The blazing sunlight poured over the desert, its golden rays reflecting off endless dunes. The air shimmered with heat distortion, and waves of scorching wind swept across the land like invisible fire.
While most of Bel'jun's people were suffering under the blistering sun, one tavern stood out—it was as cold as an ice cellar. Every breath the patrons exhaled came out as a puff of white mist, and all of them huddled together, trembling.
And the cause of it all sat calmly in a corner, tossing a fist-sized gem to a three-headed beast as if playing fetch.
"This weapon's not bad. I could use it for quite a while."
Samira admired the revolvers Duke had slapped onto the table—the Anacondas. Their wild, imposing design captured her heart the moment she laid eyes on them.
But she soon realized a new problem.
If these guns used special ammunition, where was she supposed to get more?
"These rounds… are they exclusive to you?"
She picked up a syringe-like cartridge. Inside, a red liquid shimmered faintly—a volatile yet strangely warm magical compound.
"More or less," Duke said, catching the gem Rage brought back to him and tossing it again lazily. "I'll give you a batch to start with. When you run out, go buy more in Piltover."
"Hmm, Piltover, huh? Not too far," Samira mused, setting the weapons and cartridges down. "You run a weapon shop or something?"
Duke gave her a sidelong glance. "I only design and create. Selling's not my thing."
"So, you're a craftsman?"
"Scientist," he corrected flatly.
Samira rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "I could offer you a position in—"
"I'm not interested in Noxus," Duke interrupted again. Go to Noxus? Yeah, right.
Sure, Noxus valued strength above all—power could get you anything you wanted. But Piltover had its perks too. Freedom, for one. In Piltover, he could do whatever he pleased without anyone breathing down his neck. In Noxus, they'd have him working around the clock.
Besides, he had an instinctive aversion to that militaristic fortress.
He knew full well—if he ever did go to Noxus, either he'd blow up the Immortal Bastion, or it'd blow him up first.
"You really are a cold one, pretty boy."
Samira rolled her one good eye, just as the scouts she'd sent out stumbled back into the tavern. Their faces were pale, lips drained of color, and their bodies shivered uncontrollably.
"C-Captain Samira, we found the information you wanted!"
Samira frowned—why were they in such a state? Duke glanced at them, took the paper from her hand, and skimmed through it.
Then, in a calm voice, he said, "A word of advice—if you value your lives, don't leave this tavern just yet."
"Wait until the ice completely melts and the temperature returns to normal. Otherwise…"
He smirked. "Heh, well, don't say I didn't warn you."
Duke caught the gem Rage offered him again, tossed it into his inventory, and walked out with the beast at his side.
As the door curtain fell shut, Samira exhaled deeply. The man she'd thought would be an easy mark turned out to be a wolf in disguise—the reversal had come far too fast.
Clatter!
The door opened again. Duke set a small crate on the ground, gave it a light kick, and slid it to Samira's feet.
"Oh, right—the ammunition I promised you."
He gave a meaningful glance to the trembling scout. "And you… should probably start preparing your last words."
"Because you're about to die."
Leaving behind that cryptic smile, Duke finally departed for good. Samira stood frozen, staring between the door and the terrified man.
"Pelam," she called quietly, "what's wrong with you?"
"I… I…" The man's lips quivered as he forced a weak smile, trying to act tough—but his eyes suddenly went blank with terror. "I heard a wolf's howl… I saw—"
Thud!
Before he could finish, he collapsed lifelessly to the floor.
Everyone in the tavern gasped, chills crawling up their spines.
"No one leaves until the ice is completely melted!" Samira barked. Her tone was sharp and decisive, but deep down, she couldn't stop wondering—
Who the hell is that man?
Bel'jun, Western Gate
Duke examined the papers Samira's scouts had gathered. Viktor had indeed appeared in Bel'jun—not long ago, he'd hired local guides and a mercenary group before heading northwest toward the Crystal Scar Valley.
But others claimed they'd later seen him in Vikora, and that the same mercenaries had returned there afterward.
"So, Vikora it is."
After a brief look at the crystal map, Duke summoned his wolf-drawn vehicle. Since his last return to the workshop, it had been upgraded—no longer just a sled, but a compact mechanical war chariot.
"Vikora's south of Bel'jun, at the junction of three rivers," he murmured, plotting his route. "Then south it is."
With Rage hitched to the chariot, Duke set off. The three-headed beast growled softly, then began to sprint, dragging the vehicle swiftly across the sands.
"Let's see what's happening in Vikora."
Night fell, and the desert's heat vanished in an instant. Cold wind swept across the dunes, chilling Duke's cheeks.
Rage pulled the chariot through the sands when Duke noticed a faint glow ahead. Flames flickered in the distance—a campfire, steady and bright like a lighthouse for the lost.
"Travelers? Or a merchant caravan?"
He capped his flask and squinted toward the light as they drew closer.
"Guess I'll ask for directions," he said, considering his route. Shurima wasn't exactly friendly terrain—even for him, it was better to confirm he was on the right track.
As they approached, Duke saw the source clearly: a merchant caravan encamped around several bonfires. Shuriman pack beasts circled the fires, while wagons and tents formed a protective outer ring.
At the sight of the approaching chariot, armed guards raised their weapons, watching warily into the darkness.
"Who goes there?"
A deep voice rang out. Duke could see their curved blades gleaming orange under the firelight.
"Just a traveler heading south," he replied, halting the chariot five meters from the camp—a safe distance. "Looking for directions."
His careful manner seemed to ease their tension. The guards lowered their weapons slightly, though their eyes remained sharp.
A thin, wiry woman stepped forward. Her skin was dark from the desert sun, but her eyes sparkled like black gemstones.
"I'm the leader of this caravan. What do you need?"
"I'm bound for Vikora," Duke said politely. "I just want to confirm my direction. I'll pay for the information."
"You're going to Vikora?"
The woman frowned, exchanging glances with one of her companions—a young girl from Bel'jun who was also headed that way.
"That place is in chaos right now. I wouldn't recommend it, traveler."
"I've got my reasons," Duke said simply. "Just tell me how far and which direction."
Before she could answer, Rage suddenly growled, baring sharp fangs toward the darkness.
The woman's face changed. She turned to one of her scouts. "Check the ground."
The man immediately pressed an ear to the sand, focusing.
Duke, meanwhile, tapped his earpiece. "Idis, deploy reconnaissance."
Several tiny firefly drones lifted off from the chariot, spreading out into the night sky.
"Boss!" the scout shouted, jumping up. "It's the Shakaar! The bandits!"
The words sent a ripple of panic through the caravan.
The woman's eyes narrowed as she turned back to Duke, suspicion flaring. "You brought them here, didn't you? You're their scout!"
Duke sighed, raising both hands. "It's a misunderstanding. Really."
"Traveler—leave. Now!"
The order was sharp, cold. Duke pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling. "Why do I always end up in situations like this?"
A rumble rose from the dunes as sand clouds swirled in the distance. A stampede of camels and bone-board riders raced toward them—each rider wielding a curved spear or blade.
"Sand skates?" Duke noticed the strange bone planks strapped to their feet, designed like skis but sharp at both ends, sliding effortlessly over sand. "Impressive craftsmanship. Every region's got its tricks."
The Shakaar bandits surrounded them swiftly—those on bone skates circling while the camel riders brandished weapons. Their armor was pieced from bone and hide, and their faces hidden behind wind masks of bleached skull plates, with only narrow slits for eyes.
"Hand over your goods, and we might spare your blood!" their leader rasped.
"Not a chance!" the caravan head shot back, defiant.
The bandit chief tilted his head. "Then tell me—have you seen a man in white pass through here?"
The caravan leader's gaze flicked toward Duke's chariot. The bandit chief followed it—and his eyes gleamed.
"That him?" he asked one of his men.
The subordinate pulled out a rough sketch, nodded. "That's him. Pelam mentioned it—white clothes, and a three-headed hound at his side."
The chief's grin stretched thin and cruel. "Then hand it over, boy."
Duke sighed, rubbing his temple. "Guess I really should stop flaunting my stuff."
At that, Rage leapt free of the chariot, his body expanding as molten veins flared across his hide—each head baring fangs wreathed in fire and smoke.
End of chapter....
IRONBOUND PATRON
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