectations. You will have a growing appreciation for life''s basic experiences. You will learn to measure yourself through a new, healthier means: the pleasures of simple friendship, creating something, helping a person in need, reading a good book, laughing with someone you care about. Sounds boring, doesn''t it? That''s because these things are average. But maybe they''re average for a reason. Because they are what actually matter. Chapter 250 - Screw Finding Your Passion [1] Remember back when you were a kid? You would just do things. You never thought to yourself, "What are the relative merits of learning baseball versus football?" You just ran around the playground and played baseball and football. You built sand castles and played tag and asked silly questions and looked for bugs and dug up grass and pretended you were a sewer monster. Nobody told you to do it, you just did it. You were led merely by your curiosity and excitement. And the beautiful thing was, if you hated baseball, you just stopped playing it. There was no guilt involved. There was no arguing or debate. You either liked it or you didn''t. And if you loved looking for bugs, you just did that. There was no second-level analysis of, "Well, is looking for bugs really what I should be doing with my time as a child? Nobody else wants to look for bugs, does that mean there''s something wrong with me? How will looking for bugs affect my future prospects?" There was no bullshit. If you liked something, you just did it. Chapter 251 - “How Do I Find My Passion?”[2] Today, I received approximately the 11,504th email this year from a person telling me that they don''t know what to do with their life. And like all of the others, this person asked me if I had any ideas of what they could do, where they could start, where to "find their passion." And of course, I didn''t respond. Why? Because I have no f.u.c.k.i.n.g clue. If you don''t have any idea what to do with yourself, what makes you think some jackass with a website would? I''m a writer, not a fortune-teller. But more importantly, what I want to say to these people is this: that''s the whole point "not knowing" is the whole f.u.c.k.i.n.g point. Life is all about not knowing, and then doing something anyway. All of life is like this. All of it. And it''s not going to get any easier just because you found out you love your job cleaning septic tanks or you scored a dream gig writing indie movies. The common complaint among a lot of these people is that they need to ''find their passion.'' I call bullshit. You already found your passion, you''re just ignoring it. Seriously, you''re awake 16 hours a day, what the f.u.c.k do you do with your time? You''re doing something, obviously. You''re talking about something. There''s some topic or activity or idea that dominates a significant amount of your free time, your conversations, your web browsing, and it dominates them without you consciously pursuing it or looking for it. It''s right there in front of you, you''re just avoiding it. For whatever reason, you''re avoiding it. You''re telling yourself, "Oh well, yeah, I love comic books but that doesn''t count. You can''t make money with comic books." F.u.c.k you, have you ever tried? The problem is not a lack of passion for something. The problem is productivity. The problem is perception. The problem is acceptance. The problem is the, "Oh, well that''s just not a realistic option," or "Mom and Dad would kill me if I tried to do that, they say I should be a doctor" or "That''s crazy, you can''t buy a BMW with the money you make doing that." The problem isn''t passion. It''s never passion. It''s priorities. And even then, who says you need to make money doing what you love? Since when does everyone feel entitled to love every f.u.c.k.i.n.g second of their job? Really, what is so wrong with working an OK normal job with some cool people you like, and then pursuing your passion in your free time on the side? Has the world turned upside-down or is this not suddenly a novel idea to people? Look, here''s another slap in the face for you: every job sucks sometimes. There''s no such thing as some passionate activity that you will never get tired of, never get stressed over, never complain about. It doesn''t exist. I am living my dream job (which happened by accident, by the way. I never in a million years planned on this happening; like a kid on a playground I just went and tried it), and I still hate about 30% of it. Some days more. Again, that''s just life. The issue here is, once again, expectations. If you think you''re supposed to be working 70-hour work weeks and sleeping in your office like Steve Jobs and loving every second of it, you''ve been watching too many shitty movies. If you think you''re supposed to wake up every single day dancing out of your pajamas because you get to go to work, then you''ve been drinking the Kool-Aid. Life doesn''t work like that. It''s just unrealistic. There''s a thing most of us need called balance. I have a friend who, for the last three years, has been trying to build an online business selling whatever. It hasn''t been working. And by not working, I mean he''s not even launching anything. Despite years of "work" and saying he''s going to do this or that, nothing actually ever gets done. What does get done is when one of his former co-workers comes to him with a design job to create a logo or design some promotional material for an event. Holy shit, he''s all over that like flies on fresh cow shit. And he does a great job! He stays up to 4:00 AM losing himself working on it and loving every second of it. But then two days later it''s back to, "Man, I just don''t know what I''m supposed to do." I meet so many people like him. He doesn''t need to find his passion. His passion already found him. He''s just ignoring it. He just refuses to believe it''s viable. He is just afraid of giving it an honest-to-god try. It''s like a nerdy kid walking onto a playground and saying, "Well, bugs are really cool, but NFL players make more money, so I should force myself to play football every day," and then coming home and complaining that he doesn''t like recess. And that''s bullshit. Everybody likes recess. The problem is that he''s arbitrarily choosing to limit himself based on some bullshitty ideas he got into his head about success and what he''s supposed to do. Another email I get all the time is from people wanting advice on how to become a writer. And my answer is the same: I have no f.u.c.k.i.n.g idea. As a kid, I would write short stories in my room for fun. As a teenager, I would write music reviews and essays about bands I loved and then show them to nobody. Once the internet came around, I spent hours upon hours on forums writing multi-page posts about inane topics C everything from guitar pickups to the causes of the Iraq War. I never considered writing as a potential career. I never even considered it a hobby or passion. To me, the things I wrote about were my passion: music, politics, philosophy. The writing was just something I did because I felt like it. And when I had to go looking for a career I could fall in love with, I didn''t have to look far. In fact, I didn''t have to look at all. It chose me, away. It was already there. Already something I was doing every day, since I was a kid, without even thinking about it. Because here''s another point that might make a few people salty: If you have to look for what you''re passionate about, then you''re probably not passionate about it at all. If you''re passionate about something, it will already feel like such an ingrained part of your life that you will have to be reminded by people that it''s not normal, that other people aren''t like that. It didn''t occur to me that writing 2,000-word posts on forums was something nobody else considered fun. It never occurred to my friend that designing a logo is something that most people don''t find easy or fun. To him, it''s so natural that he can''t even imagine it being otherwise. And that''s why it''s probably what he really should be doing. A child does not walk onto a playground and says to herself, "How do I find fun?" She just goes and has fun. If you have to look for what you enjoy in life, then you''re not going to enjoy anything. And the real truth is that you already enjoy something. You already enjoy many things. You''re just choosing to ignore them. We all think we know ourselves well, but psychological studies show otherwise. In fact, most of us are somewhat deluded about ourselves. Chapter 252 - The Four Stages Of Life - Stage One: Mimicry[1] We are born helpless. We can''t walk, can''t talk, can''t feed ourselves, can''t even do our own damn taxes. As children, the way we''re wired to learn is by watching and mimicking others. First we learn to do physical skills like walk and talk. Then we develop social skills by watching and mimicking our peers around us. Then, finally, in late childhood, we learn to adapt to our culture by observing the rules and norms around us and trying to behave in such a way that is generally considered acceptable by society. The goal of Stage One is to teach us how to function within society so that we can be autonomous, self-sufficient a.d.u.l.ts. The idea is that the a.d.u.l.ts in the community around us help us to reach this point through supporting our ability to make decisions and take action ourselves. But some a.d.u.l.ts and community members around us suck. They punish us for our independence. They don''t support our decisions. And therefore we don''t develop autonomy. We get stuck in Stage One, endlessly mimicking those around us, endlessly attempting to please all so that we might not be judged. In a "normal" healthy individual, Stage One will last until late adolescence and early a.d.u.l.thood. For some people, it may last further into a.d.u.l.thood. A select few wake up one day at age 45 realizing they''ve never actually lived for themselves and wonder where the hell the years went. This is Stage One. The mimicry. The constant search for approval and validation. The absence of independent thought and personal values. We must be aware of the standards and expectations of those around us. But we must also become strong enough to act in spite of those standards and expectations when we feel it is necessary. We must develop the ability to act by ourselves and for ourselves. Chapter 253 - The Four Stages Of Life - Stage Two: Self-Discovery[2] In Stage One, we learn to fit in with the people and culture around us. Stage Two is about learning what makes us different from the people and culture around us. Stage Two requires us to begin making decisions for ourselves, to test ourselves, and to understand ourselves and what makes us unique. Stage Two involves a lot of trial-and-error and experimentation. We experiment with living in new places, hanging out with new people, imbibing new substances, and playing with new people''s orifices. In my Stage Two, I ran off and visited fifty-something countries. My brother''s Stage Two was diving headfirst into the political system in Washington DC. Everyone''s Stage Two is slightly different because every one of us is slightly different. Stage Two is a process of self-discovery. We try things. Some of them go well. Some of them don''t. The goal is to stick with the ones that go well and move on. Stage Two lasts until we begin to run up against our own limitations. This doesn''t sit well with many people. But despite what Oprah and Deepak Chopra may tell you, discovering your own limitations is a good and healthy thing. You''re just going to be bad at some things, no matter how hard you try. And you need to know what they are. I am not genetically inclined to ever excel at anything athletic whatsoever. It sucked for me to learn that, but I did. I''m also about as capable of feeding myself as an infant drooling applesauce all over the floor. That was important to find out as well. We all must learn what we suck at. And the earlier in our life that we learn it, the better. So we''re just bad at some things. Then there are other things that are great for a while, but begin to have diminishing returns after a few years. Traveling the world is one example. S.e.xing a ton of people is another. Drinking on a Tuesday night is a third. There are many more. Trust me. Your limitations are important because you must eventually come to the realization that your time on this planet is limited and, therefore, you should spend it on things that matter most. That means realizing that just because you can do something, doesn''t mean you should do it. That means realizing that just because you like certain people doesn''t mean you should be with them. That means realizing that there are opportunity costs to everything and that you can''t have it all. There are some people who never allow themselves to feel limitations either because they refuse to admit their failures, or because they delude themselves into believing that their limitations don''t exist. These people get stuck in Stage Two. These are the "serial entrepreneurs" who are 38 and living with mom and still haven''t made any money after 15 years of trying. These are the "aspiring actors" who are still waiting tables and haven''t done an audition in two years. These are the people who can''t settle into a long-term relationship because they always have a gnawing feeling that there''s someone better around the corner. These are the people who brush all of their failings aside as "releasing" negativity into the universe or "purging" their baggage from their lives. At some point we all must admit the inevitable: life is short, not all of our dreams can come true, so we should carefully pick and choose what we have the best shot at and commit to it. But people stuck in Stage Two spend most of their time convincing themselves of the opposite. That they are limitless. That they can overcome all. That their life is that of non-stop growth and ascendance in the world, while everyone else can clearly see that they are merely running in place. In healthy individuals, Stage Two begins in mid- to late-adolescence and lasts into a person''s mid-20s to mid-30s. People who stay in Stage Two beyond that are popularly referred to as those with "Peter Pan Syndrome" the eternal adolescents, always discovering themselves but finding nothing. Chapter 254 - The Four Stages Of Life - Stage Three: Commitment[3] Once you''ve pushed your own boundaries and either found your limitations (i.e., athletics, the culinary arts) or found the diminishing returns of certain activities (i.e., partying, video games, masturbation) then you are left with what''s both a) actually important to you, and b) what you''re not terrible at. Now it''s time to make your dent in the world. Stage Three is the great consolidation of one''s life. Out go the friends who are draining you and holding you back. Out go the activities and hobbies that are a mindless waste of time. Out go the old dreams that are clearly not coming true anytime soon. Then you double down on what you''re best at and what is best to you. You double down on the most important relationsh.i.p.s in your life. You double down on a single mission in life, whether that''s to work on the world''s energy crisis or to be a bitching digital artist or to become an expert in brains or have a bunch of snotty, drooling children. Whatever it is, Stage Three is when you get it done. Stage Three is all about maximizing your own potential in this life. It''s all about building your legacy. What will you leave behind when you''re gone? What will people remember you by? Whether that''s a breakthrough study or an amazing new product or an adoring family, Stage Three is about leaving the world a little bit different than the way you found it. Stage Three ends when a combination of two things happen: 1) you feel as though there''s not much else you are able to accomplish, and 2) you get old and tired and find that you would rather sip martinis and do crossword puzzles all day. In "normal" individuals, Stage Three generally lasts from around 30-ish-years-old until one reaches retirement age. People who get lodged in Stage Three often do so because they don''t know how to let go of their ambition and constant desire for more. This inability to let go of the power and influence they crave counteracts the natural calming effects of time and they will often remain driven and hungry well into their 70s and 80s. Chapter 255 - The Four Stages Of Life - Stage Four: Legacy[4] People arrive into Stage Four having spent somewhere around half a century investing themselves in what they believed was meaningful and important. They did great things, worked hard, earned everything they have, maybe started a family or a charity or a political or cultural revolution or two, and now they''re done. They''ve reached the age where their energy and circ.u.mstances no longer allow them to pursue their purpose any further. The goal of Stage Four then becomes not to create a legacy as much as simply making sure that legacy lasts beyond one''s death. This could be something as simple as supporting and advising their (now grown) children and living vicariously through them. It could mean passing on their projects and work to a protg or apprentice. It could also mean becoming more politically active to maintain their values in a society that they no longer recognize. Stage Four is important psychologically because it makes the ever-growing reality of one''s own mortality more bearable. As humans, we have a deep need to feel as though our lives mean something. This meaning we constantly search for is literally our only psychological defense against the incomprehensibility of this life and the inevitability of our own death. To lose that meaning, or to watch it slip away, or to slowly feel as though the world has left you behind, is to stare oblivion in the face and let it consume you willingly. Chapter 256 - The Four Stages Of Life - What’s The Point?[5] Developing through each subsequent stage of life grants us greater control over our happiness and well-being. In Stage One, a person is wholly dependent on other people''s actions and approval to be happy. This is a horrible strategy because other people are unpredictable and unreliable. In Stage Two, one becomes reliant on oneself, but they''re still reliant on external success to be happy making money, accolades, victory, conquests, etc. These are more controllable than other people, but they are still mostly unpredictable in the long-run. Stage Three relies on a handful of relationsh.i.p.s and endeavors that proved themselves resilient and worthwhile through Stage Two. These are more reliable. And finally, Stage Four requires we only hold on to what we''ve already accomplished as long as possible. At each subsequent stage, happiness becomes based more on internal, controllable values and less on the externalities of the ever-changing outside world. Chapter 257 - The Four Stages Of Life - Inter-Stage Conflict[6] Later stages don''t replace previous stages. They transcend them. Stage Two people still care about social approval. They just care about something more than social approval. Stage 3 people still care about testing their limits. They just care more about the commitments they''ve made. Each stage represents a reshuffling of one''s life priorities. It''s for this reason that when one transitions from one stage to another, one will often experience a fallout in one''s friendsh.i.p.s and relationsh.i.p.s. If you were Stage Two and all of your friends were Stage Two, and suddenly you settle down, commit and get to work on Stage Three, yet your friends are still Stage Two, there will be a fundamental disconnect between your values and theirs that will be difficult to overcome. Generally speaking, people project their own stage onto everyone else around them. People at Stage One will judge others by their ability to achieve social approval. People at Stage Two will judge others by their ability to push their own boundaries and try new things. People at Stage Three will judge others based on their commitments and what they''re able to achieve. People at Stage Four judge others based on what they stand for and what they''ve chosen to live for. Chapter 258 - The Four Stages Of Life - The Value Of Trauma[7] Self-development is often portrayed as a rosy, flowery progression from dumbass to enlightenment that involves a lot of joy, prancing in fields of daisies, and high-fiving two thousand people at a seminar you paid way too much to be at. But the truth is that transitions between the life stages are usually triggered by trauma or an extreme negative event in one''s life. A near-death experience. A divorce. A failed friendship or a death of a loved one. Trauma causes us to step back and re-evaluate our deepest motivations and decisions. It allows us to reflect on whether our strategies to pursue happiness are actually working well or not. Chapter 259 - The Four Stages Of Life - What Gets Us Stuck[8] The same thing gets us stuck at every stage: a sense of personal inadequacy. People get stuck at Stage One because they always feel as though they are somehow flawed and different from others, so they put all of their effort into conforming into what those around them would like to see. No matter how much they do, they feel as though it is never enough. Stage Two people get stuck because they feel as though they should always be doing more, doing something better, doing something new and exciting, improving at something. But no matter how much they do, they feel as though it is never enough. Stage Three people get stuck because they feel as though they have not generated enough meaningful influence in the world, that they make a greater impact in the specific areas that they have committed themselves to. But no matter how much they do, they feel as though it is never enough.8 One could even argue that Stage Four people feel stuck because they feel insecure that their legacy will not last or make any significant impact on the future generations. They cling to it and hold onto it and promote it with every last gasping breath. But they never feel as though it is enough. The solution at each stage is then backwards. To move beyond Stage One, you must accept that you will never be enough for everybody all the time, and therefore you must make decisions for yourself. To move beyond Stage Two, you must accept that you will never be capable of accomplishing everything you can dream and desire, and therefore you must zero in on what matters most and commit to it. To move beyond Stage Three, you must realize that time and energy are limited, and therefore you must refocus your attention to helping others take over the meaningful projects you began. To move beyond Stage Four, you must realize that change is inevitable, and that the influence of one person, no matter how great, no matter how powerful, no matter how meaningful, will eventually dissipate too. And life will go on. Chapter 260 - 10 Life Lessons To Excel In Your 30s[1] A couple weeks ago I turned 30. Leading up to my birthday I wrote a post on what I learned in my 20s. But I did something else. I sent an email out to my subscribers and asked readers age 37 and older what advice they would give their 30-year-old selves. The idea was that I would crowdsource the life experience from my older readership and create another article based on their collective wisdom. The result was spectacular. I received over 600 responses, many of which were over a page in length. It took me a solid three days to read through them all and I was floored by the quality of insight people sent. So first of all, a hearty thank you to all who contributed and helped create this article. While going through the emails what surprised me the most was just how consistent some of the advice was. The same 5-6 pieces of advice came up over and over and over again in different forms across literally 100s of emails. It seems that there really are a few core pieces of advice that are particularly relevant to this decade of your life. Below are 10 of the most common themes appearing throughout all of the 600 emails. The majority of the article comprises dozens of quotes taken from readers. Some are left anonymous. Others have their age listed. Chapter 261 - Start Saving For Retirement Now, Not Later[2] "I spent my 20s recklessly, but your 30s should be when you make a big financial push. Retirement planning is not something to put off. Understanding boring things like insurance, 401ks & mortgages is important since its all on your shoulders now. Educate yourself." The most common piece of advice so common that almost every single email said at least something about it was to start getting your financial house in order and to start saving for retirement today. There were a few categories this advice fell into: Make it your top priority to pay down all of your debt as soon as possible. Keep an "emergency fund" there were tons of horror stories about people getting financially ruined by health issues, lawsuits, divorces, bad business deals, etc. Stash away a portion of every paycheck, preferably into a 401k, an IRA or at the least, a savings account. Don''t spend frivolously. Don''t buy a home unless you can afford to get a good mortgage with good rates. Don''t invest in anything you don''t understand. Don''t trust stockbrokers. One reader said, "If you are in debt more than 10% of your gross annual salary this is a huge red flag. Quit spending, pay off your debt and start saving." Another wrote, "I would have saved more money in an emergency fund because unexpected expenses really killed my budget. I would have been more diligent about a retirement fund, because now mine looks pretty small." Wow! Who knew that saving money could be so s.e.xy and fun?! Gee whiz! Saving is so easy and so fun! And then there were the readers who were just completely screwed by their inability to save in their 30s. One reader named Jodi wishes she had started saving 10% of every paycheck when she was 30. Her career took a turn for the worst and now she''s stuck at 57, still living paycheck to paycheck. Another woman, age 62, didn''t save because her husband out-earned her. They later got divorced and she soon ran into health problems, draining all of the money she received in the divorce settlement. She, too, now lives paycheck to paycheck, slowly waiting for the day social security kicks in. Another man related a story of having to be supported by his son because he didn''t save and unexpectedly lost his job in the 2008 crash. The point was clear: save early and save as much as possible. One woman emailed me saying that she had worked low-wage jobs with two kids in her 30s and still managed to sock away some money in a retirement fund each year. Because she started early and invested wisely, she is now in her 50s and financially stable for the first time in her life. Her point: it''s always possible. You just have to do it. Chapter 262 - Start Taking Care Of Your Health Now, Not Later[3] "Your mind''s acceptance of age is 10 to 15 years behind your body''s aging. Your health will go faster than you think but it will be very hard to notice, not the least because you don''t want it to happen." (Tom, 55) We all know to take care of our health. We all know to eat better and sleep better and exercise more and blah, blah, blah. But just as with the retirement savings, the response from the older readers was loud and unanimous: get healthy and stay healthy now. So many people said it that I''m not even going to bother quoting anybody else. Their points were pretty much all the same: the way you treat your body has a c.u.mulative effect; it''s not that your body suddenly breaks down one year, it''s been breaking down all along without you noticing. This is the decade to slow down that breakage. Step 1: Laugh Step 2: Eat Salad Step 3: ???? Step 4: Profit. The key to salad is to laugh while eating it. And this wasn''t just your typical motherly advice to eat your veggies. These were emails from cancer survivors, heart attack survivors, stroke survivors, people with diabetes and blood pressure problems, joint issues and chronic pain. They all said the same thing: "If I could go back, I would start eating better and exercising and I would not stop. I made excuses then. But I had no idea." Chapter 263 - Don’t Spend Time With People Who Don’t Treat You Well[4] "Learn how to say "no" to people, activities and obligations that don''t bring value to your life." (Hayley, 37) Gently let go of those who are not making your life better. After calls to take care of your health and your finances, the most common piece of advice from people looking back at their 30-year-old selves was an interesting one: they would go back and enforce stronger boundaries in their lives and dedicate their time to better people. "Setting healthy boundaries is one of the most loving things you can do for yourself or another person." (Kristen, 43) What does that mean specifically? "Don''t tolerate people who don''t treat you well. Period. Don''t tolerate them for financial reasons. Don''t tolerate them for emotional reasons. Don''t tolerate them for the children''s sake or for convenience sake." (Jane, 52) "Don''t settle for mediocre friends, jobs, love, relationsh.i.p.s and life." (Sean, 43) "Stay away from miserable people they will consume you, drain you." (Gabriella, 43) "Surround yourself and only date people that make you a better version of yourself, that bring out your best parts, love and accept you." (Xochie) People typically struggle with boundaries because they find it difficult to hurt someone else''s feelings, or they get caught up in the desire to change the other person or make them treat them the way they want to be treated. This never works. And in fact, it often makes it worse. As one reader wisely said, "Selfishness and self-interest are two different things. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind." When we''re in our 20s, the world is so open to opportunity and we''re so short on experience that we cling to the people we meet, even if they''ve done nothing to earn our clingage. But by our 30s we''ve learned that good relationsh.i.p.s are hard to come by, that there''s no shortage of people to meet and friends to be made, and that there''s no reason to waste our time with people who don''t help us on our life''s path. Chapter 264 - Be Good To The People You Care About[5] "Show up with and for your friends. You matter, and your presence matters." (Jessica, 40) Conversely, while enforcing stricter boundaries on who we let into our lives, many readers advised to make the time for those friends and family that we do decide to keep close. "I think sometimes I may have taken some relationsh.i.p.s for granted, and when that person is gone, they''re gone. Unfortunately, the older you get, well, things start to happen, and it will affect those closest to you." (Ed, 45) "Appreciate those close to you. You can get money back and jobs back, but you can never get time back." (Anne, 41) "Tragedy happens in everyone''s life, everyone''s circle of family and friends. Be the person that others can count on when it does. I think that between 30 and 40 is the decade when a lot of shit finally starts to happen that you might have thought never would happen to you or those you love. Parents die, spouses die, babies are still-born, friends get divorced, spouses cheat the list goes on and on. Helping someone through these times by simply being there, listening and not judging is an honor and will deepen your relationsh.i.p.s in ways you probably can''t yet imagine." (Rebecca, 40) Chapter 265 - You Can’t Have Everything; Focus On Doing A Few Things Really Well[6] "Everything in life is a trade-off. You give up one thing to get another and you can''t have it all. Accept that." (Eldri, 60) In our 20s we have a lot of dreams. We believe that we have all of the time in the world. I myself remember having illusions that my website would be my first career of many. Little did I know that it took the better part of a decade to even get competent at this. And now that I''m competent and have a major advantage and love what I do, why would I ever trade that in for another career? "In a word: focus. You can simply get more done in life if you focus on one thing and do it really well. Focus more." (Ericson, 49) Another reader: "I would tell myself to focus on one or two goals/aspirations/dreams and really work towards them. Don''t get distracted." And another: "You have to accept that you cannot do everything. It takes a lot of sacrifice to achieve anything special in life." A few readers noted that most people arbitrarily choose their careers in their late teens or early 20s, and as with many of our choices at those ages, they are often wrong choices. It takes years to figure out what we''re good at and what we enjoy doing. But it''s better to focus on our primary strengths and maximize them over the course of a lifetime than to half-ass something else. "I''d tell my 30-year-old self to set aside what other people think and identify my natural strengths and what I''m passionate about, and then build a life around those." (Sara, 58) For some people, this will mean taking big risks, even in their 30s and beyond. It may mean ditching a career they spent a decade building and giving up money they worked hard for and became accustomed to. Which brings us to Chapter 266 - Don’t Be Afraid Of Taking Risks, You Can Still Change[7] "While by age 30 most feel they should have their career dialed in, it is never too late to reset. The individuals that I have seen with the biggest regrets during this decade are those that stay in something that they know is not right. It is such an easy decade to have the days turn to weeks to years, only to wake up at 40 with a mid-life crisis for not taking action on a problem they were aware of 10 years prior but failed to act." (Richard, 41) "Biggest regrets I have are almost exclusively things I did *not* do." (Sam, 47) Many readers commented on how society tells us that by 30 we should have things "figured out" our career situation, our dating/marriage situation, our financial situation and so on. But this isn''t true. And, in fact, dozens and dozens of readers implored to not let these social expectations of "being an a.d.u.l.t" deter you from taking some major risks and starting over. As someone on my Facebook page responded: "All a.d.u.l.ts are winging it." "I am about to turn 41 and would tell my 30-year-old self that you do not have to conform your life to an ideal that you do not believe in. Live your life, don''t let it live you. Don''t be afraid of tearing it all down if you have to, you have the power to build it all back up again." (Lisa, 41) Multiple readers related making major career changes in their 30s and being better off for doing so. One left a lucrative job as a military engineer to become a teacher. Twenty years later, he called it one of the best decisions of his life. When I asked my mom this question, her answer was, "I wish I had been willing to think outside the box a bit more. Your dad and I kind of figured we had to do thing A, thing B, thing C, but looking back I realize we didn''t have to at all; we were very narrow in our thinking and our lifestyles and I kind of regret that." "Less fear. Less fear. Less fear. I am about to turn 50 next year, and I am just getting that lesson. Fear was such a detrimental driving force in my life at 30. It impacted my marriage, my career, my self-image in a fiercely negative manner. I was guilty of: Assuming conversations that others might be having about me. Thinking that I might fail. Wondering what the outcome might be. If I could do it again, I would have risked more." (Aida, 49) Chapter 267 - You Must Continue To Grow And Develop Yourself[8] "You have two assets that you can never get back once you''ve lost them: your body and your mind. Most people stop growing and working on themselves in their 20s. Most people in their 30s are too busy to worry about self-improvement. But if you''re one of the few who continues to educate themselves, evolve their thinking and take care of their mental and physical health, you will be light-years ahead of the pack by 40." (Stan, 48) It follows that if one can still change in their 30s and should continue to change in their 30s then one must continue to work to improve and grow. Many readers related the choice of going back to school and getting their degrees in their 30s as one of the most useful things they had ever done. Others talked of taking extra seminars and courses to get a leg up. Others started their first businesses or moved to new countries. Others checked themselves into therapy or began a meditation practice. As Warren Buffett once said, the greatest investment a young person can make is in their own education, in their own mind. Because money comes and goes. Relationsh.i.p.s come and go. But what you learn once stays with you forever. "The number one goal should be to try to become a better person, partner, parent, friend, colleague etc. in other words to grow as an individual." (Aimilia, 39) Chapter 268 - 7 Strange Questions That Help You Find Your Life Purpose[1] One day, when my brother was 18, he waltzed into the living room and proudly announced to my mother and me that one day he was going to be a senator. My mom probably gave him the "That''s nice, dear," treatment while I''m sure I was distracted by a bowl of Cheerios or something. But for fifteen years, this purpose informed all of my brother''s life decisions: what he studied in school, where he chose to live, who he connected with, and even what he did with many of his vacations and weekends. After almost half a lifetime of work later, he''s the chairman of a major political party and a judge. He also ran for state congress in his 30s and barely lost. Don''t get me wrong. My brother is a freak. This basically never happens. Most of us have no clue what we want to do with our lives. Even after we finish school. Even after we get a job. Even after we''re making money. Between ages 18 and 25, I changed career aspirations more often than I changed my underwear. And even after I had a business, it took another four years to clearly define what I wanted for my life. Chances are you''re more like me and have no clue what you want to do. It''s a struggle almost every a.d.u.l.t goes through. "What do I want to do with my life?" "What am I passionate about?" "What do I not suck at?" I often receive emails from people in their 40s and 50s who still have no clue what they want to do with themselves. Part of the problem is the concept of "life purpose" itself. The idea that we were each born for some higher purpose and it''s now our cosmic mission to find it. This is the same kind of shitty logic used to justify things like spirit crystals or that your lucky number is 34 (but only on Tuesdays or during full moons). Here''s the truth. We exist on this earth for some undetermined period of time. During that time we do things. Some of these things are important. Some of them are unimportant. And those important things give our lives meaning and happiness. The unimportant ones basically just kill time. So when people say, "What should I do with my life?" or "What is my life purpose?" what they''re actually asking is: "What can I do with my time that is important?" This is an infinitely better question to ask. It''s far more manageable and it doesn''t have all of the ridiculous baggage that the "life purpose" question does. There''s no reason for you to be contemplating the cosmic significance of your life while sitting on your couch all day eating Doritos. Rather, you should be getting off your ass and discovering what feels important to you. One of the most common email questions I get is people asking me what they should do with their lives, what their "life purpose" is. This is an impossible question for me to answer. After all, for all I know, this person is really into knitting sweaters for kittens or filming gay bondage p.o.r.n in their bas.e.m.e.nt. I have no clue. Who am I to say what''s right or what''s important to them? But after some research, I have put together a series of questions to help you figure out for yourself what is important to you and what can add more meaning to your life. These questions are by no means exhaustive or definitive. In fact, they''re a little bit ridiculous. But I made them that way because discovering purpose in our lives should be something that''s fun and interesting, not a chore. Chapter 269 - What’s Your Favorite Flavor Of Shit Sandwich And Does It Come With A Olive?[2] Ah, yes. The all-important question. What flavor of shit sandwich would you like to eat? Because here''s the sticky little truth about life that they don''t tell you at high school pep rallies: Everything sucks, some of the time. Now, that probably sounds incredibly pessimistic. And you may be thinking, "Hey Mr. Manson, turn that frown upside down." But I actually think this is a liberating idea. Everything involves sacrifice. Everything includes some sort of cost. Nothing is pleasurable or uplifting all of the time. So, the question becomes: what struggle or sacrifice are you willing to tolerate? Ultimately, what determines our ability to stick with something we care about is our ability to handle the rough patches and ride out the inevitable rotten days. If you want to be a brilliant tech entrepreneur, but you can''t handle failure, then you''re not going to make it far. If you want to be a professional artist, but you aren''t willing to see your work rejected hundreds, if not thousands of times, then you''re done before you start. If you want to be a hotshot court lawyer, but can''t stand the 80-hour workweeks, then I''ve got bad news for you. Finding your life purpose involves eating a shit sandwich or two. What unpleasant experiences are you able to handle? Are you able to stay up all night coding? Are you able to put off starting a family for 10 years? Are you able to have people laugh you off the stage over and over again until you get it right? What shit sandwich do you want to eat? Because we all get served one eventually. And your favorite shit sandwich is your competitive advantage. By definition, anything that you''re willing to do (that you enjoy doing) that most people are not willing to do gives you a huge leg-up. So, find your favorite shit sandwich. And you might as well pick one with an olive. Chapter 270 - What Is True About You Today That Would Make Your 8-Year-Old Self Cry?[3] When I was a child, I used to write stories. I used to sit in my room for hours by myself, writing away, about aliens, about superheroes, about great warriors, about my friends and family. Not because I wanted anyone to read it. Not because I wanted to impress my parents or teachers. But for the sheer joy of it. And then, for some reason, I stopped. And I don''t remember why. We all have a tendency to lose touch with what we loved as a child. Something about the social pressures of adolescence and professional pressures of young a.d.u.l.thood squeezes the passion out of us. We''re taught that the only reason to do something is if we''re somehow rewarded for it. And the transactional nature of the world inevitably stifles us and makes us feel lost or stuck. It wasn''t until I was in my mid-20s that I rediscovered how much I loved writing. And it wasn''t until I started my business that I remembered how much I enjoyed building websites something I did in my early teens, just for fun. The funny thing though, is that if my 8-year-old self asked my 20-year-old self, "Why don''t you write anymore?" and I replied, "Because I''m not good at it," or "Because nobody would read what I write," or "Because you can''t make money doing that," not only would I have been completely wrong, but that eight-year-old-boy version of me would have probably started crying. That eight-year-old boy didn''t care about Google traffic or social media virality or book advances. He just wanted to play. And that''s where passion always begins: with a sense of play. Chapter 271 - What Makes You Forget To Eat And Poop?[4] We''ve all had that experience where we get so wrapped up in something that minutes turn into hours and hours turn into "Holy crap, I forgot to have dinner." Supposedly, in his prime, Isaac Newton''s mother had to regularly come in and remind him to eat because he would spend entire days so absorbed in his work that he would forget. I used to be like that with video games. This probably wasn''t a good thing. In fact, for many years it was kind of a problem. I would sit and play video games instead of doing more important things like studying for an exam, or showering regularly, or speaking to other humans face-to-face. It wasn''t until I gave up the games that I realized my passion wasn''t for the games themselves (although I do love them). My passion is for improvement, being good at something and then trying to get better. The games themselves the graphics, the stories they were cool, but I can easily live without them. It''s the competition with others and with myself that I thrive on. And when I applied that obsessiveness for self-improvement and competition to an internet business and to my writing, well, things took off in a big way. Maybe for you, it''s something else. Maybe it''s organizing things efficiently, or getting lost in a fantasy world, or teaching somebody something, or solving technical problems. Whatever it is, don''t just look at the activities that keep you up all night, but look at the cognitive principles behind those activities that enthrall you. Because they can easily be applied elsewhere. Chapter 272 - How Can You Better Embarrass Yourself?[5] Before you are able to be good at something and do something important, you must first suck at something and have no clue what you''re doing. That''s pretty obvious. And in order to suck at something and have no clue what you''re doing, you must embarrass yourself in some shape or form, often repeatedly. And most people try to avoid embarrassing themselves, namely because it sucks. Ergo, due to the transitive property of awesomeness, if you avoid anything that could potentially embarrass you, then you will never end up doing something that feels important. Yes, it seems that once again, it all comes back to vulnerability. Right now, there''s something you want to do, something you think about doing, something you fantasize about doing, yet you don''t do it. You have your reasons, no doubt. And you repeat these reasons to yourself ad infinitum. But what are those reasons? Because I can tell you right now that if those reasons are based on what others would think, then you''re screwing yourself over big time. If your reasons are something like, "I can''t start a business because spending time with my kids is more important to me," or "Playing Starcraft all day would probably interfere with my music, and music is more important to me," then OK. Sounds good. But if your reasons are, "My parents would hate it," or "My friends would make fun of me," or "If I failed, I''d look like an idiot," then chances are, you''re actually avoiding something you truly care about because caring about that thing is what scares the shit out of you, not what mom thinks or what Timmy next door says. Living a life avoiding embarrassment is akin to living a life with your head in the sand. Great things are, by their very nature, unique and unconventional. Therefore, to achieve them, we must go against the herd mentality. And to do that is scary. Embrace embarrassment. Feeling foolish is part of the path to achieving something important, something meaningful. The more a major life decision scares you, chances are the more you need to be doing it. Chapter 273 - How Are You Going To Save The World?[6] In case you haven''t seen the news lately, the world has a few problems. And by "a few problems," what I really mean is, "everything is f.u.c.k.i.e.d and we''re all going to die." I''ve harped on this before, and the research also bears it out, but to live a happy and healthy life, we must hold on to values that are greater than our own pleasure or satisfaction.1 So pick a problem and start saving the world. There are plenty to choose from. Our screwed up education systems, economic development, domestic violence, mental health care, governmental corruption. Hell, I just saw an article this morning on s.e.x trafficking in the US and it got me all riled up and wishing I could do something. It also ruined my breakfast. Find a problem you care about and start solving it. Obviously, you''re not going to fix the world''s problems by yourself. But you can contribute and make a difference. And that feeling of making a difference is ultimately what''s most important for your own happiness and fulfillment. And importance equals purpose. Now, I know what you''re thinking. "Gee Mark, I read all of this horrible stuff and I get all pissed off too, but that doesn''t translate to action, much less a new career path." Glad you asked Chapter 275 - How To Quit Your Day Job And Travel The World[1] Four years ago on a sunny April morning, I slinked into my new office building, suit slightly too big, 24-years-old and clueless. It was my first day working at a large, prestigious bank in downtown Boston. The first day of the career that would ostensibly define the rest of my life. I felt strangely powerful as I collected my new security badge and gained access to the sleek silver elevator. This was it. I was finally a real, live, functioning a.d.u.l.t. But that sense of power vanished once I was led to my new cubicle. Grey, sterile, joyless. I looked around and noted the smattering of other ambitious 20-somethings about me, awkwardly stuffed into cheap suits and business attire. Some worked furiously at their consoles, invigorated. Others slinked in their chairs, lifeless and a paper jam away from putting a shotgun in their mouth. I would soon be one of the latter. I sat, nervously sipping my energy drink as I waited for my new supervisor to come train me for the morning. She arrived around 8:30 AM and by 9 AM had shown me enough pointless procedures to make even the drabbest college textbook shout with a vibrant life in my memory. I woke up at 6:30 AM for this? By 10 AM I silently asked myself when the soonest I''d be able to quit would be. I was two hours into my lifelong career choice of finance and I was already contemplating an escape route. "This is not a good sign," I thought next. I quit six weeks later. I would love to tell you leaving the bank was one of those triumphant movie moments, where I walked out of the office with a sly smile and Kevin Spacey fist pump. The reality is that I felt like an idiot. I trembled as I put my two weeks in to my manager. When he asked what I planned on doing instead, my shaky reply of some sort of website blog thing sounded just as ridiculous to me as it probably did to him. By lunch, the news has spread around my team. Most of them were so confused, they awkwardly avoided talking to me and didn''t say goodbye. I imagine they believed I had just flushed my future down the toilet. Part of me believed the same. I get a lot of emails from readers asking me how I manage to travel the world without holding down a so-called "steady job." The short answer is the internet. Before this blog, I ran a number of websites and projects that earned some money. Then I did some freelance work. Then I wrote a book. Then people started telling me to write more stuff and jump ahead five years and about 500,000 words and here I am. Many people dream about dropping out of the rat race. They want to let go of the career ladder and find a way to spend more time doing what they love. I wholeheartedly endorse this life decision. Although I felt stupid when I left the bank and would spend most of the next two years scared out of my mind, broke, and working all hours of the day and night, it was one of the best decisions I ever made in my life. There''s already a lot written out there in this area: quitting your job, making money online, starting a business, vagabonding around the world, etc. A lot of it''s great. But a lot of it doesn''t talk about the emotional realities dealing with doubt, finding the motivation, addressing the strains on your friends and relationsh.i.p.s. I want to paint a realistic portrait of this life change. There are a lot of challenges, both mental and emotional, but I encourage you to take the leap. Chapter 276 - Why You Should Terrify Yourself[2] Honest question. Do you love what you do? If the answer isn''t a resounding, knee-jerk, "Yes! I live for this shit," then I encourage you to seriously consider doing something about it. That may sound extreme, but seriously, in 100 years you and everyone you know are going to be dead and your great-grandkids aren''t going to get misty-eyed remembering how you got that quarterly bonus or a corner office. This is your life and every breath you take is killing you. Stop screwing around. Chances are the thought of leaving your day job terrifies you. This is normal and expected good even. When I left the bank that day, I had only a vague idea of what I would do. I made a little bit of money here and there online. It wasn''t anything close to a full-time living, but I knew it was a new market that was growing quickly. And with some hard work combined with my savings, I (na?vely) believed I could have a full-time business up and running within a few months. It turned out to take almost 18 months for me to earn a full-time steady income. I went broke a number of times, was supported by my ex-girlfriend for a time and then moved back home with my mother. For most of 2008-2009 I worked 10-16 hour days and the majority of my projects failed and made little or no money. It was stressful to say the least. People ask me what motivated me through this period. The answer is terror. Complete and unequivocal daily terror. I was absolutely terrified to fail. Granted there was some love in there as well (I loved my job and still do). But that''s also where the terror came from: the idea that I would never make money doing what I love; the terror that I''d have to go back to living off a job I hated; the terror that I would have wasted two years with nothing to show for it; the terror that all of my friends and family who thought I was crazy would be proven right. This fear kept me up at nights, and more importantly kept me up at nights working. I''ve met a number of people over the years who want to quit their jobs, to start their own businesses, to develop new streams of income. And they''re scared. Obviously. They should be. But instead of leveraging their terror into action, they spend all of their time planning and planning and planning and not doing anything. 90% of your plans are going to fail no matter what you do. Get used to it. It''s not because we''re poor planners, it''s because there are simply too many unknowns. And the only way to uncover the unknowns and adjust for them is by getting out there and failing. So yes, you should be terrified of failing. And that is why you should do it anyway. When I wanted to leave the bank, a number of friends and family members suggested that I continue to build my business on the side until I had a steady income. In hindsight, I think if I would have done that, I would not have made it. Giving up would have been too easy. I wouldn''t have had the time or energy necessary to do it. That ever-present fear motivating me would have been gone. The terror that jumping in headfirst gave me was my most powerful asset. I was committed. I''d win or die trying. I sold my possessions (video games, computer, furniture, guitars everything). I stopped most of my hobbies. I lost contact with a number of my friends. I knew all of these things would return once I became successful. But failure was not an option. Intellect is great. Work ethic is great. Ability to adapt is definitely necessary. But you also need the emotional drive to push you to achieve your dreams. Everyone''s had the feeling where you know what you should do in your gut, feeling it and wanting it, but not having the emotional drive or wherewithal to actually get up and do it. So you continue sitting in the desk you hate day after day, year after year, waiting for something that''s never coming, trapped by your comfort and safe in your mediocrity. Terrify yourself. Use it as your ally. Give yourself no option but your dream. Chapter 278 - Planning Your Escape - Figure Out Your Source Of Income[4] People seem to believe they''re trapped within the typical 9-to-5 career track, but in fact, there are a lot of options. In the US, we''re rarely exposed to the options we have outside of our nation''s borders (minus the military). You just have to be willing to take some risks and work a bit harder. An incomplete list of options to get your ass abroad and exploring the world: Join a volunteer organization. If you don''t mind getting your hands dirty and putting yourself in some extreme environments, then volunteer organizations, both NGO''s and otherwise (i.e., Peace Corps) are always looking for help. You''ll most often be sent to developing countries, but some developing countries are surprisingly pleasant to live in (Thailand, Colombia, Philippines, Peru, etc.). Once you''re on the other continent, bouncing around from country to country is rarely more than a $50 bus/train/plane ticket away. Teach English. The pay is low and the work is hard, but this will get you a paid trip to another continent and often with really good vacation time. Asia and Latin America are the go-to continents for this with no experience or foreign language required. If you teach in Europe, you''re going to have to know the destination language at the least. A friend of mine taught English in South Korea for six months, took the money she made and went to India for three months, then taught in the Philippines for another six months and then bounced around Southeast Asia for a while after that. Not a bad experience. Find a source of mobile income. Poker. Stock/options trading. Freelancing. Consulting. Internet marketing. Blogging. Graphic/Web design. Writer/journalist. These are all professions I''ve run into on the road. These are all forms of income that can be earned regardless of location (and I''m sure I''m forgetting a few). Some of them have a steep and long learning curve, but there''s never a better time to start than now. Start an online business. This is a massive topic which other people can cover much better than I ever could, but internet startups can often be created and managed from anywhere. In fact, there are a number of startup "incubators" around the world where internet entrepreneurs congregate in places with high quality of life and very low expenses (Chiang Mai in Thailand, Bali in Indonesia, Medellin in Colombia, etc.). Convince your company to let you work remotely. Not an option for everybody, but if you''re a programmer, developer or designer, then this could be an option for you. Get transferred overseas. Another option if you work for a large international corporation such as Procter and Gamble or Yahoo! is to get transferred to various locations around the world. You can often gain a lot of vacation time by working in other countries as well which will allow you to explore. Find odd jobs as you travel. This is easy in some countries and impossibly hard in others. But finding jobs in hostels, bars, and restaurants in cities you travel to can be done to support yourself wherever you go. A number of people do this. It takes time and effort and obviously is quite stressful, but it can be done. Work on a cruise or for an airline. Seriously. These people have amazing flexibility with their time at sea and where they get to go. I met a woman who worked on a cruise in Costa Rica and she had been to over 75 countries, living in a dozen for more than six months. She was in her early 30''s. The same concept applies to working for an airline but to a lesser extent (and far more jet lag) Start your entire career abroad. In a number of developing parts of the world, particularly Asia, there''s an extremely high demand for university-educated Westerners for high-paying management positions. Countries like China, Brazil, Malaysia, and Singapore, are importing a lot of western talent. Not only can a recent college graduate skip multiple rungs on the corporate ladder by moving to one of these countries, but they can see a major quality of life increase at a lower cost-of-living. Let''s just say that making $60,000 a year in Shanghai goes a LOT further than making $80,000 per year in New York City. You can combine a number of these strategies. Sometimes you can just take off with your savings and begin to figure it out as you go. Someone can leave with their life savings, start a blog on the way, do some freelance consultant work online, work some odd jobs here and there, and by the time their savings run out, they have a modest location-independent income. But as always, Google is your friend. There''s no shortage of websites and resources on NGO''s, internet startups, marketing, expatriation, backpacking, vagabonding, etc. Chapter 279 - Planning Your Escape - Calculate Your “Escape Velocity”[5] Do some research and choose your first destination(s). Do you want to try an internet startup in Asia? Work for an NGO in Central America? Backpack through Europe and pick up odd jobs on the way? A lot of people come to me and say, "I want to live abroad, how can I do it?" Well, it depends where you go. You can live like a king off $1,000 in Thailand or the Philippines, or spend that much in a week in Brazil. It depends where you''re going and what you''re doing. The other factor is your financial obligations. If you have debt back home you need to factor that in. If you have health problems, then you need to do a lot of research on that as well. The good news is if you''re an American, you''re going to save a LOT of money on health care by leaving the country. Calculate the amount you need to earn passively per month to survive wherever you want to go. This may involve getting a job once you''re there. It may involve saving up a bunch of money now and selling stuff. It may involve creating passive streams online. Either way, budget it out so you know when you''re ready. Chapter 280 - Planning Your Escape - Pull The Trigger[6] Once you know your target level of savings and/or location-independent income, work towards it with everything you have. This may involve killing your day job off immediately in order to free up more time to work for it. This may mean setting a financial goal for the day you can put your two weeks in. Get creative and don''t have an ego about it. A friend of mine decided to throw himself into this lifestyle 100% and moved back in with his parents for almost a year before he got on his feet and running. I lived on a friend''s couch for a while. Later I moved back in with my mother until I had enough money to buy a plane ticket to Argentina. Once I was there I could live well off about half the income I needed to live in the US. From there I built my business up further. But, as I said, planning will only take you so far. Plan the best you can, but then throw yourself into the fire. Leave yourself no option but to come out on top. It will be hard and nerve-wracking, but that''s how you grow. That''s how you squeeze all of the juice out of life. Terrify yourself. Then laugh about it. Chapter 281 - No, You Can’t Have It All[1] I saw a story on Facebook the other day. Like most stories that get passed around Facebook, it''s probably only 38% true and written by a 16-year-old. But regardless, I found it cool, and at the very least, thought-provoking. It was about a man named Mohammed El-Erian. Mohammed was the CEO of an uber $2 trillion bond fund called PIMCO and earned upwards of $100 million per year. In January, he unexpectedly resigned in order to spend more time with his 10-year-old daughter. Now here''s the bad news: A decision like this is apparently a big deal in our society. Totally unexpected and against the cultural grain of "make billions or die trying" that we''re all used to. The article has been making the usual rounds on social media, getting shared and talked about quite a bit. Apparently, El-Erian''s decision came after a fight with said daughter. He was yelling at her to brush her teeth. She refused. He pulled the classic "I''m your father and you will do what I say" routine, to which she said, "Hold, please." The girl retreated to her bedroom and proceeded to write down 22 important moments of her life that her father had missed because of work birthday parties, school performances, hare Krishna conventions, and so on. Presumably, this crayon-scrawled list gave El-Erian a bad case of what the internet has dubbed "the feelz" and the next day Mohammed was hanging up his hedge fund hat for good Mohammed "Wow, That''s A Lot of F.u.c.k.i.n.g Zeroes" El-Erian was now a full-time dad. If you''ve ever taken an economics class, one of the first things you learn is a concept called "opportunity cost," an idea often ill.u.s.trated with the quote, "There''s no such thing as a free lunch." Opportunity cost means that essentially everything you do, no matter what it is, costs something, even if indirectly. The classic example is when someone takes you out for a free, hour-long lunch. Despite gaining the value of the lunch during that hour, you are still giving up all of the other productive activities you could have potentially been doing. So you give up doing an extra hour of work. An extra hour of sleep. An extra hour of sales calls that could net you a new client. Or, as in the case with El-Erian, an extra hour with your 10-year-old daughter. In our culture, we regularly celebrate people who become rich by doing exceptional things. But the nature of those "exceptional things" often requires extremely high opportunity costs. Bill Gates famously slept in his office five days a week and remained single well into his 30s. Steve Jobs was a deadbeat father to his first daughter. Brad Pitt can''t leave his house without being bukkaked by flashbulbs and cameras. The man has stated that he''s gone through periods of depression due to the social isolation caused by his extreme fame. The point is that doing anything truly great requires some sort of inherent sacrifice that may or may not be immediately obvious. You know, like missing a series of your daughter''s birthdays. (If you''ve read a lot of my stuff, you''ve seen this idea in other forms before, particularly here and here.) Chapter 282 - No, You Cant Have It All[2] But here''s the problem. Modern society multiplies our opportunities. Therefore, modern society also multiplies our opportunity costs, making it costlier and more difficult to commit all of our time and energy to anyone thing without feeling some form of remorse or regret. Enter the concept of "FOMO" or "Fear of Missing Out." We live a life that is constantly pelted with reminders of everything we are unable to become. Back, say, 200 years ago, people didn''t have this problem. If you were born a farmer, you likely didn''t have many opportunities beyond farming. Moreover, you likely weren''t even aware of opportunities beyond farming. Therefore, devoting everything in your life to becoming an expert farmer involved next to no opportunity costs and next to no FOMO. After all, there was nothing else to miss out on. In a bizarre and backward way, people back in the day could "have it all." They had it all simply for the fact that there was nothing else for them to have. Last month I wrote an article about life purpose. Something like 800 bazillion people shared it on Facebook and told me I was a cool kid. Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love even thought it was neat. But this whole business of "life purpose" didn''t even exist until a few decades ago. As a question, it didn''t make sense. In a way, your so-called life purpose crisis is a luxury, something you''re allowed to have as a result of the amazing freedoms the modern world has bestowed upon you. I get emails all the time from people who complain about work/life balance. There are articles all over the mainstream media debating whether it''s possible to "have it all" i.e., is it possible to be an all-star in your career and have a healthy family life and have cool and fun hobbies and be financially stable and have that s.e.xy bikini body and cook organic souffl in your underwear while buying beachfront property on your new iPhone 6, all at the same time? What''s changed is not our inability to manage our time or "balance our lives" between work and play. What''s changed is that we have more opportunities for work and play than ever before more interests, more awareness of every potential experience we''re passing up. In short, we have more opportunity cost. And we''re made aware of this in a terribly connected way each day. Every person who decides to sacrifice their dating life to advance their career is now bombarded constantly by the rambunctious s.e.x lives of their friends and strangers. Every person who sacrifices their career prospects to dedicate more time and energy to their family is now bombarded with the material successes of the most exceptional people around them at all times. Every person who decides to take a thankless but necessary role in society is now constantly drowned in inane stories of the famous and beautiful. So how do we respond to this new, overly-connected culture? How do we manage our FOMO? Chapter 283 - No, You Cant Have It All[3] The conventional answer, the answer you''ll find in most bookstores and at most seminars is some variation of "do more with less," "practice time management," or as Arnold Schwarzenegger once said, "sleep faster." El-Erian stated in his dad-of-the-year Facebook article that he spent years justifying missing his daughter''s birthdays to himself he was busy, work was too demanding, his travel schedule was insane. This is the typical work/life balance, woe-is-me complaint we always hear: "I have all of these things I want to do and not enough time." But what if the answer isn''t to do more? What if the answer is to want less? What if the solution is simply accepting our bounded potential, our unfortunate tendency as humans to inhabit only one place in space and time. What if we recognize our life''s inevitable limitations and then prioritize what we care about based on those limitations? What if it''s as simple as stating, "This is what I choose to value more than everything else," and then living with it? When we attempt to do everything, to fill up life''s checklist, to "have it all," we''re essentially attempting to live a valueless life, a life where everything is equally gained and nothing lost. When everything is necessary and desired equally, then nothing is necessary or desired at all. This past week, I received an email from a man who was distressed about his life situation. He had a job he hated and had become disconnected from the friends and activities he once cared about. He said he was depressed. He said he felt like he had lost himself. He said he hated his life. But, he added in the end, he had become accustomed to the lifestyle his job afforded him. So quitting his job was out of the question. He then asked what he should do. In my experience, the people who struggle with the so-called "life purpose" question, always complain that they don''t know what to do. But the real problem is not that they don''t know what to do. It''s that they don''t know what to give up. El-Erian''s priority was $100 million per year. His priority was CEO. His priority was private helicopters and stretch limos and bankers jerking off all over his balance sheet wherever he went. And to earn those things, he chose to give up being present in his daughter''s life. Until one day, he chose the opposite. Chapter 284 - F.u.c.k Yes Or No[1] Think about this for a moment: Why would you ever choose to be with someone who is not excited to be with you? There''s a grey area in dating many people get hung up on a grey area where feelings are ambiguous or one person has stronger feelings than the other. This grey area causes real, tangible issues. "She said she''s not interested, but she still flirts with me, so what do I need to do to get her?" "Well, I know she likes me, but she didn''t call me back last weekend, what should I do?" "He treats me well when he''s around, but he''s hardly around. What does that mean?" Most dating advice exists to "solve" this grey area for people. Say this line. Text her this. Call him this many times. Wear that. Much of it gets exceedingly analytical, to the point where some men and women actually spend more time analyzing behaviors than actually, you know, behaving. Frustration with this grey area also drives many people to unnecessary manipulation, drama, and game-playing like "forgetting" a jacket at her place so she''ll have to call you again, or "making" him wait until he''s taken you on three dates before you''ll sleep with him. These things may seem clever and exciting to some people who are stuck or frustrated. But this dating advice misses the point. If you''re in the grey area, to begin with, you''ve already lost. Let me ask again: Why would you ever be excited to be with someone who is not excited to be with you? If they''re not happy with you now, what makes you think they''ll be happy to be with you later? Why do you make an effort to convince someone to date you when they make no effort to convince you? What does that say about you? That you believe you need to convince people to be with you? (Hint: it implies that you wouldn''t even want to be with yourself.) You wouldn''t buy a dog that bites you all the time. And you wouldn''t be friends with someone who regularly ditches you. You wouldn''t work a job that doesn''t pay you. Then why the hell are you trying to make a girlfriend out of a woman who doesn''t want to date you? Where''s your f.u.c.k.i.n.g self-respect? Chapter 285 - The Law Of F.u.c.k Yes Or No[2] The entrepreneur Derek Sivers once wrote a blog post where he said, "If I''m not saying ''Hell Yeah!'' to something, then I say no." It served him well in the business world and now I''d like to apply it to the dating world. And because I''m more of a vulgar asshole than Derek is, I''ll christen mine The Law of "F.u.c.k Yes or No." The Law of "F.u.c.k Yes or No" states that when you want to get involved with someone new, in whatever capacity, they must inspire you to say "F.u.c.k Yes" in order for you to proceed with them. The Law of "F.u.c.k Yes or No" also states that when you want to get involved with someone new, in whatever capacity, THEY must respond with a "F.u.c.k Yes" in order for you to proceed with them. As you can see, The Law of "F.u.c.k Yes or No" implies that both parties must be enthusiastic about the prospect of one another''s company. Why? Because attractive, non-needy, high self-worth people don''t have time for people who they are not excited to be with and who are not excited to be with them. This may sound a bit idealistic to some. But The Law of "F.u.c.k Yes or No" has many tangible benefits on your dating life: No longer be strung along by people who aren''t that into you. End all of the headaches. End the wishing and hoping. End the disappointment and anger that inevitably follows. Start practicing self-respect. Become the rejector, not the rejected. No longer pursue people you are so-so on for ego purposes. We''ve all been there. We were so-so about somebody, but we went along with it because nothing better was around. And we all have a few we''d like to take back. No more. Consent issues are instantly resolved. If someone is playing games with you, playing hard to get, or pressuring you into doing something you''re unsure about, your answer is now easy. Or as I often like to say in regards to dating, "If you have to ask, then that''s your answer." Establish strong personal boundaries and enforce them. Maintaining strong boundaries not only makes one more confident and attractive, but also helps to preserve one''s sanity in the long-run. Always know where you stand with the other person. Since you''re now freeing up so much time and energy from people you''re not that into, and people who are not that into you, you now find yourself perpetually in interactions where people''s intentions are clear and enthusiastic. Sweet! Chapter 286 - F.u.c.k Yes Or No[3] The Law of "F.u.c.k Yes or No" is applicable to dating, s.e.x, relationsh.i.p.s, even friendsh.i.p.s. You may have absolutely nothing in common with that bartender. But they''re hot and are interested in getting down. Is it a "F.u.c.k Yes!" for s.e.x? It is? Then game on. Wrapped up in that sweet guy who treats you so well, except goes weeks without calling you and suddenly disappears after a couple drinks and a round of the horizontal polka? Been wondering if he really likes you? Do his excuses of being so busy all the time seem legit? It doesn''t sound like the answer is a "F.u.c.k yes." Then it''s time to move on. Making out with a girl at your house and every time you go to take her shirt off she swats your hands away? That is not a "F.u.c.k Yes," my friend, therefore, it''s a no and you shouldn''t pressure her. The best s.e.x is "F.u.c.k Yes" s.e.x i.e., both people are shouting "F.u.c.k Yes" as they hop between the sheets together. If she''s not hopping, then there''s no f.u.c.k.i.n.g. (Hint Fellas: This is a great time to ask the girl why she''s not comfortable, and what she''s looking for from you. That, by itself you know, treating her like a human and empathizing with her often solves this "problem.") Want to date that woman you met last weekend but she keeps ignoring your texts and calls? Not sure what to say or do, especially since she seemed so happy to go out with you when you initially met her? Well, my friend, this is obviously not a "F.u.c.k Yes." Therefore, it is a "No." Delete her number and move on. F.u.c.k Yes or No applies to relationsh.i.p.s as well. My girlfriend works with a guy who got married because "it seemed like the right thing to do." You do your taxes because "it''s seems like the right thing to do." You wipe your infant''s ass because "it seems like the right thing to do." You don''t marry someone because "it seems like the right thing to do." You marry them because you can''t f.u.c.k.i.n.g imagine ever not wanting to be with them. Unsurprisingly, four years later, he was cheating on his wife every chance he got. The marriage was not a F.u.c.k Yes for him, therefore it should have been a No. Sometimes The Law of F.u.c.k Yes or No will apply differently on different levels. You may be a "F.u.c.k Yes" for friendship with someone, but mildly excited to have s.e.x with them. Therefore, it''s a no. You may be a "F.u.c.k Yes" on banging someone''s brains out, but a definite "No" on actually spending any time with them. Apply the law to your decision-making as it suits your needs. Chapter 287 - F.u.c.k Yes Or No[4] F.u.c.k Yes or No doesn''t necessarily mean you have to be falling in knee-wobbling love at first sight. It doesn''t even mean you have been completely convinced that someone is right for you. You can be "F.u.c.k Yes" about getting to know someone better. You can be "F.u.c.k Yes" about seeing someone again because you think there''s something there. You can be "F.u.c.k Yes" about giving things a few months to pan out and see if you can fix the problems in the relationship. You can be "F.u.c.k Yes" about trying to fix things in an unhappy relationship because you can see future potential. The point is: both you and the other person need to be f.u.c.k yes about something (and it must be the same thing), otherwise you''re just wasting your time. But the real beauty of The Law of "F.u.c.k Yes or No" is that it simplifies the problems you can have in your dating life. When applying the Law of "F.u.c.k Yes or No," there are really only two problems one can have. The first problem is people who never feel a "F.u.c.k Yes" for anybody they meet. If you are lukewarm on absolutely everyone you meet, then either your demographics are way off, or you suffer from a lack of vulnerability and are protecting yourself by remaining indifferent and unenthused by all of those around you. Remember, it''s your job to look for something cool in everyone you meet; it''s not their job to show you. This is life, not a f.u.c.k.i.n.g sales convention. Learning to appreciate people you meet is a skill you cultivate. So get on it. This doesn''t mean you have to fall in love with everyone who breathes in your direction. It just means you need to take responsibility for your ability to connect with the people you are meeting. The second problem is people who never meet others who feel a "F.u.c.k Yes" for them. If all of the people you pursue give you a mild response or outright rejections, then it''s time to focus on improving yourself. Ask yourself, what is it about yourself that would inspire others to say "F.u.c.k Yes" about you? If the answer is not obvious, then you get to work. Build yourself into a person others would say "F.u.c.k Yes" to. And this is the ultimate dating advice lesson man, woman, gay, straight, trans, furry, whatever the only real dating advice is self-improvement. Everything else is a distraction, a futile battle in the grey area, a prolonged ego trip. Because, yes, with the right tools and performance, you may be able to con somebody into sleeping with you, dating you, even marrying you. But you will have won the battle by sacrificing the war, the war of long-term happiness. Chapter 288 - Love Is Not Enough[1] In 1967, John Lennon wrote a song called, "All You Need is Love." He also beat both of his wives, abandoned one of his children, verbally abused his gay Jewish manager with homophobic and anti-semitic slurs, and once had a camera crew film him lying n.a.k.e.d in his bed for an entire day. Thirty-five years later, Trent Reznor from Nine Inch Nails wrote a song called "Love is Not Enough." Reznor, despite being famous for his shocking stage performances and his grotesque and disturbing videos, got clean from all drugs and alcohol, married one woman, had two children with her, and then canceled entire albums and tours so that he could stay home and be a good husband and father. One of these two men had a clear and realistic understanding of love. One of them did not. One of these men idealized love as the solution to all of his problems. One of them did not. One of these men was probably a narcissistic asshole. One of them was not. In our culture, many of us idealize love. We see it as some lofty cure-all for all of life''s problems. Our movies and our stories and our history all celebrate it as life''s ultimate goal, the final solution for all of our pain and struggle. And because we idealize love, we overestimate it. As a result, our relationsh.i.p.s pay a price. When we believe that "all we need is love," then like Lennon, we''re more likely to ignore fundamental values such as respect, humility, and commitment towards the people we care about. After all, if love solves everything, then why bother with all the other stuff all of the hard stuff? But if, like Reznor, we believe that "love is not enough," then we understand that healthy relationsh.i.p.s require more than pure emotion or lofty passions. We understand that there are things more important in our lives and our relationsh.i.p.s than simply being in love. And the success of our relationsh.i.p.s hinges on these deeper and more important values. Chapter 289 - Three Harsh Truths About Love[2] The problem with idealizing love is that it causes us to develop unrealistic expectations about what love actually is and what it can do for us. These unrealistic expectations then sabotage the very relationsh.i.p.s we hold dear in the first place. Allow me to ill.u.s.trate: 1. Love does not equal compatibility. Just because you fall in love with someone doesn''t necessarily mean they''re a good partner for you to be with over the long term. Love is an emotional process; compatibility is a logical process. And the two don''t bleed into one another very well. It''s possible to fall in love with somebody who doesn''t treat us well, who makes us feel worse about ourselves, who doesn''t hold the same respect for us as we do for them, or who has such a dysfunctional life themselves that they threaten to bring us down with them. It''s possible to fall in love with somebody who has different ambitions or life goals that are contradictory to our own, who holds different philosophical beliefs or worldviews that clash with our own sense of reality. It''s possible to fall in love with somebody who sucks for us and our happiness. That may sound paradoxical, but it''s true. When I think of all of the disastrous relationsh.i.p.s I''ve seen or people have emailed me about, many (or most) of them were entered into on the basis of emotion they felt that "spark" and so they just dove in head first. Forget that he was a born-again Christian alcoholic and she was an acid-dropping bis.e.x.u.a.l necrophiliac. It just felt right. And then six months later, when she''s throwing his shit out onto the lawn and he''s praying to Jesus twelve times a day for her salvation, they look around and wonder, "Gee, where did it go wrong?" The truth is, it went wrong before it even began. When dating and looking for a partner, you must use not only your heart, but your mind. Yes, you want to find someone who makes your heart flutter and your farts smell like cherry popsicles. But you also need to evaluate a person''s values, how they treat themselves, how they treat those close to them, their ambitions and their worldviews in general. Because if you fall in love with someone who is incompatible with youwell, as the ski instructor from South Park once said, you''re going to have a bad time. Chapter 290 - Three Harsh Truths About Love[3] 2. Love does not solve your relationship problems. My first girlfriend and I were madly in love with each other. We also lived in different cities, had no money to see each other, had families who hated each other, and went through weekly bouts of meaningless drama and fighting. And every time we fought, we''d come back to each other the next day and make up and remind each other how crazy we were about one another and that none of those little things matter because we''re omg sooooooo in love and we''ll find a way to work it out and everything will be great, just you wait and see. Our love made us feel like we were overcoming our issues, when on a practical level, absolutely nothing had changed. As you can imagine, none of our problems got resolved. The fights repeated themselves. The arguments got worse. Our inability to ever see each other hung around our necks like an albatross. We were both self-absorbed to the point where we couldn''t even communicate that effectively. Hours and hours talking on the phone with nothing actually said. Looking back, there was no hope that it was going to last. Yet we kept it up for three f.u.c.k.i.n.g years! After all, love conquers all, right? Unsurprisingly, that relationship burst into flames and crashed like the Hindenburg into an oil patch. The break up was ugly. And the big lesson I took away from it was this: while love may make you feel better about your relationship problems, it doesn''t actually solve any of your relationship problems. This is how a toxic relationship works. The roller coaster of emotions are intoxicating, each high feeling even more important and more valid than the one before, but unless there''s a stable and practical foundation beneath your feet, that rising tide of emotion will eventually come and wash it all away. Chapter 291 - Three Harsh Truths About Love[4] 3. Love is not always worth sacrificing yourself. One of the defining characteristics of loving someone is that you are able to think outside of yourself and your own needs to help care for another person and their needs as well. But the question that doesn''t get asked often enough is exactly what are you sacrificing, and is it worth it? In loving relationsh.i.p.s, it''s normal for both people to occasionally sacrifice their own desires, their own needs, and their own time for one another. I would argue that this is normal and healthy and a big part of what makes a relationship so great. But when it comes to sacrificing one''s self-respect, one''s dignity, one''s physical body, one''s ambitions and life purpose, just to be with someone, then that same love becomes problematic. A loving relationship is supposed to supplement our individual identity, not damage it or replace it. If we find ourselves in situations where we''re tolerating disrespectful or abusive behavior, then that''s essentially what we''re doing: we''re allowing our love to consume us and negate us, and if we''re not careful, it will leave us as a shell of the person we once were. Chapter 292 - The Friendship Test[5] One of the oldest pieces of relationship advice in the book is, "You and your partner should be best friends." Most people look at that piece of advice in the positive: I should spend time with my partner like I do my best friend; I should communicate openly with my partner like I do with my best friend; I should have fun with my partner like I do with my best friend. But people should also look at it in the negative: Would you tolerate your partner''s negative behaviors in your best friend? Amazingly, when we ask ourselves this question honestly, in most unhealthy and codependent relationsh.i.p.s, the answer is "no." I know a young woman who just got married. She was madly in love with her husband. And despite the fact that he had been "between jobs" for more than a year, showed no interest in planning the wedding, often ditched her to take surfing trips with his friends, and her friends and family raised not-so-subtle concerns about him, she happily married him anyway. But once the emotional high of the wedding wore off, reality set in. A year into their marriage, he''s still "between jobs," he trashes the house while she''s at work, gets angry if she doesn''t cook dinner for him, and any time she complains he tells her that she''s "spoiled" and "arrogant." Oh, and he still ditches her to take surfing trips with his friends. And she got into this situation because she ignored all three of the harsh truths above. She idealized love. Despite being slapped in the face by all of the red flags he raised while dating him, she believed that their love signaled relationship compatibility. It didn''t. When her friends and family raised concerns leading up to the wedding, she believed that their love would solve their problems eventually. It didn''t. And now that everything had fallen into a steaming shit heap, she approached her friends for advice on how she could sacrifice herself even more to make it work. And the truth is, it won''t. Why do we tolerate behavior in our romantic relationsh.i.p.s that we would never ever, ever tolerate in our friendsh.i.p.s? Imagine if your best friend moved in with you, trashed your place, refused to get a job or pay rent, demanded you cook dinner for them, and got angry and yelled at you any time you complained. That friendship would be over faster than Paris Hilton''s acting career. Or another situation: a man''s girlfriend who was so jealous that she demanded passwords to all of his accounts and insisted on accompanying him on his business trips to make sure he wasn''t tempted by other women. This woman was like the NSA. His life was practically under 24/7 surveillance and you could see it wearing on his self-esteem. His self-worth dropped to nothing. She didn''t trust him to do anything. So he quit trusting himself to do anything. Yet he stays with her! Why? Because he''s in love! Remember this: The only way you can fully enjoy the love in your life is to choose to make something else more important in your life than love. You can fall in love with a wide variety of people throughout the course of your life. You can fall in love with people who are good for you and people who are bad for you. You can fall in love in healthy ways and unhealthy ways. You can fall in love when you''re young and when you''re old. Love is not unique. Love is not special. Love is not scarce. But your self-respect is. So is your dignity. So is your ability to trust. There can potentially be many loves throughout your life, but once you lose your self-respect, your dignity or your ability to trust, they are very hard to get back. Love is a wonderful experience. It''s one of the greatest experiences life has to offer. And it is something everyone should aspire to feel and enjoy. But like any other experience, it can be healthy or unhealthy. Like any other experience, it cannot be allowed to define us, our identities or our life purpose. We cannot let it consume us. We cannot sacrifice our identities and self-worth to it. Because the moment we do that, we lose love and we lose ourselves. Because you need more in life than love. Love is great. Love is necessary. Love is beautiful. But love is not enough. Chapter 293 - 1,500 People Give All The Relationship Advice You’ll Ever Need[1] When I got married nearly three years ago, at the wedding reception I asked some of the older and wiser folks who were attending for a few words of advice from their own relationsh.i.p.s to make sure my wife and I didn''t shit the (same) bed. I think a lot of newlyweds do this ask for relationship advice, I mean, not shit the same bed especially after a few c.o.c.ktails from the open bar they just paid for. But then I figured that with access to hundreds of thousands of smart, amazing people through my website, I could go one step further. Why not consult my readers? Why not ask them for their best relationship/marriage advice? Why not synthesize all of their wisdom and experience into something straightforward and applicable to any relationship, no matter who you are? Why not crowdsource THE ULTIMATE RELATIONSHIP GUIDE TO END ALL RELATIONSHIP GUIDES? from the sea of smart and savvy partners and lovers who come to markmanson.net? This is what I asked: anyone who has been married for 10+ years, and is still happy in their relationship . . . what lessons would you pass down to others if you could? What is working for you and your partner? Also, to people who are divorced, what didn''t work previously? The response was overwhelming. Almost 1,500 people got back to me, many of whom sent replies measured in pages, not paragraphs. It took weeks to comb through them all, but what I found stunned me. For a start, they were all incredibly repetitive. That''s not an insultCactually, it''s the opposite, not to mention, a relief. The answers came from smart and well-spoken people from all walks of life, from around the world, each with their own histories, tragedies, mistakes, and triumphs . . . and yet they were all saying pretty much the same dozen things. Which means that those dozen or so things must be pretty damn important . . . and they work Chapter 294 - Be Together For The Right Reasons[2] Before we even get into what you should do in your relationship, let''s start with what not to do. "Don''t ever be with someone because someone else pressured you to. I got married the first time because I was raised Catholic and that''s what you were supposed to do. Wrong. I got married the second time because I was miserable and lonely and thought having a loving wife would fix everything for me. Also wrong. Took me three tries to figure out what should have been obvious from the beginning, the only reason you should ever be with the person you''re with is because you simply love being around them. It really is that simple." C Greg When I sent out my request to readers for advice, I asked people who were on their second or third (or fourth) marriages what they did wrong the first few times. By far, the most common answer was "being with the person for the wrong reasons." Some of these wrong reasons included: Pressure from friends and family. Feeling like a "loser" because they were single and settling for the first person that came along. Being together for image because the relationship looked good on paper (or in photos), not because the two people actually admired each other. Being young and naive and hopelessly in love and thinking that love would solve everything. Everything that makes a relationship "work" (and by work, I mean that it is happy and sustainable for both people involved) requires a genuine, deep-level admiration for each other. Without that mutual admiration, everything else will unravel. The other "wrong" reason to enter into a relationship is, like Greg said, to "fix" yourself. This desire to use the love of someone else to soothe your own emotional problems inevitably leads to codependence, an unhealthy and damaging dynamic between two people where there exists a tacit agreement to use each other''s love as a distraction from one''s own self-loathing. We''ll get more into codependence later, but for now, it''s useful to point out that love, itself, is neutral. It is something that can be both healthy or unhealthy, helpful or harmful, depending on why and how you love someone else and are loved by someone else. By itself, love is never enough to sustain a relationship. Chapter 295 - Have Realistic Expectations About Relationsh.i.p.s And Romance[3] "You are absolutely not going to be gaga over each other every single day for the rest of your lives, and all this ''happily ever after'' bullshit is just setting people up for failure. They go into relationsh.i.p.s with these unrealistic expectations. Then, the instant they realize they aren''t ''gaga'' anymore, they think the relationship is broken and over, and they need to get out. No! There will be days, or weeks, or maybe even longer, when you aren''t all mushy-gushy in-love. You''re even going to wake up some morning and think, "Ugh, you''re still here." That''s normal! And more importantly, sticking it out is totally worth it, because . . . in a day, or a week, or maybe even longer, you''ll look at that person and a giant wave of love will inundate you, and you''ll love them so much you think your heart can''t possibly hold it all and is going to burst. Because a love that''s alive is also constantly evolving. It expands and contracts and mellows and deepens. It''s not going to be the way it used to be, or the way it will be, and it shouldn''t be. I think if more couples understood that, they''d be less inclined to panic and rush to break up or divorce." C Paula In ancient times, people genuinely considered love a sickness. Parents warned their children against it, and a.d.u.l.ts quickly arranged marriages before their children were old enough to do something dumb on the back of their out-of-control emotions. That''s because loveCthough able to make us feel giddy and high, as though we had snorted a shoe-box full of cocaineCcan also make us highly irrational. We all know that guy (or girl) who dropped out of school, sold their car, and spent the money to elope on the beaches of Tahiti. We all also know that that same guy (or girl) and how they ended up skulking back a few years later feeling like a moron, not to mention broke. Unbridled love like that is nature''s way of tricking us into doing insane and irrational things in order to remember to procreate. If we stopped long enough to think about the repercussions of having kidsCnot to mention being with the same person forever and everCfew would ever do it. As Robin Williams once said, "God gave man a brain and a p.e.n.i.s and only enough blood to operate one at a time." Blind romantic love is a trap designed to get two people to overlook each other''s faults long enough to do some baby-making. It generally only lasts for a few years at most. That dizzying high you get staring into your lover''s eyes as if they are the stars that make up the heavens yeah, that mostly goes away. Once it''s gone, you need to know that you''ve buckled yourself down with a human being you genuinely respect and enjoy being with, otherwise things are going to get rocky. True love that is, deep, the kind of abiding love that is impervious to emotional whims or fancy is a constant commitment to a person regardless of present circ.u.mstances. It''s a constant commitment to a person who you understand isn''t going to always make you happy nor should they! and a person who will need to rely on you, just as you will rely on them. That form of love is much harder, primarily because it often doesn''t feel very good. It''s unglamorous; it''s lots of early morning doctor''s visits; it''s cleaning up bodily fluids you''d rather not be cleaning up. It''s dealing with another person''s insecurities and fears even when you don''t want to. But this form of love is also far more satisfying and meaningful. And, at the end of the day, it brings true happiness, not just another series of highs. "Happily Ever After doesn''t exist. Every day you wake up and decide to love your partner and your life C the good, the bad and the ugly. Some days it''s a struggle and some days you feel like the luckiest person in the world." C Tara Most people never reach this deep, unconditional love. They get addicted to the ups and downs of romantic love. They are in it for the feels, so to speak. And when the feels run out, so do they. Some people get into a relationship as a way to compensate for something they lack or hate within themselves. This is a one-way ticket to a toxic relationship because it makes your love conditional you will love your partner only as long as they help you feel better about yourself. You will give to them only as long as they give to you. You will make them happy only as long as they make you happy. This conditionality prevents any true, deep-level intimacy from emerging, and chains the relationship to each person''s internal dramas. Chapter 296 - The Most Factor In A Relationship Is Not Communication, But Respect[4] "What I can tell you is the #1 thing . . . is respect. It''s not s.e.x.u.a.l attraction, looks, shared goals, religion or lack of, nor is it love. There are times when you won''t feel love for your partner. But you never want to lose respect for your partner. Once you lose respect, you will never get it back." C Laurie As I scanned through the hundreds of responses I received, I began to notice an interesting trend: People who had been through divorces almost always talked about communication being the most important part of making things work. Talk frequently. Talk openly. Talk about everything, even if it hurts. And there is some merit to that (which I''ll get to later). But I noticed that the thing people with happy marriages going on 20, 30, or even 40 years talked about most was respect. My sense is that these people, through sheer quantity of experience, have learned that communicationCno matter how open, transparent, and disciplinedCwill break down at some point. Conflicts are pretty much unavoidable and feelings will always be hurt. And the only thing that can save you and your partner, that can cushion you both to the hard landing of human fallibility, is an unerring respect for one another. It''s crucial that you hold each other in high esteem, believe in one another often more than you each believe in yourselves and trust that your partner is doing his/her best with what they''ve got. Without that bedrock of respect, you will begin to doubt each other''s intentions. You will judge your partner''s choices, and encroach on their independence. You will feel the need to hide things from one another for fear of criticism. And this is when the cracks in the edifice begin to appear. "My husband and I have been together 15 years. I''ve thought a lot about what seems to be keeping us together, while marriages around us crumble (seriously, it''s everywhere . . . we seem to be at that age). The one word that I keep coming back to is "respect." Of course, this means showing respect, but that is too superficial. Just showing it isn''t enough. You have to feel it deep within you. I deeply and genuinely respect [my husband] for his work ethic, his patience, his creativity, his intelligence, and his core values. From this respect comes everything else C trust, patience, perseverance (because sometimes life is really hard and you both just have to persevere). I want to hear what he has to say (even if I don''t agree with him) because I respect his opinion. I want to enable him to have some free time within our insanely busy lives because I respect how he spends his time and who he spends time with. And, really, what this mutual respect means is that we feel safe sharing our deepest, most intimate selves with each other." C Nicole As well as respecting your partner, you must also respect yourself (just as your partner must also respect his/herself). Because without that self-respect, you will not feel worthy of the respect afforded by your partnerCyou will be unwilling to accept it and you will find ways to undermine it. You will constantly feel the need to compensate and prove yourself worthy of love, which can only backfire. Respect for your partner and respect for yourself are intertwined. As another reader put it: "Respect yourself and your wife. Never talk badly to or about her. If you don''t respect your wife, you don''t respect yourself. You chose her C live up to that choice." COlav So, what does respect look like? Common examples given by many readers: NEVER talk shit about your partner or complain about them to your friends. If you have a problem with your partner, you should be having that conversation with them, not with anyone else. Talking bad about your partner to others will erode your respect for them and make you feel worse about the relationship, not better. Respect that they have different hobbies, interests, and perspectives. Just because you would spend your time and energy differently, doesn''t mean it''s better/worse. Respect that they have an equal say in the relationship, that you are a team, and if one person on the team is not happy, then the team is not succeeding. No secrets. If you''re really in this together and you respect one another, everything should be fair game. Have a crush on someone else? Discuss it. Laugh about it. Had a weird s.e.x.u.a.l fantasy that sounds ridiculous? Be open about it. Nothing should be off-limits. Chapter 297 - Talk Openly About Everything, Especially The Stuff That Hurts[5] "We always talk about what''s bothering us with each other, not [with] anyone else! We have so many friends who are in marriages that are not working well, and they tell me all about what is wrong. I can''t help themCthey need to be talking to their spouse about [it]. If you can figure out a way to be able to always talk with your spouse about what''s bugging you then you can work on the issue." C Ronnie "There can be no secrets. Secrets divide you. Always." C Tracey I receive hundreds of emails from readers each week asking for life advice. A large percentage of these emails involve difficulties in romantic relationsh.i.p.s. (For what it''s worth, these emails, too, are surprisingly repetitive.) A couple years ago, I discovered that I was answering many of these relationship emails with the same response: "Take this email you just sent to me, print it out, and show it to your partner. Then come back and ask again." (In fact, this response became so common that I actually put it on my contact form on the site because I was so tired of copying and pasting it.) If something bothers you in the relationship, you must be willing to say it out loud. Doing so builds trust, and trust builds intimacy. It may hurt, but you still need to do it because no one else can fix your relationship for you. Just as causing pain to your muscles allows them to grow back stronger, introducing some pain into your relationship through vulnerability makes the relationship stronger. Along with respect, trust was the most commonly mentioned trait crucial for a healthy relationship. Most people mentioned it in the context of jealousy and fidelity trust your partner to go off on their own, don''t get insecure or angry if you see them talking with someone else, etc. But trust goes much deeper than whether or not someone is cheating or not. Because when you''re really talking about the long-haul, you have to get into some serious life-or-death shit. If you learned you had cancer tomorrow, would you trust your partner to stick with you and take care of you? Would you trust your partner to care for your child for a week, or longer, by themselves? Do you trust them to handle your money or make sound decisions under pressure? Do you trust them to not turn on you or blame you when you screw up? These are hard questions, and they''re even harder to contemplate early on in a relationship. It''s like, "Oh, I forgot my phone at her apartment, I trust her not to sell it and buy crack with the money I think." But the deeper the commitment, the more intertwined your lives become, and the more you will have to trust your partner to responsibly and take care of you. If you cannot trust, you cannot be trusted. Distrust will breed distrust. If your partner is always snooping through your stuff, accusing you of doing things you didn''t do, and questioning all of your decisions, naturally, you will start to question their intentions as well: Why is she so insecure? What if he is hiding something? The key to fostering and maintaining trust in a relationship is for both partners to be completely transparent and vulnerable: If something is bothering you, say something. This is important not only for addressing issues as they arise, but it proves to your partner that you have nothing to hide. Those icky, insecure things you hate sharing with people? Share them with your partner. Not only is it healing, but you and your partner need to have a good understanding of each other''s insecurities and the way you each choose to compensate for them. Make promises and then stick to them. The only way to truly rebuild trust after it''s been broken is through a proven track record over time. You cannot build that track record until you own up to previous mistakes and set about correcting them. Learn to discern your partner''s own shady behavior from your own insecurities (and vice-versa). This is a hard one and will likely require some form of confrontation. But in most relationship fights, one person thinks something is completely "normal" and the other thinks it''s really grade-A "f.u.c.k.i.e.d up." It''s often extremely hard to distinguish who is being irrational and insecure and who is being reasonable and merely standing up for themselves. Be patient in rooting out what''s what, and when it''s your big, gnarly insecurity (and sometimes it will be, trust me), be honest about it. Own up to it. And strive to be better. Trust is like a china plateCif you drop it and it breaks, you can only put it back together with a lot of work and care. If you drop it and break it a second time, it will split into more pieces and it will require more time and care to put back together again. But drop and break it enough times, and it will shatter into so many pieces that you will never be able to put it back together again, no matter what you do. Chapter 298 - How To Let Go: Learning To Deal With Loss[1] Recently, my wife and I passed by the spot of one of our first dates. For the next few minutes, we smiled and reminisced and rehashed a small happy sliver of our overall shared story. That date had been absolutely magical. One of those nights you dream about when you''re an awkward teenager, but as a young a.d.u.l.t, you begin to assume it will just never happen. And then it does. A night that you only get to experience maybe a couple times in your life, if you''re lucky. And with that realization, to my surprise, I began to experience a faint sort of sadness. I grieved over a tiny loss of myselfthat c.o.c.ky, self-assured 27-year-old who walked into that restaurant having no idea what lay before him. The infinite potential that lay before us. The intensity of emotion that I didn''t know what to do with. The two people we were that night were now gone. And they would never come back. I would never get to meet my wife for the first time again. I would never get to fall wildly in love in a way that both excited and terrified me at the same time.1 There was a sweet, c.o.c.ky ignorance to my younger self that has been irrevocably lost. And despite being lost for the best reasons, it still made me sad. For a few moments, I silently mourned my past the way one mourns a distant relative''s death. And then I moved on. I''m no stranger to loss. I don''t think any of us are. I''ve watched family members and friends die. I''ve had romantic relationsh.i.p.s end in a spectacular explosion and I''ve had them end in a long, drawn out silence. I''ve lost friendsh.i.p.s, jobs, cities, and communities. I''ve lost beliefsin both myself and others. Every loss is a form of death. In every case, there once existed an experiencea thing, an idea, a personthat brought your life meaning. And now it no longer exists. As such, coping with loss always involves the same dynamics. In every casewhether it''s the loss of a friendship, a career, a limb, whateverwe are forced to reckon with the fact that we will never experience something or someone again. We are forced to feel an internal emptiness and to accept our pain. We are forced to confront that horrible, horrible word: "Never." "Never" hurts because never means that it can''t be changed. We like to think that things can be changed. It makes us feel better. "Just work a little bit harder!" "You just have to want it enough!" These phrases give us a lil'' boot in the ass. They say if you don''t like it, get out there and change it. But "never" means it''s over. It''s gone. And that''s really hard to bear. You can''t bring a dead person back to life. You can''t restart a broken relationship. You can''t fix a wasted youth or redo a past mistake or un-say the words that destroyed a friendship. When it''s gone, it''s gone. And it will never be the same, no matter what you do. And this, in a real psychological sense, destroys a small piece of you. A piece that must eventually be rebuilt. Chapter 299 - Every Loss Is A Partial Loss Of Who You Are[2] One of the most common emails I get from readers is from people who want to get their ex back. Some of them word it more nicely than thatthey say they want to "make things up" or "fix things," but really it comes down to, "He/she left my ass and it hurts; what do I say or do to get them back?" This question never made sense to me. For one, if there was a tried-and-true way to get an ex back, then no one would ever break up or divorce. The world would be flooded with happily married couples. And I''d probably be out of a job. But more importantly, trying to "win" back an ex is impossible because even if "it works," the reformed relationship will never resemble the one of the past: it will be a fragile, contrived affair, composed of two wholly different and skeptical individuals, replaying the same problems and dramas over and over, while being constantly reminded of why things failed in the first place. When I think of all of the happy couples I know, you know how many of them say, "Oh, he was a total piece of shit, but then he apologized and bought me cake and flowers and now we''re happily married"? None of them. What these emailers don''t get is that relationsh.i.p.s don''t end because two people did something wrong to each other. Relationsh.i.p.s end because two people are something wrong for each other. We''ve all been through breakups before. And we''ve all, in our moments of weakness, pined for our exes, written embarrassing emails/text messages, drank too much vodka on a Tuesday night, and silently cried to that one 80s song that reminds us of them. But why do breakups hurt so bad? And why do we find ourselves feeling so lost and helpless in their wake? This article will be covering coping with all loss, but because the loss of intimate relationsh.i.p.s (partners and family members) is by far the most painful form of loss, we will primarily be using those as examples throughout. But first, we need to understand why loss sucks so bad. So I''m going to whip out an epic bullet point list to set everything straight: To be healthy, functioning individuals, we need to feel good about ourselves. To feel good about ourselves, we need to feel that our time and energy is spent meaningfully. Meaning is the fuel of our minds. When you run out of it, everything else stops working. The primary way we generate meaning is through relationsh.i.p.s.2 Note that I''ll be using the term "relationship" loosely throughout this article. We don''t just have relationsh.i.p.s with other people (although those relationsh.i.p.s tend to be the most meaningful to us), we also have relationsh.i.p.s with our career, with our community, with groups and ideas that we identify with, activities we engage in, and so on. All of these relationsh.i.p.s can potentially give our lives meaning and, therefore, make us feel good about ourselves. Our relationsh.i.p.s don''t just give our lives meaning, they also define our understanding of ourselves. I am a writer because of my relationship with writing. I am a son because of my relationship with my parents. I am an American because of my relationship with my country. If any of these things get taken from melike, let''s say I get shipped to North Korea by accident (oops) and can''t write anymoreit will throw me into a mini identity crisis because the activity that has given my life so much meaning the past decade will no longer be available to me (that and, you know, being stuck in North Korea). When one of these relationsh.i.p.s is destroyed, that part of our identity is destroyed along with it. Consequently, the more meaning the relationship added to my life, the more significant its role in my identity, the more crippling the loss will be if/when I lose it. Since personal relationsh.i.p.s generally give us the most meaning (and therefore, happiness), these are the relationsh.i.p.s that hurt the most when lost. When we lose a relationship, that meaning is stripped away from us. Suddenly this thing that created so much meaning in our life no longer exists. As a result, we will feel a sense of emptiness where that meaning used to be. We will start to question ourselves, to ask whether we really know ourselves, whether we made the right decision. In extreme circ.u.mstances, this questioning will become existential. We will ask whether our life is actually meaningful at all. Or if we''re just wasting everybody''s oxygen. This feeling of emptinessor more accurately, this lack of meaningis more commonly known as depression. Most people believe that depression is a deep sadness. This is mistaken. While depression and sadness often occur together, they are not the same thing. Sadness occurs when something feels bad. Depression occurs when something feels meaningless. When something feels bad, at least it has meaning. In depression, everything becomes a big blank void. And the deeper the depression, the deeper the lack of meaning, the deeper the pointlessness of any action, to the point where a person will struggle to get up in the morning, to shower, to speak to other people, to eat food, etc. The healthy response to loss is to slowly but surely construct new relationsh.i.p.s and bring new meaning into one''s life. We often come to refer to these post-loss periods as "a fresh start," or "a new me," and this is, in a literal sense, true. You are constructing a "new you" by adopting new relationsh.i.p.s to replace the old. The unhealthy response to loss is to refuse to admit that part of you is dead and gone. It''s to cling to the past and desperately try to recover it or relive it in some way. People do this because their entire identity and self-respect was wrapped up in that missing relationship. They feel that they are incapable or unworthy of loving and meaningful relationsh.i.p.s with someone or something else going forward. Ironically, the fact that many people are not able to love or respect themselves is almost always the reason their relationship failed in the first place. Chapter 300 - Toxic Vs Healthy Relationsh.i.p.s[3] To dive into why some people have such a hard time letting go, we need to understand a simple dichotomy: A toxic relationship is when two people are emotionally dependent on each otherthat is, they use each other for the approval and respect they are unable to give themselves. A healthy relationship is when two people are emotionally interdependent with each otherthat is, they approve of and respect each other because they approve of and respect themselves. Toxic relationsh.i.p.s need drama to survive. Toxic people, because they don''t love or respect themselves, are never quite able to completely accept the idea that someone else could love and respect them either. And if someone comes around giving them love and respect, they don''t trust it or won''t accept it. It''s kind of like that old Groucho Marx trope: "I''d never join a club that would have me as a member." Ergo, toxic people are only able to accept affection from people who don''t love and respect them either. Now, when you have an emotional cl.u.s.terf.u.c.k like thistwo people who don''t love and respect themselves OR each otherthen obviously, they begin to feel really insecure around each other. What if she leaves me? What if she realizes I''m a loser? What if she disapproves of the pizza toppings I ordered? As such, these people need a way to consistently test whether or not the other person actually wants to be with them. These tests are accomplished by creating drama. Drama is when someone creates unnecessary conflict that generates a false sense of meaning for a short period of time. When a toxic person f.u.c.ks up their own relationship and their partner forgives them and overlooks it, it causes an otherwise shitty relationship to feel non-shitty for a short period of time. And that feeling causes the relationship to feel really meaningful.They say to themselves, "Wow, I gave his dog away, and he''s still with me. This must be true love." And everything is rosy and peachy and some other pleasant-sounding colorfor a while. Because drama doesn''t last. The underlying insecurity remains. So pretty soon, the toxic couple will need another injection of drama to keep the farce of a meaningful relationship going. Healthy relationsh.i.p.s avoid drama because they find that unnecessary conflict detracts from the meaning and importance already generated by the relationship. Healthy people simply don''t tolerate drama. They expect each other to take responsibility for themselves. Only then can they really take care of each other. Healthy relationsh.i.p.s, instead of inventing conflict to affirm their love and mutual support, minimize conflict to make more room for the love and support that is already there. Let''s go back to the example of my nostalgia for when I met my wife. If our relationship was toxic and I were a perpetually insecure f.u.c.ktard in my relationship, I could have responded to my small amount of sadness and grief by picking a fight with my wife, blaming her for the loss of that young excitement and new-relationship passion, bitching at her that things aren''t the way they used to be. The resultant drama would do two things: 1) it would give me a sense of meaning again; here I am, fighting for a more passionate, exciting relationship with my wife! And goddamnit, she has to agree with me and do something about it! 2) after being a total d.i.c.khole to her for an hour or three, the fact that she defended herself, placated me, or made an effort to resolve the (imaginary) conflict, would once again prove to me that she loves me and all would be right in my heart''s worldat least until I started feeling insecure again. Another toxic response is to simply decide that if my wife can''t give me that new excitement, then I''ll just go find it outside the marriage. Banging some rando would reaffirm my insecure feelings of being unloved and unwanted. For a while, at least. And I would tell myself all sorts of entitled bullshit, like "I deserve" to feel that newness and excitement with a woman again. And that ultimately, it''s my wife''s fault that my heart (a.k.a., p.e.n.i.s) strayed. But instead of all this, being the healthy couple we are, I simply mentioned something like, "Wow, weren''t those nights together great? I kind of miss them" And then silently reminded myself that relationsh.i.p.s evolve, that the joy and benefits of love in week three are not the same as the joy and benefits in year three or decade three. And that''s fine. Love grows and expands and changes, and just because you possessed a fleeting excitement, does not mean it was better. Or even necessary at all. Chapter 301 - You Might Be In A Toxic Relationship If…[4] For those of you freaking out that your relationship might be toxic and ruining your breakfast every morning, here''s a handy little gray box to help you figure it out. 1. You can''t imagine having a happy life without your relationship. A toxic relationship is a deal with the devil. You resign your identity and self-worth to this person or this thing, and in return, that relationship is supposed to offer the meaning and purpose for your life that you so desperately crave. But what you don''t realize is that by sacrificing your identity to one person or thing (or one person-thing, not here to judge), the relationship generates more insecurity, not less. It envelopes your life, demanding all of your time and attention, rendering all other meaning moot, all other relationsh.i.p.s worthless. If the thought of losing your relationship feels as though your life would be over, then you''re probably cocooned in a toxic relationship. And look, it''s not just people who are toxic. Workplaces can be toxic. Family members can be toxic. Groups such as churches, political groups, self-help seminarsyou can have a toxic relationship with all of them.4 2. The relationship harms other relationsh.i.p.s in your life. Toxic relationsh.i.p.s are flames that consume all of the oxygen from our hearts, suffocating the other relationsh.i.p.s in our lives. A toxic relationship soon becomes the lens in which you view all other relationsh.i.p.s in your life. Nights out with friends are dominated by unloading the drama and baggage you''ve acc.u.mulated since you last saw them. You find yourself unable to hold conversations that don''t relate to your relationship for more than a few minutes. Compared to your toxic relationship, the world feels like a cold, bland, grey mess. You couldn''t care less. You find yourself compulsively thinking about your relationship, even in places where it''s irrational or inappropriateat a basketball game, in the middle of a job interview, while calling your mother on a Tuesday, while listening to your kid''s shitty violin recital. Nothing else matters. Nothing else feels like it should matter. When enrapt in a toxic relationship, friends will find you selfish and unbearable, family members will disapprove and then quietly distance themselves. Some friends or family may try to help, telling you that your relationship is hurting you, but this will usually make things worse, not better. Outside people''s attempts to intervene will only be interpreted as more drama to stoke the toxic flame. 3. The more love you give, the more hurt and angry you become. Because the drama is always calling the toxic relationship into question, the relationship demands all of your thought and energy. But then the relationship only punishes you further for this thought and energy, enabling a downward spiral of shittiness. Toxic relationsh.i.p.s are black holes. Not only do they suck you in deeper and deeper, but they have their own force of gravity. Any attempt to break away just stokes the drama flame further, which then sucks you right back to where you began. Toxic relationsh.i.p.s often have a "Damned if you do, damned if you don''t" quality to them. When you''re in them, you can''t wait to get away from them. But when you''re away from them, because you''ve lost your identity, you have no idea what to do without them. Chapter 302 - Why It’s Harder To Let Go Of Toxic Relationsh.i.p.s Than Healthy Ones[5] Toxic relationsh.i.p.s are addictive because drama is addictive. Like narcotics or gambling, drama is unpredictable; it is numbing and distracting, and it hits you with unexpected rewards of joy or excitement. What''s worse, is that we become desensitized to drama. We need to find greater and greater conflicts to prove to ourselves that we''re loved. The old conflicts will no longer suffice. You started out with a fight about who takes out the garbage. Now he takes out the garbage. But you still feel insecure and unloved. So you start a fight over how often he calls his mother. So he stops calling his mother (around you at least). But that insecurity remains. So you must up the ante again. Time to piss in his favorite pair of shoes and see how he takes that. Eventually, the drama reaches a boiling point and the relationship will begin to painfully evaporate, scalding everyone involved. But something else happens when we''re caught up in a drama spiral. As we up the ante and the drama increases, we become more emotionally dependent on the person, not less. We invest so much into the drama that we come to believe that our partner is far more important to our well being than they actually are. Drama is therefore a psychological prisma funhouse mirrorskewing the meaning that a relationship brings us. In our eyes, this person or this group or this activity is everything we need, when in reality, it''s probably the one relationship that likely harms us the most. Incidentally, people who don''t know how to let go of a relationship are often those who were in a relationship with someone who was either abusive or completely disinterested. That''s because, in these relationsh.i.p.s, a breakup changes nothing. When they were together, the person spent all of their time and energy trying to win their partner over. After they split, they continue spending all of their time and energy trying to win their partner over. Same shit, different day. Similarly, people who are unable to accept the loss of their relationship will badger their ex and instigate drama with them to re-live the sensation of that relationship. But they need to create that drama again and again to keep that feeling alive. Drama, of course, can infect other relationsh.i.p.s as well. People create drama at work to overcome their insecurity of not being valuable or appreciated. People create drama with authorities or governments when they feel an existential insecurity. And people create drama with themselves when they imagine they aren''t living up to some sort of past glory. Chapter 303 - How To Get Better At Accepting Loss[6] Step 1: Understand That Our Memories Lie To Us And Convince Us That Everything Was Totally Awesome Back Then, Even Though It Wasn''t. I graduated university in 2007, a.k.a., the worst job market in four generations. I struggled after school. I had no money. Most of my friends moved away. And damn, did I miss school. School had been easy. It had been fun. And I was good at it. Then I went back. I had some friends who were a year behind me, and I spent a day visiting them, hanging out on campus and going to some parties that night. And man, it was a downer. I realized something: school had actually kind of sucked. I had just forgotten about all the sucky parts and only remembered the good. Pretty soon I couldn''t wait to go back home and get away. Our minds have a tendency to only remember the best qualities of our past. We delete the tedious and monotonous and just remember the highlight reel. Ever meet up with an ex a few years later and wonder to yourself, "Holy shit, me and this person dated?!?" Yeah, that''s because our memories aren''t accurate. Our brain always thinks that there''s one thing that will make us happy, that there''s one thing that will fix all our problems. And the same way we tend to falsely believe that achieving one goal in the future will make us live happily ever after, we also tend to falsely believe that recapturing something in our past will make us live happily ever after. But in both cases, our mind is simply reaching for something to remove it from the present. And the present is where happiness is. You know, buried beneath all the bullshit. Step 2: Surround Yourself With People Who Love You And Appreciate You For Who You Are. So, your mind is like a chair with a bunch of spindly legs. Some legs are bigger than others. And if enough legs get knocked out, you have to replace them. Well, relationsh.i.p.s are legs on your chair. And when you lose one leg, you need to make the other legs bigger to compensate for its loss. Otherwise, the chair won''t hold your fat asswhich, I guess, in this strange analogy, is your happinessand you''ll fall over and spill your milkshake.5 What that means is you have to reconnect with people who care about you. It''s these people and these activities that will carry us through and be the emotional bulwark as we begin the hard process of rebuilding ourselves. This sounds easier than it is. Because when you''ve been destroyed by some loss in your life, the last thing you want to do is call up your friends to go get a beer. Or to call mom and admit that you''re a total failure. This is particularly difficult for people exiting a toxic relationship. That''s because people who have toxic relationsh.i.p.s in one area of life often have toxic relationsh.i.p.s in other areas. As a result, they don''t have people who appreciate them unconditionally. Everything is drama. And their breakup in one relationship will often merely be used as another form of drama in others. My recommendation: If you''ve lost one toxic relationship, why stop there? Use your mini personal crisis as a litmus test to see who genuinely cares about you and who''s just in it for the drama injections. Good people and good relationsh.i.p.s will offer unconditional support. Toxic friends and family members will look to adopt the drama of your loss and make it theirs as well. This just makes everything worse. Step 3: Invest In Your Relationship With Yourself. Generally, people who depend on toxic relationsh.i.p.s for their self-worth do so because they''ve never really developed functioning relationsh.i.p.s with themselves (and no, copious amounts of masturbation doesn''t count.) What the hell do I mean by "relationship with yourself?" Basically, how do you treat your own body, mind, and emotions? This is the time to join a gym, to stop eating tubs of ice cream, to get outside and get reacquainted with your old friend called sunshine. It''s the time to sign up for that course you''ve always wanted to sign up for, to read that book that''s been sitting on your nightstand for six months, to finally floss for the first time ever. Now is the time to also let yourself feel sad or angry or guilty without self-judgment. And if you find it hard to get motivated to do all these things, use your loss as motivation. If you''re the victim of a disgusting breakup, well, self-improvement is the best revenge against any ex. If you''ve lost someone close to you tragically, imagine what they would have wished for you and go out and live it. If you''ve lost something dear to you in your life, or aged out of a time of your life when you felt important and wanted, commit to building something even better for yourself today. Step 4: If You Were Stranded On A Desert Island And Could Do Whatever You Wanted To Dodo That. One of the healthiest things you can do after a loss is get back to basics: do something for the simple pleasure of doing it. If no one was around, if you had no obligations on your time or energy at all, what would you spend your time doing? Chances are you aren''t doing much of it. And that''s part of the problem. Get back to it. Of course, there are some people who have no idea what they would do with their time if they had no obligations or no one to impress. And this is an incredibly dire sign. It implies that everything they''ve ever done is for the simple sake of pleasing others and/or getting something transactional out of their relationsh.i.p.s. No wonder their relationsh.i.p.s went south. (If you find yourself in this position, there''s a new course on my site that can help you find that direction you need to get started.) Step 5: If You Lost An Intimate Relationship, Don''t Be Afraid To Stay Single For A While. After losing an intimate relationship, many people''s natural inclination is to immediately fill the void with either another relationship, or by seeking a bunch of attention, affection, and s.e.x. This is a bad idea. As it distracts one from the healthy activities listed above. If you''re on the wrong side of a breakup (or even worse, you lose someone to tragedy), even if the relationship was healthy and secure, you need time to recuperate emotionally. And it''s hard to do that if you''re immediately throwing your heart to the next person who comes around. Stay single a while. Learn to spend time on yourself again. And only re-enter the dating world when you''re genuinely excited to. Not because you feel like you have to. Chapter 304 - Eventually, Everything Is Lost[7] Life is a long series of losses. It''s pretty much the only thing that is guaranteed in our existence. From moment to moment, year to year, we give up and leave behind former selves that we will never recover. We lose family, friends, relationsh.i.p.s, jobs, and communities. We lose beliefs, experiences, perspectives, and passions. And ultimately, we will one day lose our existence entirely. If you think back to a hard time in your life, recognize that to get out of those hard times, you had to accept losses. You had to lose relationsh.i.p.s and pursuits, you had to lose a lot of meaning in order to create greater, healthier meaning. In that sense, all growth requires a degree of loss. And all loss incites further growth. The two must occur together. People like to see growth as this euphoric, joyous thing. But it''s not. Real change brings a mixture of emotions with ita grief of what you''ve left behind along with a satisfaction at what you''ve become. A soft sadness mixed with a simple joy. That night, my wife and I continued walking. And soon, we came across a new restaurant, just opened, that had new things that we wanted to try, new experiences we were prepared to share. We invited ourselves in. Chapter 305 - If Self-discipline Feels Difficult, Then You’re Doing It Wrong[1] When I was in college, there were some people on the internet who claimed that you could train yourself to sleep as little as two hours per day. Keep in mind, this was back in the early 2000s when we all still believed random shit we read on the internet. Here''s how the story went: There was a hyper-productive sleep schedule that had been discovered by military scientists. They were testing the limits of sleep deprivation on soldiers and made this startling discovery. Supposedly, great historical figures like Napoleon and Da Vinci and Tesla followed the same sleep schedule and it''s why they were so productive and influential in history. Supposedly, anybody (i.e., you and me) could achieve this state of daily hyper-productivity. Supposedly, all we needed was enough willpower to barrel through days of sleep deprivation and "acclimate" to this new superhuman schedule. Supposedly, this was all true and verified and somehow made sense. Supposedly. The scheme was called "The Uberman Sleep Schedule," and here''s how you did it: Sleep follows the 80/20 Rulethat is, 80% of your recovery comes from 20% of the time you''re unconscious. Conversely, 80% of the time you''re asleep, you''re a lazy piece of shit. This uber-efficient portion of sleep is called REM sleep and only lasts approximately 15-20 minutes at a time. That means for every two hours that your body is asleep, really only the last 20 minutes or so is "useful" sleep. Thus, when you sleep eight hours during the night, only 80-100 of those minutes are actually causing you to feel rested and restored.1 People on the internet decided this was inefficient and needed to be fixed. What the military scientists (supposedly) discovered is that if you''re severely sleep deprived, your body will immediately fall into REM sleep the second you pass out. It does this in order to compensate for its lack of rest. People on the internet decided this was incredibly efficient. The idea of the Uberman Sleep Schedule was that if you took 20-minute naps, every four hours, around the clock, for days and weeks on end, you would "train" your brain to fall into REM sleep instantly the moment you laid down. Then, once your REM sleep was over, you would feel rested and restored for the next 3-4 hours. As long as you continued to take 20-minute naps every four hours, you could effectively stay awake forever. Congratulations, you were now an Uberman. Here, have a gold star. But there was a catch: supposedly it took 1-2 weeks of intense sleep deprivation to properly "adjust" to the Uberman Sleep Schedule. You had to stay up all night, every night, forcing yourself to only sleep for 20 minutes at a time, six different times per day. And if at any point you screwed up and overslept your nap, all would be undone and you would have to start over. PS: Caffeine is not allowed. And alcohol might as well be suicide. Therefore, the Uberman Sleep Schedule became this kind of decathlon of willpower among internet self-help peoplean ultimate test of one''s self-discipline with the ultimate pay-off: an extra 20-30% of productive waking hours per day, every day for the rest for your life. That''s like having an extra two days each week, or an extra three-and-a-half months per year. That''s insane! Over the course of one''s life, that''s over a decade of extra waking hours. Imagine everything you could accomplish with an extra decade of life, all while everyone else is asleep. Like an idiot, I tried to do this. Multiple times. For years, I obsessed with achieving the Uberman Sleep Schedule. And for years, I continually failed at it. You have probably pulled an all-nighter before. Not sleeping for one night is not that difficult. Especially if there are deadlines and/or drugs involved. What''s difficult are the second and third and fourth nights. Extreme sleep deprivation is a crash course on how fragile our mind actually is. By day three, you will start falling asleep standing up. You will doze while walking down the street in broad daylight. You forget basic facts like your mother''s name or whether you had eaten that day, orf.u.c.k, what day is it? By day four you become delirious, imagining that people are speaking to you when they''re not, believing that you''re writing an email when you''re not, and then discovering that you don''t even remember who you were supposed to be emailing. I used to walk in circles around my living room for an hour, just to keep myself awake. When nap time came, I would crash, falling unconscious instantaneously, and proceed to have intense, f.u.c.k.i.e.d up dreams that seemed like they lasted for five hours. Then, 20 minutes later, my alarm would wake me up, where I would spend the next three hours and change desperately lying to myself, trying to convince myself that I felt rested and couldn''t wait to get back towait, what was I supposed to be doing again? In the end, I could never make it through the fourth day. Each time I failed, I felt intense disappointment at my own lack of willpower. I believed this was something I should be able to do. It pissed me off that some random people on the internet could supposedly do this thing that I couldn''t. I felt like it meant there was something wrong with me. That if I didn''t have the self-discipline to sleep deprive myself for weeks on end, then what the f.u.c.k, Mark? Get your shit together! So I tortured myself. And the more I tortured myself, the more unrealistic my expectations for myself became. *** Chances are, at some point in your life, you''ve tried to change your behavior through sheer willpower. And chances are, you also failed miserably. Don''t feel bad! This is what happens most of the time. Most people think of self-discipline in terms of willpower. If we see someone who wakes up at 5 AM every day, eats an avocado-chia-fennel-apricot-papaya smoothie each meal, snorts brussel sprout flakes, and works out for three hours before even wiping their ass in the morning, we assume they''re achieving this through straight-up self-abusethat there is some insatiable inner demon driving them like a slave to do everything right, no matter what. But this isn''t true. Because, if you actually know anybody like this, you''ll notice something really frightening about them: they actually enjoy it.2 Seeing self-discipline in terms of pure willpower fails because beating ourselves up for not trying hard enough doesn''t work. In fact, it backfires. And, as anyone who has ever tried to go on a diet will tell you, it usually only makes it worse. The problem is that willpower works like a muscle, if you work it too hard, it becomes fatigued and gives out. The first week committing to a new diet, or a new workout regimen, or a new morning routine, things go great. But by the second or third week, you''re back to your old late-night, cheeto-loving ways. The same way you can''t just walk into a gym for the first time and lift 500 pounds, you can''t just start waking up at 4 AM on a dime, much less do something ridiculous like an Uberman sleep schedule. To have a chance of success, your willpower must be trained steadily over a long period of time. But this leaves us in a conundrum: if we view self-discipline in terms of willpower, it creates a chicken-or-the-egg situation: To build willpower, we need self-discipline over a long period of time; but to have self-discipline, we need massive amounts of willpower. So, which came first? What should we do? How do we start? Or, more importantly, where the f.u.c.k is the Ben and Jerry''s? Viewing self-discipline in terms of willpower creates a paradox for the simple reason that it''s not true. As we''ll see, building self-discipline in your own life is a completely different exercise. Chapter 306 - Why Pure Willpower Is Bad[2] Our behaviors are not based on logic or ideas. Logic and ideas can influence our decisions, but ultimately, our feelings determine what we do. We do what feels good and avoid what feels bad. And the only way we can ever NOT do what feels good, and do what feels bad instead, is through a temporary boost of willpowerto deny ourselves our desires and feelings and instead do what was "right." Throughout history, virtue was seen in terms of this sort of self-denial and self-negation. To be a good person, you had to not only deny yourself any pleasure, but you also had to show your willingness to hurt yourself. You had monks hitting themselves and locking themselves in rooms for days and not eating or even speaking for years on end. You had armies of men throwing themselves into battle for little or no reason. You had people abstaining from s.e.x until marriage, or even for life. Shit was not fun. This classical approach is where our assumption that "willpower = self-discipline" originally comes from. It operates on the belief that self-discipline is achieved through denying or rejecting one''s emotions. You want that taco? BAD MARK! YOU DON''T WANT SHIT! YOU ARE SHIT! YOU DESERVE TO STARVE YOU INGRATE! The classical approach fused the concept of willpoweri.e., the ability to deny or reject one''s desires and emotionswith morality. Someone who can say no to the taco is a good person. The person who can''t is a failure of a human being. THE CLASSICAL APPROACH TO SELF-DISCIPLINE Self-Discipline = Willpower = Self-Denial = Good Person This fusion of willpower and morality had good intentions. It recognized (correctly) that, when left to our own instinctive desires, we all become narcissistic assholes. If we could get away with it, we would eat, f.u.c.k, or kill pretty much anything or anyone within a ten-meter vicinity. So the great religious leaders and philosophers and kings throughout history preached a concept of virtue that involved suppressing our feelings in favor of rationality and denying our impulses in favor of developing willpower. And the classic approach works! kind of. Well, okay, while it makes a more stable society, it also totally f.u.c.ks us up individually. The classic approach has the paradoxical effect of training us to feel bad about all the things that make us feel good. It basically seeks to teach us self-discipline through shaming usby making us hate ourselves for simply being who we are. And the idea is that once we are saddled with a sufficient amount of shame about all the things that give us pleasure, we''ll be so self-loathing and terrified of our own desires that we''ll just fall in line and do what we''re told. Chapter 307 - In Case You Didn’t Know: Shame F.u.c.ks You Up[3] Disciplining people through shame works for a while, but in the long-run, it backfires. As an example, let''s use perhaps the most common source of shame on the planet: s.e.x. The brain likes s.e.x. That''s because a) s.e.x feels awesome, and b) we''re biologically evolved to crave it. Pretty self-explanatory. Now, if you grew up like most peopleand especially if you''re a womanthere''s a good chance that you were taught that s.e.x was this evil, lecherous thing that corrupted you and makes you a horrible, icky person. You were punished for wanting it, and therefore, have a lot of conflicted feelings around s.e.x: it sounds amazing but is also scary; it feels right but also somehow so, so wrong. As a result, you still want s.e.x, but you also drag around a lot of guilt and anxiety and doubt about yourself. This mixture of feelings generates an unpleasant tension within a person. And as time goes on, that tension grows. Because the desire for s.e.x never goes away. And as the desire continues, the shame grows. Eventually, this tension becomes unbearable and must resolve itself in one of two ways. The first option is to overindulge. The tension has become so great that we feel the only way to resolve it is by going all out in a spectacular way. Hooker orgies. Compulsive masturbation for days on end. Rampant infidelity. And, sadly, often s.e.x.u.a.l violence. But indulgence doesn''t really resolve the tension. It just kicks the can down the road. Because after you put the c.o.c.k rings away and the hookers have gone home, the shame and guilt come back. And they come back with a vengeance. So, if indulgence doesn''t work, what about the other option? Well, the only other option to escape that internal tension is to numb it. To distract oneself from the tension by finding some larger, more palatable tension. Alcohol is a common one. Partying and drugs, of course. Watching 14 hours of television each day can be another option. Or just eating yourself half to death. Sometimes, people do find productive ways to distract themselves from their shame. They run ultra-marathons or work 100-hour work weeks for years on end. These are, ironically, many of the people we come to admire for having inhuman willpower. But self-denial comes easy when, deep down, you f.u.c.k.i.n.g hate yourself. Because shame can''t be numbed away. It just changes form. The person who exercises religiously to escape their self-loathing will eventually find ways to loathe themselves for their exercise habits. And soon, what started out as a remarkable work ethic in the gym morphs into some form of body dysmorphia, like those guys who inject synthol into their arms to make themselves look like Popeye. Similarly, the businessman who transmutes his shame into stellar work at the office eventually develops shame about his productivity to the point where he literally can''t go home. He''s terrified to do it. Any non-productive minute feels like an untenable failure. And while the rest of his life falls apart around him, he''s only worrying about spreadsheets and quarterly numbers. This is why the most hardcore, uncompromising people are usually the ones who are most compromised. It''s why the most fundamentalist religious leaders who rail against the immorality of the world are always the same leaders who are ordering f.u.c.kboys off Craigslist.3 It''s why the most "spiritually enlightened" gurus are also the ones blackmailing and extorting their followers. It''s why the politicians most vocal about party loyalty and patriotism are always the ones shooting up meth in the airport bathroom. They are running away from their demons. And one way to do that is to create shinier, more socially acceptable demons. Self-discipline based on self-denial cannot be sustained in the long-run. It only breeds greater dysfunction, and ultimately results in self-destruction. THE TRUTH ABOUT THE CLASSICAL APPROACH Self-Denial = Emotional Dysfunction = Self-Destruction = -(Self-Discipline) Here''s the problem with all thisand it''s so obvious once you hear it, I can''t believe we have to say it. You can will yourself to go to the gym if you don''t feel like it for a few days. But unless the gym ends up feeling good in some way, you will eventually lose motivation, run out of willpower and stop going. You can will yourself to stop drinking for a day or a week, but unless you feel the reward of not drinking, then you will eventually go back to it. This is why my polyphasic sleeping nightmare consistently ended in disaster. Staying up all night and sleep-depriving myself produced no tangible benefits. It produced no good feelings. It produced nothing but misery and delirium. It was an exercise in self-abuse. Therefore, my willpower eventually ran out and my emotions took over, driving me to pass out for about sixteen hours straight. Any emotionally healthy approach to self-discipline must work with your emotions, rather than against them. Ultimately, self-discipline is not based on willpower or self-denial, but it''s actually based on the opposite: self-acceptance. Chapter 308 - Self-Discipline Through Self-Acceptance[4] Let''s say you''re trying to lose weight and your big hang up is that you run through about three liters of ice cream each week. You''re an ice cream fiend. You''ve tried stopping through willpower. You''ve tried diets with your friends. You''ve told your partner to never ever buy ice cream again in a desperate attempt to blame them for your own shortcomings. But nothing''s worked. Not a day goes by that you don''t down about a thousand calories of creamy goodness. And you hate yourself for it. And that''s your first problem. Step one to self-discipline is to de-link your personal failings from moral failings. You have to accept that you cave to indulgence and that this doesn''t necessarily make you a horrible person. We all cave to indulgence in some shape or form. We all harbor shame. We all fail to reign in our impulses. And we all like a good f.u.c.k.i.n.g bowl of ice cream from time to time. This sort of acceptance is way more complicated than it sounds. We don''t even realize all of the ways that we judge ourselves for our perceived failings. Thoughts are constantly streaming through our heads and without even realizing it, we''re tacking on "because I''m a horrible person" to the end of a lot of them. "I f.u.c.k.i.e.d up that project at work, because I''m a horrible person" "The whole kitchen is a mess and my parents will be here in 20 minutes, because I''m a horrible person" "Other people are good at this, but I''m not, because I''m a horrible person" "Everyone probably thinks I''m an idiot, because I''m a horrible person" Hell, you might even be tacking on these self-judgments right now while reading this! Man, I judge myself like this all the time because I''m a horrible person. Here''s the thing: there''s a sick sort of comfort that comes from these self-judgments. That''s because they relieve us of the responsibility for our own actions. If I decide that I can''t give up ice cream because I''m a horrible personthat "horrible person-ness" precludes my ability to change or improve in the futuretherefore, it''s technically out of my hands, isn''t it? It implies that there''s nothing I can do about my cravings or compulsions, so f.u.c.k it, why try? There''s a kind of fear and anxiety that comes when we relinquish our belief in our own horribleness. We actually resist accepting ourselves because the responsibility is scary. Because it suggests that not only are we capable of change in the future (and change is always scary) but that we have perhaps wasted much of our past. And that never feels good either. In fact, another little trap is when people accept that they''re not a horrible personbut then decide that they are a horrible person for not realizing that years ago! But, once we''ve de-coupled our emotions from our moral judgmentsonce we''ve decided that just because something makes us feel bad doesn''t mean we are badthis opens us up to some new perspectives. For one, it suggests that emotions are merely internal behavioral mechanisms that can be manipulated like anything else. Just like putting your floss next to your toothbrush reminds you to floss every morning, once the moral judgments are removed, feeling bad because you relapsed on the cookies and cream can simply be a reminder or motivator to address the underlying issue. We must address the emotional problem the compulsion is trying to numb or cover up. You compulsively eat tubs of ice cream each week. Why? Well, eatingespecially sugary, unhealthy foodis a form of numbing. It brings the body comfort. It''s sometimes known as "emotional eating" and the same way an alcoholic drinks to escape her demons, the overeater eats to escape his. So, what are those demons? What is that shame? Find it. Address it. And most importantly: accept it. Find that deep, dark ugly part of yourself. Confront it, head on, allowing yourself to feel all the awful, icky emotions that come with it. Then accept that this is a part of you and it''s never going away. And that''s fine. You can work with this, rather than against it. And here''s where the magic happens. When you stop feeling awful about yourself, two things happen: There''s nothing to numb anymore. Therefore, suddenly those tubs of ice cream seem pointless. You see no reason to punish yourself. On the contrary, you like yourself, so you want to take care of yourself. More importantly, it feels good to take care of yourself. And, incredibly, that tub of ice cream no longer feels good. It''s no longer scratching some internal itch. Instead, it makes you feel sick and bloated and gross. Similarly, exercising no longer feels like this impossible task that you''ll never be up for. On the contrary, it replenishes and enhances you. And those good feelings start showing up that make it feel effortless. *** But you don''t necessarily have to do this deep ther.a.p.eutic work to gain self-discipline. Simply understanding and accepting your emotions for what they are can allow you to work with them rather than against them. Here''s one way to do this: call up your best friend and tell them to come over. Take out your checkbook. Write a check for $2,000 to them, sign it, and give it to them. Then tell them that if you ever eat ice cream again, they can cash it. Done. Eating ice cream will now cause a much greater emotional problem than the one it solves. And, as if by magic, refraining from eating ice cream will begin to feel really f.u.c.k.i.n.g good. Social accountability works in the same way. It''s much easier to meditate for a long time when you''re in a room full of people than it is to do it by yourself. Why? Because when you''re in a room full of people, you don''t want to be the lone asshole who gets up and walks out after three minutes, like you do at home! The social pressure makes it so that not meditating causes a bigger emotional problem than meditating for the full amount of time. You can also do this through positive reinforcement: find ways to reward yourself for doing the correct behavior. Research shows that this is actually how new habits are formed: you do the desired behavior and then reward yourself for it. Chapter 309 - Result: Self-Discipline Without Willpower[5] Once you resolve much of your shame, and once you''ve created situations to provide greater emotional benefits from doing the desired behavior than not doing it, what you end up with is the appearance of airtight self-discipline, without actually putting forth any effort. You end up with discipline without willpower. You wake up early because it feels good to wake up early. You eat kale instead of smoking crack because it feels good to eat the kale and feels bad to smoke crack. You stop lying because it feels worse to lie than to say an important truth. You exercise because it feels better to exercise than it does to sit around, covering yourself in a thin layer of Cheeto dust. It''s not that the pain goes away. No, the pain is still there. It''s just that the pain now has meaning. It has purpose. And that makes all the difference. You work with the pain rather than against it. You pursue it rather than run from it. And with every pursuit, you get stronger and healthier and happier. And eventually, from the outside, it will look as though you''re putting forth monumental effort, that you have this endless reservoir of willpower. Yet, to you, it will feel like nothing at all. Chapter 310 - The Attention Diet[1] In the time it took me to outline this article I checked Twitter three times and my email twice. I responded to four emails. I checked Slack once and sent text messages to two people. I went down a rabbit hole of YouTube videos once, costing me about 30 minutes of productivity, and I probably checked my books'' ranks on Amazon roughly 3,172 times. In what should have been 20 minutes of work, I compulsively interrupted myself at least nine times. What''s more, the cost of these interruptions goes way beyond the added amount of time to finish this damn thing. They likely distracted my train of thought, reducing the quality of my writing, thus causing a need for more edits and revisions. They likely created anxiety as I spent much of my distracted time anxious about the fact that I wasn''t working and much of my time working anxious that I was missing out on text conversations, email threads, or news updates. They likely made the process of writing itself less enjoyable and caused it to appear more taxing in my mind. These distractions aren''t just unproductive, they''re anti-productive. They create more work than they replace. Chances are you go through this do-si-do yourself on the regular. For me, it''s only gotten worse as time has gone onwhich is strange, because you''d assume that my attention span and focus would be getting stronger as I get older, but that''s not been the case. I started blogging in 2007. I remember plopping down to churn out a 1,000-word draft being easy. I''d just wake up and do it and then go get breakfast. It was somewhere around 2013 where I noticed I was often interrupting myself to check Facebook or email. Then it was around 2015 where I felt it was beginning to become a problem. I felt that I had to pay attention to my attention, that I had to focus on my focus. It was new. It wasn''t something I''d had to think about since I was a kid. By last year, these interruptions had become compulsive. I didn''t know how to not distract myself anymore and had to go to great lengths to prevent it from happening. It felt like I was living in some kind of digital hellscape, where the process of doing anything significant and important seemed not only fruitless but also attentionally impossible. Chapter 311 - How We Became Mentally Lazy And Weak[2] Back in the 1950s and 60s, the world changed. Modern economies moved people out of factories and fields and into office buildings. Whereas you used to have to stand on your feet all day and carry heavy shit around to make a buck, now, the best-paying jobs simply asked that you sit at a desk for as long as possible without ever getting up. Our bodies aren''t particularly adapted for a sedentary lifestyle. In fact, it turns out that sitting around all day munching on donuts and soda is downright awful for your physical health. As a result, we began to see epidemics of obesity, diabetes, and heart disease around the same time that everyone got cushy office jobs. People''s bodies were falling apart, becoming overly sensitive, and not functioning correctly. To counteract this sedentary lifestyle, we all came together and developed a fitness culture to counteract the health crisis. People realized that if modern life had you sitting around all day watching a screen, that you needed to set aside time in your day to go lift something heavy or run around a little bit. That kept your body healthy and stable and strong. Jogging became a thing. Gym membersh.i.p.s were invented. And people wore spandex and jumped around on VHS tapes, looking absolutely ridiculous. The eighties were great. Our bodies are designed in such a way that they need to be challenged and stressed to a certain degree, otherwise they become soft and weak, and the smallest endeavorswalking up a flight of stairs, picking up a bag of grocerieswill begin to feel difficult or impossible. It turns out that these small, conscious efforts to stress our bodies are what keeps them healthy. In my new book, Everything is F.u.c.k.i.e.d: A Book About Hope, I talk about how our attention spans are dwindling. Anxiety and depression are on the rise. How we''re becoming less tolerant of people with opposing views, and less patient when the world doesn''t go our way (which, due to the overload of media, feels like all the time.) The same way removing stress and strain from our physical bodies causes them to become fragile and weak, removing mental stress and strain from our minds makes them fragile and weak. The same way we discovered that the sedentary lifestyles of the 20th century required us to physically exert ourselves and work our bodies into healthy shape, I believe we''re on the cusp of discovering a similar necessity for our minds. We need to consciously limit our own comforts. We need to force our minds to strain themselves, to work hard for their information, to deprive our attention of the constant stimulation that it craves. The same way the consumer economy of the 20th century called upon us to invent the nutritional diet, I believe that the attention economy of the 21st century calls upon us to invent an attention diet. This has been a big talking point throughout my speaking tour this year, and I''d like to take a stab at codifying it in a real step-by-step program for people here. Chapter 312 - Goals Of The Attention Diet[3] There are a few fronts on which our attention is being assaulted. First off, there''s just a massive surplus of stuff to pay attention to. And the more crap there is to pay attention to, the more difficult it is to choose what to focus onnot to mention stay focused on it! So, the first and most important goal of an attention diet should be to consciously limit the number of distractions we''re exposed to. Just as the first step of a nutritional diet is to consume less food, the first step of an attention diet is to consume less information. That then raises the question, "What stuff is worth paying attention to?" What should we give a f.u.c.k about? The same way the proliferation of junk food f.u.c.k.i.e.d up our bodies in the 20th century, the exponential growth in junk information has f.u.c.k.i.e.d up the emotions and minds in the 21st century. Therefore, the second goal of the Attention Diet is to find highly nutritious sources of information and relationsh.i.p.s and then build our lives around them. Basically, the name of the game is quality over quantity. Because in a world with infinite information and opportunity, you don''t grow by knowing or doing more, you grow by the ability to correctly focus on less. The method of the Attention Diet is similar to a nutritional dietby cutting out whole categories of consumption for a period of time, your body (or mind) adjusts, becomes healthier, and then, ideally, after enough time you no longer crave your old guilty pleasures. (It''s probably worth noting that nutritional diets are famous for failing spectacularly. My limited personal experiences have shown that Attention Diets are pretty effective. But, f.u.c.k it, this is uncharted territory, so let''s see how it goes.) There are three steps to the Attention Diet: Correctly identify nutritious information and relationsh.i.p.s. Cut out the junk information and relationsh.i.p.s. Cultivate habits of deeper focus and a longer attention span. So, how do we define "junk" information and relationsh.i.p.s and "nutritious" information and relationsh.i.p.s? Well, without getting all philosophical, let''s keep it simple. Junk information is information that is unreliable, unhelpful, or unimportant (i.e., it affects few to no people in any significant way). Junk information is short-form, flashy, and emotionally charged, encouraging addictive consumption patterns. Nutritious information is information that is reliable, helpful, and likely important (i.e., it affects you and others in significant ways). Nutritious information is long-form, analytical, and encourages deep engagement and extended thought. Junk relationsh.i.p.s are people/groups who you have little face-to-face contact with and/or little mutual trust, who bring out your insecurities and consistently make you feel worse about yourself or the world. Nutritious connections are people/groups who you have frequent face-to-face contact with and/or a lot of mutual trust who make you feel better and help you grow. A note on sports/entertainment: There is a place for sports and entertainment in all of this. We all need something to help us unwind in our free time. I personally love video games. But I also recognize that if I check Reddit or Twitch 20 times a day, that''s a really unhealthy indulgence of that hobby. Put another way, my hobby starts to hurt me rather than help me. Our goal is to make our hobbies work for us rather than against us. And we''ll get into how to do that below. ANOTHER NOTE BEFORE WE BEGIN The Attention Diet should be emotionally difficult to implement. Ultimately, junk information hooks us because it is pleasing and easy. We develop low-level addictions to it and end up using it to numb a lot of our day-to-day stresses and insecurities. Therefore, getting rid of the junk information will expose a lot of uncomfortable emotions, trigger cravings, and compulsions, and generally suck for the first few days or weeks. The goal here is to push yourself to stay more focused on what adds value to your life. If it''s not difficult, then you''re probably not really cutting out all of the junk. Attention diet - man with busy mind And finally, I want to give a shout out to Cal Newport and Nir Eyal. In my opinion, they are like the tech geek versions of Farrah Fawcett and Arnold Schwarzeneggar in the 80s. Okay, maybe that was a weird comparison, but the point is, they are leading the 21st century charge on treating our mental nutrition seriously. Cal published a book this year called Digital Minimalism that has become pretty popular and Nir has written a wonderful book that''s coming out in September called Indistractable: How to Control Your Attention and Choose Your Life. Nir is a good friend of mine and I can attest that he may be the most disciplined and focused person I''ve ever met. The dude just gets shit done. While this article lays out a system that I''ve slowly developed for myself, his ideas and writing have been very influential. You should definitely pre-order it if this is an area you struggle with. Onward! Chapter 313 - The Social Media Cleanse[4] Apply the Law of "F.u.c.k Yes" or No to your social media connections C Go through all of your friends/follows lists, ask yourself two questions: "Is being connected with this person adding value to my life?" and "Does this person/group help me grow (i.e., overcoming fears and anxieties) or make me weak (i.e., amplifying fears and anxieties?)" If the answers aren''t emphatic F.U.C.K YES''s then you need to unfriend or unfollow them.If you get hung up on someone or something and wonder if they''re worth keeping, the fact that you have to stop and wonder if they''re worth following is a sign that they''re not worth following. Get f.u.c.k.i.n.g ruthless. This is your attentional health we''re talking about here. Unfollow ALL news and media outlets (including sports and entertainment) C It''s undeniable that news media is becoming more anemic, short-sighted, and inaccurate. Most articles are written for clickbait, not for veracity and utility.Social media plays into these worst incentives of the media. They fight for your clicks by upsetting you, by poking at hot-button issues that FEEL as though they matter a great deal, but actually don''t. They create addictive cycles of outrage which not only fail to inform you about what you need to know but actually make you more resistant to facts.As citizens, it''s our duty to opt out of this toxic system. And the first (and simplest) way to do that is to simply unfollow and unsubscribe from ALL news sources on social media. Don''t worry, I will discuss better ways to stay informed and receive news below. Uninstall any apps that feel pointless after doing the above C If you did the two steps above correctly, your social media accounts should be much leaner, and in some cases, almost empty. This is good. The beauty of unfollowing/unfriending masses of connections is that not only do you get rid of all of the toxic and unhealthy information hijacking your attention, but you also have maybe 10% as much content when you log on. You scroll your newsfeed a couple of times and voila! You''re looking at the same shit you saw yesterday. Time to put your phone down and go do something useful.But before you do that, take another look at your social media accounts. Chances are at least one of them is so barren that there''s hardly even a reason to open it anymore. The beauty of simplifying your accounts like this is that it really shows you which networks provide pleasure and which networks are just there because you feel like you have to be on them. For me, it showed me that I actually enjoy Twitter and to a lesser extent Instagram. Facebook is just this annoying thing I have to be on. So, I deleted Facebook off my phone. It felt weird at first, but I realized that I was needlessly checking it 5+ times each day. Deleting it freed me from most of those. Chapter 314 - Choose Good Sources Of Information And Connection[5] Try this: only get your news from the current events page of Wikipedia. Every Wikipedia language has a Main Page where they list current events and notable historical events. This will give you the bare minimum facts if you feel you must stay informed daily (which is debatable). And, if for some reason you want to dive deeper into whatever is happening, you can click on the article to, again, get the bare minimum facts. Wikipedia is curated to remove bias, political leanings, and false statements. That is no longer 100% true of almost any news source these days. Getting my news from Wikipedia is two things: 1) a breath of fresh air, and 2) completely boring. It''s a breath of fresh air because it actually gets at what''s going on. Just to give a current example, I''ve seen headlines for days about attacks on oil tankers in the Gulf of Oman. Pretty much every news headline I''ve seen has revolved around Trump blaming Iran and whether he''s right to do so or not, whether he''s over-reaching or not. In fact, if anything is true of US news media since 2016, everything is always viewed through the lens of Trump, which is not only annoying and unhelpful, but unfairly characterizes a lot of these issues. But pop onto Wikipedia and within three sentences, I learned more about the situation than all of the news articles I had read, combined. Wikipedia is also boring. Which is good, partly because facts have a tendency to be boring, but also because boredom has no bias. If an article gets you angry or excited, you will become biased about its content. On the other hand, if reading it feels like you''re reading a TV repair manual, then you''re probably just getting the facts and nothing else. But best of all, making the news boring again encourages you to only read about what is truly important or impactful for you. The truth is that most of what passes for "news" is disguised entertainmentinformation that is only impactful or important for a small group of people or far removed from your ability to influence anything and then exaggerated to make you feel outraged or angry or excited based on your specific identity group. The only way to win at this game is to not play, and by using Wikipedia as your resource for current events, you''re opting out of that game. But, there are important long-term issues like climate change and civil rights and economic inequality that require lots of information and critical thinking. What about those? Well, glad you asked LONG-FORM CONTENT Long form content should be your bread and butter for news content and the majority of your entertainment content. Long-form content means any mediumBooks, Podcasts, long-form articles, doc.u.mentariesthe key is that shit takes a long time. There are two benefits of limiting yourself to long-form content. The first is that (on average) it''s going to portray far more research, nuance, and thought than short-form content. Stupidity in a tweet can sound deep. Stupidity repeated for 12,000 words quickly makes itself apparent. The second benefit of long-form content is that it hones our attention span and gets us accustomed to sitting with topics for extended periods of time. It helps us to not fall prey to our immediate knee-jerk responses. It gives us the space to wonder, "What if my assumption is wrong? What if I''m the one with d.i.c.k breath in this argument?" The long-form content applies to entertainment too. Don''t just watch sports clips all day, watch a doc.u.mentary about your favorite player. Don''t just listen to a hit song over and over, put on the full album. Don''t just play a dinky iPhone game over and over, find a video game you can immerse yourself into and think critically about its elements and story. The idea is to regularly stretch your attention span and ability to focus and exercise it like a muscle. Longform.org is a great place to find long-form content. I''m also a fan of Aeon. Chapter 315 - Schedule Your Diversions[6] The same way you plan a "cheat day" or make an agreement with yourself that you''ll only have X number of desserts or Y number of drinks each week, the same goes with your attention. Email should be a consciously-chosen activity done at a specific time to maximize its purpose. It''s not something you compulsively refresh every 30 seconds. Same goes for social media. Same goes for entertainment. Below are the guidelines that I try to stick to and are working well in my life. Obviously, everyone''s mileage will vary: Email twice per day C I try to limit myself to two email blocks each day. Once in the morning and once at the end of the day in the afternoon. The morning session I only look at and respond to important/urgent emails. The afternoon, a couple times a week, I''ll clear my whole inbox. Social Media 30 minutes per day C This is a work in progress for me. I''m fine on my work computer, the problem is my phone. I still get caught on those loops of: refresh Twitter, refresh Facebook, refresh Instagram, refresh Twitter, and on and on. I recently removed Facebook from my phone (per above guidelines), but Twitter and Instagram still suck me in. Entertainment only at certain hours C I''m pretty much too busy and traveling too much to get hardcore about this anyway. But once things calm down in my life, I may experiment with this. See below for methods of planning this out. Leave phone out of office during the day and bedroom at night C I''m good about leaving it out of the office when I need to write. The bedroom is still an issue for me. OK, this is all fine and dandy, but how the hell do we keep to this? Everyone talks shit about social media while scrolling compulsively on social media. How do we actually implement these concepts into our lives? Because that''s the most important part. Chapter 316 - Implementation[7] In Everything is F.u.c.k.i.e.d: A Book About Hope, I redefine freedom as self-limitation. Freedom in the 21st century isn''t about having more, it''s about choosing your commitments to less. (To see an excerpt related to this idea, read this: #FakeFreedom) To help us limit ourselves, we need to set boundaries around ourselves. Our minds are too flawed and selfish to be allowed to pursue what they want. Instead, like training a dog, we must train our attention with the help of various tools to make sure we''re focusing on the right things. I''ll talk about three types of tools in this section: website blockers, app blockers, and power outlet timers. Key to implementing the attention diet is downloading and installing site blockers on your devices. There are dozens of apps, but here I''ll review a few of the best ones that I''ve used. Cold Turkey (MacOS/Windows) C My favorite app. Probably the most robust with the most features. You can block websites, specific pages, applications, and even specific Google searches. I love it because it has a scheduler. So you can modify what gets blocked on which days. Let''s say you want Friday afternoon to be your "email" afternoon, you can program that in. Or you can open up everything on Sundays. It''s highly customizable. It also keeps stats! Also, unlike some blocking software, it''s a one-time payment. So while the price may appear high, it''s not that bad (and it''s in Canadian dollars which is like, not even real money). Focus (MacOS) C More user friendly than Cold Turkey but without as many features. Focus saved my ass when I was writing my latest book. When I was on deadline, I got so desperate that I downloaded it and basically blocked everything in my life six days a week for about a month. A screenshot of part of my blacklist. I have about 50 websites and apps blocked on my work computer. It''s arguably the only thing that let me finish my book on time. It blocks websites and apps, and you can customize what you block by day or even hours. It''s not quite as intuitive or simple as Cold Turkey, but it''s still great. My only complaint is that when you update the app, it shuts down, thus allowing you to f.u.c.k around again. I know that sounds minor, but each time I updated the app, I''d go on a 3-4 day binge of unproductivity before I finally forced myself to turn it back on. Freedom (MacOS/Windows) C Beautifully designed and easy to use. Also works on your mobile devices. This is probably the most popular app in this category. I haven''t used it in a year or so and the reason I stopped is that it''s too easy to get around. Hate to say it, but I can''t be trusted with weak ass apps that let you close them or turn them off in a bunch of sneaky ways, I need an app that leaves me handcuffed with my work. Self Control (MacOS) C Free and probably the most hardcore app on the list. You load up a list of sites, turn it on, and then you''re stuck. Nothing you do can turn it off until the time runs out. You can restart your computer, uninstall the app, do anything, and it won''t unblock you. It''s evilin the best way possible. First, before we get into blocking specific apps or the entire phone, you should go into your settings and disable most/all of your notifications. I don''t care who you are or what you do or what f.u.c.k.i.n.g horse you rode in on, notifications are like the second-hand smoke of attentionthey give everyone a coughing fit. Disable both the sound/vibration and the little red circles. You know those circles are red for a reason, right? We unconsciously see them as being urgent and they encourage compulsive clicking to get rid of them. Those little red dots are Satan, in case you were wondering. (Optional: I also turn off my ringer and all sound from my phone. My philosophy is: unless we scheduled a call, or I''m expecting to hear from you, I don''t want to hear from you. Nothing personal.) Once you''ve done that, let''s talk about limiting our app use. iPhone users have it the easiest, as Apple has started implementing features to let you temporarily block apps from yourself. You can find a guide for how to do it here. Google''s Digital Wellbeing app for Android accomplishes the same thing, although without as many options as Apple. One thing I do like about Digital Wellbeing is you can set a bedtime for yourself. So, at that time every night, your phone becomes unusable. Google''s Digital Wellbeing app is a good start, but still leaves some features to be desired. But, if you want to customize how and when you can use certain apps, you have to download a third party app. There are a lot of options, but the best one from what I can tell is aptly called "Help Me Focus." It has the flexibility to block some apps and not others, and lets you customize when you block throughout the week. OK, this tip is only if you want to get hardcore (and also if you have kids). This idea comes courtesy of my buddy Nir Eyal. When I heard him describe it, I was like "damn dude that''s some next level shit." For about $12 each, you can buy timers for your power outlets. You can then program them to cut off power to whatever is plugged into them at certain times of the day or week. Buy a few of them and put them around the house and you can customize what hours of the day or week your wifi router works, when your television is usable, when your video game systems will function, and so on. Ideally, you''ll be so occupied with work and productive stuff during the day that in the evenings, you won''t have to resort to controlling yourself this way. But hey, desperate times call for desperate measures. I have a tendency to get sucked into video games. I''ve been pretty good about it the past year. But the next time I find myself playing until four in the morning every night, I know this is exactly what I''m going to be using. Chapter 317 - Common Objections To The Attention Diet[8] Objection 1: "But Mark! I''ll be soooo boooreeed" C I have two responses to this: a) Shut the f.u.c.k up. And b) no, you won''t. Remember when you were a kid and you''d lay around on the floor, flailing around, complaining to your mom, "But mooooommm, I''m booooooreeed" and your mom would just kinda shrug and be like, "Well, that''s your problem." Usually, the greatest part about being a kid came out of those moments. You''d imagine the sofa as a spaceship and plot how you were going to escape to the backdoor without the evil aliens (in this case, mom) seeing you. Or you''d imagine fantastic creatures and get excited to go draw them. Or you''d wander around outside until you found other bored kids to play with. They say necessity is the mother of invention. Well, boredom is the father. Every great burst of creativity or action is inseminated with the wiles of boredom. Boredom will f.u.c.k your brain until it comes up with something awesome to do. And that''s a fact. So, there''s a value to boredom. And without realizing it, the constant stimulation of our phones and social media and video games and Netflix series have robbed us of the creative energies of our own boredom. They have stymied our relationsh.i.p.s and desires for communityI mean, why go hang out with the neighbors when you can just binge-watch S.e.x in the City for the eighth time? Boredom is good. It means you''re challenging yourself. It''s like bicep curls for your mind. Embrace the boredom. Bathe in the boredom. Objection 2: What if I''m missing out! C I have written in-depth about the experience of FOMO (or, "Fear of Missing Out") before, but I''ll say it here again, briefly: You are always missing out. You always were and always will be. The question is: what is it that you are choosing to miss out on? Most of your life, you didn''t care that you were missing out because you either weren''t aware that you were missing out or you were missing out on things you knew didn''t matter to you. Social media f.u.c.ks up both of thoseit makes you aware of everything, and it also gives you the false perception that things are way more important than they are. The result: constant FOMO. Eliminate the bullshit social media use (i.e., implement the Attention Diet), eliminate the perception that those things are important and boom, no sensation of "missing out" on anything. Ninety percent of the most important experiences in life are right in front of you. And instead of distracting yourself from them, as you have been, the Attention Diet will finally free you to face them. Remember: it''s about quality over quantity. Objection 3: I should be able to discipline myself to stop using these things C I''m surprised at how many people say this. It''s a noble intention but unfortunately, completely misguided. Imagine someone who wants to lose 20 pounds stocking their fridge with cake, ice cream, and frozen pizzas and then saying, "It''s okay, I should be able to use my willpower to not eat these things." That''s insanity. Everyone knows the first thing you do when you try to change your nutritional diet is you throw all the garbage out. We are weak creatures. We cave easily. We are totally unconscious of our own reasoning and often slaves to our whims. You''d be dumb to trust yourself in such a situation. If you''re trying to develop a habit of waking up at 6AM, you set an alarm every morning (or maybe two). If you''re trying to develop a habit of calling your parents more often, you put post-its in your office or add events on your calendar. The dirty little secret of changing your habits is that your environment has far more of an effect than your willpower does.1 When you want to lose weight, you stock the fridge with healthy food and throw out the crap. When you want to exercise more, you hire a trainer or find a friend to keep you accountable. So why would it be any different with your attention? The point of this whole Attention Diet thing is to generate an environment conducive to healthy attention habits. Because, I''m sorry, if your willpower was enough, you wouldn''t even be reading this thing. If you''re still here, then guess whatyou got a problem. I got a problem. We all got problems. Hell, I bet you''re checking shit in between paragraphs, you f.u.c.k.i.n.g degenerate. Now, come on. Let''s get our shit together err, together. Chapter 318 - Accountability Buddies[9] I''ve long said that I don''t write this shit because I''m perfect and I think you should be too. I write it because I''ve got the same problems and use my writing as a platform to seek solutions. So here''s my pledge. Starting July 1st, 2019, I''m going to implement all of the above. I will limit email to twice a day, social media to 30 minutes per day, and only read the front page of Wikipedia or consume long-form content. I''m going to do this and then report back my results in August. I invite you to do it along with me. If you do, after adhering to the diet for a month, let me know your results. If enough people see significant results, I will compile a post based on what everyone has learned and post it on the site later in the year. And best of all, find a friend to do it with you. It''ll make it easier, more fun, and more interesting. When one of you is craving a YouTube binge, you can agree to meet up for coffee instead. So, get everything in order, and let''s make this the best month yet. Chapter 319 - 5 Mindsets For Success; You Always Have A Choice[1] Ursula Burns was raised by her single mother in the projects of New York in the 1960s and ''70s. Back in those days, she was born with three strikes against her: she was black, poor, and female. Life would be hard. Her mother scrimped and saved and worked extra jobs just to provide for Ursula and her siblings, but more importantly she constantly reminded them that where they were right now didn''t have to define them for the rest of their lives. They always had a choice. They could do the best with what they had. Ursula worked her ass off. She stayed on top of her studies and got into engineering school at the Brooklyn Polytechnic School, which was, not surprisingly, made up almost entirely of white affluent men. She soon realized she had a lot of catching up to do, both academically and socially. She was an outsider in every sense of the word. But somehow, she graduated from engineering school and worked her way up to become the CEO of Xerox, managing to turn the once-flailing company back to profitability. She also served as the head of the STEM Education Coalition under President Obama, and has been on the boards of some of the world''s largest companies, including Exxon Mobil, Uber, and VEON, the world''s 10th largest telecom company. Inspired by her mother''s encouragement, Burns developed early in life what psychologists call a "growth mindset," which is essentially just the belief that one has a certain degree of personal influence over their life. Contrast this with a "fixed mindset," which is the belief that you have little to no control over your life. The truth is, there are things in life you can control and things you can''t. You have absolutely no control over where you were born, your biological s.e.x, how rich or poor your family is, what color your skin is, how tall you are, etc. These things do matter and they will obviously impact your life in major ways. But while you may not be to blame for your situation, you are always responsible for your situation. It wasn''t Ursula''s fault that she was born into a poor family. But instead of defining herself as poor and being a victim of her own circ.u.mstances, she turned that on its head and let her story inspire her life. She owned her scars and wore them openly instead of using them as an excuse to not even try. Similarly, it''s not your fault if you were born poor or fat or prone to mental illness. But it is your responsibility to figure out how to deal with your situation. No one else can heal your emotional wounds but you. No one else can fix your toxic relationship with money but you. No one else can lose that weight for you. No one else can make that person fall in love with you. That isn''t to say you have to do it all by yourself. You should seek out help if you need it, hire a trainer if you can afford it, and get financial help when your luck is down. But for better or worse, at the end of the day, it''s all on you. You have been/will be handed some real turds in life. You will have some advantages over others, some of which you earned and others you didn''t. Dwelling for too long on either of these will only lead you down the fixed-mindset rabbit hole at some point, and that''s a miserable hole to be in. Chapter 320 - Adopt A Bias Towards Action[2] Chuck Close''s father died when he was eleven-years-old. As a teenager, he was told not to even think about going to college. He had several learning disabilities and couldn''t even add or subtract. His teachers told him trade school would be his only hope since he was pretty good with his hands. But he also suffered from a neuromuscular disorder that limited his mobility, so even that was iffy. Today, Chuck Close is an internationally-renowned painter and graphic artist whose work hangs on some of the most famous walls in the world. That would be amazing enough on its own, given his early life hardsh.i.p.s, but what''s even more remarkable is that Close continued to produce world-class artwork after a blood clot left him paralyzed in his late 40s. How the hell does he do it? Well, he once said, in a note to his younger self, "Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work. Every great idea I''ve ever had grew out of work itself." Most people approach work and motivation in the completely opposite way: they wait to be inspired, then they get to work. The problem is that inspiration is a fickle beast. Some people will wait around forever for inspiration to just fall out of the sky or something. Others spend all their time and energy looking for ways to motivate themselves so they can finally get to work. And the irony of that sentence is completely lost on them. I''ve sometimes experienced this myself when people, who are not writers, come up to me all excited, telling me that I have to meet their friend''s mother, because she has this incredible book idea. So? I''ve got millions of book ideas. People who don''t create for a living think that the ideas are the hard part. No, ideas are easy. Everyone has ideas. But few people can execute on the ideas. Few people can deal with the possibility that their ideas might be bad. So their ideas stay ideas. Successful people don''t sit around and wait for their muse to come and inspire them to change the world. They just show up and get to work. So, do something. Chapter 321 - Let Go Of The Need To Be Right[3] Ray Dalio is one of the richest men you''ve probably never heard of. But before he got rich, he went flat broke because of how right he thought he was. In the early 1980s, Dalio was on the warpath, warning everyone and their financially unstable uncle that the stock market was about to crash and burn like it was 1929 all over again. Instead, starting in 1982, stocks went on an eight-year bull run and returned one of their best performances in history. Dalio went completely broke betting against the market. And, more importantly, he had to avoid a lot of Manhattan c.o.c.ktail parties for a while. But after wiping the egg off his face, he realized it wasn''t necessarily his bad hypotheses or incorrect economic analyses that made him lose every penny he had. Because, in the end, it turned out he was right. The economy did crash eight years after he said it would. No, it was his unrelenting belief in himself that he was right that made him go broke and look like a complete idiot. Dalio vowed to never let his ego overrun his decision making like this ever again. Today, he constantly analyzes even his most basic assumptions about the world and tries to poke holes in his own theories. He demands his employeeseven his internsgive him brutally honest feedback about his views to try to prove him wrong. He realized that he''d rather be challenged and proven wrong about his beliefs than cling to them in a desperate attempt to show the world he was "right." He''s now been an investor for over 50 years and has amassed a fortune in the tens of billions of dollars. Dalio''s company, Bridgewater Associates, is one of the world''s largest hedge funds and has consistently beat the market in good times and bad for decades now. Anyone can survive a bad idea, a stupid mistake, or dumb risk or twelve as long as you don''t cling to the need to be right about your beliefs. The fact is, you, me, and everyone on the planet are almost certainly wrong aboutwell, pretty much everything. And we can never be 100% sure we''re right about anything. We can only learn from our observations and hopefully be a little less wrong. Chapter 322 - See The World For What It Is, Not For What You Wish It Could Be[4] Dr. Patrick Brown is a vegan. He gave up meat a long time ago for his own ethical reasons. And while he believes his moral standards of veganism are "right" and true and compassionate, he understands something a lot of people don''t: that you can''t change other people''s behavior by appealing to their moral code. In fact, he knows that exactly the opposite will happen when you try to persuade someone this way: they''ll double down and call you a f.u.c.kface and won''t invite you to their birthday party. So instead of proselytizing to the world about the moral and environmental impacts of eating meat or protesting outside of a major meat production facilities with a smug sense of moral superiority, he decided to appeal to something much more fundamental to human nature: their taste buds. Brown''s goal is to replace all animal-based meat production by 2035. To do that, he is trying to create food that 1) tastes/looks/smells/feels as good or better than real meat and 2) is at least the same price, if not cheaper. Dr. Brown started a company, Impossible Foods, the creators of the meat-free, plant-based Impossible Burger. His goal with the Impossible Burger is to create something that mimics ground beef in every wayappearance, texture, smell, and, of course, how it tastesusing no animal products whatsoever. And the Impossible Burger 2.0 appears to have come pretty damn close to doing just that. By appealing to human nature rather than railing against it, Brown has already made an incredible impact on the world, and he appears to just be getting started. Had he been like most zealots in the environmental and animal rights world and prattled on and on about how unethical it is to eat meat in the modern world, reigning down his judgment on everyone else with indignant furywell, no one would have listened to him. And more importantly, he would have had virtually zero impact on the way we think about food production. Chapter 323 - Define Success Internally, Not Externally[5] Amada Rosa Prez was one of Colombia''s most famous supermodels. She worked on shoots in some of the most beautiful places in the world and was used to being lavished with attention and fame and money. Her career seemed to be on a trajectory that 99.9% of aspiring models only wish they could achieve. Then, in 2005, at the height of her career, Prez inexplicably disappeared from the public eye. People suspected the worstthis was Colombia after allkidnappings, ransoms, murder, etc. But the truth, as usual, was much stranger than fiction. Perez surfaced five years later and announced that she''d been born again. And she was retiring from modeling to work with the poor communities of Colombia. She remarked on how her definition of a successful model had changeddrastically so: "Being a model means being a benchmark, someone whose beliefs are worthy of being imitated, and I grew tired of being a model of superficiality. I grew tired of a world of lies, appearances, falsity, hypocrisy, and deception, a society full of anti-values that exalts violence, a.d.u.l.tery, drugs, alcohol, fighting, and a world that exalts riches, pleasure, s.e.x.u.a.l immorality and fraud. I want to be a model that promotes the true dignity of women instead of being used for commercial purposes." Prior to her religious conversion, she said she was always stressed, always in a hurry, always so easily upset over the tiniest of things. "Now I live in peace," she said. "The world doesn''t appeal to me. I enjoy every moment God gives me." I''m not a religious person by any means, and Prez and I probably don''t share a lot of values about things like s.e.x.u.a.lity. But I totally get Prez''s need for real meaning in her lifefor something more than the superficialities of comfort and pleasure. It''s a main theme of pretty much all of my writing. I''ve railed against the all-too-common, toxic ideas in modern culture that more is better and that we can "have it all". Because I don''t think happiness is something you should pursue for its own sake. In fact, happiness isn''t really the point to begin with, and trying to "feel good" all the time will only make you a miserable mess of a human being. In all of the stories told here, if you look a little closer, you''ll notice that each personall of them successful by typical measures of successhad a higher purpose that transcended the typical measures of success. Even Ray Dalio, a multi-f.u.c.k.i.n.g-billionaire, has made it his life purpose to educate the worldfor freeabout what he calls his "principles" of life. My new book, Everything Is F*cked: A Book about Hope, is a deep dive into how we find hope and meaning in the worldand how finding hope and meaning in the world can really f.u.c.k us if we''re not careful. In almost every material aspect, the world is a better place than it ever has been. But instead of rejoicing in that fact, we''re living through a crisis of hope and meaning that threatens to reverse a lot of the progress we''ve made over the past two centuries or so. But Amada Rosa Prez showed us that we can define success in a way that lifts others up, gives us a little peace, and maybe leaves the world a little less f.u.c.k.i.e.d than it was when we showed up. Chapter 324 - How To Be More Productive By Working Less[1] It took me 18 months to write The Subtle Art of Not Giving A F.u.c.k. Over that time period, I wrote somewhere in the vicinity of 150,000 words for the book (about 600 pages). Most of that came in the final three months. In fact, I can confidently say I got far more done in the final three months than I did in the first 12 combined. Now, is that because I was on a deadline and worked like an insane person? Did I shove Adderall up my ass and work in 36-hour spurts or something? No, in fact, those last three months, I worked less each day than I did the first 12, yet I still accomplished far more. In this article, I''d like to make a simple argument (backed with lots of shitty images I created in MS Paint): that when it comes to productivity, things are not what they seem. Every productivity book on the planet, from David Allen to Benjamin Franklin, tells you more or less the same thing: wake up at the ass-crack of dawn and drink some stimulating liquid, segment your work periods into bite-sized chunks organized by urgency and importance, keep fastidious lists and calendars, and schedule appointments 15 weeks in advance and be early to everything. F.u.c.k that. I hate mornings. You know what my "morning routine" usually is? Jerk off and read Facebook. And if I''m lucky, the garbage on my newsfeed will piss me off enough that I''ll start writing without even realizing it (after all, what''s more important than proving to someone on the internet that they''re wrong?). The truth is, I do some of my best writing at 3 AM while blasting Every Time I Die into my eardrums. I take random Thursdays off. I hate calendars and after running my own online business for almost 10 years, I still don''t have one. That''s what works for me and probably not what works for you. So why even bother talking about it? I believe productivity is a deeply personal thing. We all have different brains and, therefore, different preferences, perspectives, and situations where we feel most effective. Thus, the few times I''ve attempted to wade into the productivity waters on this site, instead of jerking off over new apps or morning rituals, I''ve focused on understanding one''s own psychology. For example, procrastination is deeply tied to anxiety C so it''s important to develop an understanding of your own neuroses and fears. Action has a momentum to it, and so developing personal rituals to get your own snowball rolling downhill is likely far more important than what yerba mate supplements to take, or what f.u.c.k.i.n.g yoga mat to sit and scratch your ass on in the morning. Aside from birthing me my first grey hairs and keeping me up at night more times than I''d like to count, The Subtle Art taught me a lot about the nature of work. And a lot of that had to do with how my perception of the work itself evolved over the course of writing the book. So much so that I want to take some time and write a post about the nature of work itself. Because see, this may surprise you, but not all work is created equal. Productivity tips for, say, painting a landscape in watercolors, are probably not useful for finishing your tax returns on time. Or the advice that might help you come up with a way to re-organize the team you manage to get rid of some bottlenecks is not the same advice that would help you clean your apartment faster. So if you''ve got a burning desire to paint a landscape or do your tax return this weekend,1 listen the f.u.c.k up. Chapter 325 - Work As A Linear Function[2] Most of us, for most of our lives, conceptualize work as a linear function. What I mean by "linear" is that the amount of productive output you create is directly proportional to a number of hours you input. So working two hours will produce twice the results as one hour. And eight hours will produce four times that of two hours. We all kind of go through life assuming this is the way things work (for the most part). This is mostly because school work functions pretty linearly. They give you a bunch of stuff to memorize, and if you spend two hours memorizing it, you''ll remember about twice as much as if you had spent one hour. Then we get older and stop picking our noses in public and we just assume that the rest of life will function the same way. But it doesn''t. The truth is that most thoughtful, brain-intensive work does not unfold like this. And this feels really unfair to us. So we spend a lot of time complaining to our parents and making excuses that our bosses don''t appreciate our "genius" or whatever. The only work that is linear is really basic, repetitive stuff. Like hauling bales of hay. Or packing boxes. Or really obnoxious data entry on gigantic spreadsheets. Or operating the fryer at McDonald''s. Four hours is twice as productive as two hours is twice as productive as one and so on. Sadly, the "work as a linear function" is where all the religion of "Bro, you''ve just gotta hustle" comes from in the startup world. Since, in their minds, 16 hours of work is twice as productive as eight, the logical conclusion is that you''re all just a bunch of lazy sacks of shit, and you should be putting butter in your coffee at 4 AM and coding until your eyeballs bleed. Hustle, hustle, hustle. As we''ll see, as well-intentioned and glamorous as the Religion of Hustle is, it often backfires on people. Because the truth is that most types of work (especially work that will make you some money in 2017) does not produce linear returns, it produces diminishing returns. Chapter 326 - Work That Produces Diminishing (Or Even Negative) Returns[3] Imagine that you went outside and jogged for 10 minutes. This would be a healthy thing to do. Now imagine you went outside and ran for 20 minutes. It''d also be healthy, but it wouldn''t necessarily be twice as healthy as the 10 minutes. What if you ran for an hour? Well, you''d definitely push yourself, but chances are you''d still see most of the benefits from those first 10 minutes of exercise. Exercise has diminishing returns for the simple reason that your muscles tire out. And as your muscles tire out, their ability to be stimulated for further growth diminishes until it''s more or less non-existent. Spending two hours in the gym gets you little to no extra benefit as spending an hour. And spending an hour only gives you slightly more benefit than spending 45 minutes. Most work is this way. Why? Because, like a muscle, your brain tires out. And if you''re exercising your brain by doing any sort of problem-solving, or important decision-making, then you''re limited in how much you can effectively accomplish in a day. My wife used to work in the advertising industry and, like many industries, there was a fetish for working insane hours, especially when a major presentation or campaign proposal was due. People would stay late, often working until 9 or 10 o''clock at night. Sometimes they would come in on Saturdays. But she noticed that most of this extra time was pretty ineffective. The four hours at the end of the day, from say 6 PM to 10 PM, contributed about as much usable work as the first two hours of the day. People were essentially slaving away for marginal benefits. And in worst case scenarios, people would start producing bad work or make bad decisions because they were so tired. And when you acc.u.mulate enough bad work and bad decisions, you actually unintentionally create more work for yourself. So you go from working for diminishing returns to working for negative returns. You dumbass, now look what you''ve done. This happened to me when I started working on The Subtle Art. I was hanging out with a few other writers and we''d get together for "write-a-thons" and bang out as many words as humanly possible in an afternoon. It was basically one big pissing contest where we''d gloat about our word counts over drinks later that evening. My best day was 8,000 words, all in about 6 hours of total work. "Holy shit!" I thought, "I just produced 32 pages in a single day!" All you would need is 10 days of that kind of productivity to write an entire book. There was just one problem. It all sucked. I mean all of it. When I eventually went back to revise the chapter a few weeks later, out of those 8,000 words, there were maybe 500 that were usable. The problem is that it took me four days to sort through all the garbage, re-write the few parts that were salvageable, and make the decision to delete the parts that just sucked. Suddenly, my 8,000-word burst of "massive" creativity created so much extra work for myself that I would have been better off not writing at all that day. This was a huge realization for me. When it comes to creative work, not only is there a diminishing return, but at a certain point, writing more produced a negative return. Because bad writing isn''t just badbad writing creates more work for yourself, because it requires way more time to revise and edit. I spent most of the first year writing The Subtle Art with this mindset of "more = better." As a result, looking back, I spent at least half of my working hours fixing the messes I created unnecessarily in the first place. Eventually, after months of frustration, I began to notice that most days, everything I wrote in the first 1-2 hours was great. It needed little revision and usually fit quite well with the message I was trying to go for in the book. Everything written between 3-4 hours was mixed. On good days, I''d produce some good content (although almost never as good as the first two hours). But on bad days, most of it wasn''t usable and I was creating more work for myself. Pretty much everything beyond hour number four sucked. Past that, any writing I attempted had negative returns and I was strangely better off playing video games or something. It wasn''t until I had been writing for over a year that I worked up the courage to try limiting my writing to two hours a day. I was still so stuck in the mindset of linear returns, and I was so invested in this monstrous mess of a first draft (125,000 words, and most of it was shit) that I was afraid to find out that literally 50+% of the previous year''s "work" had not only been pointless, but had actually made me less productive. But I tried it. And my god, did the book just shoot out of my fingers like my undiscovered Jedi powers. I banged out a new draft of the book in two months flat.My guess is that most creative work operates on a negative returns curve. I know in the past when I''ve done design work, I''ve tinkered with an image so much that I can''t even tell if it looks good or not anymore. I would then spend half the night trying to make it "look right," only to wake up in the morning realizing the idea sucked in the first place and I was better off starting over. Work that''s highly social or requires a lot of team building can produce negative returns too. If you always need to be on point, then whenever your energy or mood slips, you might actually end up repelling customers, costing you potential long-term profits. Micromanaging the hell out of your employees won''t only not make them more productive, they''ll come to hate you and be even less motivated to produce results for you in the future. Chapter 327 - Leverage And Deleverage Points[4] So again, not all work is created equal. Every business, job, or project has what I call a leverage point that instantly makes everything else you do more effective. If you''re a team manager, it might be some ritual you create to keep morale high among your workers. If you''re a programmer, it might be educating yourself on new types of databases. If you work in face-to-face sales, it might be spiffying up your appearance and learning how to understand your customers on an emotional level. When it comes to online content, branding is a leverage pointit''s something that the more you work on and perfect, the more it will have a multiplier effect on everything elsesales will come easier, traffic will stick better, people will talk about you and spread your content more efficiently. So, accomplishing some aspects of your job well can make everything else that much easier Or that much harder. My one and only "real" job was at a bank for a grand total of about six weeks. This bank (which shall remain nameless) had a very specific procedure for a certain type of data entry that involved software as old as my mother and a totally backwards-ass way of inputting the data. It made the entire process mind-numbingly slow. Essentially, the bank had created what I call a deleverage pointwork that made all other work slower and more difficult. But about as soon as I pointed out to my boss that all of this work could be handled by a simple script and compiled into a spreadsheet, I was told to sit down, shut up, and enter the data how I''d been told to. I quit a few weeks later. Chapter 328 - Strategic Laziness As A Leverage Point[5] Let''s pretend you love Indian food. You love it more than your spouse and your kids. You love it so much you''d bathe in mango chutney if you could afford that much mango chutney. Now, let''s say you go out to your favorite Indian spot and engorge yourself. We''re talking on the order of 4,000 to 5,000 calories in one sitting. Like Monty Python in "The Meaning of Life" type gluttony. Now, imagine you roll yourself out of the restaurant, and then someone comes up and offers you some fresh samosas and chutney (or maybe a thin mint). How would you feel? We''ve all been in that state where we overeat a food we like and then the mere thought of that food for the following week makes us nauseous and we question the meaning of our own existence. But then, a week later, Indian food doesn''t sound so bad. And then about another week or two later, you''re all geared up to go back to your favorite Indian spot and stuff yourself blind all over again. Your brain works the same way with productivity. See, solving problems is like food for your mind. It makes your mind happy. It makes it feel important and worthy and capableall things directly linked to happiness. But solving problems is to your mind as food is to your stomach. It needs a variety of stimulation and too much of one kind will cause it to get sick and tired. But what''s amazing is that this leisure timethis ability to distract one''s brain away from problem-solving and work, actually makes your brain far more effective upon returning to work. I know, I knowit''s crazy, but weekends and vacation really do exist for a reason. When I started my business in 2008, I was a bona fide work-a-holic. I was pulling 14-15 hour days and rarely taking days off. And although I traveled constantly, I rarely took "vacations" per se. It was more like, "hey, that beach looks like a really beautiful place to check my email for the next two hours." It wasn''t until I met my wife (who had a steady 9-5) that she put her (high-heeled) foot down and was like, "Hey f.u.c.knuts, put the laptop away and spend some time with me at the beach." I, of course, was horrified. It was like asking someone to leave the house without their right arm. "But what about my emails?" I stammered. I spent that first night in a fetal position, shaking. I had dreams where my website was hacked and my identity stolen and there was nothing I could do. I imagined the web servers spontaneously bursting into flames at the same time my bank accounts were being drained. None of that happened, of course. In fact, what happened was the complete opposite. Sitting there on that beach for five days, with no phone, no computer, no electronics C just me and a wonderful woman and my thoughts, I began to see my own work more clearly than I had ever seen it before. It was as if I had spent five years huddling over my business, scrutinizing and obsessing over every part and detail, and then hopping into a hot air balloon, and gliding so high above that I could see the whole thing with more perspective than I ever had before. And it was on that beach that I came up with two ideas that would change my life. The first was changing this website to markmanson.net (BRANDING!!! LEVERAGE POINTS!!!). Within six months, traffic increased 5-fold and my income 3-fold. The site would soon be read by millions of people, shared in over 100 countries, and get me published in some of the most prestigious publications around the world. And this would all happen while doing fewer hours of work than I had been doing before. Whereas I had spent years trying to grow my website through sheer willpower and time commitment, it was by letting go of what was not working that my business took off without even needing me in it half the time. The other idea I had on that beach was my book. Chapter 329 - The Drowning Child And The Expanding Circle[1] To challenge my students to think about the ethics of what we owe to people in need, I ask them to imagine that their route to the university takes them past a shallow pond. One morning, I say to them, you notice a child has fallen in and appears to be drowning. To wade in and pull the child out would be easy but it will mean that you get your clothes wet and muddy, and by the time you go home and change you will have missed your first class. I then ask the students: do you have any obligation to rescue the child? Unanimously, the students say they do. The importance of saving a child so far outweighs the cost of getting one''s clothes muddy and missing a class, that they refuse to consider it any kind of excuse for not saving the child. Does it make a difference, I ask, that there are other people walking past the pond who would equally be able to rescue the child but are not doing so? No, the students reply, the fact that others are not doing what they ought to do is no reason why I should not do what I ought to do. Once we are all clear about our obligations to rescue the drowning child in front of us, I ask: would it make any difference if the child were far away, in another country perhaps, but similarly in danger of death, and equally within your means to save, at no great cost C and absolutely no danger C to yourself? Virtually all agree that distance and nationality make no moral difference to the situation. I then point out that we are all in that situation of the person passing the shallow pond: we can all save lives of people, both children and a.d.u.l.ts, who would otherwise die, and we can do so at a very small cost to us: the cost of a new CD, a shirt or a night out at a restaurant or concert, can mean the difference between life and death to more than one person somewhere in the world C and overseas aid agencies like Oxfam overcome the problem of acting at a distance. At this point the students raise various practical difficulties. Can we be sure that our donation will really get to the people who need it? Doesn''t most aid get swallowed up in administrative costs, or waste, or downright corruption? Isn''t the real problem the growing world population, and is there any point in saving lives until the problem has been solved? These questions can all be answered: but I also point out that even if a substantial proportion of our donations were wasted, the cost to us of making the donation is so small, compared to the benefits that it provides when it, or some of it, does get through to those who need our help, that we would still be saving lives at a small cost to ourselves C even if aid organizations were much less efficient than they actually are. Chapter 330 - The Drowning Child And The Expanding Circle[2] I am always struck by how few students challenge the underlying ethics of the idea that we ought to save the lives of strangers when we can do so at relatively little cost to ourselves. At the end of the nineteenth century WH Lecky wrote of human concern as an expanding circle which begins with the individual, then embraces the family and ''soon the circle... includes first a class, then a nation, then a coalition of nations, then all humanity, and finally, its influence is felt in the dealings of man [sic] with the animal world''.1 On this basis the overwhelming majority of my students seem to be already in the penultimate stage C at least C of Lecky''s expanding circle. There is, of course, for many students and for various reasons a gap between acknowledging what we ought to do, and doing it; but I shall come back to that issue shortly. Our century is the first in which it has been possible to speak of global responsibility and a global community. For most of human history we could affect the people in our village, or perhaps in a large city, but even a powerful king could not conquer far beyond the borders of his kingdom. When Hadrian ruled the Roman Empire, his realm covered most of the ''known'' world, but today when I board a jet in London leaving what used to be one of the far-flung outposts of the Roman Empire, I pass over its opposite boundary before I am even halfway to Singapore, let alone to my home in Australia. Moreover no matter what the extent of the empire, the time required for communications and transport meant that there was simply no way in which people could make any difference to the victims of floods, wars, or massacres taking place on the other side of the globe. By the time anyone had heard of the events and responded, the victims were dead or had survived without assistance. ''Charity begins at home'' made sense, because it was only ''at home'' C or at least in your own town C that you could be confident that your charity would make any difference. Instant communications and jet transport have changed all that. A television audience of two billion people can now watch hungry children beg for food in an area struck by famine, or they can see refugees streaming across the border in search of a safe place away from those they fear will kill them. Most of that huge audience also have the means to help people they are seeing on their screens. Each one of us can pull out a credit card and phone in a donation to an aid organization which can, in a few days, fly in people who can begin distributing food and medical supplies. Collectively, it is also within the capacity of the United Nations C with the support of major powers C to put troops on the ground to protect those who are in danger of becoming victims of genocide. Chapter 331 - The Drowning Child And The Expanding Circle[3] Our capacity to affect what is happening, anywhere in the world, is one way in which we are living in an era of global responsibility. But there is also another way that offers an even more dramatic contrast with the past. The atmosphere and the oceans seemed, until recently, to be elements of nature totally unaffected by the puny activities of human beings. Now we know that our use of chlorofluorocarbons has damaged the ozone shield; our emission of carbon dioxide is changing the climate of the entire planet in unpredictable ways and raising the level of the sea; and fishing fleets are scouring the oceans, depleting fish populations that once seemed limitless to a point from which they may never recover. In these ways the actions of consumers in Los Angeles can cause skin cancer among Australians, inundate the lands of peasants in Bangladesh, and force Thai villagers who could once earn a living by fishing to work in the factories of Bangkok. In these circ.u.mstances the need for a global ethic is inescapable. Is it nevertheless a vain hope? Here are some reasons why it may not be. We live in a time when many people experience their lives as empty and lacking in fulfilment. The decline of religion and the collapse of communism have left but the ideology of the free market whose only message is: consume, and work hard so you can earn money to consume more. Yet even those who do reasonably well in this race for material goods do not find that they are satisfied with their way of life. We now have good scientific evidence for what philosophers have said throughout the ages: once we have enough to satisfy our basic needs, gaining more wealth does not bring us more happiness. Consider the life of Ivan Boesky, the multimillionaire Wall Street dealer who in 1986 pleaded guilty to insider trading. Why did Boesky get involved in criminal activities when he already had more money than he could ever spend? Six years after the insider-trading scandal broke, Boesky''s estranged wife Seema spoke about her husband''s motives in an interview with Barbara Walters for the American ABC Network''s 20/20 program. Walters asked whether Boesky was a man who craved luxury. Seema Boesky thought not, pointing out that he worked around the clock, seven days a week, and never took a day off to enjoy his money. She then recalled that when in 1982 Forbes magazine first listed Boesky among the wealthiest people in the US, he was upset. She assumed he disliked the publicity and made some remark to that effect. Boesky replied: ''That''s not what''s upsetting me. We''re no-one. We''re nowhere. We''re at the bottom of the list and I promise you I won''t shame you like that again. We will not remain at the bottom of that list.'' Chapter 332 - The Drowning Child And The Expanding Circle[4] We must free ourselves from this absurd conception of success. Not only does it fail to bring happiness even to those who, like Boesky, do extraordinarily well in the competitive struggle; it also sets a social standard that is a recipe for global injustice and environmental disaster. We cannot continue to see our goal as acquiring more and more wealth, or as consuming more and more goodies, and leaving behind us an even larger heap of waste. We tend to see ethics as opposed to self-interest; we assume that those who make fortunes from insider trading are successfully following self-interest C as long as they don''t get caught C and ignoring ethics. We think that it is in our interest to take a more senior better-paid position with another company, even though it means that we are helping to manufacture or promote a product that does no good at all, or is environmentally damaging. On the other hand, those who pass up opportunities to rise in their career because of ethical ''scruples'' about the nature of the work, or who give away their wealth to good causes, are thought to be sacrificing their own interest in order to obey the dictates of ethics. Many will say that it is naive to believe that people could shift from a life based on consumption, or on getting on top of the corporate ladder, to one that is more ethical in its fundamental direction. But such a shift would answer a palpable need. Today the assertion that life is meaningless no longer comes from existentialist philosophers who treat it as a shocking discovery: it comes from bored adolescents for whom it is a truism. Perhaps it is the central place of self-interest, and the way in which we conceive of our own interest, that is to blame here. The pursuit of self-interest, as standardly conceived, is a life without any meaning beyond our own pleasure or individual satisfaction. Such a life is often a self-defeating enterprise. The ancients knew of the ''paradox of hedonism'', according to which the more explicitly we pursue our desire for pleasure, the more elusive we will find its satisfaction. There is no reason to believe that human nature has changed so dramatically as to render the ancient wisdom inapplicable. Here ethics offer a solution. An ethical life is one in which we identify ourselves with other, larger, goals, thereby giving meaning to our lives. The view that there is harmony between ethics and enlightened self-interest is an ancient one, now often scorned. Cynicism is more fashionable than idealism. But such hopes are not groundless, and there are substantial elements of truth in the ancient view that an ethically reflective life is also a good life for the person leading it. Never has it been so urgent that the reasons for accepting this view should be widely understood. In a society in which the narrow pursuit of material self-interest is the norm, the shift to an ethical stance is more radical than many people realize. In comparison with the needs of people going short of food in Rwanda, the desire to sample the wines of Australia''s best vineyards pales into insignificance. An ethical approach to life does not forbid having fun or enjoying food and wine; but it changes our sense of priorities. The effort and expense put into fashion, the endless search for more and more refined gastronomic pleasures, the added expense that marks out the luxury-car market C all these become disproportionate to people who can shift perspective long enough to put themselves in the position of others affected by their actions. If the circle of ethics really does expand, and a higher ethical consciousness spreads, it will fundamentally change the society in which we live. Chapter 333 - Efficient Charity: Do Unto Others[1] Imagine you are setting out on a dangerous expedition through the Arctic on a limited budget. The grizzled old prospector at the general store shakes his head sadly: you can''t afford everything you need; you''ll just have to purchase the bare essentials and hope you get lucky. But what is essential? Should you buy the warmest parka, if it means you can''t afford a sleeping bag? Should you bring an extra week''s food, just in case, even if it means going without a rifle? Or can you buy the rifle, leave the food, and hunt for your dinner? And how about the field guide to Arctic flowers? You like flowers, and you''d hate to feel like you''re failing to appreciate the harsh yet delicate environment around you. And a digital camera, of course - if you make it back alive, you''ll have to put the Arctic expedition pics up on Facebook. And a hand-crafted scarf with authentic Inuit tribal patterns woven from organic fibres! Wicked! ...but of course buying any of those items would be insane. The problem is what economists call opportunity costs: buying one thing costs money that could be used to buy others. A hand-crafted designer scarf might have some value in the Arctic, but it would cost so much it would prevent you from buying much more important things. And when your life is on the line, things like impressing your friends and buying organic pale in comparison. You have one goal - staying alive - and your only problem is how to distribute your resources to keep your chances as high as possible. These sorts of economics concepts are natural enough when faced with a journey through the freezing tundra. But they are decidedly not natural when facing a decision about charitable giving. Most donors say they want to "help people". If that''s true, they should try to distribute their resources to help people as much as possible. Most people don''t. In the "Buy A Brushstroke" campaign, eleven thousand British donors gave a total of 550,000 pounds to keep the famous painting "Blue Rigi" in a UK museum. If they had given that 550,000 pounds to buy better sanitation systems in African villages instead, the latest statistics suggest it would have saved the lives of about one thousand two hundred people from disease. Each individual $50 donation could have given a year of normal life back to a Third Worlder afflicted with a disabling condition like blindness or limb deformity.. Chapter 334 - Efficient Charity: Do Unto Others[2] Most of those 11,000 donors genuinely wanted to help people by preserving access to the original canvas of a beautiful painting. And most of those 11,000 donors, if you asked, would say that a thousand people''s lives are more important than a beautiful painting, original or no. But these people didn''t have the proper mental habits to realize that was the choice before them, and so a beautiful painting remains in a British museum and somewhere in the Third World a thousand people are dead. If you are to "love your neighbor as yourself", then you should be as careful in maximizing the benefit to others when donating to charity as you would be in maximizing the benefit to yourself when choosing purchases for a polar trek. And if you wouldn''t buy a pretty picture to hang on your sled in preference to a parka, you should consider not helping save a famous painting in preference to helping save a thousand lives. Not all charitable choices are as simple as that one, but many charitable choices do have right answers. GiveWell.org, a site which collects and interprets data on the effectiveness of charities, predicts that antimalarial drugs save one child from malaria per $5,000 worth of medicine, but insecticide-treated bed nets save one child from malaria per $500 worth of netting. If you want to save children, donating bed nets instead of antimalarial drugs is the objectively right answer, the same way buying a $500 TV instead of an identical TV that costs $5,000 is the right answer. And since saving a child from diarrheal disease costs $5,000, donating to an organization fighting malaria instead of an organization fighting diarrhea is the right answer, unless you are donating based on some criteria other than whether you''re helping children or not. Say all of the best Arctic explorers agree that the three most important things for surviving in the Arctic are good boots, a good coat, and good food. Perhaps they have run highly unethical studies in which they release thousands of people into the Arctic with different combination of gear, and consistently find that only the ones with good boots, coats, and food survive. Then there is only one best answer to the question "What gear do I buy if I want to survive" - good boots, good food, and a good coat. Your preferences are irrelevant; you may choose to go with alternate gear, but only if you don''t mind dying. And likewise, there is only one best charity: the one that helps the most people the greatest amount per dollar. This is vague, and it is up to you to decide whether a charity that raises forty children''s marks by one letter grade for $100 helps people more or less than one that prevents one fatal case of tuberculosis per $100 or one that saves twenty acres of rainforest per $100. But you cannot abdicate the decision, or you risk ending up like the 11,000 people who accidentally decided that a pretty picture was worth more than a thousand people''s lives. Chapter 335 - Efficient Charity: Do Unto Others[3] Deciding which charity is the best is hard. It may be straightforward to say that one form of antimalarial therapy is more effective than another. But how do both compare to financing medical research that might or might not develop a "magic bullet" cure for malaria? Or financing development of a new kind of supercomputer that might speed up all medical research? There is no easy answer, but the question has to be asked. What about just comparing charities on overhead costs, the one easy-to-find statistic that''s universally applicable across all organizations? This solution is simple, elegant, and wrong. High overhead costs are only one possible failure mode for a charity. Consider again the Arctic explorer, trying to decide between a $200 parka and a $200 digital camera. Perhaps a parka only cost $100 to make and the manufacturer takes $100 profit, but the camera cost $200 to make and the manufacturer is selling it at cost. This speaks in favor of the moral qualities of the camera manufacturer, but given the choice the explorer should still buy the parka. The camera does something useless very efficiently, the parka does something vital inefficiently. A parka sold at cost would be best, but in its absence the explorer shouldn''t hesitate to choose the the parka over the camera. The same applies to charity. An antimalarial net charity that saves one life per $500 with 50% overhead is better than an antidiarrheal drug charity that saves one life per $5000 with 0% overhead: $10,000 donated to the high-overhead charity will save ten lives; $10,000 to the lower-overhead will only save two. Here the right answer is to donate to the antimalarial charity while encouraging it to find ways to lower its overhead. In any case, examining the financial practices of a charity is helpful but not enough to answer the "which is the best charity?" question. Just as there is only one best charity, there is only one best way to donate to that charity. Whether you volunteer versus donate money versus raise awareness is your own choice, but that choice has consequences. If a high-powered lawyer who makes $1,000 an hour chooses to take an hour off to help clean up litter on the beach, he''s wasted the opportunity to work overtime that day, make $1,000, donate to a charity that will hire a hundred poor people for $10/hour to clean up litter, and end up with a hundred times more litter removed. If he went to the beach because he wanted the sunlight and the fresh air and the warm feeling of personally contributing to something, that''s fine. If he actually wanted to help people by beautifying the beach, he''s chosen an objectively wrong way to go about it. And if he wanted to help people, period, he''s chosen a very wrong way to go about it, since that $1,000 could save two people from malaria. Unless the litter he removed is really worth more than two people''s lives to him, he''s erring even according to his own value system. Chapter 336 - Efficient Charity: Do Unto Others[4] ...and the same is true if his philanthropy leads him to work full-time at a nonprofit instead of going to law school to become a lawyer who makes $1,000 / hour in the first place. Unless it''s one HELL of a nonprofit. The Roman historian Sall.u.s.t said of Cato "He preferred to be good, rather than to seem so". The lawyer who quits a high-powered law firm to work at a nonprofit organization certainly seems like a good person. But if we define "good" as helping people, then the lawyer who stays at his law firm but donates the profit to charity is taking Cato''s path of maximizing how much good he does, rather than how good he looks. And this dichotomy between being and seeming good applies not only to looking good to others, but to ourselves. When we donate to charity, one incentive is the warm glow of a job well done. A lawyer who spends his day picking up litter will feel a sense of personal connection to his sacrifice and relive the memory of how nice he is every time he and his friends return to that beach. A lawyer who works overtime and donates the money online to starving orphans in Romania may never get that same warm glow. But concern with a warm glow is, at root, concern about seeming good rather than being good - albeit seeming good to yourself rather than to others. There''s nothing wrong with donating to charity as a form of entertainment if it''s what you want - giving money to the Art Fund may well be a quicker way to give yourself a warm feeling than seeing a romantic comedy at the cinema - but charity given by people who genuinely want to be good and not just to feel that way requires more forethought. It is important to be rational about charity for the same reason it is important to be rational about Arctic exploration: it requires the same awareness of opportunity costs and the same hard-headed commitment to investigating efficient use of resources, and it may well be a matter of life and death. Consider going to GiveWell.org and making use of the excellent resources on effective charity they have available. Chapter 337 - Some Causes Are Better Than Others[1] We tend to imagine that organised attempts to make the world a better place are almost always successful, at least to some extent. However, this is simply not the case. GiveWell surveyed the literature on the effects of social interventions, concluding: We think that charities can easily fail to have impact, even when they''re doing exactly what they say they are. In fact, our review of academic research has led us to believe that many of the problems charities aim to address are extremely difficult problems that foundations, governments and experts have struggled with for decades. Many well-funded, well-executed, logical programs simply haven''t had the desired results. David Anderson, assistant director of the Coalition for Evidence Based Policy estimates: Chapter 338 - Some Causes Are Better Than Others[2] (1) The vast majority of social programs and services have not yet been rigorously evaluated, and (2) of those that have been rigorously evaluated, most (perhaps 75% or more), including those backed by expert opinion and less-rigorous studies, turn out to produce small or no effects, and, in some cases negative effects. Even within areas where interventions do work, the differences in effectiveness are often significant. The Abdul Latif Jameel Poverty Action Lab is a network of over 100 academics who carry out rigorous impact evaluations of interventions within international development. Within a program area, they often find that the best interventions are more than ten times as effective as others with the same aim, even when excluding entirely ineffective programs. Chapter 339 - Some Causes Are Better Than Others[3] To take one example, they studied interventions aiming to increase the attendance of teachers in the developing world. They found that half of the interventions studied had no effect whatsoever. Even once those were excluded, the best three were over ten times more effective than the worst intervention. Moreover, these differences are hard to predict ahead of time. Most social interventions that end up being evaluated were originally supported by experts and governments, were executed on a wide scale and are widely thought to work. But when tested rigorously, they turn out not to. Chapter 340 - Some Causes Are Better Than Others[4] Looking back on several decades of impact evaluations, we can see that good intentions and passion alone aren''t enough. Rather, we need a strategic approach that makes use of data where it is available, or seeks to gather data where it is not. It''s not that we should only focus on already proven interventions; rather, we should focus on implementing the best interventions we know given the evidence, or searching for new interventions that might be effective and testing them out. Our solution is our framework for assessing causes, which helps you to evaluate which areas to focus on. We also think it''s important to stay flexible about which causes to support, because new information is always coming to light about the most effective interventions. Focusing on the right cause could boost your impact more than ten times, enabling you to achieve more in a few years than you might normally be able to achieve in a lifetime. Chapter 341 - The Moral Imperative Towards Cost-Effectiveness[1] Cost-effectiveness is one of the most morally important issues in global health. This claim will be surprising to many, since conversations about the ethics of global health usually focus on more traditional moral issues such as justice, equality, and freedom. While these issues are also important, they are often overshadowed by cost-effectiveness. In this note, I shall explain how this happens and what it means for global health. The cost-effectiveness landscape in global health The importance of cost-effectiveness is due to the fact that it varies so much between different interventions. Let us start with a simplified example to show how this becomes a moral consideration. Suppose we have a $40,000 budget which we can spend as we wish to fight blindness. One thing we could do is to provide guide dogs to blind people in the United States to help them overcome their disability. This costs about $40,000 due to the training required for the dog and its recipient.[1] Another option is to pay for surgeries to reverse the effects of trachoma in Africa. This costs less than $20 per patient cured.[2] There are many other options, but for simplicity, let us just consider these two. We could thus use our entire budget to provide a single guide dog, helping one person overcome the challenges of blindness, or we could use it to cure more than 2,000 people of blindness. If we think that people have equal moral value, then the second option is more than 2,000 times better than the first. Put another way, the first option squanders about 99.95% of the value that we could have produced. This example ill.u.s.trates the basic point, but it is also unrealistic in a couple of ways. Firstly, it is rare for treatments in the United States to be traded off against treatments elsewhere. A health budget is normally more restricted than this, with a constraint that it is only spent on people in a particular rich country, or only spent on people in a designated category of poor countries. Secondly, we often have a spectrum of options. Thirdly, and most importantly, the class of interventions under consideration is often broad enough that it is difficult to make direct ''apples to apples'' comparisons between the effects of two interventions. Health economists and moral philosophers have an answer to the third of these issues. They use measures of health benefits that are powerful enough to be able to compare the values any two health benefits. The standard measure in global health is the Disability Adjusted Life Year (DALY). This measures the disvalue of health conditions in terms of the number of years of life lost due to the condition plus the number of years lived with disability multiplied by a number representing the severity of the disability. For example, a condition that caused one to die 5 years prematurely and to live the last 10 years with deafness would be valued as 5 + (10 x 33.3%) = 8.33 DALYs. Chapter 342 - The Moral Imperative Towards Cost-Effectiveness[2] There are a number of complications and choices regarding the calculation of DALYs, which given rise to a number of subtly different versions of DALYs and the closely related units called QALYs. Chief among these is the question of the size of the weightings representing how bad it is on average to suffer from a particular disability. There are also considerations about discount rates and age weightings. Different reasonable choices on these parameters could change the number of DALYs due to a condition by a few percent or by as much as a factor of two. DALYs should thus be considered only as a rough measure of the disvalue of different conditions. It might seem that there would be little use for so rough a measure. This would be true if the difference in cost-effectiveness between interventions were also about a factor of two, but since it is often a factor of a hundred or more, a rough measure is perfectly adequate for making the key comparisons. Let us now address all of the three concerns, by looking at a real world example of funding the prevention or treatment of HIV and AIDS. Let us consider four intervention types: surgical treatment for Kaposi''s sarcoma (an AIDS defining illness), antiretroviral therapy to fight the virus in infected people, prevention of transmission of HIV from mother to child during pregnancy, condom distribution to prevent transmission more generally, and education for high risk groups such as s.e.x workers. It is initially very unclear which of these interventions would be best to fund, and one might assume that they are roughly equal in importance. However, the most comprehensive compendium on cost-effectiveness in global health, Disease Control Priorities in Developing Countries 2nd edition (hereafter DCP2), lists their estimated cost-effectiveness as follows:[3] Note the wide discrepancies between the effectiveness of each intervention type. Treatment for Kaposi''s sarcoma cannot be seen on the chart at this scale, but that says more about the other interventions being good than about this treatment being bad: treating Kaposi''s sarcoma is considered cost-effective in a rich country setting. Antiretroviral therapy is estimated to be 50 times as effective as treatment of Kaposi''s sarcoma; prevention of transmission during pregnancy is 5 times as effective as this; condom distribution is about twice as effective as that; and education for high risk groups is about twice as effective again. In total, the best of these interventions is estimated to be 1,400 times as cost-effectiveness as the least good, or more than 1,400 times better than it would need to be in order to be funded in rich countries. This discrepancy becomes even larger if we make comparisons between interventions targeted at different types of illness. DCP2 includes cost-effectiveness estimates for 108 health interventions, which are presented in the chart below, arranged from least effective to most effective.[4] This larger sample of interventions is even more disparate in terms of costeffectiveness. The least effective intervention analysed is still the treatment for Kaposi''s sarcoma, but there are also interventions up to ten times more cost-effective than education for high risk groups. In total, the interventions are spread over more than four orders of magnitude, ranging from 0.02 to 300 DALYs per $1,000, with a median of 5. Thus, moving money from the least effective intervention to the most effective would produce about 15,000 times the benefit, and even moving it from the median intervention to the most effective would produce about 60 times the benefit. Chapter 343 - The Moral Imperative Towards Cost-Effectiveness[3] It can also be seen that due to the skewed distribution, the most effective interventions produce a disproportionate amount of the benefits. According to the DCP2 data, if we funded all of these interventions equally, 80% of the benefits would be produced by the top 20% of the interventions. It must be noted that these are merely estimates of cost-effectiveness and there may be less variance between the real, underlying cost-effectiveness values. However, even if the most effective interventions are a tenth as effective as these figures suggest and the least effective are ten times better than they appear, there would still be a factor of 150 between them. Moreover, there have been health interventions that are even more effective than any of those studied in the DCP2. For example, consider the progress that has been made on saving lives lost to immunization preventable illness, diarrhea, malaria, and smallpox, summarized in the following chart:[5] In all cases, our interventions have led to at least 2.5 million fewer deaths per year. To aid the reader in comprehending the scale of these achievements, I have added a final bar showing the average number of deaths per year due to war and genocide together over the 20th Century (2.3 million). Thus, in each of the four of these disease areas, our health interventions save more lives than would be saved by a lasting world peace. Moreover, these gains have been achieved very cheaply. For instance in the case of smallpox, the total cost of eradication was about $400 million.[6] Since more than 100 million lives have been saved so far, this has come to less than $4 per life saved significantly superior to all interventions in the DCP2. Moreover, the eradication also saved significant amounts of money. Approximately $70 million was being spent across developing countries per year in routine vaccination and treatment for smallpox, and more than $1,000 million was lost per year in reduced productivity.[7] Even just in the United States, smallpox vaccination and vigilance cost $150 million per year before eradication.8 The eradication programme thus saved more lives per year than are lost due to war, while saving money for both donors and recipients, paying back its entire costs every few months. It serves as an excellent proof of just how cost-effective global health can be. The moral case In these examples, we have seen how incredibly variable cost-effectiveness can be within global health. The least effective intervention in the HIV/AIDS case produces less than 0.1% of the value of the most effective, and if we are willing to look at different kinds of disease, this fraction drops to less than 0.01%. Ignoring costeffectiveness thus does not mean losing 10% or 20% of the potential value that a health budget could have achieved, but can easily mean losing 99% or more. Even choosing the median intervention can involve losing 85% of the potential value. Chapter 344 - The Moral Imperative Towards Cost-Effectiveness[4] In practical terms, this can mean hundreds, thousands, or millions of additional deaths due to failure to prioritize. In non-life-saving contexts it means thousands or millions of people with untreated disabling conditions. Even when other ethical issues in global health are very important in absolute terms, they are typically much smaller than this. For instance, it may be worse on equity grounds to treat a million people in a relatively affluent city than to treat the same number of people spread between the city and the relatively much poorer rural areas. However, it is not vastly worse not so bad that 99% of the value is lost. Learning how to correctly factor these other ethical issues into our decision making is an important and challenging problem, but we are currently failing at a much more basic, more obvious, and more important problem: choosing to help more people instead of fewer people, to produce a larger health benefit instead of a smaller one. Challenges addressed Some people don''t see cost-effectiveness as an ethical issue at all, since it is so cut and dried that it seems like a mere implementation issue. This is misguided. People who decide how to spend health budgets hold the lives or livelihoods of many other people in their hands. They are literally making life-or-death decisions. Most decisions of this sort take dramatically insufficient account of cost-effectiveness. As a result, thousands or millions of people die who otherwise would have lived. The few are saved at the expense of the many. It is typically done out of ignorance about the significance of the cost-effectiveness landscape rather than out of prejudice, but the effects are equally serious. Some object that consequences are not the only thing that matters. For example, some people think that acting virtuously or avoiding violating rights matters too. However, all plausible ethical theories hold that consequences are an important input into moral decision-making, particularly when considering life or death situations, or those affecting thousands of people. Indeed these are precisely the types of cases in which people think that it may even become permissible to violate rights. However, in the cases under consideration, there is not even a conflict between producing a much greater good and acting virtuously or avoiding violating people''s rights. The consequences are thus of great moral importance, with no serious moral factors counting in the opposite direction. Proponents of all ethical theories should therefore agree about the moral importance of funding the most costeffective interventions. People might also be concerned about the particular choices involved in estimating the benefits of different health interventions. For example, they may disagree about particular disability weights, or about the method for eliciting these weights, or about discounting health benefits, or weighting benefits depending on the age of the recipients, or whether other issues such as equality need to be factored in. However, none of this is in serious disagreement with the thrust of this note. Indeed I personally have many of the same concerns, but as mentioned earlier the practical choices we face often involve factors of ten or more between different interventions, so none of the modifications mentioned here will change the rankings very much. People who are concerned about the details of measuring cost-effectiveness should join with the cost-effectiveness community in improving these measures, rather than throwing out the baby with the bathwater, and leading to thousands of unnecessary deaths. Chapter 345 - The Moral Imperative Towards Cost-Effectiveness[5] Another reason people might be initially suspicious of prioritisation based on cost-effectiveness is through confusing it with cost-benefit analysis (CBA). The latter is an economic method for prioritisation which involves determining the benefits for each person in terms of how many dollars they would be willing to pay, adding these up, and then dividing by the total costs in order to produce a benefit-cost ratio in units of dollars per dollar. This method is ethically suspect as it considers benefits to wealthy people (or groups) to be worth more than comparable benefits to poorer people (or groups) since the wealthy are willing to pay more for a given benefit. However, the cost-effectiveness I have discussed in this note is very different, and is a type of analysis known as cost-effectiveness analysis (CEA). This doesn''t convert benefits into dollars, but just provides a raw measure of the benefits in units such as DALYs per dollar, or lives saved per dollar. Thus the wealth of the recipients is not an input to the analysis and it doesn''t discriminate towards interventions that favour the wealthy. People might remain suspicious of cost-effectiveness since it makes a connection between dollars and health (or even life itself). Making trade-offs between so-called sacred values such as life with non-sacred values such as money strikes many people as morally problematic. However, no such trade-off is made in cost-effectiveness analysis. Instead there is a budget constraint of some fixed number of dollars. The cost-effectiveness ratios help one to see how much benefit could be causally produced if this money were spent on different interventions for example, saving one thousand lives or saving ten thousand lives. The only comparison that is made is between these benefits. Whether or not it is worth spending the budget to save ten thousand lives is not part of the analysis. Conclusions In many cases ignoring cost-effectiveness in global health means losing almost all the value that we could create. Thus there is a moral imperative to fund the most costeffective interventions. This doesn''t simply mean implementing the current interventions in the most cost-effective way possible, for the improvements that can be gained within a single intervention are quite small in comparison. It also doesn''t just mean doing retrospective measures of the cost-effectiveness of the interventions you fund as part of programme evaluation. Instead, it means actively searching the landscape of interventions that you are allowed to fund and diverting the bulk of the funds to the very best interventions. Ideally it also means expanding the domain of interventions under consideration to include all those which have been analysed. The main effect of understanding the moral imperative towards cost-effectiveness is spending our budgets so as to produce greater health benefits, saving many more lives and preventing or treating more disabling conditions. However, it also shows a very interesting fact about global health funding. If we can save one thousand lives with one intervention and ten thousand with another at an equal price, then merely moving our funding from the first to the second saves nine thousand lives. Thus merely moving funding from one intervention to a more cost-effective one can produce almost as much benefit as adding an equal amount of additional funding. This is unintuitive since it isn''t the case when one option is merely 10% or 30% better than another. However, when one option is 10 times or 100 times better, as is often the case in global health, redirecting funding is so important that it is almost as good as adding new funding directly towards the superior intervention. In times of global austerity and shrinking budgets, it is good to know how much more can be done within existing ones. Chapter 346 - A Long-run Perspective On Strategic Cause Selection And Philanthropy[1] Introduction A philanthropist who will remain anonymous recently asked us about what we would do if we didn''t face financial constraints. We gave a detailed answer that we thought we might as well share with others, who may also find our perspective interesting. We gave the answer largely in hope of creating some interest in our way of thinking about philanthropy and some of the causes that we find interesting for further investigation, and because we thought the answer would be fruitful for conversation. Our honest answer to your question Our honest answer to your question is that we would systematically examine a wide variety of causes and opportunities with the intention of identifying the ones which could use additional money and talent to produce the best long-run outcomes. This would look a lot like setting up a major foundation--which is unsurprising, given that many people in this situation do set up foundations--so we will concentrate on the distinguishing or less typical features of our approach: Unlike many foundations, we would place a great deal of emphasis on selecting the highest impact program areas, rather than selecting program areas for other reasons and working hardest to find the best opportunities within those areas. Like GiveWell, we believe that the choice of program areas may be one of the most important decisions a major philanthropist makes and is consistently underemphasized. We would invest heavily in learning, funding systematic examination of the spectrum of opportunities, and the transparent publication of our process and findings. In addition to sharing information about giving opportunities, we would share detailed information about talent gaps, encouraging people with the right abilities to seek out opportunities in promising areas that are constrained by people rather than money. We would measure impact primarily in terms of very long-run positive consequences for humanity, as outlined in Nick''s PhD thesis. We would be skeptical of our intuitions, and check them through such means as external review, the collection of track records for our predictions, structured evaluations, and the use of simple and sophisticated methods of aggregating and improving on expert opinion (e.g. the forecasting training and aggregation methods developed by Philip Tetlock, calibration training, prediction markets, and anonymous surveys of appropriate experts). We understand that you probably aren''t contacting us about setting up a foundation, though you might be interested in hearing more about the approach and assumptions above, so we''ll say a few things about how we would go about strategically selecting causes, and our leading hypotheses about which causes are most promising to investigate further. Briefly, We believe that maximizing good accomplished largely reduces to doing what is best in terms of very long-run outcomes for humanity. We think this has significant practical implications when making trade-offs between short-term welfare and the broad functioning of society, our ability to face major global challenges and opportunities, and increasing society''s resilience to global catastrophes. Five causes we are interested in investigating first include immigration reform, methods for improved forecasting, an area we call "philanthropic infrastructure," catastrophic risks to humanity, and research integrity. These would be areas for investigation and experimentation, and we would pursue them in the short run primarily for the sake of gaining information about how attractive they are in comparison with other areas. There many other causes we would like to investigate early on, and would begin investigating those causes less deeply and in parallel with our investigations of the causes we are most enthusiastic about. We''d be happy to discuss the other causes with you as well. We elaborate on these ideas below. Chapter 347 - A Long-run Perspective On Strategic Cause Selection And Philanthropy[2] Is the long run actionable in the short run? As just mentioned, we believe that maximizing good accomplished largely reduces to doing what is best in terms of very long-run outcomes for humanity, and that this has strategic implications for people aiming to maximize good accomplished with their resources. We think these implications are significant when choosing between causes or program areas, and less significant when comparing opportunities within program areas. There is a lot of detail behind this perspective and it is hard to summarize briefly. But here is an attempt to quickly explain our reasoning: We think humanity has a reasonable probability of lasting a very long time, becoming very large, and/or eventually enjoying a very high quality of life. This could happen through radical (or even moderate) technological change, if industrial civilization persists as long as agriculture has persisted (though upper limits for life on Earth are around a billion years), or if future generations colonize other regions of space. Though we wouldn''t bet on very specific details, we think some of these possibilities have a reasonable probability of occurring. Because of this, we think that, from an impartial perspective, almost all of the potential good we can accomplish comes through influencing very long-run outcomes for humanity. We believe long-run outcomes may be highly sensitive to how well humanity handles key challenges and opportunities, especially challenges from new technology, in the next hundred years or so. We believe that (especially with substantial resources) we could have small but significant positive impacts on how effectively we face these challenges and opportunities, and thereby affect expected long-run outcomes for humanity. We could face these challenges and opportunities more effectively by preparing for specific challenges and opportunities (such as nuclear security and climate change in the past and present, and advances in synthetic biology and artificial intelligence in the future), or by enhancing humanity''s general capacities to deal with these challenges and opportunities when we face them (through higher rates of economic growth, improved political coordination, improved use of information and decision-making for individuals and groups, and increases in education and human capital). We believe that this perspective diverges from the recommendations of a more short-run focus in a few ways. First, when we consider attempts to prepare for global challenges and opportunities in general, we weigh such factors as economic output, log incomes, education, quality-adjusted life-years (QALYs), scientific progress, and governance quality differently than if we would if we put less emphasis on long-run outcomes for humanity. In particular, a more short-term focus would lead to a much stronger emphasis on QALYs and log incomes, which we suspect could be purchased more cheaply through interventions targeting people in developing countries, e.g. through public health or more open migration. Attending to long-run impacts creates a closer contest between such interventions and those which increase economic output or institutional quality (and thus the quality of our response to future challenges and opportunities). Our perspective would place an especially high premium on intermediate goals such as the quality of forecasting and the transmission of scientific knowledge to policy makers, which are disproportionately helpful for navigating global challenges and opportunities. Second, when there are opportunities for identifying specific major challenges or opportunities for affecting long-run outcomes for humanity, our perspective favors treating these challenges and opportunities with the utmost seriousness. We believe that reducing the risk of catastrophes with the potential to destroy humanity--which we call "global catastrophic risks" or sometimes "existential risks"--has an unusually clear and positive connection with long-run outcomes, and this is a reason we are unusually interested in problems in this area. Third, the long-run perspective values resilience against permanent disruption or worsening of civilization over and above resilience to short-term catastrophe. From a long-run perspective, there is an enormous difference between a collapse of civilization followed by eventual recovery, versus a permanent collapse of civilization. This point has been made by philosophers like Derek Parfit (very memorably at the end of his book Reasons and Persons) and Peter Singer (in a short piece he wrote with Nick Beckstead and Matt Wage). Chapter 348 - A Long-run Perspective On Strategic Cause Selection And Philanthropy[3] Five causes we would like to investigate more deeply Immigration reform What it is: By "immigration reform," we mean loosening immigration restrictions in rich countries with stronger political institutions, especially for people who are migrating from poor countries with weaker political institutions. We include both efforts to allow more high-skill immigration and efforts to allow more immigration in general. Some people to talk to in this area include Michael Clemens, Lant Pritchett, and others at the Center for Global Development. Fwd.us and the Krieble Foundation are two examples of organizations working in this area. Why we think it is promising: Many individual workers in poor countries could produce much more economic value and better realize their potential in other ways if they lived in rich countries, meaning that much of the world''s human capital is being severely underutilized. This claim is unusually well supported by basic economic theory and the views of a large majority of economists. Many concerns have been raised, but we think the most plausible ones involve political feasibility and political and cultural consequences of migration. Philanthropic infrastructure What it is: By "philanthropic infrastructure," we mean activities that expand the flexible capabilities of those trying to do good in a cause-neutral, outcome-oriented way. Some organizations in this area we are most familiar with include charity evaluator GiveWell, donation pledge organizations (Giving What We Can, The Life You Can Save, the Giving Pledge), and 80,000 Hours (an organization that provides information to help people make career choices that maximize their impact). There are many examples we are less familiar with, such as the Bridgespan Group and the Center for Effective Philanthropy. (Disclosure: Nick Beckstead is on the board of trustees for the Centre for Effective Altruism, which houses Giving What We Can, The Life You Can Save, and 80,000 Hours, though The Life You Can Save is substantially independent.) Why we think it is promising: We are interested in this area because we want to build up resources which are flexible enough to ultimately support the causes and opportunities that are later found to be the most promising, and because we see a lot of growth in this area and think early investments may result in more money and talent available for very promising opportunities later on. Methods for improved forecasting What it is: Forecasting is challenging, and very high accuracy is difficult to obtain in many of the domains of greatest interest. However, a number of methods have been developed to improve forecasting accuracy through training, aggregation of opinion, incentives, and other means. Some examples include expert judgment aggregation algorithms, probability and calibration training, and prediction markets. We are excited about recent progress in this area in a prediction tournament sponsored by IARPA, which Philip Tetlock''s Good Judgment Project is currently winning. Why we think it is promising: Improved forecasting could be useful in a wide variety of political and business contexts. Improved forecasting over a period of multiple years could improve overall preparedness for many global challenges and opportunities. Moreover, strong evidence of the superior performance of some methods of forecasting over others could help policymakers base decisions on the best available evidence. We currently have limited information about room for more funding for existing organizations in this area. Chapter 349 - A Long-run Perspective On Strategic Cause Selection And Philanthropy[4] Global catastrophic risk What it is: Opportunities in this area focus on identifying and mitigating specific threats of human extinction, such as large asteroid impact and tail risks of climate change and nuclear winter. Examples of interventions in this category include tracking asteroids (which has largely been completed for asteroids that threaten civilization, though not for comets), improving resilience of the food supply through cellulose-to-food conversion, disease surveillance (for natural or man-made pandemics), advocacy for non-proliferation of nuclear weapons, and research on other possible risks and methods for mitigating them. An unusual view we take seriously is that some of the most significant risks in this area will come from new technologies that may emerge this century, such as advanced artificial intelligence and advanced biological weapons. (We also believe technologies of this type have massive upside potential which must be thought about carefully as we think about the risks.) Notable defenders of views in this vicinity include Martin Rees, Richard Posner, and Nick Bostrom. (Disclosure: Nick Bostrom is the Director at the Future of Humanity Institute, where Nick Beckstead is a research fellow and Carl Shulman is a research associate.) Why we think it is promising: Progress in this area has a clear relationship with long-run outcomes for humanity. There have been some very good buys in this area in the past, such as early asteroid tracking programs. Apart from climate change, total foundation spending in this area is around 0.1%, and little of that carefully distinguishes between large catastrophes and catastrophes with the potential to significant change long-run outcomes for humanity. Meta-research What it is: We will make use of GiveWell''s explanation of the cause area here and here. Why we think it is promising: We believe that many improvements in meta-research can accelerate scientific progress and make it easier for non-experts to discern what is known in a field. We believe this is likely to systematically improve our ability to navigate global challenges and opportunities. From a long-term perspective the importance of different impacts of meta-research diverges from a short-term analysis because, e.g. the degree to which policymakers can understand the state of scientific knowledge at any given level of progress looms larger in comparison to simple acceleration of progress. Chapter 350 - Astronomical Waste: The Opportunity Cost Of Delayed Technological Development[1] ABSTRACT. With very advanced technology, a very large population of people living happy lives could be sustained in the accessible region of the universe. For every year that development of such technologies and colonization of the universe is delayed, there is therefore an opportunity cost: a potential good, lives worth living, is not being realized. Given some plausible assumptions, this cost is extremely large. However, the lesson for utilitarians is not that we ought to maximize the pace of technological development, but rather that we ought to maximize its safety, i.e. the probability that colonization will eventually occur. I. THE RATE OF LOSS OF POTENTIAL LIVES As I write these words, suns are illuminating and heating empty rooms, unused energy is being flushed down black holes, and our great common endowment of negentropy is being irreversibly degraded into entropy on a cosmic scale. These are resources that an advanced civilization could have used to create value-structures, such as sentient beings living worthwhile lives. The rate of this loss boggles the mind. One recent paper speculates, using loose theoretical considerations based on the rate of increase of entropy, that the loss of potential human lives in our own galactic supercl.u.s.ter is at least ~10^46 per century of delayed colonization. This estimate assumes that all the lost entropy could have been used for productive purposes, although no currently known technological mechanisms are even remotely capable of doing that. Since the estimate is meant to be a lower bound, this radically unconservative assumption is undesirable. We can, however, get a lower bound more straightforwardly by simply counting the number or stars in our galactic supercl.u.s.ter and multiplying this number with the amount of computing power that the resources of each star could be used to generate using technologies for whose feasibility a strong case has already been made. We can then divide this total with the estimated amount of computing power needed to simulate one human life. As a rough approximation, let us say the Virgo Supercl.u.s.ter contains 10^13 stars. One estimate of the computing power extractable from a star and with an associated planet-sized computational structure, using advanced molecular nanotechnology, is 10^42 operations per second. A typical estimate of the human brain''s processing power is roughly 10^17 operations per second or less. Not much more seems to be needed to simulate the relevant parts of the environment in sufficient detail to enable the simulated minds to have experiences indistinguishable from typical current human experiences. Given these estimates, it follows that the potential for approximately 10^38 human lives is lost every century that colonization of our local supercl.u.s.ter is delayed; or equivalently, about 10^29 potential human lives per second. While this estimate is conservative in that it assumes only computational mechanisms whose implementation has been at least outlined in the literature, it is useful to have an even more conservative estimate that does not assume a non-biological instantiation of the potential persons. Suppose that about 10^10 biological humans could be sustained around an average star. Then the Virgo Supercl.u.s.ter could contain 10^23 biological humans. This corresponds to a loss of potential equal to about 10^14 potential human lives per second of delayed colonization. What matters for present purposes is not the exact numbers but the fact that they are huge. Even with the most conservative estimate, assuming a biological implementation of all persons, the potential for one hundred trillion potential human beings is lost for every second of postponement of colonization of our supercl.u.s.ter. Chapter 351 - Astronomical Waste: The Opportunity Cost Of Delayed Technological Development[2] II. THE OPPORTUNITY COST OF DELAYED COLONIZATION From a utilitarian perspective, this huge loss of potential human lives constitutes a correspondingly huge loss of potential value. I am assuming here that the human lives that could have been created would have been worthwhile ones. Since it is commonly supposed that even current human lives are typically worthwhile, this is a weak assumption. Any civilization advanced enough to colonize the local supercl.u.s.ter would likely also have the ability to establish at least the minimally favorable conditions required for future lives to be worth living. The effect on total value, then, seems greater for actions that accelerate technological development than for practically any other possible action. Advancing technology (or its enabling factors, such as economic productivity) even by such a tiny amount that it leads to colonization of the local supercl.u.s.ter just one second earlier than would otherwise have happened amounts to bringing about more than 10^29 human lives (or 10^14 human lives if we use the most conservative lower bound) that would not otherwise have existed. Few other philanthropic causes could hope to mach that level of utilitarian payoff. Utilitarians are not the only ones who should strongly oppose astronomical waste. There are many views about what has value that would concur with the assessment that the current rate of wastage constitutes an enormous loss of potential value. For example, we can take a thicker conception of human welfare than commonly supposed by utilitarians (whether of a hedonistic, experientialist, or desire-satisfactionist bent), such as a conception that locates value also in human flourishing, meaningful relationsh.i.p.s, noble character, individual expression, aesthetic appreciation, and so forth. So long as the evaluation function is aggregative (does not count one person''s welfare for less just because there are many other persons in existence who also enjoy happy lives) and is not relativized to a particular point in time (no time-discounting), the conclusion will hold. These conditions can be relaxed further. Even if the welfare function is not perfectly aggregative (perhaps because one component of the good is diversity, the marginal rate of production of which might decline with increasing population size), it can still yield a similar bottom line provided only that at least some significant component of the good is sufficiently aggregative. Similarly, some degree of time-discounting future goods could be accommodated without changing the conclusion. Chapter 352 - Astronomical Waste: The Opportunity Cost Of Delayed Technological Development[3] III. THE CHIEF GOAL FOR UTILITARIANS SHOULD BE TO REDUCE EXISTENTIAL RISK In light of the above discussion, it may seem as if a utilitarian ought to focus her efforts on accelerating technological development. The payoff from even a very slight success in this endeavor is so enormous that it dwarfs that of almost any other activity. We appear to have a utilitarian argument for the greatest possible urgency of technological development. However, the true lesson is a different one. If what we are concerned with is (something like) maximizing the expected number of worthwhile lives that we will create, then in addition to the opportunity cost of delayed colonization, we have to take into account the risk of failure to colonize at all. We might fall victim to an existential risk, one where an adverse outcome would either annihilate Earth-originating intelligent life or permanently and drastically curtail its potential. Because the lifespan of galaxies is measured in billions of years, whereas the time-scale of any delays that we could realistically affect would rather be measured in years or decades, the consideration of risk trumps the consideration of opportunity cost. For example, a single percentage point of reduction of existential risks would be worth (from a utilitarian expected utility point-of-view) a delay of over 10 million years. Therefore, if our actions have even the slightest effect on the probability of eventual colonization, this will outweigh their effect on when colonization takes place. For standard utilitarians, priority number one, two, three and four should consequently be to reduce existential risk. The utilitarian imperative "Maximize expected aggregate utility!" can be simplified to the maxim "Minimize existential risk!". IV. IMPLICATIONS FOR AGGREGATIVE PERSON-AFFECTING VIEWS The argument above presupposes that our concern is to maximize the total amount of well-being. Suppose instead that we adopt a "person-affecting" version of utilitarianism, according to which our obligations are primarily towards currently existing persons and to those persons that will come to exist. On such a person-affecting view, human extinction would be bad only because it makes past or ongoing lives worse, not because it constitutes a loss of potential worthwhile lives. What ought someone who embraces this doctrine do? Should he emphasize speed or safety, or something else? To answer this, we need to consider some further matters. Suppose one thinks that the probability is negligible that any existing person will survive long enough to get to use a significant portion of the accessible astronomical resources, which, as described in opening section of this paper, are gradually going to waste. Then one''s reason for minimizing existential risk is that sudden extinction would off cut an average of, say, 40 years from each of the current (six billion or so) human lives. While this would certainly be a large disaster, it is in the same big ballpark as other ongoing human tragedies, such as world poverty, hunger and disease. On this assumption, then, a person-affecting utilitarian should regard reducing existential risk as a very important but not completely dominating concern. There would in this case be no easy answer to what he ought to do. Where he ought to focus his efforts would depend on detailed calculations about which area of philanthropic activity he would happen to be best placed to make a contribution to. Chapter 353 - Astronomical Waste: The Opportunity Cost Of Delayed Technological Development[4] Arguably, however, we ought to assign a non-negligible probability to some current people surviving long enough to reap the benefits of a cosmic diaspora. A so-called technological "singularity" might occur in our natural lifetime, or there could be a breakthrough in life-extension, brought about, perhaps, as result of machine-phase nanotechnology that would give us unprecedented control over the biochemical processes in our bodies and enable us to halt and reverse the aging process. Many leading technologists and futurist thinkers give a fairly high probability to these developments happening within the next several decades. Even if you are skeptical about their prognostications, you should consider the poor track record of technological forecasting. In view of the well-established unreliability of many such forecasts, it would seem unwarranted to be so confident in one''s prediction that the requisite breakthroughs will not occur in our time as to give the hypothesis that they will a probability of less than, say, 1%. The expected utility of a 1% chance of realizing an astronomically large good could still be astronomical. But just how good would it be for (some substantial subset of) currently living people to get access to astronomical amounts of resources? The answer is not obvious. On the one hand, one might reflect that in today''s world, the marginal utility for an individual of material resources declines quite rapidly once his basic needs have been met. Bill Gates'' level of well-being does not seem to dramatically exceed that of many a person of much more modest means. On the other hand, advanced technologies of the sorts that would most likely be deployed by the time we could colonize the local supercl.u.s.ter may well provide new ways of converting resources into well-being. In particular, material resources could be used to greatly expand our mental capacities and to indefinitely prolong our subjective lifespan. And it is by no means clear that the marginal utility of extended healthspan and increased mental powers must be sharply declining above some level. If there is no such decline in marginal utility, we have to conclude that the expected utility to current individuals of successful colonization of our supercl.u.s.ter is astronomically great, and this conclusion holds even if one gives a fairly low probability to that outcome. A long shot it may be, but for an expected utility maximizer, the benefit of living for perhaps billions of subjective years with greatly expanded capacities under fantastically favorable conditions could more than make up for the remote prospects of success. Now, if these assumptions are made, what follows about how a person-affecting utilitarian should act? Clearly, avoiding existential calamities is important, not just because it would truncate the natural lifespan of six billion or so people, but also C and given the assumptions this is an even weightier consideration C because it would extinguish the chance that current people have of reaping the enormous benefits of eventual colonization. However, by contrast to the total utilitarian, the person-affecting utilitarian would have to balance this goal with another equally important desideratum, namely that of maximizing the chances of current people surviving to benefit from the colonization. For the person-affecting utilitarian, it is not enough that humankind survives to colonize; it is crucial that extant people be saved. This should lead her to emphasize speed of technological development, since the rapid arrival advanced technology would surely be needed to help current people stay alive until the fruits of colonization could be harvested. If the goal of speed conflicts with the goal of global safety, the total utilitarian should always opt to maximize safety, but the person-affecting utilitarian would have to balance the risk of people dying of old age with the risk of them succ.u.mbing in a species-destroying catastrophe. Chapter 354 - The World’s Biggest Problems And Why They’re Not What First Comes To Mind[1] We''ve spent much of the last eight years trying to answer a simple question: what are the world''s biggest and most urgent problems? We wanted to have a positive impact with our careers, and so we set out to discover where our efforts would be most effective. Our analysis suggests that choosing the right problem could increase your impact over 100 times, and so be the most important decision you ever make. In trying to answer this question, we''ve had to tear up everything we thought we knew, and then again more than once. Here, we give a summary of what we''ve learned. Read on to hear why ending diarrhoea might save as many lives as world peace, why artificial intelligence might be even more important, and what to do in your own career to make the most urgent changes happen. In short, the most urgent problems are those where people can have the greatest impact by working on them. As we explained in the previous article, this means problems that are not only big, but also neglected and solvable. The more neglected and solvable, the further extra effort will go. And this means they''re not the problems that first come to mind. Reading time: 30 minutes. If you just want to see our current views on the world''s most urgent problems, skip ahead. Why issues facing rich countries aren''t always the most importantand why charity shouldn''t always begin at home. Most people who want to do good focus on issues in their home country. In rich countries, this often means issues like homelessness, inner city education and unemployment. But are these the most urgent issues? In the US, only 4% of charitable donations are spent on international causes. The most popular careers for talented graduates who want to do good are teaching and health, which receive about 18% of graduates, and mainly involve helping people in the US. There are good reasons to focus on helping your own country C you know more about the issues, and you might feel you have special obligations to it. However, back in 2009, we encountered the following series of facts. They led us to think that the most urgent problems are not local, but rather poverty in the world''s poorest countries, especially efforts within health, such as fighting malaria and parasitic worms. Why do we say that? Well, here''s a pretty staggering chart we came across in our research. It''s the distribution of world income that we saw in an earlier article. Even someone living on the US poverty line of $11,000 per year is richer than about 85% of the world''s population, and about 20 times wealthier than the world''s poorest 1.2 billion, who mostly live in Africa and Asia on under $500 per year. These figures are already adjusted for the fact that money goes further in poor countries (purchasing power parity). As we also saw earlier, the poorer you are, the bigger difference extra money makes to your welfare. Based on this research, because the poor in Africa are 20 times poorer, we''d expect resources to go about 20 times further in helping them. There are also only about 47 million people living in relative poverty in the US, about 6% as many as the 800 million in extreme global poverty. And there are far more resources dedicated to helping this smaller number of people. Total overseas development aid is only about $131bn per year, compared to $900bn spent on welfare in the US. Finally, as we saw earlier, the majority of US social interventions probably don''t work. This is because problems facing the poor in rich countries are complex and hard to solve. Moreover, even the most evidence-backed interventions are expensive and have modest effects. The same comparison holds for other rich countries, such as the UK, Australia, Canada and the EU. (Though if you live in a developing country, then it may well be best to focus on issues there.) All this isn''t to deny the poor in rich countries have very tough lives, perhaps even worse in some respects than those in the developing world. Rather, the issue is that there are far fewer of them, and they''re harder to help. So if you''re not focusing on issues in your home country, what should you focus on? Global health: a problem where you could really make progress. What if we were to tell you that, over the second half of the 20th century, progress on treatments for diarrhoea did as much to save lives as achieving world peace over the same period would have done? The number of deaths each year due to diarrhoea have fallen by 3 million over the last four decades due to advances like oral rehydration therapy. Meanwhile, all wars and political famines killed about 2 million people per year over the second half of the 20th century. The global fight against disease is one of humanity''s greatest achievements, but it''s also an ongoing battle to which you can contribute with your career. A large fraction of these gains were driven by humanitarian aid, such as the campaign to eradicate smallpox. In fact, although many experts in economics think much international aid hasn''t been effective, even the most sceptical agree there''s an exception: global health. For instance, William Easterly, author of White Man''s Burden, wrote: Put the focus back where it belongs: get the poorest people in the world such obvious goods as the vaccines, the antibiotics, the food supplements, the improved seeds, the fertilizer, the roads. This is not making the poor dependent on handouts; it is giving the poorest people the health, nutrition, education, and other inputs that raise the payoff to their own efforts to better their lives.Within health, where to focus? An economist at the World Bank sent us this data, which also amazed us. This is a list of health treatments, such as providing tuberculosis medicine or surgeries, ranked by how much health they produce per dollar, as measured in rigorous randomised controlled trials. Health is measured in a standard unit used by health economists, called the "quality-adjusted life year". The first point is that all these treatments are effective. Essentially all of them would be funded in countries like the US and UK. People in poor countries, however, routinely die from diseases that would certainly have been treated if they''d happened to have been born somewhere else. Even more surprising, however, is that the top interventions are far better than the average, as shown by the spike on the right. The top interventions, like vaccines, have been shown to have significant benefits, but are also extremely cheap. The top intervention is over ten times more cost-effective than the average, and 15,000 times more than the worst. This means if you were working at a health charity focused on one of the top interventions, you''d expect to have ten times as much impact compared to a randomly selected one. This study isn''t perfect C there were mistakes in the analysis affecting the top results (and that''s what you''d expect due to regression to the mean) C but the main point is solid: the best health interventions are many times more effective than the average. So how much more impact might you make with your career by switching your focus to global health? Because, as we saw in the first chart, the world''s poorest people are over 20 times poorer than the poor in rich countries, resources go about 20 times as far in helping them (read about why here). Then, if we focus on health, there are cheap, effective interventions that everyone agrees are worth doing. We can use the research in the second chart to pick the very best interventions, letting us have perhaps five times as much impact again. In total, this makes for a 100-fold difference in impact. Does this check out? After years of research, analysts at GiveWell have estimated that spending $7,500 on 1,500 malaria nets through the Against Malaria Foundation is enough, on average, to prevent one death. Chapter 355 - The World’s Biggest Problems And Why They’re Not What First Comes To Mind[2] In contrast, in rich countries like the US, it usually costs over $1m to save another life with health spending. So if we compare health in the US to global health, there is a 130-fold difference. It''s hard for us to grasp such big differences in scale, but that would mean that one year of (equally skilled) effort towards the best treatments within global health could have as much impact as 130 years C three career''s worth of time C working on typical rich country issues. These discoveries caused us to start giving at least 10% of our income to effective global health charities. No matter which job we ended up in, these donations would enable us to make a significant difference. In fact, if the 100-fold figure is correct, a 10% donation would be equivalent to donating 1,000% of our income to charities focused on poverty in rich countries. See more detail on how to contribute to global health in our full profile. However, everything we learned about global health raised many more questions. If it''s possible to have 10 or 100 times more impact with just a little research, maybe there are even better areas to discover? We considered lots of avenues to help the global poor, like trade reform or promoting migration, or crop yield research, or biomedical research. We also seriously considered working to end factory farming. For example, we helped to found Animal Charity Evaluators, which does research into how to most effectively improve animal welfare. We still think factory farming is an urgent problem, as we explain in our full profile. But in the end, we went in a different direction. Why focusing on future generations can be even more effective than tackling global health Which would you choose from these two options? 1. Prevent one person from suffering next year.2. Prevent 100 people from suffering (the same amount) 100 years from now. Most people choose the second option. It''s a crude example, but it suggests that they value future generations. If people didn''t want to leave a legacy to future generations, it would be hard to understand why we invest so much in science, create art, and preserve the wilderness. We would certainly choose the second option. And if you value future generations, then there are powerful arguments that you should focus on helping them. We were first exposed to these by researchers at the University of Oxford''s (modestly named) Future of Humanity Institute, with whom we affiliated in 2012. So, what''s the reasoning? First, future generations matter, but they can''t vote, they can''t buy things, and they can''t stand up for their interests. This means our system neglects them. You can see this in the global failure to come to an international agreement to tackle climate change that actually works. Second, their plight is abstract. We''re reminded of issues like global poverty and factory farming far more often. But we can''t so easily visualise suffering that will happen in the future. Future generations rely on our goodwill, and even that is hard to muster. Third, there will probably be many more people alive in the future than there are today. The Earth will remain habitable for at least hundreds of millions of years. We may die out long before that point, but if there''s a chance of making it, then many more people will live in the future than are alive today. If each generation lasts for 100 years, then over 100 million years there could be one million future generations. This is such a big number that any problem that affects future generations potentially has a far greater scale than one that only affects the present C it could affect one million times more people, and all the art, science and culture that will entail. So problems that affect future generations are potentially the largest in scale and the most neglected. What''s more, because the future could be long and the universe is so vast, almost no matter what you value, there could be far more of what matters in the future. This suggests that probably what most matters morally about our actions is their effect on the future. We call this the "long-term value thesis". We cover it in more depth in a separate article. This said, can we actually help future generations, or improve the long-term? Perhaps the problems that affect the future are big and neglected, but not solvable? How to preserve future generations C find the more neglected risks In the summer of 2013, Barack Obama referred to climate change as "the global threat of our time." He''s not alone in this opinion. When many people think of the biggest problems facing future generations, climate change is often the first to come to mind. We think those people are, to some extent, on the right track. The most powerful way we can help future generations is, we think, to prevent a catastrophe that could end advanced civilization, or even prevent any future generations from existing. If civilisation survives, we''ll have a chance to later solve problems like poverty and disease; while climate change poses an existential threat. (We argue for this in greater detail elsewhere.) However, climate change is also widely acknowledged as a major problem (Donald Trump aside), and receives tens or even hundreds of billions of dollars of investment. You can read more in our full profile. So, if you want to help future generations, we think it''s likely higher-impact to focus on more neglected issues. Biorisk: The threat from future disease In 2006, The Guardian ordered segments of smallpox DNA via mail. If assembled into a complete strand and transmitted to 10 people, public health experts estimate it would have killed 10 million people. In the future, we can imagine diseases even deadlier than smallpox evolving or being created through bioengineering. The chance of a pandemic that kills over 100 million people over the next century seems similar to the risk of nuclear war or runaway climate change. So it poses a similar threat both to the present generation and future generations. But risks from pandemics are more neglected. We estimate that about $300bn is spent annually on efforts to fight climate change, compared to $1-$10bn towards biosecurity C efforts to reduce the risk of natural and man-made pandemics. At the same time, there''s plenty that could be done to improve biosecurity, such as improving regulation of labs and developing cheap diagnostics to detect new diseases quickly. Overall, we think biosecurity is likely more urgent than climate change. Read more about how to contribute to biosecurity in our full profile. Similar arguments could also be made for nuclear security, though it''s a bit less neglected and harder for individuals to work within. But there are issues that might be even more important, and even more neglected. Chapter 356 - The World’s Biggest Problems And Why They’re Not What First Comes To Mind[3] Artificial intelligence and the ''alignment problem'' Around 1800, civilisation underwent one of the most profound shifts in human history: the industrial revolution. Looking forward, what might be the next industrial revolution C the next pivotal event in history that shapes what happens to all future generations? If we could identify such a transition, that may well be the most important area in which to work. One candidate is bioengineering C the ability to fundamentally redesign human beings C as covered by Yuval Noah Harari in Sapiens. But we think there''s an even bigger issue that''s even more neglected: artificial intelligence. Billions of dollars are spent trying to make artificial intelligence more powerful, but hardly any effort is devoted to making sure that those added capabilities are implemented safely and for the benefit of humanity. This matters for two main reasons. First, powerful AI systems have the potential to be misused. For instance, if the Soviet Union had developed nuclear weapons far in advance of the USA, then it might have been able to use them to establish itself as the leading global super power. Similarly, the development of AI might also destablise the global order, or lead to a concentration of power, by giving one nation far more power than it currently has. Second, there is a risk of accidents when powerful new AI systems are deployed. This is especially pressing due to the "alignment problem." This is a complex topic, so if you want to explore it properly, we recommend reading this article by Wait But Why, or watching the video below. If you really have time, read Professor Nick Bostrom''s book, Superintelligence. But here''s a quick introduction. In the 1980s, chess was held up as an example of something a machine could never do. But in 1997, world chess champion Garry Kasparov was defeated by the computer program Deep Blue. Since then, computers have become far better at chess than humans. In 2004, two experts in artificial intelligence used truck driving as an example of a job that would be really hard to automate. But today, self-driving cars are already on the road. In 2014, Professor Bostrom predicted that it would take ten years for a computer to beat the top human player at the ancient Chinese game of Go. But it was achieved in March 2016 by Google DeepMind. The most recent of these advances are possible due to progress in a type of AI technique called "machine learning". In the past, we mostly had to give computers detailed instructions for every task. Today, we have programs that teach themselves how to achieve a goal. The same algorithm that can play Space Invaders below has also learned to play about 50 other arcade games. Machine learning has been around for decades, but improved algorithms (especially around "deep learning" techniques), faster processors, bigger data sets, and huge investments by companies like Google have led to amazing advances far faster than expected. Google DeepMind Plays Space Invaders at a super-human level Due to this, many experts think human-level artificial intelligence could easily happen in our lifetimes. Here is a survey of 100 of the most cited AI scientists: You can see the experts give a 50% chance of human-level AI happening by 2050, just 35 years in the future. Admittedly, they are very uncertain, but high uncertainty also means it could arrive sooner rather than later. You can read much more about when human-level AI might happen here. Why is this important? Gorillas are faster than us, stronger than us, and have a more powerful bite. But there are only 100,000 gorillas in the wild, compared to seven billion humans, and their fate is up to us. A major reason for this is a difference in intelligence. Right now, computers are only smarter than us in limited ways (e.g. playing chess), and this is already transforming the economy. The key moment, however, is when computers become smarter than us in most ways, like how we''re smarter than gorillas. This transition could be hugely positive, or hugely negative. On the one hand, just as the industrial revolution automated manual labour, the AI revolution could automate intellectual labour, unleashing unprecedented economic growth. But we also couldn''t guarantee staying in control of a system that''s smarter than us C it would be more strategic than us, more persuasive, and better at solving problems. What happens to humanity after its invention would be up to it. So we need to make sure the AI system shares our goals, and we only get one chance to get the transition right. This, however, is not easy. No-one knows how to code moral behaviour into a computer. Within computer science, this is known as the alignment problem. Solving the alignment problem might be one of the most important research questions in history, but today it''s mostly ignored. The number of full-time researchers at or beyond the postdoc level working directly on the control problem is under 30 (as of early 2018), making it some 100 times more neglected than biosecurity. At the same time, there is momentum behind this work. In the last five years, the field has gained academic and industry support, such as a leading author of AI textbooks, Stuart Russell, and Stephen Hawking, as well as major funders, like the groundbreaking entrepreneur and billionaire Elon Musk. If you''re not a good fit for technical research yourself, you can contribute by working as a research manager or assistant, or donating and raising funds for this research. This will also be a huge issue for governments. AI policy is fast becoming an important area, but policy-makers are focused on short-term issues like how to regulate self-driving cars and job loss, rather than the key long-term issues (i.e. the future of civilisation). You can find out how to contribute in our full profile. Of all the issues we''ve covered so far, solving the alignment problem and managing the transition to powerful AI are among the most important, but also by far the most neglected. Despite also being harder to solve, we think they''re likely to be among the most high-impact problems of the next century. This was a surprise to us, but we think it''s where the arguments lead. These days we spend more time researching machine learning than malaria nets. Read more about why we think reducing extinction risks should be humanity''s key priority. Dealing with uncertainty, and "going meta" Our views have changed a great deal over the last eight years, and they could easily change again. We could commit to working on AI or biosecurity, but we might discover something even better in the coming years. Might there be problems that will definitely be important in the future, despite all our uncertainty? Eventually, we decided to work on career choice, which is why we''re writing this article. In this section, we''ll explain why, and suggest other problems that are more attractive the more you''re uncertain. We think these are potentially competitive with AI and biosecurity, and where to focus mainly comes down to personal fit. Global priorities research If you''re uncertain which global problem is most pressing, here''s one answer: "more research is needed". Each year governments spent over $500 billion trying to make the world a better place, but only a tiny fraction goes towards research to identify how to spend those resources most effectively C what we call "global priorities research". As we''ve seen, some approaches are far more effective than others. So this research is hugely valuable. A career in this area could mean working at the Open Philanthropy Project, Future of Humanity Institute, economics academia, think tanks, and elsewhere. Read more about how to contribute in the full profile. Chapter 357 - The World’s Biggest Problems And Why They’re Not What First Comes To Mind[4] Broad interventions, such as improved politics The second strategy is to work on problems that will help us solve lots of other problems. We call these "broad interventions". For instance, if we had a more enlightened government, that would help us solve lots of other problems facing future generations. The US government in particular will play a pivotal role in issues like climate policy, AI policy, biosecurity, and new challenges we don''t even know about yet. So US governance is highly important (if maybe not neglected or tractable). This consideration brings us full circle. Earlier, we argued that rich country issues like education were less urgent than helping the global poor. However, now we can see that from the perspective of future generations, some rich country issues might be more important, due to their long-term effects. For instance, a more educated population might lead to better governance; or political action in your local community might have an effect on decision-makers in Washington. We did an analysis of the simplest kind of political action C voting C and found that it could be really valuable. On the other hand, issues like US education and governance already receive a huge amount of attention, which makes them hard to improve. Read more about the case against working on US education. We favour more neglected issues with more targeted effects on future generations. For instance, fascinating new research by Philip Tetlock shows that some teams and methods are far better at predicting geopolitical events than others. If the decision-makers in society were informed by much more accurate predictions, it would help them navigate future crises, whatever those turn out to be. However, the category of "broad interventions" is one of the areas we''re most uncertain about, so we''re keen to see more research. Capacity building and promoting effective altruism If you''re uncertain which problems will be most pressing in the future, a third strategy is to simply save money or invest in your career capital, so you''re in a better position to do good when you have more information. However, rather than make personal investments, we think it''s even better to invest in a community of people working to do good. Our sister charity, Giving What We Can, is building a community of people who donate 10% of their income to whichever charities are most cost-effective. Every $1 invested in growing GWWC has led to $6 already donated to their top recommended charities, and a total of almost one billion dollars pledged. By building a community, they''ve been able to raise more money than their founders could have donated individually C they''ve achieved a multiplier on their impact. But what''s more, the members donate to whichever charities are most effective at the time. If the situation changes, then (at least to some extent) the donations will change too. This flexibility makes the impact over time much higher. Giving What We Can is one example of several projects in the effective altruism community, a community of people who aim to identify the best ways to help others and take action. 80,000 Hours itself is another example. Better career advice doesn''t sound like one of the most pressing problems imaginable. But many of the world''s most talented young people want to do good with their lives, and lack good advice on how to do so. This means that every year, thousands of them have far less impact than they could have. We could have gone to work on issues like AI ourselves. But instead, by providing better advice, we can help thousands of other people find high-impact careers. And so, we can have thousands of times as much impact ourselves. What''s more, if we discover new, better career options than the ones we already know about, we can switch to promoting them. Just like Giving What We Can, this flexibility gives us greater impact over time. We call the indirect strategies we''ve coveredglobal priorities research, broad interventions, and promoting effective altruism"going meta". This is because they work one level removed from the concrete problems that seem most urgent. The downside of going meta is that it''s harder to know if your efforts are effective. The advantage is they''re usually more neglected, since people prefer concrete opportunities over more abstract ones, and they allow you to have greater impact in the face of uncertainty. Find out more about promoting effective altruism. How to work out which problems you should focus on You can see a list of almost all the problems we''ve covered here: We''ve scored the problems on scale, neglectedness and solvability to help make our reasoning clearer. You can read about how we came up with the scores here. Take the scores with a fist full of salt. The assessment of problems also greatly depends on value judgements and debatable empirical questions, so we expect people will disagree with our ranking. To help, we made a tool that asks you some key questions, then re-ranks the problems based on your answers. Finally, factor in personal fit. We don''t think everyone should work on the number one problem. If you''re a great fit for an area, you might have over 10 times as much impact as in one that doesn''t motivate you. So this could easily change your personal ranking. Just remember there are many ways to help solve each problem, so it''s usually possible to find work you enjoy. Moreover, it''s easier to develop new passions than most people expect. Despite all the uncertainties, your choice of problem might be the single biggest decision in determining your impact. If we rated global problems in terms of how pressing they are, we might intuitively expect them to look like this: Some problems are more pressing than others, but most are pretty good. But instead, we''ve found that it looks more like this. Some problems are far higher-impact than others, because they can differ by 10 or 100 times in terms of how big, neglected and solvable they are, as well as your degree of personal fit. So getting this decision right could mean you achieve over 100 times as much with your career. If there''s one lesson we draw from all we''ve covered, it''s this: if you want to do good in the world, it''s worth really taking the time to learn about different global problems, and how you might contribute to them. It takes time, and there''s a lot to learn, but it''s hard to imagine anything more interesting, or more important. Chapter 358 - The End Thank you to everyone who has read Random Stuff *_*. This is the last chapter of Random Stuff *_*. I don''t know if anyone is going to read my final message but I had a ton of fun making the random stuff. If you are reading this, please browse to Peerless Martial God *_*. I hope that you as a reader is doing well, salutations. COMMENT 0 comment VOTE Load failed, please RETRY The End Write a review Privileged More Privileged Chapters Download the app and become a privileged reader today! Come take a sneak peek at our author''s stockpiled chapters! 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