Vekora
A city once built upon the banks of a great river, known as the homeland of Shurima's last emperor, Azir's mother.
But now, the river had long since run dry. Its once-mighty waters were gone, and the city itself lay half-buried beneath golden sands — a faded echo of its former glory.
Once upon a time, the gardens of Vekora had bloomed with flowers brought from every corner of the ancient Shuriman Empire. Colors intertwined, and the air had been heavy with perfume and song.
Towers of silver and jade reached toward the heavens, and cool water flowed endlessly from the Great Temple, coursing day and night through high aqueducts that glittered under the sun.
The people had believed, in their innocence, that such blessings would last forever.
Now, Vekora was nothing but a shadow — a ghost of its own past splendor.
A thousand years had gnawed away its flesh, leaving behind only a skeleton of stone. The splendor of old had long since crumbled into dust.
These ruins, rebuilt time and again by those who could not let go of the past, stood as monuments to stubborn faith — the belief that the future could be born from the resurrection of memory.
Following the swelling crowd, Nasus gazed at his surroundings — what he saw were not tributes to history, but crude parodies of it.
Every building crafted by mortal hands was an insult to the true grandeur of ancient Shurima.
The once-famed city walls, once cut from seamless granite, were now patched together with splintered timber and jagged stone.
The city's outline remained recognizable, yet to Nasus, every step felt like a nightmare — a desecration of memory.
New materials, strange shapes — everything was twisted, distorted, wrong.
It was as if the architects had designed the city for the sole purpose of unsettling those who remembered what it once was.
"All that remains," Nasus murmured, "is ruin — a mockery of Shurima's light."
He followed the flow of people deeper into the inner city, toward the so-called "Temple."
But Vekora's temple was no divine monument. It was a crude imitation, a stack of sandstone and coral rock carved by mortal chisels.
Standing before it, Nasus lifted his gaze.
The temple's dark walls shimmered faintly under the sun like black basalt — but through their rough seams, he could see uneven joints and crude craftsmanship.
At its top hung a "Sun Disc" — but even from afar, Nasus could tell there wasn't a trace of gold upon it.
It was no more than a bronze-and-copper alloy, forged to mimic a divine relic.
The true Sun Disc — the one he had once knelt beneath upon his Ascension — had floated in the air, radiant and pure.
This… this was held aloft by coarse hemp ropes tied to lopsided pillars.
Before it stood a priest in a robe of feathers, hands raised in prayer. His voice, meant to carry through the city, was swallowed instead by the noise of the crowd.
Is that the one I seek? Nasus wondered.
He could not be sure — so he drew closer. Only by seeing the blood could he confirm the truth.
Two guards blocked his path at the temple steps.
They wore tight bronze scale armor and beast-headed helmets crested with feathers — one a crude mockery of a crocodile's snout, the other a snarling jackal.
"Outsiders are forbidden beyond this point!"
The guards barked their warning.
Nasus's gaze drifted over their helmets. Then, slowly, he straightened to his full height.
The robe that concealed his form slid from his shoulders and fell to the ground.
Before them now stood a towering figure of obsidian flesh — a jackal-headed demigod.
Their spears clattered from trembling hands.
Nasus's chest and shoulders gleamed with time-worn gold armor, his waist wrapped in a votive sash bearing Shurima's royal sigil.
With one motion, he tore the wrappings from his staff — revealing the massive war axe hidden within.
The axe blade gleamed eagerly in the sunlight, its sapphire core drinking in every ray.
"Step aside," came the deep, sand-grating growl of his voice.
The guards stumbled backward, eyes wide with terror.
"The Desert's Son… Nasus."
"The demigod of legend — the mightiest of the Ascended!"
"It's true… Shurima's glory will rise again!"
…
As Nasus revealed his divine form, the crowd erupted like a swarm of locusts — whispers spreading through the streets like wildfire.
Ignoring them all, Nasus ascended the temple steps, each stride heavy with purpose.
Halfway up, his gaze drifted beyond Vekora's shattered walls.
To the north, south, and west stretched only endless dunes — waves of barren gold reaching the horizon.
But to the east, the land shifted into low, rolling hills where drought-resistant palms and Banavar trees clung to life. Their roots burrowed hundreds of meters deep, forever seeking water buried beneath the sand.
The desolation of Shurima — it pained him deeply.
He remembered when the Mother of Life had blessed the land, when rivers carved silver paths across the desert, when every creature thrived under her warmth.
Perhaps Azir could bring such life back again.
But if not, then finding the bearer of the Ascended bloodline was vital.
The blood of Ascension — the key to Shurima's rebirth.
Reaching the temple's summit, the votive sashes around Nasus's arms and waist whipped violently in the scorching wind.
Before him stood the priest from earlier, beneath the counterfeit Sun Disc.
The man's robe shimmered with iridescent feathers; his wide sleeves spread like wings. His headdress curved like a raven's beak, and beneath it, his aristocratic face was cold and proud — devoid of mercy.
"You are Nasus?" the priest asked, voice deep and regal, though trembling faintly with fear.
So this was the one claiming royal blood?
"If you must ask," Nasus said, his tone weary, "then I have indeed been gone too long."
He struck the temple floor with his axe. "Yes, I am Nasus. But more importantly — who are you?"
"I am Azrahil Selam, descendant of the Eagle King, Herald of Vekora, Bearer of the Light, Keeper of Flame, Bringer of Dawn"
"Descendant of the Eagle King?" Nasus interrupted sharply.
"Of course!" the priest straightened his spine, puffing his chest. "I am heir to Emperor Azir's bloodline. Tell me what it is you seek."
"What I seek," Nasus said quietly, lowering his head, "is simple."
He raised his axe and leveled it at the man's chest.
"Your blood."
"What—?"
The priest's eyes went wide. He had expected some ancient ritual of recognition, not this brutal demand.
"The truth of Ascension's blood can only be proven by the cut of the flesh."
With a single swing, Nasus's axe traced the priest's forehead — parting skin and vein without spilling more than a few drops.
The precision of the strike — terrifying, divine.
The priest collapsed in terror, blood trickling down his brow as his trembling legs gave out. A spreading stain darkened his robes.
"You… what are you doing—"
The guards rushed up the steps, but Nasus ignored them. Inhaling deeply, he caught the scent of the priest's blood.
"Unfortunate," Nasus said at last. "Your blood carries no trace of Azir's line."
He lowered his axe, his voice heavy with disappointment.
"You are not the one I seek."
The priest tried to speak but found his throat frozen under the weight of Nasus's presence.
Nasus turned toward the horizon, his form towering against the blazing sun — a solitary sentinel, unwavering.
"But the blood of Ascension…" he murmured, "it's here — somewhere within this city."
A sudden flash of blue light flared at the edge of his vision — the unmistakable gleam of arcane energy.
Nasus narrowed his eyes.
A cloud of dust was rising at the horizon — the mark of a fast-moving force.
Through the haze, he saw sunlight glinting off spears and armor.
The sound of war drums and horns rolled across the sands.
Beasts of burden roared and strained at their harnesses — massive, tusked creatures covered in calcified scales, born to crush walls beneath their charge.
Behind them marched a warband — five hundred strong, drawn from many tribes, banners raised high.
Then he felt it — a surge of ancient, forbidden magic.
Above the army hovered a flickering spirit wreathed in black lightning, bound by chains of iron and fragments of a shattered sarcophagus.
The Betrayer of Shurima.
The one who brought the empire to ruin.
The Magus Ascendant — Xerath.
…
Inside a small restaurant in the city.
Spiced skewers sizzled on the grill, coated so heavily in Shuriman seasoning that their aroma stung the nose.
Here, spices were never spared — every dish was an explosion of fire and fragrance.
Duke picked up a skewer, blew off the excess powder, and was just about to take a bite when a deep boom echoed from the west.
The whole building shook. Dust rained from the ceiling, covering Duke's food — and his hand — in grit.
"Are you kidding me?!"
Cursing under his breath, Duke tossed the ruined skewer aside just as the ground began to tremble.
Taliyah gripped the table, feeling the message carried through the earth itself. Duke turned toward the source of the explosion.
Through the Eye of Divinity, his sight pierced walls and distance.
A massive army charged toward Vekora — hundreds of soldiers moving as one.
And high above them, a blazing sphere of energy formed between a pair of spectral arms — arcane lightning crackling along its surface.
Then, the comet of blue-white fire launched straight toward the city.
Duke sighed through gritted teeth.
"All I wanted… was to eat a proper meal!"
He stood up, dusting off his cloak. "Is that too much to ask?!"
End of chapter....
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