"Found it! Marcus, we found it!"
Vander's voice boomed through the corridor, enthusiastic and breathless in equal measure. He burst into Marcus's quarters waving an envelope overhead like a victory banner, his weathered face split by a grin of pure triumph.
They'd sent out dozens of scouts, informants, and messengers throughout the known world, chasing fragments of rumors and half-remembered stories. Finding information about a wandering mage who deliberately avoided detection had been like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. But finally, finally, they had something concrete.
"This better be good news," Marcus said, opening his door with an expression of genuine interest. The excitement in Vander's voice suggested this wasn't another dead end. "You actually found the elusive archmage?"
The big man practically thrust the envelope into Marcus's hands, then made a beeline for the water pitcher sitting on a side table. He poured himself a generous glass and downed half of it in one gulp, clearly having run here at full speed.
"Hah~" Vander wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Benzo's people spotted an old mage in Shurima—ancient guy, carrying a massive scroll on his back. They said his exposed skin was this distinctive blue-purple color. Has to be your wandering mage, right? Can't be too many people matching that description."
Marcus opened the envelope and scanned the contents quickly. Blue-purple skin, enormous scroll, elderly appearance, powerful magical aura, sighted in the desert regions of Shurima near some ancient ruins. The description was spot-on.
"Yes," Marcus confirmed, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "This is definitely him. Good work."
The discoloration wasn't a natural skin tone—it was the physical manifestation of prolonged exposure to World Rune energy. Ryze had been carrying those reality-warping artifacts for so long that they'd literally changed his biology at a cellular level. The blue-purple hue was a permanent scar, a reminder of the burden he'd chosen to bear.
"However," Marcus continued, his enthusiasm dampening slightly as he noted the date on the letter, "this information is ten days old."
He couldn't quite keep the note of frustration from his voice. Ten days was an eternity when tracking someone like Ryze. The wandering mage never stayed in one location for long—he followed mystical intuition and ancient lore to hunt World Runes across the entire planet, appearing and disappearing without warning or pattern.
Vander's face fell slightly. "I know, I know. But you have to understand, this is literally as fast as information can travel in this world. We don't have magical communication networks or whatever you're used to. Someone has to physically carry messages from place to place. Ten days from Shurima to Zaun is actually good time."
Marcus sighed, recognizing the truth in that. This world's information infrastructure was painfully primitive by his standards. No instant communication, no satellite surveillance, no data networks. Just people on horses or boats, carrying physical letters at whatever speed weather and terrain allowed.
"You're right," he admitted. "I'm just frustrated because Ryze could be anywhere by now. He might still be in Shurima, or he could have moved on to Ionia, or Demacia, or back to Noxus. The trail's probably cold."
"Well," Vander said, brightening up again, "I've got one more piece of news that might cheer you up. The group we sent to Freljord? The ones carrying that weird metal ball you gave us? They're almost there. Should arrive any day now."
That did improve Marcus's mood. "Really? How close?"
Vander shrugged. "Based on their last message, they should be approaching the southern edge of Freljord territory within a day or two. They said something about the temperature dropping dramatically, lots of snow, very angry locals who don't appreciate outsiders. You know, typical Freljord hospitality."
Marcus closed his eyes, reaching out through the Void connection he'd established with the Phantom beacon. The device was a specialized piece of technology, infused with his unique energy signature, designed to act as an anchor point across vast distances. If he concentrated, he could sense its approximate location...
There. Far to the north, beyond several mountain ranges and across what felt like half a continent. The Phantom was moving slowly but steadily, being carried by the messengers toward Freljord's frozen wastes.
"Good," Marcus murmured, opening his eyes. "I hope they bring useful results. Freljord has resources I need—materials and artifacts that only exist in that kind of extreme environment."
He moved to the window, looking out over Zaun's transformed landscape. The view was dramatically different from even a month ago. The Kalinda Crystal Tower dominated the skyline now, nearly twenty meters tall and still growing. Around it, massive construction machinery—itself powered by the crystal tower's energy field—was assembling new buildings at an impressive pace.
The environmental transformation devices were proving their worth spectacularly. The waste reclamation units in particular were having an enormous impact on Zaun's development. Instead of having to purchase raw materials from Piltover or other trade partners, Zaun was literally recycling its own ruins. Old buildings were torn down, the materials were processed through the reclamation devices, and the purified resources were immediately used to construct new, better structures.
The economic implications were staggering. Zaun was building a modern city essentially for free, using nothing but salvaged materials and crystal-powered automation.
"You've all done remarkable work these past weeks," Marcus said, still looking out the window. "The progress is genuinely impressive. But..."
"But?" Vander prompted, hearing the hesitation in Marcus's tone.
"Zaun is still fundamentally backward," Marcus finished.
Vander blinked, confusion clear on his face. "What? How can you say that? We've surpassed Piltover technologically! We've got energy systems they can only dream about, environmental technology decades beyond anything they've developed, manufacturing capabilities that make their workshops look like children's toys. How is that backward?"
"That's exactly my point," Marcus said, turning to face Vander fully. "Everything you just listed—where did it come from?"
"Well, you—" Vander started, then stopped as understanding began to dawn.
"Me," Marcus confirmed. "Every significant technological advancement Zaun has made came from me. The Kalinda Crystal Tower, the environmental devices, the energy weapons, the manufacturing techniques—all of it originated from knowledge I brought from elsewhere. Victor, Powder, Ekko, even Singed—they're all brilliant in their own right, genuine geniuses. But without my intervention, how long would it have taken them to develop these things on their own?"
The silence that followed was heavy with uncomfortable realization.
"Victor has done extraordinary work," Marcus continued, his tone gentle but firm, "but he's building on foundations I provided. He's working within frameworks I established. That's not a criticism—he's taking the knowledge and running with it, which is exactly what he should do. But the fundamental question remains: if I left tomorrow and took all my knowledge with me, could Zaun continue to innovate? Could your people develop the next generation of technology without external help?"
Vander sat down heavily on the edge of Marcus's bed, his expression troubled. "I... I don't know. Probably not, at least not quickly."
"Do you know what Zaun's real deficit is?" Marcus asked.
"No," Vander admitted. "I'm just a bartender and a gang leader, Marcus. I wanted to give my people better lives, give them hope and safety and clean air to breathe. I'm not a scholar or a scientist. I don't understand the big picture the way you do."
Marcus nodded, appreciating the honesty. "Education. That's what Zaun truly lacks. I can help you once, twice, a dozen times. The Kalinda Crystal Tower will provide abundant energy for centuries. The environmental devices will keep your air and water clean for generations. But if Zaun doesn't develop its own educational infrastructure, if you don't start training your own engineers and scientists and researchers, then you'll stagnate. You'll maintain what I've given you, maybe, but you won't innovate. Won't grow. Won't adapt to new challenges."
He walked over and placed a hand on Vander's shoulder. "And eventually, without the ability to produce new talent, to teach the next generation not just what to do but how to think, Zaun will decline. The technology will age, break down, become outdated. And without people who understand the principles well enough to improve or replace it, you'll slowly slide back toward being the Undercity again. Just with fancier ruins."
Vander's jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists. "I understand," he said quietly. "We can't rely on you forever. We need to be able to stand on our own, create our own future. My generation... we're probably too old, too set in our ways. But the next generation—kids like Powder and Ekko, all the children growing up in new Zaun—they need real education. A proper school system, teachers, curriculum, everything Piltover has but better."
"Exactly," Marcus confirmed. "Zaun is everyone's Zaun. But it can't be a Zaun without a future. You need to build institutions that will outlast any individual person, including me."
"I'll gather the council," Vander said, standing up with renewed determination. "Silco, Sevika, the district representatives—everyone. We'll make education a priority. If we can build a crystal tower and remake our entire city in a few months, we can damn well build some schools."
Marcus smiled as Vander left, clearly already planning how to approach this new challenge. The big man might not be formally educated, but he understood people and how to motivate them. If anyone could sell Zaun's population on the importance of long-term investment in education, it was Vander.
Alone again, Marcus returned to the window, but his thoughts were no longer on Zaun.
In truth, whether it was Piltover with its wealth and self-importance, or Zaun with its newfound technological prowess, neither city particularly impressed him. They were interesting, certainly. Useful as a base of operations. But they weren't what he'd come to this world to find.
What Marcus really wanted to encounter were the genuine powers of this world. The wandering mage Ryze, carrying World Runes that could reshape reality itself. The arrogant Celestials residing atop Mount Targon, beings of cosmic significance masquerading as gods. The Ascended slumbering beneath Shurima's sands, once-humans transformed into living weapons of divine power. The Darkin, corrupted Ascended sealed within the very weapons they once wielded, waiting for foolish mortals to free them.
Those were the beings worth meeting. Those were the challenges worth facing.
But such figures didn't advertise their locations or send out invitations. They had to be found through patience, investigation, and careful planning. So Marcus had established himself in Zaun, built relationships, created a network of information gatherers, and waited for opportunities.
Helping Zaun transform itself? That was just a hobby. A way to pass the time. He was curious to see what would happen if you gave desperate, overlooked people the tools to build their own future. Would they rise to the occasion? Or would they squander the opportunity?
So far, the results had been encouraging.
"Ah~ We're here!"
The sensation hit Marcus like a lightning bolt—the Phantom beacon had just been activated. Someone had triggered the device, exactly as instructed. And through the Void connection, he could feel the location. Far to the north, deep in Freljord territory.
Void energy surged through Marcus's eyes, intricate patterns of purple-black power flickering across his irises. Reality folded, space compressed, distance became meaningless. And thousands of miles away, in the frozen wastes of Freljord, a figure in ice-blue armor emerged from a snowdrift like it had been buried there for centuries.
Frost [Ice and Snow Frost] rose to its full height, the Phantom's systems activating fully as Marcus's consciousness settled into the remote frame. The armor was sleek, crystalline, decorated with patterns that resembled both ice crystals and circuit boards. Cold radiated from it in visible waves, and the snow beneath its feet instantly compressed into solid ice.
"This really is a paradise for frost-based powers," Marcus murmured through the Phantom's speakers, his voice echoing slightly in the empty landscape.
The ambient cold in Freljord was intense—temperatures far below what humans could naturally survive, with magical winter layered on top of the merely physical cold. For most people, this would be a hostile, lethal environment. For Marcus, piloting a Frost-element Phantom specifically designed for extreme cold operations?
It was perfect.
The Phantom brought its hands together, and power surged. Frost and freezing energy erupted from the armor's arms in concentrated streams, flash-freezing the snow covering the surrounding area. Within seconds, everything within a ten-meter radius had been converted to solid, dense ice.
Marcus examined his handiwork, nodded in satisfaction, and then slammed the Phantom's palm down against the ice. Energy channeled, matter reorganized, and when the hand lifted, there was a perfect ice box sitting on the ground—transparent, crystalline, beautiful and functional in equal measure.
It was modeled after the Casket of Ancient Winters that Odin had once given him, though this version was smaller and simpler. The Phantom itself was powerful but not unlimited—Marcus had only infused so much energy into it before deployment. To maximize the frame's combat effectiveness and operational duration, he needed tools like this to help manage and store power.
"With this ice box and some True Ice samples, I might be able to push Frost toward a proper rank promotion," Marcus mused, turning the box over in the Phantom's hands. "And there are other treasures in this world worth collecting. If I can gather enough artifacts and magical materials, several of my armors might be ready for advancement."
He opened the ice box carefully, and immediately the wind around him began to howl. Frost and freezing energy from the environment rushed toward the open container like water down a drain, drawn in by the magical void the box created. The temperature in the immediate area dropped even further—something Marcus wouldn't have thought possible—as ambient cold was literally extracted from the air and stored away.
The ice box itself began to change color as it filled, shifting from crystal-clear transparency to an opaque milky white. When Marcus judged it sufficiently charged, he closed the lid with a decisive snap.
"That should be enough for now," he said with satisfaction.
Energy flowed from the Phantom's hand into the ice box, and the container began to merge with the armor itself, sinking into the chest plate and integrating with Frost's internal systems. The moment the integration completed, the cold radiating from the Phantom intensified dramatically.
But instead of ice forming everywhere uncontrollably, the temperature simply dropped. The armor became a walking cold-sink, absorbing and storing thermal energy from the environment with ruthless efficiency. Everything around Frost became colder, but in a controlled, directed way.
Several miles away, at an Avarosan tribal camp, a guard stamped his feet and rubbed his arms vigorously, trying to generate some warmth. He was wrapped in thick furs—the same winter gear he'd been wearing for years without problem—but suddenly it felt inadequate.
"Why is it so cold all of a sudden?" he complained to his fellow watchman, breath steaming in the frigid air. "I've been with the Avarosan tribe my whole life. I'm used to winter. But this... this is different. Like someone opened a door to somewhere even colder."
"I feel it too," the other guard agreed, pulling his own furs tighter. His face was pale, lips tinged with blue. "It's like standing near the War Mother when she's carrying her bow. That cold that goes beyond just temperature, right into your bones."
They both fell silent, the same terrible thought occurring to them simultaneously. Their eyes turned toward the distant mountains, toward the snow-covered peaks that marked the boundary of safe territory.
Beyond those mountains lay the Howling Abyss.
"You don't think...?" the first guard started.
"We need to report this," the second guard said firmly, cutting off speculation before it could spiral into panic. "Whatever's happening, the War Mother needs to know. If this weather continues—if it gets worse—people will die. The children and elderly first, then everyone else."
He gripped his spear tighter and headed toward Ashe's yurt, leaving his companion to maintain the watch alone.
"War Mother," the guard called from outside the dwelling, following proper protocol. "The temperature has dropped. Should we prepare for emergency measures?"
"The temperature has dropped?"
Ashe's voice came from inside the yurt, tinged with surprise. She emerged a moment later, and even from several paces away, the guard could see her breath misting in the air. Her eyes—an ice-blue so pale they were almost colorless—narrowed as she processed this information.
This wasn't the deep winter season. This was supposed to be a relatively temperate period, by Freljord standards. The sudden cold snap made no sense unless...
Her gaze tracked toward the Howling Abyss, toward that cursed place that had claimed so many lives over the centuries.
"Is there trouble brewing there?" she murmured to herself. "Has the Frost Witch finally left her fortress?"
There weren't many beings in Freljord capable of influencing the climate on a regional scale. True demigods like Ornn or Volibear could do it, but they rarely involved themselves in mortal affairs anymore. The most likely culprit was Lissandra, the Frost Witch—an ancient, immortal sorceress whose power over ice and winter was legendary.
And if Lissandra was stirring, if she was planning something...
Nothing good would come of it.
"I understand," Ashe called to the guard. "Dismissed."
She waited until the man had left, then quickly dressed in her full War Mother regalia—layers of enchanted furs, armor pieces carved from True Ice, and most importantly, the Avarosa's Bow itself. The ancient artifact, crafted from True Ice by the first Iceborn generations ago, thrummed with cold power as she lifted it.
The moment Ashe stepped outside, the temperature hit her like a physical force. Even with her Iceborn blood—the magical heritage that made her and others like her immune to natural cold—this was uncomfortable. The chill was so intense it felt almost hungry, like winter itself had developed an appetite.
"This is definitely not natural," she muttered, climbing the camp's watchtower for a better view.
From the elevated position, she could see the entire camp spread out below her—dozens of yurts, cooking fires, people going about their daily routines. Beyond the camp, the landscape of Freljord stretched in all directions: frozen tundra, snow-covered forests, jagged mountains crowned with glaciers.
She needed to chart a course for the hunting parties. The tribe needed to gather extra food stores, and quickly, before this unnatural winter grew worse.
As she descended from the watchtower, a familiar figure approached—a massive man carrying an equally massive blade across his shoulders. Tryndamere, her husband in name if not truly in spirit, looked up at her with a grim expression.
"Heard from the guards that we're organizing a major hunt," Tryndamere said without preamble. "Something about the weather going bad and needing extra supplies, right?"
"Correct," Ashe replied, her voice professional and distant. "But it's not just about food. We need to investigate the Howling Abyss. Something is wrong there—I can feel it."
"The Frost Witch?" Tryndamere's expression darkened, and his hand tightened on his sword hilt. "If that bitch has come out of her hole, I'll be first in line to gut her."
The venom in his voice was palpable. Tryndamere had personal history with Lissandra—his entire tribe had been wiped out by forces connected to her schemes. The barbarian king carried a deep, burning hatred for the Frost Witch that no amount of time seemed to diminish.
"That's not the place for you to indulge your thirst for revenge, Tryndamere," Ashe said sharply. Her voice carried the cold authority of a leader, cutting through his anger. "The Howling Abyss is too important. Too dangerous. We need clear heads, not blind rage."
Their relationship was complicated, to put it mildly. Ashe had chosen Tryndamere as her consort primarily for practical reasons—his combat prowess was unmatched, and accepting him into the Avarosan tribe had secured the loyalty of the surviving barbarians he led. It was a political marriage more than a romantic one, and both parties understood that.
"My anger will be directed at enemies only," Tryndamere said, forcing himself to calm down. "I understand the stakes. The Howling Abyss keeps something sealed, something that must never be released. I'll control myself when we get there."
"Good." Ashe nodded, satisfied. "Start gathering your barbarians. We leave as soon as possible."
Tryndamere grunted acknowledgment and headed off to rally his people. Within the hour, the entire Avarosan tribe was assembled in the central gathering area—warriors, hunters, craftspeople, everyone who could contribute to the effort.
Ashe stood before them, the Avarosa's Bow gleaming in her hands, with Tryndamere and his massive blade at her side. The sight of their leaders, united and determined, steadied the worried crowd.
"Everyone has felt the temperature change," Ashe began, her clear voice carrying across the assembly. "There's something wrong with Freljord's natural order. We don't know what yet, but we must prepare for the worst. We're organizing immediate hunting expeditions—we need food stores that will last us through extended winter conditions."
She paused, letting that sink in, then continued: "Additionally, I'm leading a smaller team to the Howling Abyss to investigate the source of this disturbance. While we're gone, the rest of you will maintain the camp and gather supplies. I expect discipline, cooperation, and efficiency. When we return, if anyone has caused trouble or shirked their duties..."
Her ice-blue eyes swept across the crowd, and several people shivered from more than just the cold.
"Don't give me a reason to be disappointed," Ashe finished simply.
The crowd murmured acknowledgment. They admired their War Mother—respected her strength, her wisdom, her dedication to the tribe's survival. And they respected Tryndamere's raw power, his reputation as an unstoppable warrior. With both leaders committed to handling the crisis, the tribe felt confident they could weather whatever storm was coming.
Ashe's cold words hung in the air, but no one objected. They looked at their War Mother with admiration, and also at the strong Barbarian King beside her. They believed that their leaders would never have any accidents.