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"Brother Ezreal, let me try!"
Draven reached out to touch the throwing axe with an almost childlike excitement gleaming in his eyes.
"Come on, today's just the exhibition day," Ezreal replied dismissively, shrugging.
"Hahaha, fine! It just so happens that the council head gave me a new axe. I'll take it easy on this one!"
Draven drew one of his throwing axes from his waist and began twirling it effortlessly in his hand. The rotations grew faster and faster, a blur of motion.
Ezreal's eyes narrowed.
'The axe… sent by the head of the council?'
Suddenly, doubt crept into his mind.
'Wait. Wasn't Draven just bragging about being the "General of the Trifarian Legion"?
But how would someone so... gaudy and ridiculous ever catch Ryan's attention?'
Impossible.
But as the thought lingered, Ezreal's attention shifted to the two throwing axes in Draven's hands.
For the first time, he actually examined them. These weren't just weapons—they were masterpieces.
The deep purple blades glimmered ominously, their edges radiating a chilling lavender light.
Each axe handle was inlaid with a massive gemstone, glowing faintly.
Ezreal's breath hitched.
Hextech gemstones? From Piltover?
A sharp inhale escaped him as realization struck.
'How did he get his hands on something like that?'
Before he could scrutinize further, Draven suddenly hurled one of the axes forward with a flourish.
Boom!
The throwing axe shot forward with explosive force, moving so fast it seemed to vanish from sight.
Swish!
In an instant, the axe cleaved through the practice dummy, sending it flying.
But Draven wasn't done.
The second axe left his hand with equal ferocity, spinning through the air and colliding with the dummy mid-flight.
Clang!
The brutal impact of the axe against iron armor sent an earsplitting metallic screech through the arena.
The force was overwhelming, making it painfully clear just how powerful the strikes had been.
"Attack strength: Strong!"
The mechanical dummy's voice echoed from the ground where it landed, though Ezreal desperately wished it had malfunctioned and declared otherwise.
How do I even recover from this?
The two axes, now caught in their return arc, spun back with terrifying precision.
They carved deep grooves into the ground as they flew, only to land perfectly back in Draven's waiting hands.
Draven rested the axes on his back, beaming with pride.
Still, he feigned humility, scratching the back of his head.
"Haha, Brother Ezreal, it's my first time trying this. Sorry about that!"
Ezreal glared, fists clenching at his sides. His trademark grin twisted into something barely recognizable—strained and utterly fake.
"Well, as expected of you, Brother Draven. Not bad! Really… strong!" he said through gritted teeth, clapping slowly.
"Draven the Executioner!"
"Courageous!"
"Unmatched!"
"Flying Axe God of War!"
The cheers erupted around them, some from Draven's lackeys, others from spectators in the crowd.
Whether sincere or sycophantic, it didn't matter.
Draven basked in it all, grinning like the star he always believed himself to be.
Ezreal, meanwhile, seethed in silence.
All that work setting up this exhibition, only for Draven to steal the spotlight.
And what made it worse? Draven's absurd stories, the kind he told after a few rounds of drinks, may be true.
Why did people in the Immortal Bastion know Draven?
Ezreal had always assumed it was because Draven practically lived in the taverns, drawing attention with his larger-than-life antics. But now, things didn't add up.
The people Draven associated with—why were they all so prominent?
Even Ezreal's casual acquaintances, like that reckless kid Ekko, had a massive reputation back in Zaun.
Ugh. When will it be my turn to shine?
After the chaos caused by Draven, Ezreal had to summon every ounce of eloquence he could muster to drag the audience's attention back to the main event.
"Ahem. Oshra Va Zuan's discovery is undoubtedly remarkable," Ezreal declared, forcing a confident tone, "but it pales in comparison to what we've uncovered inside the ruins."
The room quieted, curiosity rippling through the crowd. His words had the desired effect.
Following Ryan's instructions, Ezreal wheeled a covered cart forward.
A simple gray cloth draped over its contents, concealing what lay beneath.
The tension in the room was palpable.
The crowd's eagerness bordered on aggression; only their discipline kept them from charging forward to see what treasure Ezreal had brought.
"In the central temple of Vazuan, we discovered something truly extraordinary," Ezreal continued, his voice solemn.
"A stone tablet inscribed with an ancient history. Today, we reveal its secrets."
With a dramatic flourish, Ezreal pulled away the cloth.
A brilliant red light burst forth, illuminating the room.
Beneath the sunlight, a radiant shield of crimson energy surrounded the stone tablet, shielding it from interference.
Even the warriors, many of whom were there for entertainment rather than academic interest, couldn't help but recognize the artifact's significance.
The tablet exuded an eerie red glow while its inscriptions shimmered with a golden hue.
Though the language was unfamiliar to most, the aura of the relic was undeniable—it held power and purpose.
"It's written in an ancient Shuriman script!"
A voice from the crowd, likely a Shuriman, called out in recognition. While they couldn't decipher the text itself, the style and arrangement of the letters were unmistakable.
"Exactly!" Ezreal confirmed, his chest puffed with pride. He pointed to the glowing text.
"Does anyone here know how to read it?"
Of course, Ezreal didn't expect anyone to answer.
Who in this crowd would recognize a language that had been dead for centuries?
This was his moment.
"It tells a prophecy," he began, savoring the suspense, "a prophecy that will—"
"A prophecy that will shake the world," interrupted a soft yet commanding female voice.
Ezreal froze, his jaw tightening. That voice didn't belong to anyone in his script.
Was this someone Ryan had arranged to upstage him?
His gaze darted toward the voice's source.
There stood a woman clad in flowing black robes, her face obscured by a thin, elegant veil.
Her long, dark hair cascaded loosely behind her, framing a pair of piercing eyes that seemed to see straight through him.
Behind her… was something. Something he couldn't fully comprehend.
Though nothing was visibly there, Ezreal could almost feel a looming presence, faintly visible as if bound by chains.
Who… or what… is she?
The realization struck him with a chill. Whoever this woman was, she wasn't ordinary.
Her presence radiated an aura of strength and wisdom far beyond that of any commander Ezreal had met.
She wasn't someone to trifle with.
Ezreal's instincts, which had saved his life countless times, screamed for him to tread carefully.
Still, his curiosity burned. Could she truly understand the prophecy?
Or was this another ploy by the Empire to keep him in check?
His thoughts flickered to Senator Syndra, who Ms. Camille had spoken of with such reverence.
Was she behind this?
"My apologies, madam," Ezreal said cautiously, his tone respectful.
"You seem to be well-versed in ancient texts. Indeed, this tablet does speak of a prophecy."
Ezreal held his composure though his mind raced.
The Empire was full of individuals far more powerful than him, but he was young, and time was on his side.
One day, they would fade, and he would take his place in history.
Yes, sooner or later, my time will come.
"You may call me the Veiled," the woman replied, her voice soft yet laced with authority.
Her veiled face betrayed a faint smile, and her gaze never wavered from Ezreal's.
"May I share the prophecy inscribed here? It speaks of something… most intriguing."
Ezreal hesitated, but only for a moment.
"Oh, Miss Veiled…" he began, masking his wariness with politeness.
"Please, the floor is yours."
Her smile deepened. Her words would undoubtedly captivate the crowd—and Ezreal couldn't shake the feeling that whatever she said next would change everything.