Reach the summit
Noxus calendar 989
Tensions in Kalamanda escalated when Supreme Commander Brown Darkwell was found assassinated near the village, and all of his Redsel Guard perished. A special task force sent from Kalamanda to escort Darkwell into the village was the first to arrive at the scene of the massacre; they had originally intended to protect the Supreme Commander.
Analysis of the scene suggests the guards were likely wiped out instantly. Noxian scouts found no trace of the attackers, nor any signs of survivors. Confusingly, the ambush site was surrounded by flat, wide open areas with sparse vegetation, yet the guards appeared to have been attacked without any warning.
General Swain ordered the bodies of the fallen soldiers to be cremated according to wartime tradition and publicly accused Demacia of launching this "declaration of war" raid, despite King Jarvan III's vehement denial.
At this critical juncture, shrouded in mystery and with relations between the two countries at a freezing point, Swain seized the opportune moment when the old regime's foundations were crumbling. Draven played a key role as a henchman in this. His unruly, deadly madness became a nightmare for the remnants of Darkville's forces in the dark alleyways of the capital.
When the black castle gates, a symbol of the old era, were breached and Swain ascended to the pinnacle of power, Draven stood at the forefront of the cheering crowd, basking in the thunderous applause.
He smiled genuinely for the first time in months, even years. The cheers were so loud, they seemed to pierce the clouds and reach every corner of the world. He could almost imagine Alice somewhere hearing this clamor for him, walking towards the capital.
The consolidation of the new regime required deterrence, a public execution to herald the end of the old era and the iron fist of the new. Draven became the perfect choice for this execution. The Purge Arena was reopened, and the targets of the trial were Darkwell's die-hard followers. The execution itself was inevitable, but Draven turned it into an unexpected and legendary opening act.
That day, the sky was Noxian's typical leaden gray, hanging low as if a murky rain might fall at any moment. The massive circular arena was packed to capacity, a cacophony of voices filling the air with a restless atmosphere. Today, a group of remnants of the Darkville regime would be publicly executed, thus demonstrating the absolute authority of Swain's new order.
Draven sat prominently beside the judge's bench, enjoying a superb view of the entire battlefield and the roaring stands. He wore a specially made set of black leather armor adorned with exaggerated fur shoulder guards and patterns, but his expression was somewhat absent-minded. Executions proceeded one after another, the process monotonous and repetitive: sentencing, escort, the axe falling. The cheers from the audience, though enthusiastic, sounded like a rehearsed chorus. He mechanically nodded slightly to the rhythm, his fingertips unconsciously stroking the handle of the throwing axe at his waist, his thoughts seemingly drifting far away—when would this monotonous carnage reach the ears of the person he wanted to hear it?
Finally, it was the last prisoner's turn—an old nobleman known for his arrogance and stubbornness. Even in shackles and tattered clothes, he still tried his best to straighten his spine. When the judge read out his charges of treason and death sentence in a loud voice, the old nobleman even sneered and spat a mouthful of bloody saliva towards the judge's bench.
This action enraged the audience and the guards escorting him. One of the guards roughly shoved him, trying to force him to kneel.
No one expected that this seemingly frail old man would actually fight back. Using the force of the guards' shoving, he suddenly struggled forward, and the seemingly sturdy shackles, whether due to years of disrepair or because he had secretly tampered with them, snapped open with a "crack!" The freed old nobleman, like an old lion driven to the brink of despair, unleashed the last glimmer of his life, charging towards the busiest section of the commoners' stands!
"Stop him!" the judge shouted.
On the high platform, Draven unconsciously curled up a smile at the corner of his mouth, as if he had been waiting for this kind of "unexpected surprise".
He had been suppressing it for far too long.
He leaped from the platform, the wind whistling past his ears, the chaotic scene below magnified rapidly in his eyes. Time seemed to stretch out; he could clearly see the horrified gaping mouths of the audience below, the clumsy figures of the guards chasing after them, and the crazed expression on the old nobleman's face.
The fall took only a second or two, yet it felt like an eternity, both vivid and profound. Draven adjusted his posture in mid-air, gripping the two throwing axes he never parted from, their handles bound with ribbons. Without the slightest hesitation, his arm muscles bulged, and using the momentum of the fall, he poured all his strength and the precision he had honed over the years into this single strike!
Just as the old nobleman was about to step onto the first step of the stands, Draven landed with a thud! His knees bent slightly, cushioning the impact of the fall, and he left two shallow craters in the sand.
Immediately following were two sharp, almost simultaneous sounds of something tearing through the air!
Two flying axes drew perfect, intersecting arcs of death; one cleaved precisely into the old nobleman's back, while the other almost simultaneously severed his neck!
The immense impact propelled the old nobleman forward, his blood splattering like ink on the yellow sand. His head even rolled down several steps due to inertia, his face frozen in the final shock.
The movements are clean, crisp, and elegant, full of violent aesthetics that combine power and precision to the extreme!
The entire arena fell into a deathly silence.
Everyone was stunned by this sudden turn of events. It all happened so fast and so dramatically.
The deathly silence lasted only a brief moment.
Immediately, like a volcanic eruption, deafening, almost frenzied cheers and screams exploded, instantly engulfing the entire arena! The sound was more fervent and pure than ever before! People stood up excitedly, waving their arms and roaring, going crazy for this execution that far exceeded expectations!
Draven straightened up, slightly out of breath. He listened to the thunderous cheers that resounded solely for him, and felt countless gazes fixed on him as if they were tangible. That familiar, thrilling excitement surged through his body once more.
He slowly walked to the corpse, bent down, and easily pulled out the two throwing axes embedded in flesh and bone. Blood dripped from the axe blades. He turned to face the roaring stands, a smile on his face a mixture of triumph, arrogance, and a hint of cruelty. He skillfully twirled the axes in his hands, the blades reflecting the dim light of the sky, tracing dazzling arcs, and then, with a mighty hurle, he hurled them high into the air!
The flying axe spun rapidly in the air, reaching its highest point before landing steadily back in his outstretched hand.
"Draven! Draven! Draven!"
It's unclear who first shouted the name, but it quickly became a unified outcry.
Draven stood still, listening to the voice that belonged only to him, feeling the focus of millions of eyes.
The Glorious Executioner was born.
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From that moment on, Draven entered his "golden age." He partnered with a shrewd gladiatorial organizer, completely transforming the once monotonous and bloody public executions into grand performances that blended drama, character development, and the aesthetics of death. Death was no longer the sole theme; how to die "honorably" and "spectacularly" became the new selling point. The Pursuers, or perhaps now more accurately, Pursuer Performers, were given their own storylines, signature costumes, and fighting styles. Their "duel" and the dramatic executions of real death row inmates became the most sought-after entertainment spectacle throughout the Empire.
Draven is the undisputed star of this feast.
He lived the life he had once only dreamed of in the squalid corners of the slums. His luxurious mansion, located in the elite district, boasted gardens filled with exotic southern flowers and plants; wealth flowed into his coffers like an inexhaustible spring; every morning, servants delivered a thick stack of gilded banquet invitations. He frequented the capital's most exclusive bars and casinos, surrounded by all sorts of beauties eager to climb the social ladder, from thrill-seeking aristocratic girls to glamorous theater stars. He became indiscriminate in his pursuit of pleasure, a master of all manner of indulgence, a thoroughly slick and ruthless old fox honed through debauchery. Alcohol, dice, card games, the warmth of intertwined passions… he filled every moment he didn't want to be alone with these things.
At a lavish banquet celebrating a major border victory, the dazzling light of crystal chandeliers filled the air with the aromas of expensive perfumes, roasted meats, and fine wines. Draven was flirting with a newly acquainted noblewoman of illustrious but now fallen fortune. The woman had fiery red hair and a flattering tongue, and her body clung to him like a vine.
“My lord, your performance in the arena yesterday was truly astonishing,” she breathed softly, her fingertips tracing the ornate patterns on his leather armor with an intimate touch. “I have never seen such a…powerful artist.”
Draven laughed heartily, holding a golden glass filled with amber-colored liquor in one hand and his other arm unceremoniously around the woman's waist, pulling her closer to him. "An artist? Hahaha! Little beauty, you're quite the charmer! How about I give you a more powerful performance tonight?" He tilted his head back and gulped down a large mouthful of liquor, then whispered some lewd words in her ear, his fingers roaming erratically over her bare back. The woman laughed uncontrollably.
Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a familiar, tall figure moving through the noisy crowd. Darius, the Hand of Noxus, one of the true pillars of the Empire's power. He was still wearing his signature heavy black armor, which he hadn't removed even in this setting, exuding a cold, hard aura that clashed with the surrounding extravagance.
The two brothers looked at each other across the crowd of people clinking glasses.
Draven's drunken smile widened, tinged with smugness and defiance. Instead of releasing his female companion, he held her even tighter, swaying as he walked towards Darius, wine glass in hand.
"Brother!" His voice boomed, drawing the attention of many around him. "Look! Look at us now!" He spread his arms, displaying his luxurious surroundings, the beauty in his arms, and the commotion in the room with exaggerated gestures. "I told you, my path was right! Look at your brother now! Famous throughout the empire! Richer than a country!" He patted the bare back of the noblewoman, eliciting a giggle from her. "How about it? Much happier than your days spent with a long face, dealing with mud and corpses, right?"
Darius watched him silently, his face revealing little emotion. His gaze swept over his brother's seemingly smug face, and after a long while, he reached out and patted Draven's shoulder heavily, the force causing the slightly tipsy Draven to sway.
This signifies a reconciliation, built upon the foundations of their respective legendary status. Draven, through his madness, has proven another path to "success."
However, when the feast finally ends, when the strongest effects of the wine wear off, and when the sleeping stranger beside him offers no real warmth, a profound emptiness washes over him like a cold tide. Draven often stands alone on the highest terrace of his mansion, overlooking the vast, sleeping capital city that symbolizes his "success." Thousands of lights twinkle like stars, yet not a single one shines for him. All the luxury and clamor here belong to him, yet seem utterly irrelevant to him.
Fame, wealth, power, adoration... he possessed everything he had ever longed for, yet he never met the person he was waiting for.
The name "Draven" indeed resounded throughout the empire, even crossing oceans to reach the resistance camps of Ionia, the border outposts of Demacia, and the icy tribes of Freljord. Yet, Alice remained elusive.
Swain's prophecy from years ago was like a vicious curse. It gave Draven a goal, motivating him to reach the top, but also turning that top into a prison of endless waiting. He began to doubt: Was she really dead? Or had Swain lied to him? Or was his reputation simply not great enough?
The longer he sits on this empty throne, the more he yearns for the distance. And this yearning will drive him toward an even more unpredictable future.
A new and deeper restlessness was brewing within him. He was no longer content to be known only within Noxus.
The idea grew stronger and stronger. He wanted to take his performances to a wider stage. To Ionia, to Demacia, to everywhere possible. He wanted the title of "Honorable Executioner" to resound in every corner of the world, until the only audience he wanted to please could no longer ignore his presence.
"I want the whole world to know my name..."
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