Target
Noxus calendar 987
At twenty-three, Draven was like a legendary weapon abandoned in a corner; though its edge was still sharp, it was rusty and covered in wine stains and dust.
Ten years have passed.
Ten years have passed since the explosion on the coast of Besilico. He has grown from a stubborn thirteen-year-old boy into a young man. The charred headband, worn beyond recognition, is still tied with a thin rope and hidden close to his body under his leather armor, like a wound that never heals.
During this time, Noxus officially launched its war against Ionia, which presented Draven with the best opportunity to find Iris. He traversed multiple warbands, crossed countless battlefields, and ventured into numerous isolated villages, encountering far too many women with light-colored hair, his hopes fading into utter despair. Each misidentification was a slow, agonizing torture of his hope. Ten years of futile pursuit exhausted his last shred of spirit and patience.
Dezi finally grew tired. He began to linger in the rear for extended periods. He returned to the Immortal Fortress, the capital of Noxus, and secured a lucrative contract at the Reckoning Arena. He numbed his senses daily with battles and the cheers of the audience. Only under the spotlight and amidst the cheers could he briefly forget the emptiness.
He gained wealth and initial fame, but whenever the clamor subsided, loneliness would wash over him like a tidal wave. He clearly realized that the cheers of millions could not fill the enormous void in his heart left by the loss of Alice. The crisp "Little D is the best!" from his memory was the only recognition he longed to hear.
However, Noxus launched a multi-front war across Valoran against Deiacia, Freljord, Ionia, and Shurima. The war in Ionia, with its large-scale legionary clashes and exhausting counterinsurgency and pacification operations, began to alienate ordinary residents. As attention shifted, the Reckoning Arena fell silent, and Draven, too, became listless, spending more and more time in the capital's chaotic taverns and gambling dens.
Or rather, anywhere there were taverns and casinos. His military pay and early fortune poured like water onto dice, card tables, and heavily made-up women. He tried to numb his senses with alcohol, fill the void with the thrill of gambling, and seek moments of oblivion in the warmth of unfamiliar brothels. He became a complete scoundrel, a "madman" gradually sinking into debauchery, his reputation transforming from "powerful" to "a scoundrel you shouldn't mess with."
He had given up hope. Perhaps Alice had already died in that battle, her body never to be found. This thought gnawed at him like a venomous snake, leaving him only temporary relief in deeper depravity.
He knelt on the cold stone slabs of the Wolf Spirit Temple, his forehead pressed against the rough ground, like a wounded beast seeking solace.
"She is the only starlight, watching over my long journey..."
"Since she left, only darkness lies ahead."
His whispers sounded unusually faint in the empty hall. Deep in his memory, the sea, and the girl with silver hair under the moonlight, were the points of light that pierced through all the glitz and darkness. This starlight had illuminated his path of struggle in the slums, and had given him salvation when his hands were stained with blood.
"Her eyes reflected a whole world that brought me peace and joy..."
He closed his eyes, and could still clearly see those red eyes, like the purest gems, devoid of calculation or fear, filled only with complete trust and reliance. In those eyes, he wasn't trash, garbage, or a madman, but simply her "Little De." That world was small, containing only the small building in the riverside village, the sea breeze, and her giggling laughter, yet it brought him a joy and peace he had never felt before.
Love is so fleeting and fragile.
He let out a nearly choked laugh, as if mocking his own belated realization. Until that artillery barrage easily shattered the love he had once possessed but was unaware of, like footprints on the beach being wiped away by the tide. It was as faint as a legend, as fragile as a broken coin, yet it was heavier and more unforgettable than anything he gained later.
"I can still hear her crying out: Draven! Help me!!"
The final howl echoed and pounded through the silent Wolf Spirit Temple. The desperate cry for help, piercing through ten years, revealed the futility of his search.
"Where is my Alice...?"
He looked up at the enormous wolf spirit statue in the hall. The wolf spirit remained silent, offering no answer to the boy trapped on that beach ten years ago, forever unable to save the one he loved.
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It was a late autumn night in Noxus year 988.
Deep within the Immortal Fortress, in an underground gambling den called "The Skullbreaker," the air was so foul it seemed you could wring oil out of it. The pungent smell of cheap tobacco, the sour stench of sweat, the decadent aroma of aged wine stains, and something more primal—a mixture of desire and despair—fermented and steamed here. Gold coins and dice clattered on the rough wooden table, mingled with the wild laughter of winners and the curses of losers.
Draven slumped at a greasy table in the corner, like a sack of discarded mud. At twenty-four, his features were still sharp, but his once piercing eyes were now clouded by a layer of alcohol and weariness. His expensive leather armor was stained with what appeared to be alcohol or food, and the cuffs were frayed. The charred headband that symbolized his decade-long obsession was haphazardly stuffed into his inner chest pocket, clinging to his skin like a sore that refused to heal.
"Damn it! Gone again!" His eyes were red as he slammed the empty money bag onto the table with a dull thud. The last few silver coins were given to the old gambler across the table, who was grinning like a chrysanthemum. The alcohol warmed his blood, but the emptiness in his heart grew colder.
"Hey, handsome, having bad luck?" A figure reeking of strong perfume sat down next to him. She was a heavily made-up woman, scantily clad, her eyes darting around, trying to lean on his shoulder. "Want me to have a drink with you to change your luck?" Her fingers lightly traced the scratches on his leather nails.
Draven glanced at her sideways, a cold smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He reached out and roughly pulled the woman closer to his chest, grabbing a half-empty bottle of cloudy ale from the table with his other hand. He took a swig, the liquor dripping down his chin. "Change your luck?" he scoffed, his breath reeking of alcohol on the woman's face. "I need luck? I need to chop off the bookmaker's hand!"
The woman giggled, unperturbed by his rudeness, and moved even closer, tracing circles on his chest with her fingertips: "Don't get so angry... If you lost money, I have a way to cheer you up..." She licked her lips suggestively.
Draven stared at her face, so close to his, tightened his arms around her, almost squeezing her close, and lowered his head, his nose nearly touching her forehead. His voice was low and carried a hint of danger: "Happy? Do you know how to make me truly happy?"
The woman felt a little uncomfortable from his grip, but still forced a smile: "Of course I know... Sister can do everything..."
"You know nothing!" Draven suddenly shoved her away, the force so great that the woman staggered. The mockery on his face vanished without a trace. "Get lost. I have no interest in trash like you today."
The woman's smile froze, a hint of humiliation and anger flashing across her face. She muttered "crazy" under her breath, then got up and left dejectedly.
Draven watched her sway as she disappeared into the chaotic crowd, then took another large gulp of his drink. He'd numbed himself with alcohol and cheap prostitution far too many times over the past decade. But each time, after the fleeting pleasure, he awoke only to a deeper emptiness and a loathing for his own depravity. The flattery and tenderness of those women were sickeningly fake, forever unable to touch the cold wasteland within his heart.
Just as he was about to gulp down the last bit of alcohol, a figure silently sat down in the empty seat opposite him.
The man wore a seemingly simple yet well-tailored, finely crafted dark robe. His face was stern, and most striking were his eyes—sharp as an eagle's, seemingly able to pierce through the heart. A raven perched on his shoulder, its feathers glossy black, its eyes darting about with an unusual liveliness. The aura he exuded was completely out of place in the chaotic and decadent surroundings.
"Get out of my way!" Draven roared irritably, finding fault with everyone.
“Draven,” the newcomer spoke, his voice steady yet strangely penetrating, drowning out the casino’s clamor, “your worth shouldn’t be wasted in a place like this.”
Draven scoffed, swirling his empty glass: "I'll do what I want! Who the hell are you? You think you can lecture me?"
“Jericho Swain,” the man calmly stated his name.
The name brought Draven's drunken mind to a sudden realization. He remembered the once illustrious noble general who had experienced a major setback.
“Oh! General Jericho of House Swain!” Draven said mockingly. “I heard you were impeached a few years ago and almost got your skin peeled off as a general? What, instead of licking your wounds in your castle, you've come to this wretched place to smell the stench?”
He sat up a little straighter. "If you want to thank me because I, Godrayus, didn't kick you when you were down and saved your job, then there's no need for that. I don't know him at all."
Swain gazed at him calmly, as if looking at a weapon already displayed in a showcase: "The Grand Chancellor Darkwill is weak and incompetent, and his rule is leading Noxus into a slow abyss. The old order needs to be broken, and the Empire needs to rebuild its true glory. And I need capable people."
"What's it to me!"
Swain ignored his rudeness and continued in that all-knowing tone, "I heard you've been looking for a woman for ten years."
Draven's face instantly darkened, and he placed his hand on the handle of the throwing axe at his waist: "What do you want to say?"
Swain's raven perched on his shoulder gently preened its feathers. Seemingly unconcerned by Draven's threat, he slowly said, "Ten years, like a headless fly, spinning in the mud and war, hoping to strike it rich and find a pearl lost ten years ago. That's the most foolish and ineffective way."
Draven jumped to his feet, his drunken rage turning into fury: "You fucking—"
"—Why not try a different approach?" Swain interrupted him, looking directly at Draven as if he could see into the depths of his soul's desire. "Why should you go to her? When you're famous throughout the world, when the name 'Draven' resounds in every corner of the Empire, even to the ends of the earth... as long as she's alive, as long as she hears it, what do you think she'll do?"
These words, like a bolt of lightning, cleaved through the darkness that had shrouded Draven in for ten years.
He had never thought of that.
He had always thought that the search was one-way, that he had to traverse mountains and rivers, scour every inch of land, to find her again. Swain's words opened a completely new door for him—to become the most dazzling presence, an unmissable lighthouse, so that the ship that might have been lost in the distance would willingly return towards the light.
Swain saw the rekindled fire in his eyes and knew his prey had taken the bait. He threw out the final bait: "I will create a new Noxus, and in the process, you will have an unprecedented stage and gain enough prestige to make the whole world take notice. This is far more meaningful than you rotting here or wandering around like a headless fly."
Swain recruited him, perhaps because of his brother Darius's attitude, or perhaps because he genuinely saw something else in him. But for Draven at this point, motives were no longer important. Swain had given him a reason he couldn't refuse, a seemingly viable hope.
Draven remained silent for a long time. The noise of the casino, the women's flirting, the clinking of dice... everything seemed to fade away. He looked down at his hands, covered in scars and stains, as if through them he saw himself ten years ago, crying out in despair on the beach.
He finally raised his head, the drunkenness and dejection in his eyes vanishing. In their place was a madness that would stop at nothing to achieve his goal.
"Okay." He only said one word.
This word signifies that he has signed a pact with the devil. He is no longer fighting for the glory of Noxus, or even entirely for Swain's ideals. He is fighting for that faint hope, for that "stage" where the name "Draven" can resound throughout the world.
He followed Swain out of the casino, leaving behind ten years of depravity and decadence. This time, he was no longer a headless fly; he was going to become the most dazzling, the most flamboyant star, the one the whole world had to take notice of—Draven.
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