Runeterra: Alexander The Eternal

. . .

. . .

As I dragged the boar's carcass along the trail, each step sank into the earth with a satisfying thud. The weight tugged against me, but I pressed on, my grip firm on the rough hide. I had chosen to bring the young boar, not the mother, for obvious reasons. The wounds on her body bore traces of magic—an undeniable mark in a place like Demacia. A kingdom notorious for its intolerance.

I vaguely recalled that, in the future, they would eventually welcome mages back. Why? That remained unclear.

"Idiots," I muttered, dislodging a piece of meat from my teeth with my tongue. "Lost potential for power."

Ah, yes. I had eaten part of the mother boar while resting. Waste not.

As the village came into view, I felt the shift. Eyes widened, whispers spread like wildfire. The weight of their stares pressed down harder than the carcass behind me.

Silence gripped the plaza as I entered. And at the heart of it all stood the king. Young—perhaps 22 or 23—but with eyes that betrayed a hunger for competence. The kind of hunger only a ruler in waiting could possess.

His gaze swept over me, assessing, calculating. He spoke with a casual authority that made the crowd lean in closer.

"What's your name, boy? And how did you manage to bring down such an impressive beast?"

"I'm Alexander. I was hunting."

"Hunting, hmm?" His lips curved slightly. "Taking down a beast that size at your age must have been… challenging."

"Killing wasn't the hard part," I replied, letting a faint smile touch my lips. "Dragging it back—that took effort."

The king chuckled, the sound breaking the tension like glass shattering. "Impressive, no doubt." His voice carried amusement, and that alone eased the shoulders of those around him.

But not all.

Gerald—Marcus's father—stepped forward, his voice cutting through the waning tension like a blade.

"It's impossible for a boy like you to kill that creature alone. You probably found it dead and decided to claim the credit."

I felt the heat rise behind my eyes, the sharp sting of irritation. 'Questioning my merit?' The thought pulsed, tempting. My fingers twitched. A flicker of violence crossed my mind—swift and absolute. But then…

I saw her.

My mother, Elara, parting the crowd with quiet grace.

She approached without urgency, her presence soothing as always. Her eyes darted from the boar to me, her expression softening with that familiar smile.

"Alex, dear. You're going to miss the tournament," she chided gently, as though all of this—Gerald, the boar, the king—were secondary.

Her words anchored me.

"Sorry, Mother," I said, offering a small, genuine smile. "I was preparing."

She nodded, satisfied, and stepped back. The tension dissolved like mist under the sun.

I turned back to the king and the crowd.

"This boar is a gift for you, Your Majesty. May its meat be prepared by the finest chefs of the village." My gaze flicked to a cluster of chefs, who exchanged nervous glances before nodding hastily. They understood the gravity of such a task.

Gerald, however, refused to yield. His frustration was palpable, his pride wounded. "This is all just a show. The boy is lying!" he barked, his voice shaking with the strain of holding onto his crumbling bravado.

I didn't flinch. I didn't even blink. My gaze locked onto his.

"Marcus, isn't it?" My voice was calm, measured—but it carried weight. "Your son is eleven. The oldest among the competitors, correct? A talented boy, I hear. Surely, he'll win today."

Gerald froze. The realization dawned slowly, painfully. I always made him see me as a charismatic child, perhaps a bit arrogant—but never a threat. Now, the weight of my words—and the certainty behind them—left him off balance.

Without waiting for a response, I turned to the king and Prince Jarvan.

"With your permission, Your Majesty, I need to prepare for the tournament." I faced the crowd, voice steady. "Enjoy the festival. This is a day to remember."

. . .

— POV JARVAN III —

The arena was simple—a sandy floor encircled by worn stone benches. Demacia's banners snapped in the breeze, casting long shadows over the spectators. The scent of roasted meat and spiced bread lingered in the air.

Guards stood at attention, their armor catching the afternoon light, a silent reminder of order. I settled into my seat, eyes scanning the young competitors assembling below.

The moment had arrived.

The children lined up, each gripping their practice swords with a mix of excitement and nerves.

"Father, where is that boy?" Jarvan asked, his eyes wide with curiosity, searching the crowd.

I smiled, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Patience. You'll see him soon enough."

The first match began. Two boys clashed, exchanging basic strikes and dodges. The crowd cheered politely, applauding each hit and block. It was… adequate.

. . .

. . .

SWING

"Impressive," Xin Zhao murmured beside me.

Alexander had entered the ring.

His opponent lunged—eager, reckless. One strike. A clean, disarming blow. His adversary hit the ground, bewildered.

The crowd clapped politely, unaware of the gap they had just witnessed.

'So vast a difference. And yet, he doesn't gloat.'

"Controlled aggression," Xin Zhao noted, his eyes narrowing. "At that age?"

Match after match, Alexandre dispatched his opponents with ruthless efficiency. A larger boy attempted a flurry of attacks, but Alexandre sidestepped each one with minimal effort, countering with a precise strike that dropped the boy to his knees.

My son Jarvan's eyes sparkled with admiration.

"Dedication," I told him. "With enough focus, you can achieve the same."

But inside, I knew. This wasn't just dedication. This was something else. An anomaly.

Each bout ended swiftly—either with a decisive blow or a calculated submission. The applause grew louder, the murmurs of respect more frequent.

"He has something special," I mused. "With proper guidance, he will bring greatness to Demacia."

— POV END —

. . .

Marcus left mid tournament. So did Gerald.

'Fear?'

The announcer stepped forward, clearing his throat to declare the winner. I was ready to hear my name—victory was inevitable.

But then, a figure moved.

Xin Zhao.

He stepped into the arena with a quiet confidence, his every movement deliberate. His gaze locked onto me, and a faint, knowing smile tugged at his lips.

"With your permission, my king," he said, his voice calm yet carrying through the hushed crowd, "I would like to test the boy."

The crowd fell silent. Every whisper, every breath seemed to vanish, replaced by a charged anticipation that gripped the air.

Even the announcer froze, unsure how to proceed.

Jarvan III leaned back in his seat, intrigued. His eyes flicked to me, then to Xin Zhao.

"Hm. Granted," he said, a note of curiosity in his tone.

The tension snapped taut. A collective gasp rippled through the audience.

'Planned. They planned this.'

I could feel the weight of their stares, the disbelief mixed with pity.

"The Royal Guard? Against a kid?"

"He's done for. No way he can win."

"This is madness!"

I ignored them. My focus sharpened, narrowing to the man standing before me. He was no ordinary opponent. A veteran. A warrior.

And now, my challenge.

"It would be an honor, Sir Xin Zhao," I said, forcing calm into my voice, though my heart pounded in my chest. 'No better stage. No better opportunity to prove myself. Even if defeat is likely, what matters more is what I've done. There will be no doubt about my strength.'

Xin Zhao nodded, his expression shifting into something more serious, more predatory. His stance, solid and unyielding.

"Show me what you can do, boy."

The crowd held its breath. The world seemed to shrink, the arena becoming a stage where only we existed.

I gripped the training sword tightly, the worn wood familiar in my hands. The weight felt different now—heavier, but not in a way that deterred me.

I exhaled slowly, centering myself.

"A real test." The words left my thoughts.

Every muscle tensed, ready. My vision tunneled, focusing only on the battle. Xin Zhao was watching me, waiting.

The silence broke.

I moved.