Inside the Vayne estate, second-floor study.
"This request is… utterly absurd…"
Sebastian was left dumbfounded after hearing Duke's condition, his words tumbling out in confusion.
Duke's demand was beyond reason.
Could such a thing even be asked of another person?
Was Duke really a craftsman?
Or were all Piltover's craftsmen this devilish?
Listening to the terms, Sebastian—who had often thought of himself as unscrupulous—suddenly felt he was almost virtuous by comparison.
Creak
Lux entered, balancing a tray of tea and pastries.
"Teacher, everything's ready!"
"Good. Just set it here."
Duke waved casually, signaling her to place the tray on the desk.
Lux glanced at Sebastian, set down the refreshments, flashed him a gentle smile, and skipped lightly out of the room.
Duke poured a cup of tea and slid it across the table to Sebastian. "Well? Have you given it any thought?"
"This…"
"The materials, labor, every cost of the exoskeleton—I'll waive it all. But there's only one condition you must fulfill. Accept it, and I'll measure you right now and begin tailoring it for you."
Duke gestured toward the back garden. "My temporary workshop is out there. We can start immediately."
"Does it truly have to be this way?" Sebastian asked uneasily. "Can't you name another price?"
"No negotiation."
Duke lifted his cup, sipping with calm ease. He knew the moment Sebastian came to him, the initiative had fallen squarely into his hands. And it remained there now.
"This concerns the honor of House Laurent!" Sebastian protested.
Duke spread his hands. "After last night's fiasco, do you think your family still has honor left to defend? Lose the duel, and even if you survive by chance, your house will collapse. Fiora will be exiled, condemned to a life of wandering and hardship."
He fixed Sebastian with a steady gaze. "Do you truly wish to see that future?"
"I…" Sebastian faltered. Just imagining the consequences of defeat made his shoulders hunch and his spine bend as though under a great weight.
"Fine. I accept your condition."
The words came heavy and reluctant, but they were said.
Duke's brows lifted, a smile spreading across his face. "Tomorrow, you'll see how wise your decision was."
"So… when will the exoskeleton be ready?"
"Come for it at dawn tomorrow."
Duke pulled out a measuring tape, tilting his chin toward Sebastian.
"Stand up. Feet together, arms out. I'll record your measurements."
"Very well."
Sebastian obeyed, holding his posture while Duke took notes. When he finished, Duke leaned back into his chair.
"I have three models you can choose from."
"Three?" Sebastian frowned, puzzled.
"The balanced model—steady power and speed, nothing extreme, but reliable in every aspect. The speed model—lightning-quick bursts, agility like the wind. And the strength model—slower but immensely powerful, durable, with superior defense. Pick one."
"There are even distinctions like that?" Sebastian swallowed hard. He had only come to buy an exoskeleton to bolster himself, but hearing Duke's explanation, he realized this might be the most important decision of his life.
"Exactly so," Duke said, exhaling indigo smoke from his cigar. "Which will it be?"
Sebastian fell silent, considering carefully, then answered bluntly. "The Laurent style is swift, precise—striking to end the fight in a single blow. I'll take the speed model."
"No problem. Collect it tomorrow."
Duke tapped ash from his cigar, his eyes glinting. "But don't forget my condition. If you try to weasel out, you'll regret it."
"I wouldn't dare," Sebastian said quickly, shaking his head.
Duke shrugged, then shifted the conversation toward dueling styles and sword techniques.
An hour later, Sebastian left the Vayne estate. Duke stood by the study window, watching the Laurent carriage roll away. He nodded, satisfied.
Sebastian coming to him had been an unexpected boon. And Duke's demand was simple enough.
The Laurent family would serve as his exoskeleton's living advertisement. Whatever events they attended, the armor must be worn. Every moment, they would display slogans, banners, branding.
Even after tomorrow's duel—it would continue.
In short, Duke intended for House Laurent to become a walking billboard, hammering awareness of the exoskeleton into Demacia's consciousness.
Catch one person's attention, and soon there would be another, and another.
Exosuits were not just a one-time marvel—they were a phenomenon.
And in Piltover and Zaun, there was no shortage of fanatics for augmentation.
"I'll modify one of the G-series models for him. That should do."
Glancing over Sebastian's measurements, Duke decided to adapt an existing frame rather than craft from scratch. His real interest lay in magitek armor, not these mechanical shells. Exoskeletons no longer stirred his passion.
"The duel's tomorrow afternoon. What should I focus on until then?"
He sat at his desk, pulling out Tanya's Life Equation notes. He still owed Garen an enhancement.
"Better to study now, finish the work before I leave, and test the results. Subjects like Garen… don't come around twice."
That afternoon.
Lower quarter of the capital, in a modest home.
"Thank you."
Sylas inclined his head toward the man before him. "Without you, I'd already be in the custody of the mage-hunters again."
"No need for thanks," the man said. His face was weathered, his clothes coarse, a laborer's through and through. Yet when emotion stirred in him, waves of magic rippled outward, betraying power. "I'll find a way to smuggle you out soon. Many have already gone beyond the city walls, preparing to show those highborn lords a lesson."
"I know your heart, Trent," Sylas replied gravely. "Those people don't deserve the name Demacian. Their retribution will come."
Trent slapped the table. "Stay here for now. Be patient. I'll make the arrangements."
Sylas nodded. Trent was an old comrade, one of the few he still trusted. But most of the companions he had once known… were already gone.
"I'll be off," Trent said, giving him a firm look before leaving the house.
When the door shut, Sylas stared at the bread left on the table, emotions shifting across his face.
Since his escape, aided by a mysterious figure, he had sought out Trent's shelter. From him, he learned of the mages' plan to rise against their oppressors.
Yet trapped within the city walls, he could not reach them. The frustration gnawed at him.
"Do you really think they'll succeed?"
The sudden voice made his blood run cold. Chains lashed instinctively from his shackles.
"Who's there?"
"Calm yourself."
A staff intercepted the chains mid-strike. A pale woman, tear-streaks still faintly visible beneath her eyes, stepped from the air itself.
"You may call me the Pale Lady."
"The Pale Lady?" Sylas tightened his grip on the chains, eyes narrowing. "Why are you here?"
"To do what must be done." LeBlanc's lips curled faintly as she walked closer, circling him like a predator. Finally, she perched lightly on the table. "I've come to kindle a spark."
"A spark?" Sylas scoffed, suspicion heavy in his gaze. "You speak in riddles."
"You needn't believe me. But you will believe him."
She raised her hand. Light flared, magic shimmering like a dream—real and unreal, as though a reflection in water, a flower in a mirror.
Sylas' eyes fixed on it, caught in the illusion.
"This…"
"This is the fire I offer you," LeBlanc said, extending the glow toward him. "Do you have the courage to take it? The courage to drag a nation into hell, to overturn an entire kingdom? Do you possess…" Her voice dropped to a whisper at his ear. "…a hatred that burns to the heavens?"
Memories tore through Sylas' mind—searing light consuming all, the hunt that followed, the shame of the pillory where he had hung as a symbol of disgrace.
"I do."
Teeth clenched, he seized the light.
LeBlanc smiled. "Good. Show me how far this spark can spread."
She touched a finger to his forehead, tracing the sigil of the Black Rose, passing with it a secret message.
Even LeBlanc, who had lived a thousand years, could no longer count the secrets she held. To her, what Demacia considered forbidden lore was mere trifles.
Sylas' head snapped up, eyes glowing strangely.
"So… this is the truth of petricite. This is—my gift."
For an instant, his figure blurred, overlapping like ripples across water.
"This is my true power."
End of chapter....
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