LoL Universe Indexing and Search

The twisted, unfathomable madman known across Runeterra as Singed began his life as an ordinary man in Piltover. As a child, he displayed a prodigious intellect and a boundless sense of curiosity. The principles and interactions of the natural world fascinated him, eventually leading him to pursue a scholarship at the prestigious University of Piltover.

It did not take long for his brilliance to be recognized.

Singed’s research into the natural sciences was impressive—groundbreaking even—but he found that Piltover’s attention had been stolen away ever since the discovery of hextech, and the opportunities the hybrid of magic and technology presented. Singed found himself on the outside looking in, seeing magic as a crutch leaned upon by those who were either incapable of understanding how the world worked, or simply didn’t care enough to find out. He became a vocal critic of what he saw as a new and ignorant fad within the university.

Singed instead delved into the chemical potential of alchemy, and despite the boon his intellect garnered for the field, his efforts earned him little more than the ridicule of his fellow academics. Before long, his funding had dried up, and he was forced out of the university, and out of Piltover. Singed had no choice but to begin a new life—in Zaun.

In the undercity, life was cheap, and the demand for innovation high. Singed was quickly able to find work in the emergent chemtech industries, lending his skills and relentless drive for a variety of increasingly unscrupulous clients. His experiments, often of questionable ethicality, cast a wide net: augmenting humans, animals, and even fusions of the two, among countless other endeavours. Nonetheless, he pushed his new field forward at an incredibly rapid pace, but often at the expense of his own health. Understanding better than anyone the chemical needs of a living body, he engineered stimulants that could keep him alert and working for weeks at a time, before he would collapse, shivering and feeble, and sleep for days on end.

Singed’s obsessive, tireless efforts as an alchymist meant he found no shortage of patrons and clients, eventually including even the warmasons of Noxus. The gossip was rampant across both Piltover and Zaun that the empire and their Grand General were on the verge of bankruptcy from paying Piltover’s extortionate tithes for military passage to the campaigns in northern Shurima, and soon they might be looking elsewhere for new, less expensive conquests. So long as they paid his fees, Singed didn’t care.

After years of smaller, off-and-on projects, Singed was approached by a Noxian military commander named Emystan, who contracted the alchymist to help her break the bitter stalemate of the war in Ionia. She needed a new kind of weapon from him, the like of which no one had ever seen before… and she could make him a wealthy man indeed.

Putting aside all other concerns, Singed poured all of his intellect, knowledge, and experience into the synthesis of this new weapon. The result of his efforts was an alchemical fire that was unstable, volatile, and utterly horrifying. When it was finally unleashed in Ionia against the enemies of Noxus, it burned hot enough to fracture stone, and tainted the earth around it with dense, metallic poisons so completely that almost nothing would grow there. Even Emystan’s own allies were appalled, though not quite enough to name her and Singed as war criminals.

Now, without any restraint for capital, materials, or even subjects to experiment upon, Singed nonetheless feels the weight of years upon him. His most recent work has taken a decidedly more biological angle, and of a far more dramatic scope. A recent exercise in the melding of animal, man, and machine left his laboratories in ruins, his face held together with filthy bandages, and his subject freely prowling the streets of Zaun, yet Singed remains undeterred.

He has already mastered the destruction of flesh, and thus now has turned to the preservation and transformation of it… and perhaps even the possibility that life need not end with an inescapable death.

Renata Glasc’s heels click angrily against the marble floors on her way to the front door. It’s a long walk, and her annoyance grows as the bells screech out the same cloying tune a second time.

The mechanical fingers of her left hand unfurl as she reaches for the latch, twisting and snapping into the necessary shapes, embedding in the bespoke lock as its one and only key.

She throws open the ornate copper door and looks down at her visitor. “Mave.” All of Renata’s high-ranking subordinates had been informed that her priority for the evening was debuting her Decanter at the Vesella Novelty Gala.

“Ms. Glasc,” the shorter woman says with a curt nod, her prosthetic iron eyes rattling against the glass of her gel-filled goggles. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“It must be important.”

“We’ve gotten wind of a new type of breather. Not just a filtration unit. An air purifier.”

Renata’s eyes flash. “My devisers said we had nothing to worry about on that front.”

Mave shrugs—not her department.

“Who’s manufacturing it?”

“Baron Midenstokke. Not sure where yet.”

She glances at her gaudy Piltovan clock. The gala begins in just under two hours, her presentation slot is at precisely 21:05, and she hasn’t even had time to pick up the Decanter from the laboratory yet… She sighs. It looks as though the gala will have to start without her.

Time to get the night back under control.

Basile, a worm of a man, grovels at Renata’s feet, dirtying her office floor with his soot-stained tears. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, breath still rank from whatever swill he’d been drinking when she’d interrupted his visit to the Corrodyne Taproom. “I’ll get the money to you in a week. Two, at the most.”

Renata says nothing, letting Basile squirm and sob on the floor a little longer. He had come to her for a loan six months ago for his wife’s replacement leg after an accident at a machinist’s shop. Renata gave him what he asked for, and got him a well-paying factory job to boot. But after his wife died from sepsis and Basile tried to drown his sorrows at the taproom… it’s no surprise he can’t pay.

It’s what she’s counting on.

“Do you think,” she asks finally, “that I need that money? That I would even miss it?”

“I…”

“I’m not interested in money, dear Basile. Keep it.”

Basile’s eyes fill with tears of gratitude. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Ms. Glasc—”

“But.” She holds up a finger to quiet him. “There is something I need from you.”

“Anything.”

“You’re still working for Midenstokke, yes? Got a nice little promotion last month?”

Basile’s face falls. Not everyone has the stomach to get between two chem-barons. He swallows hard. “I can get you your money in… in four days, Ms. Glasc.”

“No, Basile.” Renata Glasc leans down. She can see the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “You’ll get me the information I need, and you’ll get it to me within the hour.”

Elodat carefully moves aside the vials and burners, the metals and wires, the tools and masks that litter her own private workspace, and lays out the first few pages of designs. Renata watches as the deviser dons a loupe, looking closely at all of the details that make these new breathers tick. There are few she would trust with this new alchemical technology, but Elodat has proven her worth time and again since she first entered Renata’s employ at age twelve.

“These are unbelievable,” Elodat breathes reverently. “No filter system, no place for the toxins in the air to go. They just… destroy the toxins. Eliminate them completely.”

“And you understand how it works?” Renata asks. “Would you be able to replicate the results in a similar product?”

“Without question.” Elodat’s fingers twitch excitedly. “Is this my next project?”

“It is.” She pauses. “But make some part of it necessary to replace. Filters are a great way to keep money rolling in. Find our version of that for a purifier.”

Renata looks at Mave, who’s standing in the corner near the door and awaiting instructions. “We’re sure about the factory?”

Mave nods. “My scouts confirmed it. Just beneath Midenstokke’s dance hall in the Promenade as Basile said.”

“Excellent. 22:30, then. That should give us both plenty of time.”

Mave turns to leave, but Renata stops her and glances at the deviser. “Elodat, the Decanter’s show-ready, yes?”

Elodat snorts as she marks up the design documents. “Of course, Ms. Renata.”

Beside the deviser’s workstation sits the Decanter prototype. A weapon. A tool. A mechanized wonder attuned only to the gestures of Renata’s left hand. All elegant lines of gold and brass, both sinuous and sharp, protective, yet delicate. Bubbling inside the contraption is the glowing magenta liquid that encompasses Renata’s entire inheritance.

Renata twirls one of her mechanical fingers in the air. In response, one of the vials attached to the Decanter fills with a pink gas. She plucks a breather from Elodat’s desk and grabs the vial, clicking it into the mask in place of a filtration unit.

“Make things easy on yourself,” she says as she tosses the mask to Mave. With a nod, Mave exits.

“Um, Ms. Renata?” The deviser looks at the floor as Renata turns back to her. “How are my parents? I haven’t seen them in… yeah.”

“They’ve just bought a house,” Renata says casually. “And I’ve found work for your brother and his fiancé at a cultivair. Your work has kept them very happy.” A pause. “You should visit them.”

Elodat’s head snaps up. “Really?”

“Absolutely.” With a beckoning gesture from Renata, the Decanter’s thrusters fire, lifting it into the air. It bobs beside her as she walks toward the door. “After the demonstration.”

“And now, finally,” the announcer says with a glare at Renata, “we have the newest product from Glasc Industries, presented by the fabulous Renata Glasc, herself! Renata, darling, please join us on the stage!”

With practiced ease, Renata steps out from behind the curtain to ravenous applause. Wealthy Piltovans, dressed to impress, fill the Vesella clan’s lavish ballroom, eager to hear about the newest novelties from their favorite Zaunite. The announcer claps politely, though his eyes roll at this level of excitement from the audience.

Renata removes her mask. Every breath she takes of the empty Piltovan air cuts her throat like glass, but still, she smiles. “A big thank you to the Vesella clan for having me! What a treat it is to spend an evening in your beautiful city.

“For many of you, ‘chemtech’ is a scary word. An ugly word. One of iron and decay. What, then, could a Zaunite have to offer Piltover? Glasc Industries has shown you time and again that chemtech doesn’t have to be ugly. And tonight, I’m going to show you that it can be beautiful.”

A flick of her wrist, and the Decanter floats across the stage past the announcer to Renata. Delighted gasps punctuate the murmur of the crowd.

So easily pleased. So hopelessly naïve.

“The Glasc Industries Decanter, a milestone in the world of healing! Alchemist and nursemaid all in one, creating medicine and administering it in the same breath.”

She’s interrupted by the announcer coughing into his sleeve. She turns to him, knowing full well that none of the chemicals in the Decanter are strictly medicinal. “Would our kind announcer be interested in helping with a demonstration?”

Renata sips her sparkling wine as yet another potential investor approaches her. Across the room, the announcer stands beside the Decanter and hands out Renata’s business cards—just as Renata had... suggested.

She peers at her pocket watch and walks toward a balcony with a phenomenal evening view of Piltover. Below, even Zaun’s promenade level is visible from here...

An explosion lights up the promenade. Right about where Baron Midenstokke’s dance hall is, in fact. Or, rather, where it used to be.

But no one in the Vesella clan’s ballroom seems to care. A glance is the most any of them spare for the tragedy down in Zaun. It’s beneath them.

Except for Renata Glasc, who watches with a chuckle and takes another sip of her fine Piltovan wine.

In the wards of Zaun’s infamous asylum, a single monstrous figure roams the halls. His methods are bold, his bonesaw is sharp, and his patients are terrified. For this man is no doctor at all, except in the fancy of his own mind.

Though his true name has been lost to both time and memory, Dr. Mundo was once an enforcer for one of Zaun's most powerful chem-barons. Known for his boisterous affability, he was remarkably good-natured for a man who made his living off physical intimidation. He was always quick with a familiar nickname and a friendly clap on the back, and often blissfully unaware of the toes he was stepping on. It wasn’t long before he had stepped firmly on the toes of his boss.

Determined to make an example of his underling, the chem-baron had him committed to Osweld Asylum—a place well known for its inhumane treatment and questionable cures. The baron watched with satisfaction as his enforcer was placed in restraints and dragged away to the padded confines of the asylum’s most secure cell.

As months went by, the enforcer suffered unspeakable horrors at the hands of his supposed caregivers. Experimental treatments were rendered without concern for the patient's well-being. Nerves were prodded, lobes were severed, and unproved medicines were administered in large quantities. The enforcer began to change, his large frame gaining more muscle by the day. His brain, however, suffered a far worse fate. As he lost all memory of his past life, the enforcer struggled to make sense of the cruel world around him. He looked down at his old restraining jacket—it almost resembled the white coats of the medical professionals that surrounded him.

Misreading the words on his own uniform, he began to assume a new name and new profession for himself.

I must be a doctor, too. Why else would I be in this wretched asylum? he reasoned. And all these other people... must be my patients.

At last, the day came when the chem-baron arrived to discharge his enforcer from the asylum. To his surprise, there was no one to greet him in the lobby. The halls were empty and dead silent, save for the faint, incoherent babbling of a deranged patient in a room at the end of the hallway.

The baron entered the room to a horrifying sight: Scattered across the floor were countless bodies—staff and patients alike, dismembered beyond recognition. Standing above them, a hulking, purple monstrosity blathered unintelligibly as a large blue tongue lolled out the side of its gaping mouth. Muscles bulged grotesquely beneath its undersized garments, and its fist tightened around the handle of a surgical saw. The baron turned pale as his gaze found the face of the monster—and recognized it as his old enforcer.

The enforcer, who recalled nothing of his old boss, saw only another patient in desperate need of treatment. The purple thing lumbered toward the chem-baron, wagging his bonesaw in anticipation. The baron drew his chem-tech pistol and fired. The shot tore through the looming mass in front of him, staggering the monster...

But only for a brief moment.

The hole in the creature's flesh quickly closed as new slabs of muscle rapidly regrew over the wound. The monster paused, eyed the baron quizzically, and uttered, “You sick. Need help!”

Mimicking what he had seen performed countless times by the asylum's former practitioners, the enforcer threw the man on a nearby gurney, strapped his arms into the restraints, and prepared his instruments for surgery. The chem-baron turned pale as he realized the grim fate that awaited him.

The ensuing surgery—like so many before and after it—was not successful. The burgeoning doctor added the remains of his latest patient to the pile on the floor. Though he was saddened he could not save them, he knew he had done all he could. Besides, he would have other chances. Zaun was full of sick people just waiting to be cured. With a smile returning to his face, he left the hospital and set out into the streets to find more patients.

Procured a cutthroat hiding among the populace and feigning civility. Only a disciplined eye could recognize the beast within, yearning for release. How could I refuse? For what is my work if not an attempt to reveal life’s hidden truths through science? It required two doses to subdue him. Impressively resilient. A necessary quality to survive the grand catalyst of pain and provoke the transmutation. The metamorphosis will reshape the man into a chimeric predator, and all of Zaun will be its hunting grounds.

Prepared subject for implantation. Tested a surgical technique I observed during the Ionian Campaign to reach the scapulae. Required several minutes of drilling through bone to attach the alchemical chamber and pumps that will deliver the transmutative formula. Subject wailed and pleaded. Insisted he was no longer a monster, but a good man. Ignored the distractions and threaded lengths of delicate hoses throughout his extremities, splicing them with his veins and arteries. The subject remained conscious and screaming for six hours. Very encouraging as he endured significantly longer than earlier failures. Finished by integrating the mechanical augmentations with the neurolous fibers of the spine. Minimal stitching required. Subject stable and recovering. I must rest and replenish before tomorrow’s procedure.

Found subject despondent and shrinking at the slightest gesture. He struggled against his bonds as the delivery chamber filled with the transmutative formula and activated. The mechanism primed the alchemicals then initiated the next stage. The effects were instantaneous. The subject convulsed as his blood vessels constricted against those first drops. The plunger pushed the mixture through the obstruction, and the subject thrashed violently, nearly toppling the surgical table.

As hypothesized, pain proved the catalyst of change. It released the flood of chemistry required to transmute the subject’s base anatomy. A snapping of bone and sinew followed, reshaping the skeletal frame. And then a jagged shard ripped through the subject’s wrist. He wrenched against the bindings, pulling until the joint cracked sharply, and his severed hand fell to the floor. There was a piercing wail, and his entire body seized before suffering a full collapse. The transmutation had failed. I stanched the wound and stabilized the body’s vital tasks. Perhaps I’ve overestimated the subject’s tolerance for pain. I will recalibrate and begin anew tomorrow.

Returned to my laboratory and found the severed hand still on the floor. Surprisingly, it showed no signs of decay or rigor. Examined the subject’s mangled stump as he spat a litany of insults and threats. The rise in aggression is a promising aftereffect of the alchemicals. But the most striking change was hidden beneath the blood-soaked bandages. A protolimb. Embryonic and malformed, but beautiful in its predatorial function. Even now, hours after the aborted procedure, flesh continues to grow and outpace the formation of misshapen bone. Perhaps allowing more time for the serum to take effect may prove beneficial.

Images of the protolimb pervaded my sleep. Its beauty and singular purpose arrested in tragic failure. But what if it could be more? Awoke with the spark of inspiration. Metallurgy. It may lack the refinements of true chemistry, but last night, it served my purpose. Worked until first light forging steel, sharpening edges, and hammering a framework. It should provide the necessary structure, a scaffolding of sorts, for the new limb to grow into. Improving upon nature is simple when she’s already offered a design.

The constraints of the procedure forced me to benumb the subject and work swiftly. Discovered signs of new growth on the protolimb. The changes had slowed, but not settled. Grafted the malformed limb’s muscle tissue, blood vessels, and delicate nerve endings to the framework. Finished by integrating the augmentation with the alchemical chamber. Observed a slight twitch in the smallest digit. Moved subject, and reinforced his restraints. What other enhancements could be made? Perhaps I shall have a stroll and take in the Gray. There is much to consider.

Returned from the Boundary Markets and was greeted by an old familiar stench. Tributaries of blighted veins stretched across the subject’s back. The infection originated where bone and metal chamber adjoined. Made adjustment to the formula, and dispensed the new batch. The subject’s stupor broke in a piercing shriek as his skeletal structure fractured and reshaped. A beastial form began to emerge, the chimeric properties finally surfacing, but then, the transmutation slowly ebbed and stilled.

Increased the chamber’s outflow. It trembled violently, delivering twice the dosage for every beat of the heart. The body contorted in response as flesh split like poorly seamed fabric unable to contain the changes occurring underneath. The chamber rumbled as the mixture roiled within the sealed container. Pressure built until it released in a rupture of hoses, seals, and blood vessels. A series of snapping sounds followed, metallic and clanging, and the subject’s restraints gave way.

An instant later, he was tearing into my face, reopening the old wounds and feeding the old rage. We struggled briefly until he finally grew limp and collapsed. A single word escaped his throat. And then all the indicators of life faded, and the body finally settled. No heartbeat detected. Applied several drops of caustic solution to his left arm, and received no response. Subject deceased. Dragged the body outside, and disposed of the remains in the Sump. Once again, scientific progress is stifled by lesser creatures. The only consolation is that even failure adds to the vast reservoir of knowledge.

There was a disturbance last night. Arrived to discover the rear door to my laboratory was torn from its hinges. Its heavy wooden planks cleaved and splintered into kindling. Inside, my equipment and provisions suffered a similar fate. Nothing was spared. And everything bore the same deep, gouging slash of sharpened metal. Hours of examining and comparing the marks confirmed the truth—the subject had returned! I don’t know how, but there are a myriad of questions already forming in my mind. But first, a new laboratory must be secured before locating the beast and starting the next phase. What was the word the subject said before it collapsed? A name perhaps? I’ll start there, and see where the search leads me.

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 apprentice—friendly 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 long—and expensive—process cost Corin his fortune, forcing him to relocate their business to Zaun… but he saved his daughter's life. And, 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—she didn't need her human heart anymore, and Corin needed a heart no one could ever take from him.

She spent weeks in preparation, building a clockwork orb—integrating it into her own mechanisms, readying it to house the crystal so she could defend herself in the journey ahead. 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 humanity—but 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.

Zaun is a place of wondrous experimentation and vibrant, colorful life where anything can be achieved—but not without a cost. For all its boundless creativity, there is also waste, destruction, and suffering in the undercity, so pervasive that even the tools created to alleviate it cannot escape its corrosive grasp.

Designed to remove the toxic waste claiming whole neighborhoods of Zaun, lumbering mechanical golems toiled in violently hazardous locations. One such golem worked alongside its fellows, fulfilling its programming to reclaim Zaun for the people. But the caustic reality of their mission soon wore away at its robust form, and before long it was rendered inoperative and discarded as useless.

Useless to all but one person. The inventor Viktor discovered the abandoned golem and, seeing the potential still within the inert chassis, inspiration struck. Viktor began a series of experiments, seeking to improve the automaton by introducing a new element that would elevate it far beyond the original scope of its creation.

Hextech.

Implanting a priceless hextech crystal sourced from the deserts of Shurima into the chassis of the forsaken golem, Viktor waited with baited breath as the machine rumbled to life.

Viktor named the golem Blitzcrank after the fizzing arcs of lightning that danced around their frame, an unexpected side effect of the hextech crystal, and sent them down into the most toxic regions of Zaun. Not only did Blitzcrank prove as capable as any of their steam-powered brethren, but they accomplished their tasks with vastly improved speed and efficiency, and as the days turned into weeks, Viktor began to watch something miraculous unfold…

His creation was learning.

Blitzcrank innovated, interpreting and extrapolating on their daily directives. As a result, they did far more to serve the people of Zaun, and even began to interact with them on a regular basis. Seeing his golem progress to the cusp of self-awareness, Viktor sought to replicate his achievement, but found only frustration and failure, as the key to Blitzcrank’s blossoming consciousness eluded him.

Not all of Blitzcrank’s growth was cause for celebration. Concepts like moderation and nuance escaped them, and Blitzcrank would pursue any effort with the entirety of their being, or none at all. They would occasionally overdo or misinterpret the requests of Zaunites, such as smashing down the front of a tenement to admit a single resident who had lost their key.

Or even tearing an entire factory apart.

Dispatched by Viktor to clear a neighborhood of toxic chemicals, Blitzcrank traced the caustic runoff to its source. Reasoning that the most efficient means to prevent further pollution was to eliminate the source of said pollution, Blitzcrank proceeded to destroy the factory, their lightning-wreathed fists not stopping until it was reduced to a mound of rubble and twisted iron.

Enraged, the chem-baron who owned the ruined factory descended upon Viktor, demanding that he destroy the golem or pay a steeper price in blood. Viktor was devastated, having come to view Blitzcrank as a living being rather than simply a tool to do his bidding. He concocted a scheme to smuggle his creation to safety, ready to accept the dangers and consequences of doing so—but as he returned to his laboratory to set his plan in motion, he discovered that Blitzcrank was already gone.

Blitzcrank’s evolution beyond the constraints of their original programming had yet to cease. Having grown into full self-sufficiency, they resolved to take up their mission independent from their creator. Rumors abound that the golem has even begun to upgrade their own form as they labor tirelessly to assist and protect Zaunites without pausing for instruction.

They now patrol the undercity, deciding for themselves how best to shepherd Zaun down the path to becoming the greatest city Valoran has ever seen.

While most look at Jinx and see only a mad woman wielding an array of dangerous weapons, a few remember her as a relatively innocent girl from Zaun—a tinkerer with big ideas who never quite fit in. No one knows for certain what happened to turn that sweet young child into a wildcard, infamous for her wanton acts of destruction. But once Jinx exploded onto the scene in Piltover, her unique talent for sowing anarchy instantly became the stuff of legend.

Jinx first gained notoriety through her anonymous “pranks” on the citizens of Piltover… particularly those with connections to the wealthy merchant clans. These pranks ranged from the moderately annoying to the criminally dangerous. She blocked streets on Progress Day, with a stampede of exotic animals freed from Count Mei’s menagerie. She disrupted trade for weeks when she lined the city’s iconic bridges with adorably destructive flame chompers. Once, she even managed to move every street sign in town to new and utterly confusing locations.

Though this unknown troublemaker’s targets seemed random, and her motivation nothing more than pure chaos, her actions always served to bring the city’s orderly bustle to a screeching halt.

Naturally, the wardens attributed some of her crimes to chem-punk gangs from the undercity. Having others get credit for her manic schemes didn’t sit well with Jinx, and so she made sure to make her presence known at every future crime scene. Rumors soon circulated of the mysterious, blue-haired Zaunite girl carrying chemtech explosives, a shark-mouthed rocket launcher, and a repeater gun. Still, the authorities dismissed these reports as preposterous. After all, how could a lowly street punk possibly obtain such lethal ordnance?

Jinx’s bombastic spree seemed endless, with the wardens’ attempts to catch the culprit thwarted at every turn. She began tagging her works of destruction with vivid graffiti, and other taunting messages directed at the city sheriff’s newest ally in the fight against crime, Enforcer Vi.

Jinx’s reputation grew, leaving the people of Zaun divided as to whether she was a hero for sticking it to the arrogant Pilties, or a dangerous lunatic for escalating existing tensions between their two cities.

After months of ever-increasing carnage, Jinx unveiled her biggest plan yet. In her trademark electric pink, Jinx daubed the walls of the Ecliptic Vaults—one of Piltover’s most secure treasuries—with a very unflattering caricature of Enforcer Vi, and the details of her own intention to rob the stores within.

An uneasy sense of anticipation settled on Piltover and Zaun leading up to the promised date of the heist. Many doubted even Jinx would have the guts to show up and risk almost certain capture.

When the day arrived, Vi, Sheriff Caitlyn, and the wardens prepared a trap for Jinx outside the treasury. But Jinx had already smuggled herself inside by way of an oversized coin crate that had been delivered days before. When Vi heard pandemonium erupt from inside the structure, she knew the wardens had been outclassed once again. She burst into the treasury, and the ensuing confrontation left the Ecliptic Vaults a smoldering ruin, and the merry mischief maker Jinx nowhere to be found.

Jinx remains at large to this day, and is a constant thorn in Piltover’s side. Her schemes have inspired copycat crimes among the chem-punks, as well as numerous satirical plays lampooning the incompetence of the wardens, and even a smattering of new colloquialisms throughout both cities—though no one has yet had the courage to call Enforcer Vi “Pretty-in-Pink” to her face.

Jinx’s ultimate endgame, and her obvious obsession with Vi, both remain a mystery, but one thing is certain: her crimes are continuing and growing in sheer audacity.

Viktor’s third arm emitted a thin ray of light that welded metal into his left arm with steady precision. The smell of burning flesh no longer bothered him, nor did the sight of his left wrist splayed open, veins and sinewy muscle fused with mechanical augments. He did not wince. Instead, he felt a sense of achievement gazing at the seamless blend of synthetic and organic materials.

The sound of children shouting gave Viktor pause. Rarely did anyone venture down the fog-bound confines of Emberflit Alley. He had chosen this location for that very reason — he preferred not to be interrupted.

Keeping his left arm immobile, Viktor adjusted a silver dial on his iridoscope. The device contained a series of mirrored lenses that angled light to allow him full view of the street outside his laboratory.

Several children were violently shoving a malnourished boy toward Viktor’s wrought iron gates.

“I doubt Naph will last a minute in there,” said a girl with imitation gemstones embedded above her eyes.

“I bet he comes back with a brass head,” said a boy with a shock of red hair. “Maybe then his brain won’t be dull as the Gray.”

“You better return with something we can sell, or we’ll be the ones to give you a new head,” said the largest one, grabbing the small boy by the neck and forcing him forward. The other children backed away, watching.

The young boy trembled as he approached the towering gate, which screeched as he pushed it open. He passed the front door encrusted with interlocking gears and shimmied through an open window. An alarm blared as he fell to the floor.

Viktor sighed and pressed a switch that quieted the ringing.

The skinny boy stared at his new environment. Glass jars, containing organic and metal organs floating in green fluid, lined the walls. A leather gurney stained with blood, upon which lay a mechanized drill, sat in the center of the chamber. Dozens of automatons stood motionless against every wall. To Viktor, his laboratory was a sanctuary for his most creative and vital experiments, but he could imagine it might seem frightening to a child.

The boy’s eyes widened in shock when he saw Viktor at his workbench, arm splayed open on the table. He ducked behind a nearby crate.

“You will not learn anything from that box, child,” said Viktor. “But on top of it, you will find a bone chisel. Hand it to me, please.”

A trembling hand reached to the top of the crate and grasped the handle of the rusted metal tool. The chisel slid across the floor to Viktor, who picked it up.

“Thank you,” said Viktor, who wiped off the instrument and continued work on his arm.

Viktor heard the boy’s rapid breathing.

“I am replacing the twisting flexor tendons — ahem, the broken mechanism in my wrist,” Viktor said, reaching into his arm to adjust a bolt. “Would you like to watch?”

The boy peeked his head around the crate.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” said the boy.

“No,” said Viktor. “When one eliminates the anticipation and fear of pain, it becomes entirely bearable.”

“Oh.”

“It also helps that my arm is almost completely mechanized. See for yourself.”

The boy stepped away from the crate and sat across from Viktor without a word, eyes fixed on his arm.

Viktor resumed welding a new boltdrive onto the tendons beneath his skin. When he had finished, he sealed the flaps of dermis onto his arm. He drew the beam of light across the seam, cauterizing his flesh and fusing the incision.

“Why did you do that?” the boy asked. “Didn’t your arm work fine as it was?”

“Do you know what humanity’s greatest weakness is?”

“No...” said the boy.

“Humans consistently ignore the endless infinity of possibilities in favor of maintaining the status quo.”

The boy gave him a blank stare.

“People fear change,” Viktor said. “They settle with fine when they could have exceptional.”

Viktor walked to his stovetop. He mixed a blend of dark powder and Dunpor cream into a saucepan, heating the liquid with his laser.

“Would you like a glass of sweetmilk?” said Viktor. “A weakness of mine, but I have always enjoyed the anise flavor.”

“Um... you’re not going to saw off my head and replace it with a metal one?”

“Ah. Is that what they think of me now?” Viktor asked.

“Pretty much,” said the boy. “I heard one kid had theirs replaced just because they had a cough.”

“Did you get this information directly?” said Viktor.

“No, it was my neighbor Bherma’s cousin. Or uncle. Or something like that.”

“Ah. Well in that case.”

“Would replacing someone’s head even get rid of a cough?” asked the boy.

“Now you are asking the right questions,” said Viktor. “No, I imagine it would not be much of an upgrade. Coughing stems from the lungs, you see. And to your earlier point, I am not going to saw your head off and replace it with a metal one. Unless, of course, you want that.”

“No thanks,” said the boy.

Viktor poured the thick liquid into two mugs and passed one to the boy, who stared longingly at the hot drink.

“It is not drugged,” said Viktor and took a sip from his own mug. The boy gulped down the sweetmilk.

“Are the others still watching outside?” said the boy through stained teeth.

Viktor glanced through his iridoscope. The three children were still waiting by the front entrance.

“Indeed they are. Do you wish to give them a scare?” Viktor said.

The boy’s eyes lit up, and he nodded.

Viktor handed him a sonophone and said, “Scream as loud as you can into this.”

The boy gave an exaggerated, blood-curdling shriek into the sonophone. It echoed along Emberflit Alley, and the other children jumped in terror, quickly scattering to hide. The boy looked at Viktor and grinned.

“I find that fear is more often than not a limiting emotion,” said Viktor. “Tell me something that scares you, for example.”

“The Chem-Barons.”

“The Chem-Barons are feared because they project an air of dominance and often the threat of violence. If no one feared them, people would stand up to them. And then where would their power go?”

“Uh...”

“Away. Exactly. Think of how many Chem-Barons exist compared to how many people live in Zaun. Fear is used by the powerful few to control the weak because they understand how fear works. If someone can manipulate your emotions, they can control you.”

“I guess that makes sense. But I’m still afraid of them,” said the boy.

“Of course you are. Patterns of fear are carved deep into your very flesh. Steel, however, has no such weakness.”

Viktor retrieved a vial containing miniscule silver beads floating in milky fluid.

“That is where I may be able to assist,” he said. “I have developed an augmentation that eliminates fear altogether. I could let you try it out for a short time.”

“How short?”

“The implant will dissolve in twenty minutes.”

“You’re sure it’s not permanent?”

“It can be, but not this one. You might find that without fear, your friends out there lose their grip. Bullies feed on fear, you see. And without it, they will starve.”

The boy nursed his drink, considering the offer. After a moment he nodded to Viktor, who inserted a thin needle into the vial and injected one of the silver beads into the skin behind his ear.

The boy shuddered for a moment. Then he smiled.

“Do you feel your weakness falling away?” Viktor asked.

“Oh yes,” said the boy.

Viktor walked him to the door and twisted a dial to unlock it before waving him out.

“Remember, you can always return if you wish a more permanent solution.”

A wave of fog created a ghostly silhouette around the boy as he emerged from the laboratory. Viktor returned to his workbench to watch the experiment through his iridoscope.

Emberflit Alley was empty, but as soon as the boy walked out his companions emerged.

“Where’s our souvenir?” asked the red-haired boy.

“Doesn’t seem like little Naph has held up his end of the deal,” said the girl.

“Guess we have to punish him,” added the large boy. “We did promise him a new head today, after all.”

“Don’t you touch me,” said Naph. He raised himself to his tallest height.

The bully reached for Naph’s neck, but Naph turned and punched him square in the face.

Blood streamed from the bully’s nose.

“Grab him!” the bully screamed.

But his companions were no longer interested in grabbing him.

Naph stepped toward the bullies. They stepped back.

“Get away from me,” he said.

The bullies eyed each other, then turned and ran.

Viktor closed his iridoscope and returned to his work. He stretched the fingers of his newly repaired arm and tapped them on his desk in satisfaction.

In Piltover, where anyone’s dream can become everyone’s progress, a star is born.

As a child, Seraphine always loved music, especially her father’s lullabies. The songs were beautiful, but sad. He’d brought them up to Piltover as he and Seraphine’s mother—two lifelong Zaunites—sought a better life in the City of Progress.

Leaning out the window of their hexcoustics workshop, where broken sound tech was made to play again, Seraphine sang along with the streets. The shanties of the Sun Gates, the whistling of apprentices, even the melody of conversation—in a bustling city like Piltover, she was never alone.

Over time, Seraphine realized she could sense songs too private, too personal, for any ordinary person to hear. And as she grew, so did the intensity of her gifts. She heard every person’s soul, loving or cruel—turning the streets she’d once loved into an overwhelming cacophony of conflicting desires. How could she make sense of the voices if none of them harmonized? Some days, she hid shivering in a corner, hands over her ears, unable to hear herself above the chaos.

Seraphine’s parents had left everything behind so she could be born in Piltover; they couldn’t bear seeing her struggle. Scraping together their savings to purchase a shard of a rare hextech crystal, they crafted a device that dampened her magical hearing. For the first time in years, there was silence.

Within that quiet, though, Seraphine heard something—someone. The crystal had a consciousness, born of brackern blood. Though hard to hear, and harder to comprehend, the voice was kind. In a hymn of distant deserts and ancient conflicts of ancestors, a thousand years of history sang in unison.

Seraphine, awed, asked for guidance. Overwhelmed by the yearnings around her, she worried she may have no song of her own. What if she was merely the voices of others?

“We are all forged through others’ voices,” the presence sang back.

And slowly, she learned to manage the noise. The voice rarely spoke clearly, but Seraphine felt its influence as it helped her understand how to resonate with a crowd, to sing with them, using her dampener less each day. The first time she performed in front of an audience, testing her skills, she was nervous beyond words. But she kept singing, and the crowds swelled. Soon, the biggest venues in Piltover had Seraphine’s fans spilling into the streets. Still, something was missing—in the crowds, and in herself. She resolved to seek perspective in the city her parents had worked so hard to leave: Zaun.

The first time she rode the clanging lift down, Seraphine felt somehow at home but still a stranger. In Zaun, she heard refrains of resilience and ambition much like above, yet with a thrum of freedom that was all their own. But as she spent more time below, she also sensed pain. Fear of the chem-barons who controlled every opportunity. Hatred of the spoiled, arrogant Pilties above. There was so much discord. She began to perform, and listened to these new crowds, their hearts singing their struggles. The two cities were divided by more than simple misunderstanding. She wanted to mend, to unite. But she kept hearing the same refrain: “It’s not that simple in Zaun.”

Eventually, Piltover started to feel less like home.

Her hextech crystal had sung an elegy of what hatred left unchecked could accomplish. Seraphine couldn’t let that happen to the cities she loved. Persuading her parents to help, she dismantled her dampener, and together, they gave the crystal a new home in its opposite—a platform that would amplify her gifts, not repress them, allowing her to hear others in all their complexity. Seraphine hoped the crystal’s voice would be among them. She rode this platform down as a stage of sorts, stepping out onto the Entresol between Piltover and Zaun. As the crowds gathered and the lights dazzled, she heard citizens from both worlds, mingled together to hear her.

This was a new song. Not just understanding—unity.

It wasn’t perfect. It might never be. But her voice mattered. And so, Seraphine realized, maybe she could help others find their voice, too.

Seraphine has become the premier star in both Piltover and Zaun. Empowered by her gifts and her hextech, she amplifies the voices of all with a fresh force of optimism, because to her, everyone deserves to be heard—especially those who are struggling. They inspire her, and she will do her best to inspire them in return.

Urgot always believed 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 confession—granting 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 it—necessity 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 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, with thousands fleeing into the Sump—but the worthy, as ever, survived.

From that day, Urgot’s reign of terror only grew. A hideous fusion of industrial machinery and Noxian brutality, he slaughtered chem-barons and their lackeys one by one, gathering a following among Zaun’s downtrodden masses. He was said to be a new savior, one who would lift the boot of the oppressor from the neck of every common Zaunite.

However, his actions did not make such distinctions, as Urgot tested the worthiness of the meek and the powerful alike. To any who found themselves spared in his deadly trials, his message was clear: he was not there to lead, but to survive. If others were worthy, they would survive, too.

When Urgot finally struck at representatives of the Piltovan merchant clans, the Wardens were forced to intervene, hauling him in chains to a fortified prison cell—though this merely seemed to confirm “the Dreadnought” as a legend among the gangers, the sump-snipes, and the forgotten.

For Piltover is not the first to shackle Urgot, and one must wonder if any cage can ever hope to hold him for long…