Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

No one ever expected much from Yasuo.

Bastard. Half-brother. The other son.

From childhood, he heard those whispers—some hissed during uncomfortable dinners with distant relatives, others crueler, laid bare in the streets. His father had left too soon to leave any meaningful memory behind, except for the name, the very name that weighed heavily on Yasuo’s shoulders. And though his mother did her best, there was no competing with the shadow that preceded him.

Yone.

Yone was the golden child, born of the first marriage, forged in discipline and bathed in expectation. Always calm, centered, efficient—and, to Yasuo, unbearable. When they were young, the two were inseparable: they dueled with sticks, raided old playgrounds in search of "lost relics," and laughed at the stories they made up for each other at night. But something changed. Not all at once—these things never change all at once—but quietly, like rust creeping along the edge of a blade.

When Yone was accepted into Labrys Academy, the pride of the region, he left everything behind. Including Yasuo. At first, he sent letters—brief accounts of tournament victories, medals won, of how his teachers praised him. But slowly, the words dried up. Yasuo grew up with his brother’s triumphs hung like medals of shame around his own neck.

He began hearing his brother’s name more than his own. That was when admiration turned to stone. Small at first, but with every word, every shadow Yone cast, it grew—until it became a weight he could no longer carry without bending. And he hated bending.

"Why aren’t you more like Yone?"—a question that became a needle, always pricking the same spot. The comparisons came.

"You should be more like your brother."
"Yone would’ve finished this test by now."
"At his age, Yone was already training with real instructors."

Yasuo rebelled. Against the system. Against his family. Against himself.

And against Yone.

The duels between brothers, once an innocent game, became a silent war. Every time Yone came home, it was a storm barely contained. Sharp glances, sharper words. Behind Yone’s calm, Yasuo saw fear—unspoken, but visible to anyone who still remembered the real brother behind the mask.

Yone knew. Yasuo was growing. And fast.

But the truth was, Yasuo knew too. He was still the second. The weaker one. The hothead. The impulsive one. And it consumed him.

While Yone collected trophies, Yasuo collected rage. When his brother won interschool matches, the stares turned to him. "Your brother’s amazing, isn’t he?" they’d say. And Yasuo would smile—on the outside. Inside, he screamed.

When final exam results approached, everyone expected Yasuo to follow in his brother’s footsteps and enroll at Labrys. "It’s only natural," they said. "He’ll calm down there." "He’ll learn from his example." "It’s where he belongs."

But then, everything changed.

It was the annual inter-academy tournament, and Yasuo had convinced his mother to take him to watch. A chance to see Yone in action—and maybe, just maybe, find a flaw.

He witnessed a duel between representatives of Labrys and a school barely anyone spoke of—Amrita. It was mysterious, almost mythical. Its architecture resembled forgotten temples, and its students moved like elegant shadows, too fast to be clearly seen.

And at their center, a veteran fought.

No—he danced.

Blades curved around him like wind shaped by divine hands. Not a single motion was wasted. And in the end, there he stood, facing Yone—whose sword, for the first time ever, lay on the ground.

Yi.

Moving as if time obeyed him. A clean cut. An unseen step. His blade barely glinted in the sun before it was sheathed.

The swordsman of Amrita.

He was the only one to ever defeat Yone in an official match. And he didn’t just win—he taught a lesson in that duel. With calm. With balance. Like a blade suspended above chaos, yet never cutting without purpose. Yi wasn’t just strong. He was untouchable. He was the future. And in that moment, Yasuo saw where he wanted to be.

Not Labrys. Not his brother’s path. He wanted to surpass him—and for that, he needed a new horizon. A true master. A new forge.

Amrita.

The most feared academy among young talents. Closed regime. Absolute discipline. Its students were shaped for more than combat. The school’s philosophy wasn’t about winning—it was about transcending. And rumor had it that within its sacred halls lay ancient secrets, guarded with zeal and silence. No one spoke much of Amrita. But everyone respected it.

To enter, strength alone wasn’t enough. You needed discipline. Technique. Knowledge. Balance.

He told no one. He simply locked himself in his room and studied. Read every treatise, every book. Replayed the duel dozens of times. Learned about Amrita—the most reclusive, most demanding academy, where few were accepted. Where perfection was the norm and secrets were part of the ritual. But he wanted it. More than anything. To prove he was no one’s shadow.

Yasuo studied like never before. Slept little. Read by candlelight, recited doctrines and ancient combat manuals until his voice gave out. Every day, he trained with the bamboo sword he’d made himself while waiting for a real one. He cut the wind but imagined steel. Fell, but got back up. Sweated, bled, grew.

The written exams, physical trials, psychological evaluations—they came in waves, threatening to drown him. But Yasuo faced each one with sword in hand and eyes fixed on the destiny he had chosen.

The application required a written test, a practical exam, and a letter of intent. Yasuo wrote his with trembling hands and burning eyes. He didn’t mention Yone. Not once. That letter was about him—for the first time.

Weeks passed. Days became echoes of anxiety. Until, on that gray morning, with clouds heavy as swords overhead, the mailman left an envelope at their door.

It was sealed with Amrita’s emblem—an immortal crystal over a lotus flower.

Yasuo held the envelope for a long time. The paper was thick, firm. The wax seal gleamed faintly. He took a deep breath.

His hands, which had always trembled with anger, now shook with something else.

He broke the seal.

"Candidate Yasuo,

It is our honor to inform you of your official acceptance into the Amrita Institute for Divine Arms Training..."

He didn’t read the rest. His heart was already pounding too loud to hear anything else.

He’d done it.

Yasuo looked up at the sky outside. The wind brushed lightly against the window. A new breath. A new direction.

He took a deep breath, and then—

"I GOT IN!!"

His shout tore through the house like lightning. Yasuo stormed through the living room, vaulting over the couch with the letter still in hand, eyes blazing with a rare, unfiltered joy. His mother, who’d been silently watching with her hands on her apron, let out a startled laugh—then was swallowed by the whirlwind.

"You really got in? Amrita?" she shouted back, eyes glistening—partly from emotion, partly from sheer shock.

He spun midair, landed beside her on the couch, and hugged her tightly, both laughing like children in a storm of freedom.

"I did it, Mom. I did it! Amrita. Not Labrys. Not his shadow. My chance."

She gently stroked his messy hair. For a moment, Yasuo allowed himself to just exist in that embrace. Not as the bastard son. Not as the little brother. But as himself—someone who, at last, was becoming what he wanted to be.

And then came the euphoria.

Packing started that same day—or at least, an attempt at it. Yasuo had never been particularly organized. Clothes, scrolls, training bands, books, socks, and for some reason, two wooden blades were all thrown into a bag that silently protested. Excitement outweighed order.

"Think this is useful?" he asked, holding up a small, cracked statue of an ancient warrior hero.

"If it’ll remind you of who you are," his mother replied, smiling, "then yes."

Yasuo packed the statue.

But then, he stopped.

Stood before the mirror, studying a reflection he didn’t always recognize. Now he had to think about how he’d present himself there. The first impression. How he’d make others take him seriously. How he’d make Yi notice.

"I need to look strong... I need to look ready."

His clothes were worn. His robes too loose. Nothing there said "discipline" or "Amrita." He didn’t have to ask. His mother understood with a glance.

The next day, they went to the village tailor—a man with quick fingers, watchful eyes, and a kind heart. He listened to the request with surprise but no judgment. A custom outfit. Nothing extravagant, nothing that broke the academy’s codes—but something that was still Yasuo.

And there, among dark fabrics and near-ceremonial stitching, the uniform was born.

A long jacket, deep blue with silver accents on the sleeves, inspired by Amrita’s traditional lines but with asymmetrical cuts that echoed Yasuo’s rebellious style. A simple but sturdy leather belt. Boots that, though new, carried the resolve of someone who wouldn’t back down. The short cloak was fastened by a single clasp—the academy’s symbol etched in dark metal. Subtle. But present.

His mother paid with months of savings. Yasuo protested, but she just cupped his face and said:

"You’re going far. I want to see you fly without worrying about the threads holding you to the ground."

He didn’t answer. Just hugged her.

The night before his departure, Yasuo sat on the rooftop, staring at the stars. The wind played with his loose hair, and for a moment, he imagined his first day. Walking through the black stone gates. The ancient halls, full of symbols and memories. The veterans’ eyes sizing him up. Yi, maybe passing by. And maybe... asking his name.

"I’m Yasuo. And I came to learn from the best."

Of course, he wouldn’t say it exactly like that. It sounded stupid. But deep down, that was it.

He wanted to be seen. By Yi. By the academy. By the world.

He wanted to stop being "the other son" and start being the first of himself.

And that night, for the first time in years, Yasuo slept in peace.

The next day would bring the unknown.

But he wasn’t afraid.

After all, the wind was already at his back.

Chapter Text

The smell of cold metal and old oil mixed with the damp morning breeze as Yasuo crossed the platform, pulling the wheeled suitcase that seemed heavier with every step.

He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He knew his mother was still there, standing at the edge of the shadows, watching him leave like someone saying goodbye to a part of their own body.

Their farewell had been brief, almost timid. It was enough.

Now, the rest of the journey was his alone.

Amrita, unlike most institutions, was located in a more isolated place—outside the capital. Like a gated community.

Supposedly, it was to emphasize its philosophy of balance, mystery, and the cultivation of serenity.

The special metro station was more discreet than usual—almost forgotten, almost secret—like everything surrounding Amrita. The train doors bore the academy’s engraved symbol: a lotus flower and an immortal crystal. Yasuo took a deep breath, straightened his posture, and stepped forward, trying to appear as natural as the upperclassmen he’d seen in videos and photos. He walked with his chest out, his steps too firm for someone whose stomach still churned with nerves.

Few older students were around—most were freshmen like him, eyes alert, shoulders tense. Amrita had its own rules for transportation: it divided departure times into three calls to avoid overcrowding. The last one, the one he was part of, was reserved only for the new arrivals.

It was like stepping through an invisible portal, he thought. Leaving behind everything he knew. Entering something far greater than he could yet comprehend.

The train slid silently into the station. Yasuo boarded and searched for an empty compartment. The one he entered seemed quiet—until the moment he tried to lift his suitcase onto the overhead rack, lost his balance, and sent everything crashing down with a dull thud.

“Damn it…” he whispered through gritted teeth, his face burning with embarrassment.

Before he could crouch down, a hand reached out to help him. It was a girl—long hair like a silken veil, large, attentive eyes. There was something in the way she moved that seemed practiced, as if every gesture was deliberate yet effortless.

“Let me help,” she said, smiling faintly.

Together, they secured the suitcase in the compartment. When they finished, she turned to him, extending her hand as if they were in a formal ceremony.

“Irelia.” Her voice was firm, almost musical. “First call?”

“Yasuo,” he replied, shaking her hand in return. His voice came out rougher than he intended, and he cleared his throat. “Yeah. First time.”

She smiled. There was something comforting about her presence, a steadiness that didn’t feel arrogant. As they settled into their seats, they began to talk, unhurried, lulled by the rhythmic sound of the train.

Irelia told him she had passed both the practical and theoretical exams with honors—few managed that. She was following in the footsteps of her older brother, Zelos, a former Amrita student who, from the way she spoke, seemed almost like a living legend.

“He’s always been incredible,” she said, her eyes bright. “Ever since I was little, I knew I wanted to be like him.”

Yasuo listened in silence, his polite smile freezing on his face.

He felt that familiar pang in his chest—something between bitterness and discomfort. It wasn’t hard to understand what she felt. Not exactly.

He, too, had grown up in the shadow of an exceptional brother.

But while Irelia spoke of Zelos with pride and admiration, Yasuo felt that Yone was an open wound—something he was still struggling, in vain, to overcome. His name carried too much weight. Wherever he went, even before he opened his mouth, people compared him to Yone.

He didn’t realize how tense he was until Irelia tilted her head, curious.

“Yasuo…? Wait… I’ve heard that name before. Zelos mentioned something…” She frowned slightly, as if searching her memory. “Yasuo… are you Yone’s brother?”

The name dropped between them like a stone into still water.

Yasuo looked away, out the window, forcing a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I am.”

Irelia’s surprise was genuine. She straightened in her seat, barely hiding her renewed curiosity.

“Wow… Yone is… he’s famous even among people who don’t study at Labrys, you know? My brother talked about him all the time.” She laughed, a little awkwardly. “They said he was practically unbeatable.”

Yasuo only nodded, his throat dry. He had no desire to feed the myth. He didn’t want to be a footnote in Yone’s story.

He caught his reflection in the window—the scar still there, like a ghost.

The girl, sensing his discomfort, changed the subject with a discreet kindness that Yasuo silently appreciated.

The train continued cutting through green plains, passing small forests swaying in the wind. The city was far behind them; the world outside seemed older, quieter, as if they were approaching another time.

Only then did Yasuo realize they weren’t alone in the compartment.

Sprawled haphazardly across two seats, a massive boy snored without a care, his arms crossed, his head lolling to the side. He mumbled something unintelligible between snores.

“Mom… I didn’t start a fight this time… swear…”

They exchanged an amused glance.

Amidst everything—the pressure, the fear, the expectations—that ridiculous scene seemed to lift the weight from his shoulders, if only for a moment.

The train glided over the plains, its gentle sway almost hypnotic. Yasuo still wore a faint smile after the little disaster with the suitcase and the unexpected help.

He felt something rare: lightness.

“So…” Irelia started, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, animated. “Why Amrita? I mean… not many have the courage to try.”

Yasuo clenched his hands, feeling the new jacket stretch over his shoulders. He had thought about this answer so much that the words came without hesitation:

“Because I’m going to be the best.” His voice was firm, his eyes flashing with the conviction of someone swearing to their own destiny. “Better than my brother. Better than everyone.”

Irelia blinked, slightly surprised, but soon smiled as if she liked that raw passion.

“And your inspiration…?”

“Yi,” Yasuo answered without a shadow of doubt. “Ever since I saw the Spring Duel… he’s different. He doesn’t just fight with a sword. He fights with his soul.” He gave a small laugh, shaking his head. “I want to be like him… or better. I want him to see me as an equal.”

Irelia rested her chin on her hand, studying him with a playful glint in her eyes.

“I get it,” she said. “Yi really is incredible. Calm, but with a presence… almost impossible to ignore.” She chuckled. “I’ll admit, I’m a fan too. Just don’t tell anyone.”

Yasuo laughed along, more at ease. He liked her honesty. It wasn’t the blind praise he was used to hearing—it was genuine admiration, free of comparison, and for a second, he envied her.

“What about you?” he asked, curious. “What’s your goal here?”

The girl straightened, her gaze hardening with determination.

“To surpass someone,” she answered without hesitation. “A childhood rival. Riven.” The name seemed to carry something sharp, cutting. “We studied together in the same village, trained in the same squares. She was always one step ahead… always stronger, faster, more recognized.”

She exhaled slowly, as if releasing something long trapped in her chest.

“Now she’s at Labrys. And I’m here.” A smile formed, sharp as a blade. “I’ll catch up to her. And then… I’ll surpass her.”

Yasuo nodded, respectful. He saw in Irelia the same fire that burned inside him.

For a moment, they shared a comfortable silence—the kind understood by those who carry the weight of their own promises.

Then a loud grumble echoed through the compartment.

“Hrrg… could you make less noise?” came a rough, drowsy voice.

They turned to the corner where the large boy—still half-asleep—stretched lazily, his messy hair falling into his face.

He sat up with difficulty, scratching his head like a bear just waking from hibernation, and squinted at them.

“Sett,” he said in a deep, sluggish voice, thumping a fist against his chest in a gesture both ceremonial and comical. “Pleasure.”

Yasuo let out a short laugh, and Irelia hid a smile behind her hand.

“You’re entering Amrita too?” Yasuo asked, trying to be polite.

Though it was strange to see someone so far from the perfect image Amrita preached.

Sett yawned widely before answering:

“Yeah…” he grumbled. “Mom’s orders. Said it’d be good for me… discipline, respect, all that.” He shrugged, as if it were obvious. “Her word is law. And I love that woman. So… here I am.”

Irelia arched an eyebrow, amused.

“You joined because your mom told you to?”

“Of course!” Sett replied with such serious conviction that Yasuo nearly choked on a laugh. “She raised me alone, y’know? If she says I can be a great fighter… then I’ll be one. Even if I have to punch the damn wall until it agrees.”

There was a pause. Then they all burst out laughing—a sincere, liberating sound.

It was strange, Yasuo thought, how three strangers could, in such a short time, find a silent kind of alliance.

He’d never had real friends before. Most kids didn’t want to get close. Not that it was their fault, but adults could be cruel.

As the train advanced toward the horizon, Yasuo looked at his two travel companions.

And with a newfound comfort, he felt that he wouldn’t be alone.

Chapter Text

The train slowed to a gentle halt at the forgotten station nestled among the trees. The doors slid open with a metallic whisper, and a fresh breeze—carrying the scent of flowers and ancient wood—wafted into the carriage.

The trio stepped out alongside the other freshmen, quickly herded into makeshift lines by two instructors waiting on the platform.

One was a tall man draped in a black cloak embroidered with golden threads, his eyes half-lidded and his smile hinting at dubious intentions.

The other was considerably smaller—a yordle with pointed ears and eyes sharp as blades, bouncing around with near-electric energy.

"Don’t get lost, children," drawled the first, his voice like a macabre lullaby.

"Yeah, yeah! Or you’ll end up like last year’s batch!" added the yordle with a mocking laugh.

"No theatrics, Kennen," murmured the tall man, crossing his arms.

"No thinly veiled threats, Jhin," Kennen shot back, ears twitching in irritation.

Despite their barbed exchange, the group of freshmen pressed forward, and Yasuo—still tense with nerves—couldn’t help but find it... amusing. Even here, in such a rigid place, there was room for a flicker of humanity.

Then he saw it.

Amrita unfolded before them.

It was more than an academy. It was a hidden city—the outer gates obsidian-dark, followed by a small civilization carved between ancient trees and polished white marble structures. Branches of arboreal weavings intertwined with age-old monuments, as if nature and architecture had forged a pact of eternal harmony.

Sakura blossoms and wisteria draped over pale stone paths, and every gust of wind sent petals drifting like silver snow. The residents—artisans, scholars, caretakers—moved serenely among the newcomers, greeting them with subtle nods.

It was like stepping into a dream. Or perhaps a place outside time itself.

Technology and tradition fused in intricate architecture.

Yasuo nearly forgot to breathe.

"This is... unbelievable," murmured Irelia, eyes wide with awe.

Sett just whistled, arms crossed behind his head in a carefree gesture.

"Damn... it’s too pretty. Feels wrong to even step on it."

Guided by the unlikely duo of instructors, they wound through tree-lined avenues until they reached Amrita’s heart: the central courtyard.

And there, at the academy’s core, stood the Great Tree.

Its thick roots sprawled like silver veins beneath the marble ground, and its petals—a metallic hue between gray and white—glistened under the soft light filtering through the sky. It was a sight near sacred.

Around the tree, a simple yet elegant white stone amphitheater had been erected. On the central stage, the welcoming ceremony began.

Yasuo’s breath hitched as he saw the figures assembled there.

At the center stood a man of imposing presence, his silver-gray hair tied in a high topknot, robes impeccably aligned. His piercing gray eyes swept the crowd with serene authority.

"Master Kusho..." Irelia whispered beside him.

The headmaster of Amrita.

Beside him, posture rigid and expression unshakable, was his son—Shen, the upperclassman whose name was synonymous with balance.

Flanking them were three other prominent figures:

Karma, her grace tranquil, features calm as a mirrored lake.
Lee Sin, arms crossed and grinning broadly, exuding confidence in every flamboyant gesture.
And—

Yi.

Yasuo’s heart lurched.

There he was. In the flesh.

Yi needed no grand gestures, no dramatic poses. His mere presence sufficed. Relaxed posture, hands resting lightly over one another, his sword at his hip like an extension of his being. Even the air around him seemed to yield to his serenity.

Calm. Perfect.

The swordsman who’d altered Yasuo’s destiny with a single strike.

Kusho stepped forward and began his opening speech—words of honor, discipline, and transcendence. Of how Amrita forged not just warriors, but unbreakable spirits.

But Yasuo barely heard them. His eyes were locked on Yi.

"This is the beginning," he murmured to himself, fist tightening at his side.

I will succeed.

The ceremony continued, and Yasuo felt the wind whisper through the silver blossoms like an ancient promise waiting to be fulfilled.

Amrita's tradition was clear: upperclassmen would guide the freshmen through their first steps within the academy.

The first day was sacred for adaptation—learning the institution's layout and ways. But they'd been warned: on the second day, classes would begin. And Amrita showed no mercy to those who fell behind.

Shortly after the ceremony, the students were divided into four groups, each under the tutelage of an upperclassman:

Shen, Karma, Lee Sin... and Yi.

Yasuo's heart hammered against his ribs as the names were called, and when the assignments were announced, he didn't hesitate.

He ran.

He nearly tripped in his haste but reached Yi's group before doubt could take root.

Irelia, more composed, joined Karma's group. Sett, still stretching as if he'd just woken up, made his way to Lee Sin's.

Before parting, they exchanged brief glances and smiles.

"Good luck, samurai," Irelia said, raising her hand in a casual gesture.

"If we don't come back, tell my mom I tried," Sett joked, drawing a laugh from Yasuo.

"We'll meet after the tour," Yasuo promised, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

Their luggage was collected by academy staff, who would deliver it directly to the dorms.
Now, it was just them, the clothes on their backs, and the weight of their own expectations.

Yasuo turned to the group.

And to Yi.

Up close, he was even more striking than in Yasuo's tournament memories.

He moved with the lightness of a leaf on the wind, each step so fluid and balanced he seemed to glide. His long hair—a pale, nearly lilac hue—flowed softly over broad shoulders, and his eyes—pure amethyst—reflected the twilight like living crystals.

He wore round glasses with subtle frames that would've looked ridiculous on anyone else, but on him... only made him more imposing, almost untouchable.

There was a small mole on his chin, just below his lips, to the right. A detail so faint it seemed impossible for someone to be both so absurdly perfect and yet still human.

His clothes bore Amrita's emblem on the chest and back, tailored from light fabric with silver accents. Nothing flashy—just impeccable. Disciplined.

The sword at his hip was an elegant blade, its hilt made of white wood woven like living roots. Arboreal craftsmanship—Yasuo recognized it. A rarity.

Everything about him—absolutely everything—was the perfection Yasuo sought.

Or at least, what he believed he sought.

"Welcome," Yi said, his voice low, smooth as a calm river yet firm as steel beneath water. "Today, we'll see the pillars that uphold Amrita. Where you'll learn... and, if you allow it, transcend."

The group followed him in reverent silence through the inner paths.

Yi showed them as much as he could.

The walkways between wings.
The theory halls—where ancient treatises on combat and philosophy were studied.
The practice grounds for the arts: Death and Immortality—where, according to Yi, Professor Jhin often used students as "living models" for his "art installations," drawing nervous laughter.

They passed through the music wing, where traditional and modern instruments coexisted, balancing tradition and innovation.

The dining hall was spacious, adorned with hanging gardens and translucent water fountains, bathed in natural silver light. The place seemed too grand for mere students.

The bathrooms were flawless, clad in pale marble and polished wood.
The libraries... Oh, the libraries! Vast, filled with ancient tomes, some sprawling underground like roots of knowledge.

Yasuo absorbed every word, every step, as if he could store them all in his chest.

And the entire time, his eyes—almost against his will—followed Yi's movements.
How he walked. How he spoke. How he breathed.

"I don't need to be him..." Yasuo murmured to himself, clenching his fists as they passed an inner garden wing. "I need to be better."

The sky began to blush gold and crimson as the tour continued.

While the group still walked through the central courtyard, where pale stone reflected the gilded twilight, the sound of light footsteps echoed in the distance.

Yasuo barely had time to turn his head when a vibrant presence appeared beside Yi.

It was a girl—unlike anything he'd ever seen.

Feline ears twitched with curiosity atop her head, and when she smiled, the very air seemed to vibrate. A mischievous grin, half-teasing, half-enchanting.

Her slanted eyes glimmered, and there was something in her demeanor—a disconcerting mix of beauty and danger—that froze Yasuo in place.

With utter nonchalance, she propped her elbow on Yi's shoulder, as if she knew him far too well, and gave the freshmen a playful look, like she couldn't wait to pull a prank.

"Boo," she said in a teasing tone, winking at the newcomers.

For a moment, Yasuo's world stopped.
Dazed.

She wasn't just beautiful—she was hypnotic.

Yi, beside her, let out a low laugh, soft as water over stones.

"Ahri," he said, his voice patient, though tinged with resignation. "Try not to scare the new students. They still have much to absorb... and much to survive."

Ahri giggled melodically, clearly amused, keeping her elbow on the upperclassman's shoulder.

"I'm harmless," she said with mock offense. "At least for the first week."

Some freshmen laughed nervously. Others averted their eyes, trying not to draw attention.

Her hair, dark as night, her eyes gleaming like twin silver lakes—simply dazzling. The neckline...

Okay, Yasuo shouldn't have noticed that.

Yi adjusted his glasses elegantly and, with near-fraternal patience, introduced her more formally:

"This is Ahri. She's also an upperclassman at Amrita. She may seem..." He hesitated, as if weighing the right word. "Wicked. But she has a good heart."

The comment earned an indignant huff from the girl.

"You make me sound like a monster, Yi," she teased, crossing her arms.

But Yasuo noticed something curious: though Yi spoke naturally, he subtly shifted away, putting a careful distance between them. As if he knew staying too close to Ahri was asking for trouble.

Yasuo narrowed his eyes, watching their dynamic.

Friendship, undoubtedly. But also... caution.

And he wondered, instinctively: Should he be careful too?

Ahri was beautiful—absurdly so—but Yasuo knew what he wanted.

He wasn't here to be distracted. Not by smiles.

His focus was clear.

His path was set.

He wanted to be the best.
To surpass Yone.
To be worthy of being seen.

So even when Ahri's silver eyes met his and she flashed him a curious smile, Yasuo merely lifted his chin, firm.

He wouldn't stray.
Not this time.

After a long walk through wings lit by crystal lanterns, Yi led the freshmen to the dormitory area.

The building was elegant and understated, made of the same arboreal weaving intertwined with white marble that seemed to hold all of Amrita together.

Arched wooden beams formed open corridors, and small flowering trees sprouted from the pillars themselves, filling the air with sweetness.

They stopped before wide double doors, where Yi turned to face them one last time that day.

"This is where you'll live for the next few years," he said, his voice serene. "Dorms are separated by year and gender. Common sense, really."

A few students chuckled discreetly.

"Upperclassmen have private single rooms," Yi continued. "For you initiates, each dorm will be shared in pairs. It's our tradition. So you learn to coexist, to share—and, most importantly, to fight for your own space until you've earned independence."

He paused, studying each young face carefully.

"The journey won't be easy," he said with a lightness that made the words heavier. "But those who persevere... will transcend."

Yasuo's pulse quickened.

It was now or never.

As others began filing in, Yasuo stepped forward impulsively, stopping just short of Yi.

"I... uh—" he began, tongue tangling—"Yasuo!"

It came out so fast and tense it almost sounded like a threat.

Yi blinked once, twice, tilting his head slightly as if he hadn't understood a thing.
Still, he smiled politely, a practiced courtesy—but his expression was clear: he had no idea what the boy wanted.

Yasuo's ears burned. He took a deep breath, clenched his fists at his sides, and said, more slowly:

"I want to be your apprentice. I want to learn from you."

A silence fell, the very wind seeming to hold its breath.

The upperclassman rested a hand on his sword hilt unconsciously—not as a threat, but out of habit—and replied with near-paternal gentleness:

"I appreciate your confidence, Yasuo. But... I don't take apprentices. Not at this time."

His voice was calm. No mockery, no disdain.
Just... a barrier. A firm, polite wall.

Yasuo felt the blow—like a cut that doesn't bleed but leaves a deep mark.
Yet he smiled. A small, determined smile.

"That's fine," he said, lifting his chin. "I won't give up. Someday... you'll accept."

Yi arched a brow, amused by the youthful audacity, intrigued—but said nothing. He merely gave a slight formal bow and walked away, disappearing down the silent, flower-laden corridors.

Yasuo stood there a moment longer, chest swelling with something between shame and pride.

Then he turned on his heel and entered the dormitory.

Inside, it was simple: long hallways, aligned doors, names filling in with magical calligraphy as freshmen settled in. The air smelled of new wood and faint incense.

The pairing list was already posted on the hallway board.

Yasuo found his name and exhaled in relief:

Dormitory 27 — Yasuo & Sett.

"Hey there!" Sett's deep, lazy voice called from behind.

Yasuo turned to see him approaching, his bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder, grinning like he already accepted whatever life threw at him.

"Guess we're roomies," Sett said, clapping Yasuo's shoulder hard enough to nearly slam him into the wall.

Yasuo laughed, with a pang of genuine relief.

There was still so much to prove. So much to conquer.
But for now, he had a room. A partner.

And an unbreakable goal.

The wind whispered through open windows, carrying the scent of wisteria.

Tomorrow, the real challenge would begin.

Chapter Text

The first official morning at Amrita was brutal.

Not in the physical sense—not yet. But in the exhaustion of a routine that seemed designed to wring the spirit dry.

Training, study, more training. Philosophy of Immortality—where Jhin, with his ghostly smile, seemed more interested in painting the students’ souls than teaching them. By the end of class, the trio was covered in gold and black paint, looking like two living canvases in silent protest.

It was then that Yasuo understood what the seniors had tried to warn them about: Amrita was a game with no fixed rules. The academy either molded you or broke you—and laughed while doing both.

At the end of class, Yasuo staggered out of the hall alongside Irelia and Sett, drenched in sweat and paint.

"Anyone still got their pride?" Sett asked, poking his own cheek, smeared with blue.

"I had dignity. Not sure where I left it," Yasuo muttered.

Irelia just laughed, with the calm of someone who had already accepted that Amrita was a constant battle against the ego.

By late morning, the classes were led to Spiritual Balance—a session meant, in theory, to align mind, body, and blade. In practice, it was an agonizingly long sequence of meditation poses, during which Yasuo nearly had a nervous breakdown trying to stay focused. Sett, beside him, hit the floor twice—first from falling asleep, then from muttering about "being possessed by lazy spirits."

Irelia, of course, was a monument of serenity, correcting their postures like someone training clumsy puppies.

Still, they tried. With their bodies aching, minds reeling, and self-esteem battered with each new lesson, Yasuo realized one thing: they were in this together. And somehow, that made it slightly less unbearable.

When the bell finally rang for break, it felt like being freed from an invisible prison.

Food.

The word took on a sacred glow in Yasuo’s mind as he, Sett, and Irelia walked to the dining hall, still smelling like paint and sweat.

And what food it was.

No greasy fried snacks or sugary sweets—Amrita stayed true to the "body as a temple" philosophy—but the flavors were so absurdly good they made you forget the lack of junk. Artisanal bread, fresh fruit, aromatic soups, and natural juices filled the hall with comforting scents.

The seniors’ table, positioned discreetly on a raised platform, looked like a forbidden altar. And that was where Yasuo headed, trailing after Yi like a determined duckling.

A determinedly annoying duckling, perhaps.

"Yi, does Spiritual Balance come before blade flow, or does it depend on inner connection?" Yasuo fired off, breathless between bites of his tofu sandwich.

Yi, patiently, just nodded, chewing his mixed salad with the expression of a man seriously considering abandoning humanity to live as a hermit on a mountaintop.

Yasuo, of course, didn’t notice. Or if he did, he ignored it.

Around them, a few seniors stifled quiet laughs, failing to hide their amusement as they watched the talkative freshman torment their unlikely master.

Then Ahri appeared.

Gliding over the floor as if the weight of existence didn’t touch her, eyes gleaming with mischief. She approached with a lazy smile and dragged Yasuo by the collar like a stubborn puppy.

"Come here, little terror," she said, her voice sweet as a polished blade. "Don’t interrupt the seniors’ lunch... or they’ll start resenting your face. Speaking from experience."

Yasuo stumbled, protesting in vain as he was hauled away, still chewing the last bite of his sandwich.

In the distance, Yi let out a sigh of relief so subtle it almost went unnoticed.

Almost.

Yasuo grumbled under his breath as Ahri tugged him along like a stray cat.

"I just wanted to show I was focused—"

"Focus is good. Being a nuisance is another story," she said, lightly flicking the top of his head. "Hungry seniors are dangerous creatures. The last thing you want is to become a cautionary tale before your first evaluation."

Yasuo huffed but didn’t argue. Mostly because, across the hall, Yi was still eating in peace, blissfully unaware of the near-disaster he’d narrowly avoided.

Ahri smiled, satisfied, and looped her arm through his like she’d just claimed a personal victory.

"Now come. I’ll show you what the cool seniors do during breaks..." Her eyes sparkled. "...or at least where we hide from supervision."

The "hideout" was a small clearing between two wisteria-covered buildings, where few ventured—probably because it was technically off-limits. A place where the wind whispered through leaves and light danced in golden rays.

There, other seniors lounged in the grass—some laughing softly, others napping, a few sketching dreamily. A microcosm of freedom within rigid Amrita.

"See?" Ahri said, releasing Yasuo with a gentle push. "Not everything here is austerity. Sometimes, knowing where to relax is an art as important as knowing how to fight."

He looked around, breathing in the lighter, more human air. It was comforting. Like behind all the severity, there was still room to be... real.

"Thanks," he murmured, sincere.

Ahri smiled—not mischievously, but genuinely.

"You’re welcome, rookie. Now enjoy it. Tomorrow, the easy life ends."

Before he could ask what she meant, a distant bell echoed through the halls.

Time was up.

The second half of the day was dedicated to theory—the real trial, as Yasuo would soon learn.

The next few hours were... torture.

Not the glorious kind, full of action and heroic drama—but a slow, grinding, merciless annihilation of the mind.

Rows of chairs in amphitheaters that felt more like prison cells than classrooms. Endless lectures on war history, philosophical treaties, doctrines of Immortality, and Literature. Professors who spoke as if every word was too precious to waste.

Yasuo tried. Really.

But his brain felt like it was melting with every new concept. "Transcending the duality of existence," "accepting the impermanence of the blade," "embracing the fluidity of time while cutting the vital flow"...

He scribbled stray words in his notebook, staring at the pages as if they’d reveal some magical secret.

Spoiler: They didn’t.

Beside him, Sett leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, whistling softly. Yasuo nearly growled in frustration—until he noticed something curious.

Sett, lazy as he seemed, answered every mental challenge the professor posed—with unsettling precision. When a theoretical exercise appeared on the enchanted board ("Explain the three schools of thought on ritual mortality"), Yasuo caught, from the corner of his eye, the big guy scribbling the entire answer in five flawless lines—while yawning.

"You... are smart," Yasuo whispered, incredulous.

Sett blinked.

"Of course I am," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "But smart is exhausting. So I conserve it."

Yasuo stared at him as if he’d discovered a new species of mythical creature: The Lazy Genius.

Across from them, Irelia sat ramrod straight, eyebrows furrowed in pure, concentrated agony. Her notes were extensive, furious. Meticulous, written with the precision of someone turning pain into discipline.

But her eyes—oh, her eyes. Every turned page seemed to carve another piece out of her soul.

"I’m going to die," Irelia muttered, glaring at her notebook like it was a medieval torture device.

"You’re going to pass with honors," Sett corrected, winking.

"I’m going to pass hating every second," she shot back bitterly.

And there, between notebooks, impossible theories, and the sensation that their brains were being squeezed like old lemons, Yasuo learned a new truth about his companions:

Sett was brilliant—when he wanted to be.

Irelia was relentless—even when she hated it.

And he?

Well. He was a clumsy mix of both. Persistent but lost. Determined but always on the verge of drowning.

The afternoon dragged like a slow cut.

Each lecture felt longer than the last, each concept more abstract. At some point, Yasuo caught himself sketching a tiny Yi in the corner of his notebook—not out of idol worship (okay, maybe a little), but in a desperate attempt to stay awake.

When the final bell of the day echoed through Amrita’s halls, it sounded like an angel announcing liberation.

"I can’t feel my soul anymore," Yasuo groaned, dragging himself alongside Sett and Irelia.

"That’s good," Sett said, grinning. "Means we’re either transcending... or dying."

"I’d rather die," Irelia muttered, though with a tired half-smile.

The sun was already sinking, painting Amrita in gold and lilac.

It was the end of the first official day.

A brutal, crushing, humiliating day.

Tomorrow would be worse. Yi had mentioned, in passing, that the first practical trial was scheduled at dawn.

An endurance test.

A race across the academy’s limits—through trails, inner swamps, and maybe... traps.

Great.

Chapter Text

The second day at Amrita started differently.

There was no ceremony, no speeches. Just the cruel sound of the bell echoing through the halls, yanking everyone out of bed like fugitive prisoners.

Yasuo, however, leaped out of bed with almost supernatural energy.

The bed was a trap, of course—too soft, too warm, too perfect—but he ignored the temptation with a willpower rare even for him. Today would be important. Today the practical test would begin and...the clubs.

The thought made his stomach twist with nervous excitement.

He pulled on his training uniform and turned to the other bed in the room, where Sett was snoring, his head buried in the pillow like a stone in eternal slumber.

"Come on, big guy," Yasuo said, lightly kicking the mattress. "Time to shine!"

Sett grunted something unintelligible—maybe an insult in some ancient dialect—and rolled over, yanking the blanket up to his forehead.

Yasuo huffed. His gaze wandered around the room until it landed on a small frame, tucked away on Sett’s desk.

It was a simple photo, slightly worn at the edges: a smiling woman, her light hair tied back carelessly, her gaze firm yet full of warmth.

Yasuo grinned, genuinely impressed.

"Your mom’s pretty," he remarked, almost without thinking.

The effect was instant.

Sett emerged from the sheets like a bear woken in the middle of winter, eyes blazing.

"WHAT did you say?" he growled.

"I mean—not pretty, like… strong! Imposing! You know? Scary, even! Yeah, that!"

Another mistake.

Sett was already on his feet, advancing like a wounded predator.

"Scary?" he repeated, indignant.

"NO!" Yasuo raised his hands in defense. "I mean—strong in, uh… personality! Beautiful! Wait—NOT BEAUTIFUL! Respectable! Respectable is the word!"

For one tense moment, Yasuo was certain he’d be strangled with his own pillow.

But then Sett burst into loud laughter—which, coming from him, sounded more like joyful thunder.

"You’re a walking disaster, you know that?" he said, slapping Yasuo on the back hard enough to nearly send him through the wall. "But I like your guts. Next time, think before complimenting Mama, got it?"

"Noted," Yasuo groaned, rubbing his shoulder.

Mentally, he added in bold letters: Never mention Sett’s mom again.

Shortly after, now properly dressed and fed, they headed to the trial at the outer wing.

Amrita’s training grounds weren’t just vast—they were wild. A brutal mix of untouched nature and arcane architecture stretching as far as the mist allowed. Mountains loomed in the distance, cut by narrow trails; colossal trees formed green walls; mirror-like lakes hid treacherous depths. Amid it all stood enchanted structures, floating artifacts, arcane pillars pulsing with runes. And ahead, waiting for the freshmen: the endurance course.

The crowd of rookie students gathered in tense silence, eyes scanning the terrain.

"Is this normal?" Yasuo muttered, adjusting his combat belt.

"From what I can tell, ‘normal’ is whatever hasn’t tried to kill you yet," Irelia replied, far too calm for someone about to run through hell.

Above them, the Faculty Platform hovered like a floating throne. A blend of magic and technology, it hummed with irritating elegance, carrying Headmaster Kusho, the overseeing teachers, and—surprise—a group of upperclassmen leaning on the railings like teenagers at a festival.

They were definitely skipping class.

They weren’t supposed to be there, but no one dared send them away. There was an unspoken respect in their presence, as if even the teachers preferred to leave them be.

Yasuo recognized Ahri first, of course—still annoyingly beautiful. She raised an eyebrow and smirked. But it was the other face that froze his blood: Yi.

Even from a distance, his gaze was piercing. Impartial. Like he was assessing a cracked mirror.

"Focus. Focus. It’s now or never."

The course was a living forest, a treacherous ravine, a nightmare meticulously crafted by minds that clearly enjoyed others’ suffering a little too much.

"Endurance run," announced Professor Kennen, floating with crackling electricity around the group of freshmen, his eyes sparking like gathering thunder. "You will race an 8-kilometer trail. Natural and artificial obstacles await. Victory isn’t the goal. Survival is."

Some freshmen laughed. None of them did after the first turn.

The starting shot came like thunder—or maybe it was thunder, courtesy of Kennen. In seconds, the crowd scattered down the muddy, fog-covered trail, wet leaves whispering ancient secrets underfoot.

Yasuo took off at full speed.

He ignored the sound of Sett stumbling and cursing behind him. The path began with slippery hills and treacherous rocks. He moved with agility, dodging natural obstacles like someone born among them. Swamp? Jumped over it. Magic quicksand? Light steps, using momentum to push forward. He was flying.

But then came the traps.

The first scare was a burst of purple smoke—courtesy of Jhin—that exploded right beside Yasuo. He flinched, but there was nothing there. Just the ghostly laughter of the smoke and, in the distance, a delighted "Ah, marvelous" from the suspended platform where Jhin watched with hungry eyes.

Yasuo steadied himself. He wouldn’t be fooled by illusions.

"You’ll have to do better than that, clown," he muttered, sprinting ahead.

But Jhin had done better.

Further ahead, illusory mirrors appeared, splitting the path into dozens of false trails. Yasuo hesitated, confused for a second. Fatal mistake.

Choosing the left path, he barely noticed the faint runic glow on the ground. A second later, something coiled around his ankle—and then the world flipped upside down.

Literally.

In less than two seconds, Yasuo was dangling headfirst, trapped in a magical snare, swinging like a piñata waiting to be smashed.

"WHAT THE HELL—?!" he roared, thrashing like a fish out of water.

His sword had fallen. Blood rushed to his head. And worst of all—from the platform above, he knew he was being watched.

Ahri covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. Jhin, visibly delighted, scribbled notes with enthusiasm.

And Yi… just watched. His head slightly tilted.

Yasuo’s chest tightened. His throat burned with shame.

"Everything’s under control!" he yelled. "Just… testing the trap’s durability!"

As if that would lessen his frustration.

He couldn’t break free alone. The rope pulsed with every struggle, tightening mockingly.

"Hanging like ripe fruit isn’t a very efficient escape technique, you know?" Irelia said, appearing below with a smirk.

"Did you come to save me or just to laugh?"

"Both." She snapped her fingers, and her blades danced through the air, slicing the ropes with surgical precision.

Yasuo fell… straight into Sett’s arms, who caught him like a nervous bride.

"Don’t even think about kissing me," the half-vastaya grumbled, dropping him with a thud.

"Thanks, guys," Yasuo said, brushing himself off. "Let’s go."

Back in the race, Yasuo ran even harder. Frustration burned like hot iron. Yi was watching. He couldn’t… didn’t want to look weak.

In the final stretch, Yasuo adjusted his pace. He started using the wind with purpose—not just for speed, but to sense his surroundings, making leaves whisper where the ground was false, pushing dust to reveal hidden runes.

He was still reckless. But he was efficient.

At the end of the course, the freshmen arrived at a large stone circle at the foot of a hidden valley. This was where the final trial would take place.

Enchanted marionettes emerged from the ground—humanoid figures of dark wood and metal, their eyes glowing crimson. They moved like soldiers, relentless and swift. Art and weapon combined, crafted by Doran and Jhin to mimic real combat.

"Eliminate as many as you can," Headmaster Kusho announced. "Three minutes."

Yasuo clenched his fists. The wind around him hissed, eager.

The fight began.

Irelia spread her blades in perfect circles, felling targets with precise choreography.

Sett took on two, three at once, punches like thunder, grabbing one bot by the leg and hurling it into another.

But Yasuo…

Yasuo was a storm.

He spun at the center of the field, each strike followed by cutting gusts. He wielded the wind like an extension of himself—a physical slash became an invisible blade ten paces away. He conjured small updrafts to destabilize foes, made the air vibrate and push enemies into traps he’d set across the field.

But he wasted too much.

He jumped when he could dodge. Used force where technique would suffice. A wild, erratic dance—brilliant but inefficient.

Every move felt improvised, visceral. He burned energy like it was infinite, ignoring strategy for sheer impact.

When time was called, he stood panting, surrounded by shattered marionettes. A dozen, at least.

The silence that followed was brief—soon replaced by murmurs as instructors checked enchanted clipboards. The mist began to lift, the field filling with the sound of marionettes disassembling, returning to the earth as if they’d never existed.

The Faculty Platform descended smoothly to a nearby rise. There, before the exhausted students, the teachers lined up for final evaluations. Kusho stepped forward.

"Individual assessments," he announced, voice firm as stone. "Not by score, but by performance and potential."

One by one, names were called. Some brief, others accompanied by notes that sounded like blessings… or warnings.

"Irelia," Doran began. "Refined strategy. Impressive precision. Flawless environmental control and tactical awareness." He nodded respectfully. "Promising."

Irelia merely inclined her head, as if accepting an expected prize.

"Sett," Kennen continued, grinning slightly. "Absurd endurance. Brute strength above average. But, hm…" He pointed at the singed collar of Sett’s uniform. "…gotta react faster to traps. Can’t punch explosive smoke."

"Sorry if my fist is just faster," Sett grumbled, crossing his arms.

"Yasuo," Headmaster Kusho finally said, looking straight at him.

Yasuo’s heart seemed to freeze for a second.

"Combat performance: notable," Doran said, consulting his notes. "Creative improvisation, wind-amplified attacks, good terrain adaptation."

"Raw potential," Kennen added. "Very raw."

"However…" Doran continued, peering over his glasses. "Clear lack of strategy. Excessive energy expenditure. Walked into a basic spirit-containment trap… upside down."

The remark drew quiet laughs from some freshmen. Yasuo forced a chuckle, swallowing his embarrassment.

"He’s a natural talent," Doran said. "But he needs discipline. Or he’ll burn himself out trying to shine."

Kennen nodded, arms crossed.

"I like his fire. But recklessness is a double-edged sword. Impressive at first. Exhausting later."

Further back, Jhin murmured, as if to himself:

"Ah… but it was so theatrical. The fall… the frustration… the triumphant return. He amuses me."

Yasuo resisted the urge to throw a rock.

As the crowd began to disperse, Yasuo—still catching his breath—glanced at the platform.

Amrita’s deadliest swordsman hadn’t spoken a word. He’d just stared for a moment… then looked away.

Or had that been a faint smile?

Ahri, beside him, said something with her head slightly tilted—quiet enough that only Yi could hear.

"He doesn’t give up easy, huh? Yi, you gonna let him die trying to impress you?"

Yi didn’t answer immediately. He just watched the empty field, where the wind still swirled in soft eddies, remnants of Yasuo’s fury.

Then, calmly, he said:

"Persistence is a virtue. Stubbornness…" He sighed. "…is self-destruction."

Ahri raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue.

And for just an instant—maybe not even a full second—Yi allowed a subtle smile to curve his lips. Restrained. Almost imperceptible.

Yasuo saw it.

He hadn’t heard the conversation. Didn’t know what was said. But that half-smile… was enough.

His face lit up with childlike joy, like a kid winning a father’s approval, and he quickly turned away, pretending to scratch his head. But inside, he was vibrating like he’d won the whole tournament, his inner voice screaming:

"YES!"

He still had much to learn. But in that moment, he felt he was exactly where he was meant to be.

Chapter Text

The training field's silence dissolved into muffled conversations, dragging footsteps, and labored breathing. The trial was over. Dust stains covered uniforms; sweat, leaves, and minor scrapes told the story of every body shuffling toward the locker rooms. Exhaustion couldn't silence the whisper of thoughts—especially for those like Yasuo, whose fiercest battle still raged within.

The Amrita locker room stood in stark contrast. An oasis of pale marble, polished wood, and gentle steam that hung like tranquil mist. Frosted-glass cubicles, wide mirrors with soft lighting, light wood benches, beige granite sinks. Everything exuded discreet luxury, almost monastic in its restraint.

Yasuo couldn't suppress a hidden smile crossing the threshold. He was enchanted but maintained composure—he'd had enough humiliation for one day. Then a light tug at his hair snapped him back to reality.

"Bro..." Sett frowned, pointing at Yasuo's head, "you look like a shrub."

Yasuo glanced up at the mirror. Twigs, dry leaves, even a small stick tangled in his damp, long hair.

"And you look like a bird's nest," he retorted, raising a brow with affectionate disdain.

They laughed together—that particular laughter born from dust and exhaustion. Simple. Light. Good.

The shower was brief, necessary, almost ritualistic. Hot water cleansed his skin but not his thoughts. Yasuo loosened his hair, let water cascade down his back, closed his eyes, and tried—just for a moment—to let the day wash away too. It still wasn't easy. It still hurt, not being enough. But he had to keep going.

Dressed and departed. In Amrita's central courtyard, folding tables stood like islands of possibility. Each represented a club, a path, a calling. Some flew banners; others displayed pamphlets with dramatic slogans. Nothing extravagant—everything carried an elegant sobriety, an intentionally controlled aesthetic.

"Battle Club," Yasuo said without hesitation.

Sett nodded eagerly. Meanwhile, Irelia headed the opposite direction, eyes gleaming:

"Assassins' Guild. They do hidden-blade strategy sessions. And textile art."

Yasuo didn't question it. Seeing Irelia excited was rare—and therefore precious. He simply smiled and wished her luck.

His gaze swept the courtyard until he found his target. Battle Club. And there he was: Yi, seated beside Lee Sin, both filling forms while students queued. The scene struck him like lightning. The Amrita emblem gleamed on Yi's jacket, draped elegantly over his shoulders—co-captain, posture impeccable, gaze attentive. It was him. This was it.

"Sure this is the one?" Sett asked, already walking toward it.

"Always has been," Yasuo replied, tone measured but heart drumming wildly.

"Lee Sin's incredible," Sett remarked, eyes bright. "Saw clips from a Sharur tournament... he fought blindfolded. The whole thing."

Yasuo smirked. He had his own favorite videos too. But not of Lee Sin. The name burning inside him was another. Yi. He knew every cut, every movement, every interview answer by heart. Idolatry, perhaps.

Just a little.

The line crawled. Yasuo mentally rehearsed each word—polite, formal, no more humiliation. He mouthed phrases under his breath, calibrating tones. When his turn came, his heart nearly leaped from his throat.

"Welcome," Lee Sin greeted, voice steady, head tilted respectfully.

Yasuo mirrored him. "Thank you, sir. It's an honor."

Lee nodded, then glanced at Sett behind him. "Let's streamline this. Sett, you're next, right? I'll start your form while Yi handles your friend."

Yasuo almost sighed in relief. Yi looked up at him. The world slowed.

"Full name?" Yi's voice was calm, polished like mirrored lakewater.

The question stung. Where he'd grown up, boys always inherited their father's surname. And Yasuo's father... was no source of pride.

"Yasuo. Just Yasuo."

Yi wrote it down.

"Specialty?"

"Wind manipulation."

"Height?"

"One-eighty-two."

"Weight?"

"Eighty kilos."

"Age of ability manifestation?"

"Four."

"Age when sword training began?"

"Six."

Questions came rapid-fire; Yasuo answered automatically.

Yi wrote with impeccable, almost artistic penmanship. Without looking up, he asked:

"You always spin your blade twice before attacking?"

The question cut through Yasuo like steel.

He nearly answered immediately, but something froze. That... wasn't on the form.

His chest tightened, as if an invisible cord had been yanked taut.

Spinning the blade... twice. A tic. A habit. A reflex. A remnant.

Yone did that.

Always had.

And Yasuo, as a child, copied his brother in everything—posture, gestures, even the way he breathed before a strike. Back then, he'd thought it the most elegant thing. He'd never outgrown it.

Yasuo forced a smile.

"Ah... saw Babylon upperclassmen do it in clips. Looked cool, so I copied," he answered too quickly.

Yi kept smiling, but his eyes analyzed Yasuo like someone reading between lines. Still, he didn't press. Just flipped the clipboard page.

"You seem familiar. Any family at other academies?" Casual, hallway chatter.

Yasuo's throat dried. He could tell the truth. He could. But—

"No. Nobody."

He lied. And regretted it instantly.

But it was instinct. A survival reflex. If "Yone" surfaced here, everything would collapse. Silence let Yasuo just be Yasuo. Not the prodigy's little brother, not the unmatched one's shadow.

Here, he wanted to be someone else. A fresh start. A new path.

Yi simply nodded.

"Right. All set." Polite. Then he looked up, offering something unhurried: "You've got talent. But it needs refining. Listen more. Act less. That's what turns an ordinary fighter... into something extraordinary."

Yasuo didn't know how to respond.

For one second—one luminous second—he felt like he was flying.

But he also felt fear. Yi wasn't just polite. He was perceptive.

He'd need to be more careful.

Because rivals never forget.

And Yi... knew the sound of Yone's blade all too well.

Officially registered, Yasuo stepped away from the sign-up table with emotions warring inside him—like two winds spinning in opposite directions. On one side, the fragile, almost childlike happiness of receiving praise. On the other, the bitter aftertaste of his lie. He still heard his own voice saying "No, nobody" when asked about family. The falsehood hung over his shoulders like a cloak too heavy for a sunny day.

Walking beside Sett, he feigned neutrality—arms crossed, steps firm. But inside, his thoughts boiled like water about to burst a kettle's lid.

"Hey, went well, huh?" Sett grinned. "Lee Sin's solid. Yi too. You see Lee's handshake? Nearly dislocated my arm! Loved it."

Yasuo gave a weak laugh.

"Yeah... they were cool."

He couldn't shake Yi's gaze. Not judgmental, but recognizing. As if Yi saw something Yasuo tried to hide.

They reached a stone bench beneath courtyard trees where Irelia waited. Cross-legged, she twirled a pamphlet like a dagger.

"Well then, noble warriors," she smirked, "survived the dreaded bureaucracy?"

"Survived and ready for glory," Sett declared, thumping his chest. "Speaking of... you see those snacks by the center table? Gonna... investigate."

"Be quick, or they'll mistake you for a monastery beggar," Irelia teased as he disappeared into the student crowd.

The moment Sett left, the air shifted. Not drastically—still light—but something in Irelia's eyes held quiet concern. Intuition.

She leaned slightly toward Yasuo.

"You okay?"

Yasuo hesitated. His gaze dropped to his restless hands scratching his pant seams. He didn't want to talk about it. Not at all. But with her... the act never lasted long. She already knew anyway.

"I lied to him," he murmured, voice dry but honest—a thread of sound nearly strangling him.

Irelia stayed silent for several seconds. Just watched him, weighing whether to speak or let him breathe through the weight alone. Finally, soft:

"About Yone?"

An almost imperceptible nod. His brother's name carried too much gravity to say aloud.

"Don't wanna talk about it."

She didn't push.

Just pressed her shoulder lightly against his—an anchor in the whirlwind.

"Okay," she simply said.

But he knew. Knew the conversation wasn't over. Just postponed. And as much as that unsettled him, it was also relief. Good to know someone here cared.

When Sett returned with a toothpick in his mouth and two stuffed buns in his pockets, the trio reunited as if nothing happened. They laughed at jokes, watched freshmen fumble with pamphlets, mocked some clubs' tacky outfits. Yet Yasuo still felt the shadow of his unspoken truth looming.

He was in the Battle Club now. In the game.

But every step forward would require greater care.

Because just one name... one memory... one gesture... could swallow everything he fought to become in what he'd been.

The past had its own winds. And when you're born in a storm, escaping them is never easy.

Chapter Text

The third day had barely begun, and Yasuo already felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. An exaggeration, of course—but he'd always been a little dramatic. He'd promised himself he wouldn't be late today. After all, it was his first Death Arts class with Professor Jhin. And if the rumors were true (and they always were), this wasn't the kind of lesson where you wanted to draw attention.

Spoiler: He did.

But before the disaster, there was an honest attempt at a good start.

Yasuo woke early, meticulously arranged his uniform, and even tried greeting Sett—who responded with a cavernous grunt and a pillow to his face.

On the way, he found Irelia organizing her scrolls with the precision of a war librarian. Together, the three followed Amrita's flower-lined paths toward the arts building. Yasuo was focused, centered—until he saw it.

A kitten.

Small. Fluffy. Gray with a white spot on its muzzle. Sitting in the courtyard's center, licking its paw with the solemnity of a mystical elder.

"A cat!" Yasuo exclaimed, enthusiasm exploding.

"No." Irelia automatically replied without looking up from her map.

"No what?"

"Don't chase the cat. You know how this ends."

"I'm perfectly capable of following a cat and making it to class on time."

"Oh, then it's fine!" Sett said sarcastically. "Because chasing random animals always works out."

But Yasuo was already gone. One minute, he was en route to class. The next, crouched under a pergola trying to convince a mystical feline to accept breadcrumbs.

The cat, of course, ignored him with imperial disdain.

Five minutes later, the feline had mysteriously vanished into the branches. And Yasuo... was lost.

Amrita's paths, normally tranquil and clearly marked, became a labyrinth when you were alone, late, and had a psychopathic professor waiting.

"Okay. Calm. Breathe. Think," he told himself, spinning like a disoriented top. "Maybe this way..."

"Or maybe that way," said a sweet, impish voice beside him.

Yasuo nearly jumped.

Ahri stood there as if sprouted from the wisteria. Mischievous smile, eyes gleaming with amusement, and her tail—yes, tail—swaying with feline disdain.

"You're lost. Again," she declared, amused.

"I... was following a cat."

"Ah. A cat. Of course." She crossed her arms. "And what'll your excuse be when Professor Jhin turns you into a living sculpture?"

"You know where his classroom is?"

"Obviously." Ahri turned and started walking. "Come on, I'll take you. But you owe me."

"What kind of favor?"

"Cafeteria coffee. With blackberry pastry."

"Blackberry?"

"With whipped cream."

Yasuo huffed but followed. Better that than becoming permanent art installation.

They talked along the way. About classes. Seniors. How Karma had personally mentored her since sophomore year to help balance her spiritual powers—which, according to Ahri, had the terrible habit of "leaking" when she got too excited.

"Last week I exploded a fountain. Yi almost lost his glasses."

"And Karma...?"

"She just gave me That Look. You know the one. Makes you reevaluate every life choice."

Yasuo laughed. Ahri was impish, yes, but fun. And a strange suspicion grew: she always appeared in his worst moments... to save him.

"Do you have some spiritual link, or is this coincidence?" he asked.

"What?"

"You always show up when I need you most. Suspicious."

Ahri looked at him, surprised. Then smiled—but not her usual smirk. Softer. More... mysterious.

"Maybe I'm your lucky charm."

"Maybe I'm cursed."

"Could be both."

They reached the Death Arts building at the literal last second. The door was nearly closed. Ahri blocked it with her foot, flashed a grin at the scowling assistant, and shoved Yasuo inside with a push to his back.

He stumbled and fell to his knees right at the room's center. Every student turned to look. Including Jhin.

The professor smiled.

"What a dramatic entrance," he said, voice melodic like over-tuned strings. "I do love an unscripted performance."

Yasuo swallowed hard. Already doomed.

Class began. And it was worse than he'd imagined.

Jhin didn't teach. He performed. Spoke as if reciting poetry. Every movement rehearsed. Every "symbolic death" example came with gestures, metaphors, and occasionally fake blood.

Yasuo took dazed notes as Jhin expounded on "the elegance of finitude."

"Remember, my dears... we fight not just to win. We fight to create art. A conclusion. Perfection. The final beauty of a moment never to be repeated."

His gaze landed on Yasuo, who shrank in his seat.

"Mr.... Yasuo, correct?"

"Y-yes?"

"You seem like one who carries the restlessness of the unfinished. Perfect. Tomorrow, come prepared. We'll be practice partners."

Yasuo felt blood drain from his face.

"But professor, I—"

"Art, young man, demands risk. And risk... is beautiful."

He smiled. And Yasuo knew: he was condemned.

But when he left class, dazed, backpack slung haphazardly and soul halfway out of his body, Ahri waited outside.

"Survived?"

"Not sure."

"Then you deserve blackberry pastry. My treat," she said, winking.

Yasuo didn't understand. But he accepted. And for a moment, thought maybe—just maybe—she really was his lucky charm.

Even if it meant a performative death was imminent.

Ahri pivoted on her heels, tail swaying behind her like a dancing fan, and descended the building's steps with the ease of someone who'd never had a single pending assignment.

Yasuo hurried to catch up, feeling the wind play with his uniform sleeves as they took a side path toward the nearest clearing. Morning break was short—under twenty minutes—but enough.

En route, they passed a group of freshmen on stone steps. One, lanky with spiky hair and thick brows, waved familiarly.

"Yasuo, right? Nice gust technique yesterday!"

"Thanks," he replied, surprised to be recognized. Smiled back more from reflex than conviction.

But that feeling... being acknowledged. First time.

He liked it.

Beside the boy, a pale girl with perpetually neutral expression flipped through a thick, dark-leather book. Her lilac eyes, half-hidden under symmetrical bangs, flicked up to meet Yasuo's.

She saw him. He saw that she saw. And then... nothing.

"You good?" he ventured with a timid wave.

The girl just blinked—once, slow—and returned to her book as if he were a dust mote.

"Okay," he muttered. "Perpetual ice. Noted."

Ahri stifled a laugh with cruel elegance.

"That's Syndra. She speaks to people once per semester. Sometimes by accident. Consider yourself honorably ignored."

"Fantastic. Always wanted to be a clinical case," Yasuo grumbled.

They moved on, a quick cafeteria stop for the blackberry pastry with whipped cream—which, incidentally, didn't last long between them.

Then finally crossing the low bridge to the wisteria garden. They slipped beneath it. The breeze danced through hanging flowers, casting soft shadows on pale stone. A discreet corner, and—miraculously—empty.

Ahri flopped onto the grass, legs crossed in the air, nine tails fanned behind her like silvered fans.

"Aaah... silence. You should feel honored. I don't share this spot with just anyone."

"I'm humbled," Yasuo said, sitting cross-legged, still tired from the morning's escapade.

For a while, they just breathed.

He watched ants in the grass. She nibbled a candied fruit produced from who-knows-where, offering another with half-lidded eyes.

"Gonna take it or keep staring like I'm an emotional control test?"

Yasuo took the fruit hesitantly. Sweet. Tart. Good. Like her, probably.

"Why do you help me?" The question slipped out. "Really."

Ahri didn't answer immediately. Played with a strand of hair, gaze fixed on the sky.

"Because you're fun," she finally said. "A little dumb, but... charmingly dumb. Reminds me of first-year me."

Yasuo grimaced.

"You were dumb too?"

"No. I was insufferable." She smiled. "Still am, sometimes."

He laughed. Couldn't help it.

Ahri watched him with light but curious eyes. There was something beneath the beauty, confidence, and teasing—something genuinely intriguing. As if charm were her armor, but there was far more beneath.

When the break-ending bell echoed in the distance, Yasuo stood with a sigh. Stretched, cracked his back, ran hands through his hair trying to reset.

"Better head back. Don't wanna become 'Death of the Lost Freshman: Part 2.'"

Ahri rose in one fluid motion, tail flicking. She adjusted his collar with a quick, almost... careful gesture.

"There. Now you're presentable enough to die elegantly."

Yasuo gave a theatrical bow.

"Such honor."

They started back.

It was while recrossing the central hall that he saw her: Irelia, leaning with a group by the cafeteria wall, laughing at someone's joke. But upon spotting him with Ahri, her expression flickered—just briefly.

Not anger. Not jealousy. But Yasuo knew that look.

Knew it because... well, because pompous idiot Yone used to make the same face whenever little Yasuo walked with schoolgirls.

She masked it well. Gave an innocent-sounding laugh, refocused on her group. But he knew.

Yasuo cleared his throat, keeping his face blank.

"You see that?" he murmured, mostly to himself.

"See what?" Ahri asked.

"Nothing. Just the wind."

Back in class, he sat still trying to control his blush after parting with his new vastaya friend. The rest of the lesson blurred—treatises, maps, manuals, hurried notes. But Yasuo knew two things:

First: Jhin had marked him as prey.

Second: Ahri was dangerous. But irresistibly necessary.

The afternoon passed in a haze of mandatory drills, dense readings, and hallway whispers about "the new freshman Jhin chose."

When the final bell rang, Yasuo didn't hesitate: he bolted up dormitory stairs like fleeing performative death—literally.

In his room, he face-planted onto the bed with a sigh worthy of Shakespearean tragedy.

"Tomorrow's the day," he mumbled into the pillow. "Club. Yi. First training. First impression. My grand debut."

"All this for a club meeting?" Across the room, Sett watched with the expression of someone viewing experimental theater: confused, intrigued, and nearly interrupting.

"It's not just a meeting. It's the meeting." Yasuo sat up abruptly, eyes blazing. "The moment Yi finally sees my potential. That I'm different. That I deserve to be—"

"His passionate disciple?"

Yasuo threw a pillow. Narrowly missed.

"I just want recognition!" he protested, dragging scrolls, pencils, pens, and ink to the floor. "And for that... I need a plan."

"Of course you do." Sett lazily approached, sitting on the bed arms crossed. "Because impressing a legendary swordsman should be easy. Just make a tactical map and boom."

"Detected sarcasm." Yasuo unfurled paper with the pomp of a war strategist. "But behold—genius."

At the paper's center, a scribbled stick figure represented Yasuo with spiky hair, sword, and a dramatic arrow pointing to "Yi's Probable Position."

"This... is the club's training field."

Below, arrows pointed to other scribbles:

"Lee Sin – Yi's buddy. Club captain. Good vibes. Likes jokes. Chill."

"Fiora – Promising swordswoman. A year younger than Yi. Deadly stare. Beware."

 

"Fiora..." Yasuo whispered, circling her name with X's. "She's probably Yi's right hand in the club... can't piss her off."

"Hey, heard a rumor she and Yi... you know." Sett's voice was muffled by his own pillow.

Yasuo froze, glancing around before whispering like the topic itself could crucify him.

"That they...?"

"Dated. Or almost did. Or she wanted to and he didn't. Or vice versa. Or never happened." Sett shrugged. "Every year has a version. But the most common is Yi has an ice-cold heart and never dated anyone, or has some secret lover outside Amrita. Bet it's the latter."

"Heart of steel. Brutal." Yasuo scribbled dramatically: "WARNING: possible emotional ice in human form."

He leaned back, staring at the map as if willing it to life.

"I just want to make an impression. Not asking much. One shining moment. Something noteworthy. A chance to show I'm here to learn... and dominate."

Sett raised a brow.

"And the plan is...?"

"Still refining. But starts with confident posture. Then a lateral entrance. Ideally, natural sound effects—like wind billowing my uniform. Then... technically flawless demonstration. That's it."

"'That's it.' Right. Can I suggest something?"

"Please."

"Sleep."

Yasuo grimaced.

"You don't get it."

"I get that if you stay up drawing tactical maps till 3 AM, you'll look like an emotional zombie at training. And zombies impress no one. Not even Yi."

"He's rarely impressed by anything..."

"Then sleep to at least seem livelier than a rice sack. And hey..." Sett rolled over to face him. "Tomorrow's just first training. They won't seriously evaluate you yet. It's to gauge everyone, help freshmen improve. No big deal."

Yasuo sighed.

"Asked three people today and got three answers. One said it's a secret test. Another said it involves breaking rocks with your mind. Third thought the club was about martial chess."

"That's a lie." Sett laughed. "But makes sense. Everyone here's kinda crazy."

Silence fell. The candle flickered on the desk edge, the map's ink still fresh. Yasuo stared at his plan with the intensity of someone who knew it was ridiculous—but had to try.

"I'll sleep. But only after memorizing these rotations." He gathered the scrolls.

"You're hopeless." Sett turned away.

Yasuo smiled. Small. Tired. But determined. Tomorrow was his first step as a club member. And with luck—or pure stubbornness—maybe the start of something greater.

He looked out the dorm window. Clear sky, stars sharp like ancient dust floating over the world.

"Ice heart or not... you'll remember me, Yi."

With that thought, he finally returned to bed.

Sleep came slow, but came.

Yasuo no longer felt his body, just comforting warmth under blankets as wind tapped the window slats. The candle had died; the tactical map was just another forgotten draft.

Then came the sound.

Laughter.

Not good laughter. Mean. Short. Dry. Childish but sharp as splinters under skin.

"Look at him, trying again with that stupid stick..."

"Bastard can't even hold a sword right!"

"Even his dad didn't stay. Imagine the divine blade..."

Then the shove. The fall. Dull elbow pain. Throat locking.

Voices echoed around him, all faceless. They were in an old schoolyard—gray and small. Clouded sky, packed dirt ground. This Yasuo was younger, eyes damp, breath trapped.

He didn't scream. Didn't retort. Just... endured. Back then, his rebellious heart was still too young not to break.

But then came him.

"Hey." The voice was firm. Serene.

Yone.

Too tall for his age, too serious for recess. Eyes silently aflame. No shouting. No threats. Just a look. And the bullies retreated. One by one.

"You okay?" he asked, turning to his little brother.

Little Yasuo collapsed into his arms. Held-back sobs escaping, hiccuping, pride-less.

Yone didn't complain. Just held him.

"Ignore them." Quiet. "They only laugh because they fear what's different."

"I don't wanna be different..." the boy hiccuped.

"But you are, because you're strong, you have talent." Yone said. "You're my brother. That's all that matters."

Yasuo remembered that hug. Tight. Safe. As if the whole world could crumble, and he'd still be there.

And wasn't that it?

He loved Yone.

Even now. Beneath layers of anger, wounded pride, resentment. After all the unspoken words and cruel comparisons. Despite the envy.

Because Yone was the first to protect him. Always.

Taught him to fight. Cleaned his scrapes, showed him how to hold a sword—even if just bamboo.

Even when Yasuo acted tough, Yone was there to soothe, say it's okay to cry a little.

And for a moment... he missed him.

An ache he'd never—never—admit aloud.

The dream shifted. As if time itself chose mercy for a moment.

Now they were home's small garden. Awkward flowers, crooked pots their mother tended. Dirt ground. Clear sky.

Yasuo ran, laughing loud, cardboard sword in hand.

"KIAAAAH!" He spun, clumsy and heroic.

His wind slash was still tiny.

Yone appeared, smiling. Really smiling—a grin Yasuo had almost forgotten.

"You cut the air!" He dramatized, staggering as if struck. "Help! I'm wounded!"

"Mom! Yone lost! I won!"

Their mother laughed from the porch, hanging laundry.

"Yone, not gonna let your brother win that easy, huh?"

"Today he deserves it." Yone brushed dirt off his clothes. "He kept both feet planted! Balanced. Like a real swordsman."

Yasuo swelled with pride. Eyes shining.

Back then, Yone smiled more. Yasuo too.

And for a moment... they were just that.

Two brothers, a mother, a garden.

No weight. No past. No expectations.

Just them.

But the dream began fading. As if time, ever merciless, remembered the present existed.

Laughter vanished. The garden darkened. The cardboard sword became shadow.

And Yasuo awoke.

The dorm ceiling stared back, unmoving. Night still deep. Sett snored, leg dangling, oblivious.

It took Yasuo a moment to notice tear-tracks.

"Dammit..." He turned away.

Just a dream. Nothing more.

He didn't miss him. Didn't ache. Didn't long.

Just a dream. Just dust in his eyes. Just wind whispering memories he hadn't asked to recall.

Tomorrow, the day would restart.

But for now, he just closed his eyes.

And allowed, for a few more minutes, that garden's memory to live inside him.

Chapter Text

Irelia had always believed her life began with music.
Before the battles, before the scars, even before the word Noxus meant something cruel—there was dance.

They lived in the capital, where people from different homelands gathered in harmony.

She remembered with near-sacred clarity the mornings in their backyard, where the breeze drifted lightly between the clotheslines, and her mother would play the old record player. There was one song in particular—one nobody knew the origin of, but that felt as much a part of the house as the smell of freshly baked bread or the sound of her siblings running through the rooms. It was to that melody her mother would smile, spin, and pull her by the hands to dance barefoot on the cold stone floor, hearts light.

Zelos danced with them sometimes. When no one was looking.
Her older brother—the gentle one. The one the whole neighborhood admired. Her most of all.

And as childhood folded into adolescence, as play became training and the spins of dance aligned with the strikes of warriors she watched in the training square… she understood. She could do both. Her art could become strength. What was light could be lethal.

That was Irelia.
Daughter of a kind merchant.
Disciple of grace.
Born to spin.
Trained to cut.

She didn’t speak much about what happened to her father.
The grocery store was small, simple—full of hanging herbs, colorful packages, and a rusted bell that chimed whenever the door opened.

Until the day the bell rang, and the world turned silent.

Men in black and red, rough, laughing loudly. They bought nothing. They took everything.
And her father—sweet, stubborn—refused.
The floor turned red.
She was seven years old, and she never forgot the color of blood seeping between the rice bags.

The hospital stay lasted months.

That was the day she learned to hate.
And to tremble at the word Noxus.

A week later, she met Riven.

Just a girl with scraped knees and clothes too big for her frame. She was at the playground near the district, with other orphanage kids, on one of those sunny days when Irelia let herself forget the pain.
They played at running, spinning, tumbling into the grass.

Riven had a shy smile, but an honest one. She was fast—agile, like a shadow that refused to be caught.

It could have been the start of a friendship.

But then came the revelation.

"My name is Riven. I’m… Noxian."

Irelia’s blood turned to ice. She stopped smiling.
And ran.
Ran home.
Ran into her mother’s arms.
And swore never to play with that girl again.

But fate doesn’t care for childish vows.
Riven was adopted by a neighboring family.
She was everywhere.
At school. In the square. During training.
Always strong. Always fast. Always… better.

Irelia never forgave Riven for that.
Or herself.

They grew as silent rivals.
Not enemies—rivals.
Each other’s presence was a constant reminder of what they couldn’t forget.

When the time came to choose academies, Riven went to Labrys. Irelia, to Amrita.
Before leaving, she turned to the white-haired girl and said:

"I’ll beat you."

Riven smiled. A calm smile—no mockery, almost too gentle.

"I’d like to see that."

Irelia flushed.

And looked away.

Now, at Amrita, time moved differently.
This wasn’t a place where people grew—it was where they were shaped, tested, broken.
Yasuo, her new friend, didn’t fully understand that yet. But he was learning. The hard way.

That morning, their group had class with Jhin.
Again.
Three times a week.
Hell.

Yasuo had arrived early, trying to escape the silent punishment he’d endured since being "chosen" by the eccentric professor.
But Jhin didn’t forget. Or forgive.

It was an Arts of Permanence class, and the title alone made Irelia roll her eyes.
But what happened there… was strange even by Jhin’s standards.

The arena transformed into an illusionary field—a maze with no visible walls, woven from energy fields and motion sensors.
And Yasuo was the rat.
Literally.

"Your body is the dissonant note," Jhin whispered, appearing atop a metal structure. "Correct it… or inspire."

The trial began with a gunshot. A bullet echoed like lyrical thunder through the arena dome.
Yasuo ran.

Irelia sat with other students in the upper stands, watching.
Heart tight, muscles tense.
With every shot, Yasuo barely dodged.
With every turn, his sweat poured harder.
It was like watching a performance. Tragic. Brutal. Poetic in the cruelest way.

But he didn’t fall.
Even as bullets whistled past.
Even as exhaustion tore at his lungs.
Even when a shot nearly ripped his jacket clean off.
He kept going.

"Idiot," Irelia murmured—but she was smiling. A small, proud smile.

Yasuo could be anything—impulsive, dramatic, insecure.
But he didn’t stop.
And that made her… his ally.

As the class unfolded, she leaned back on the cold seat and crossed her arms.
Thought of Riven.
Of that restrained laugh.
Of that natural talent.
And whispered, too quiet for anyone to hear:

"I’ll still beat you."

The dance, after all, had only just begun.

The class ended with a sharp tap of Jhin’s energy baton. The professor said nothing. He didn’t need to.

Yasuo collapsed to his knees at the arena’s center, gasping, drenched, hands on the ground like the world spun too fast for him to follow. It took him too long to stagger down the steps to the commons.

The crowd of students dispersed—some whispering, some laughing nervously. A few threw pitying glances, others scorn. But all of them had seen what he did.

He ran to the end.
He passed the professor’s test.

Irelia waited for him.

She had a habit of waiting for those she cared about. Learned that at home.

In a big family, learning to care for others was a matter of coexistence—or survival.
She was the one who bandaged her younger siblings’ scrapes, reheated soup when her mother came home late, packed bags when her father forgot.

With Yasuo, it wasn’t so different.
She approached with her usual calm—hair tied back, a towel in hand, a cold water bottle hidden in her coat. Without a word, she touched his shoulder.

"Sit."

Yasuo obeyed without argument, dropping onto a stone bench under the courtyard trees. His eyes were still lost in the arena’s invisible maze. His breathing, ragged.

Irelia knelt in front of him.

"You look like a spirit who got kicked around."

Yasuo tried to laugh. It came out as a cough.

She began wiping his face with the damp towel. Gently.
The dust dissolved, but there was a weariness fused to his skin—maybe his soul—that even water couldn’t wash away.

"You run well," she said, focused on her task. "Looked like a very elegant rat."

He raised a brow.

"Is that a compliment?"

"From what I’ve seen, surviving a Jhin class at all is worth celebrating."

She finished cleaning his face and, for a moment, just looked at him.

So young, but carrying so much. A boy who wanted so badly to be seen… but didn’t know how to show himself.

"Can I ask you something?" she murmured, soft, almost like she was asking the wind.

Yasuo nodded slowly.

"Why are you lying… about being an only child?"

Silence.

She didn’t expect an immediate answer.
She just wanted to understand. Because while she was loyal to Yasuo—truly—some things hurt to see dragged unnecessarily.

She knew, of course.
But she didn’t say anything.
It wasn’t her story to tell.

Still, Yone was a youth icon to Ionians. A name that could open doors.
And here was his brother, telling the world he was… no one.

Yasuo sighed. Ran a hand through his damp hair.

"Because I don’t want to be… that."

"That?"

"A shadow." His voice was hoarse but firm.

"No one here cares about Yone. And for the first time… I feel like I’m seen as just me. Only me."

She understood.
Of course she understood.
But she couldn’t help thinking, with a pang:

"And hiding this… isn’t that still living in his shadow?"

She didn’t say it.

It wasn’t her place to give answers.

"Alright," she replied instead. Gentle. No pressure. She brushed a strand of hair from his face.

"You’ll get there, you know."

"Where?"

"To being just you."

Yasuo didn’t answer.
But his eyes—once lost—now held hers with more calm.
More presence.

Irelia stood and offered a hand to pull him up.
"Now move. You reek of gunpowder and bruised ego. Let’s hit the cantina. I’ll buy you a milkshake, but only because you look like you’ll pass out."

He took her hand.

And smiled—really smiled.

The war with shadows wouldn’t end anytime soon.

But for now, he had a little light.

And she was beside him.

Chapter Text

Amrita’s cafeteria at that hour looked like a post-battlefield: empty trays, chairs out of place, exhausted freshmen dozing over the tables. The smell of food still lingered in the air—a bittersweet aroma of different spices mingling like the academy’s students themselves. Yasuo sat in a secluded corner, resting his elbows on the table and letting his head hang for a few seconds. His muscles still ached. His leg trembled slightly from the remnants of Jhin’s gunshots echoing in his memory like deceptively artistic thunder.

Sett had vanished with two other freshmen on their insane quest to get seconds of the caramelized meat yakisoba. A kitchen worker had nearly hit him with a metal ladle last time. Irelia, however, had stayed. Calm. Attentive. A kind of quiet Yasuo was learning to respect.

“Still got that ringing in your ears?” she asked, pulling up a chair and sitting beside him, balancing her plate on her fingertips.

“Ringing doesn’t even cover it,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his sweaty face. “If I have to zigzag one more time without knowing where the shot’s coming from, I’m transferring to gardening classes.”

Irelia let out a low, clear laugh before handing him a napkin. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, she dampened the corner with a bit of water and began carefully wiping the side of his face, where fine dust and a faint scratch still lingered.

“You’ve got gentle hands,” he remarked, surprised.

“Living in a house with five siblings gives you practice,” she said, as if it were obvious. “Believe me, cleaning up sweaty, scraped-up people with wounded pride became part of the routine.”

Yasuo watched her. There was no judgment in her gesture, no pity—just that direct, practical, almost domestic care. It stirred something in him he couldn’t immediately name.

“You’re lucky,” he murmured, almost a whisper.

“I am.” She shrugged, setting the napkin down on the plate. “But I’ve got heavy memories too. You know… Zelos was the eldest. My brother. He… was everything. Strong, fast, the first to rise and the last to sleep. Always trying to handle everything alone. I grew up thinking he was invincible.”

Yasuo didn’t answer, but his breathing grew more attentive. Irelia stared into nothing now, as if unraveling old memories.

“But you know what I realized, little by little? He was always… tired. Irritable. Overwhelmed. I was young, but I saw it in his eyes. He carried the world on his back and still tried to smile for us. He chose to be that pillar, even if it broke him inside. I admired that. I didn’t want to compete. I wanted… to acknowledge it.”

She turned to Yasuo, her gaze steady now.

“Sometimes, walking under the sun is harder than staying in the shade. We think we hide to avoid comparison. But living in the light, with everyone watching, expecting you never to fall… that hurts more than it seems. The sun punishes. Burns. Blinds. But Zelos walked under it. And because of that, I’m not ashamed to stay in the shade. I’m proud. Because his shade protected me.”

The words hung in the air for a few seconds. Yasuo bit his lower lip, staring into his plate as if the answer lay there, between the soggy rice and lukewarm meat.

And then it came. A subtle thought, like a breeze before the storm.

Is that how Yone felt?

Always tired. Always serious. Always distant, as if he could never afford a single mistake. A sigh. A weakness.

Did he… carry it all? The responsibility. The expectations. The pressure to succeed for three?

He remembered his older brother waking up early to train and still making breakfast. The way he’d grumble at their mother to let Yasuo sleep in on weekends. How Yone had worked himself ragged since forever, exhausted, yet still found time to teach him how to hold a sword.

Yasuo closed his eyes.

Was Yone trying to be the sun too?

Was Yasuo… being selfish?

“You’re way too quiet,” Irelia teased. “Did the curry defeat you?”

Yasuo let out a weak laugh. Shook his head.

“Maybe a little,” he admitted, then added in a whisper: “Thanks. For looking after me today.”

She smiled. A sincere smile, free of any demands.

“Always. Just… try not to be a moving target again tomorrow, okay?”

“I’ll try,” he replied, even though he knew that with Jhin, it was nearly impossible.

But deep down, as he watched Irelia laugh and return to her meal, Yasuo felt something different in his chest.

A crack. A point of warmth. Something between doubt and fear. Something that, perhaps, in time… he’d let out.

Lunch was a fleeting scrap of peace in the middle of the hurricane.

When the last afternoon bell echoed through Amrita’s wide halls, Yasuo and Irelia said goodbye the way they knew best: without fanfare, but with the silent promise to meet again. Marked, at the end of the day, at the entrance to the boys’ dormitory—to exchange thoughts about their first days in the clubs.

Yasuo carried a weight on his shoulders that wasn’t physical but emotional. The conversation in the cafeteria still reverberated in his ribs, as if Yone’s name had lodged itself between his chest and throat. But he shook his head. Not now. No more.

Now, it was time to look forward.

The Battle Club.

And the future.

Sett waited for him with crossed arms and that crooked grin of someone who knew he was about to have fun, even if he got his ass kicked.

“Ready to get juiced?” he asked, already pulling Yasuo by the arm.

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Yasuo shot back, trying to mask the tension.

They walked together, crossing the covered walkways.

The Battle Club’s arena was in Amrita’s suspended gardens, just behind the institution. To get there, they passed through two gates of bluish energy that identified registered members. As he stepped through them, Yasuo held his breath.

Because the place was breathtaking.

White marble pillars rose in circles, intertwined with the roots of ancient trees that bloomed endlessly, scattering luminous petals in the air. A central stone field, polished and reinforced with arcane technology—the blend of tradition and innovation that defined everything at Amrita.

“Wow…” Yasuo whispered, taking a few steps, awestruck.

Even from a distance, the protective systems were visible: translucent layers of gravitational energy prevented attacks from destroying the place. Everything pulsed with a harmony of power, beauty, and precision.

The stands were empty. The ceiling partially opened, revealing a shaft of light that cut across the arena’s center like a sacred stage.

Yasuo tried to smile, but something weighed in his stomach. Nerves? Maybe. But it was also something more. A silent expectation.

As he stepped into the arena, he understood why.

It wasn’t just the architecture.

It was the man standing at the center of the training circle.

Yi.

He wasn’t sitting. He wasn’t observing from afar.

He was the opponent.

Yasuo swallowed hard. It felt like his heart had decided to swap beats for thunder.

“Holy shit…” he muttered.

Yi wore the crisp uniform of the elite veterans, sleeves rolled up, sword at his hip. His expression was as impassive as ever, but his eyes… his eyes were fixed on him. Not threateningly, but inquisitively. Testing him without a word.

Beside Yi, Fiora stretched gracefully, watching with subtle disdain. Every movement calculated like a lethal dance. Yasuo tried not to stare too much, but it was impossible not to feel the weight of the two veterans there. Like they were walls. Like the distance between them was impossible to bridge.

Yasuo held his breath for a moment. He’d thought he’d just observe, learn, be tested in some generic sparring match with his peers.

But fate seemed determined to strip him of every last comfort zone.

“Good afternoon, freshmen!” Lee Sin’s voice rang firm, clear as a bell’s chime. He walked barefoot across the wooden floor with the lightness of a monk and the force of thunder. “Today, each of you will be challenged. You will choose a veteran to mentor you in battle. This isn’t about winning. It’s about showing who you are with a weapon in hand.”

Sett was the first to go. He jumped into the arena with his usual flamboyant confidence. Of course, he chose Lee Sin—out of stubbornness or pride, maybe both.

The fight was almost comical, if not so impressive.

Sett was powerful, his strikes had weight, his footwork danced with grace, and his strategy was real. But Lee Sin didn’t seem to fight—he just moved. Dodged effortlessly, as if anticipating his opponent’s steps before they even happened. And when he countered, it was with light, almost irritating touches: flicks to the forehead, subtle pushes, quick pinches that destabilized more than they hurt.

Sett sweated, cursed, spun in the air, and punched at nothing.

He was defeated by his own exhaustion, kneeling and laughing, breathless.

“Damn… you’re… a polite demon…” he said, grinning as they helped him up.

Lee Sin merely nodded, satisfied. “You have talent. You just need to learn to listen to your own silence.”

Yasuo swallowed hard.

His turn came.

He descended the arena steps feeling eyes heavy on him like armor. His stomach, once full of curry, now felt full of stones. His right hand itched, yearning to grip the hilt of the sword strapped to his back.

He stopped at the center of the arena.

Everyone knew Yi was a legendary swordsman, Amrita’s second official representative (only behind Shen), national champion for three consecutive years in swordplay, Professor Jhin’s favorite—because he was the only one who came close to perfection, theoretically. Golden student of Professor Doran, protégé of Professor Hurong.

He shouldn’t be here.

Not fighting.

Not against freshmen.

“You may choose,” Lee Sin said again. “Fiora or Yi. Both are masters. Both know the sword. The choice is yours, Yasuo.”

His name, spoken aloud, weighed in his ears.

Logic said: Fiora. Maybe she was more precise, maybe crueler, but at least there was a chance Yasuo could keep some dignity intact.

But courage… or maybe stubbornness…

…or maybe the secret desire to be seen, truly seen…

“I choose… Yi.”

The words left him before fear could silence him.

Murmurs rose among his peers.

Fiora arched an eyebrow. Yi, however, merely smiled faintly. A smile that wasn’t mocking, nor encouraging—it was enigmatic.

Like saying: Very well. Now show me why.

The silence that followed his choice wasn’t uncomfortable. It was solemn.

Yi took a step forward, the sound of his soles echoing on the arena’s sacred stone. His uniform jacket was left aside. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. He didn’t draw it. Just watched.

Yasuo took a deep breath. The air felt denser here. Charged with something invisible—not fear, but expectation.

Fiora stepped back with a slight tilt of her head, her cold, calculating gaze shifting away. Not disdain. Silent acknowledgment: He’d made his choice. Now, he’d face it.

Lee Sin raised his hand, readying the signal. Light from the sky spilled through the arena’s open ceiling, tracing a circle of brilliance around the two swordsmen. The rest of the world faded. No applause. No cheers. Just them. Veteran and freshman. Discipline and will.

Yasuo slid his fingers along his weapon’s hilt, feeling the familiar vibration of steel responding to his touch. The blade was still sheathed, but his heart was already dueling.

Not out of pride.

Out of desire. To be worthy.

Worthy of being here. Worthy of being seen.

Worthy of being remembered.

Yi said nothing. Just inclined his head slightly, a silent nod. An ancient gesture. An invitation.

Yasuo breathed deep, gripping the sword’s hilt so tight his knuckles whitened. His heart pounded too fast, nearly leaping up his throat, but he ignored it. Adrenaline already roared in his veins like a flooding river. Here, in the center of Amrita’s sacred arena, surrounded by silence and light, there was no room for hesitation.

When the signal came—a sharp clap from Lee Sin—Yasuo launched himself.

It was like releasing an arrow drawn too tight.

The wind responded instantly, in a sharp howl. Yasuo spun the blade, summoning a turbulent spiral of energy that grew in seconds. The air condensed, trembling around him like glass about to shatter. A whirlwind was born at the sword’s tip—small but dense, fierce, growing fast, carrying loose leaves, sand, and pent-up tension. Yasuo fused his charge with the storm, hurtling like a missile toward the veteran.

But it wasn’t enough.

Yi didn’t move until the last instant.

And even then, he never seemed to react—he simply existed.

The whirlwind was split in half without his blade ever leaving its sheath. An invisible slash in the air, clean, surgical.

How? Yasuo had no idea.

He tried to brake, but it was too late—his lunge passed through empty air, and in the midst of his deceleration, he felt a light touch at the back of his neck.

Simple. Precise. Almost tender.

But the internal impact was devastating.

His body wavered. His knees buckled for a second. A strange dizziness seized his mind like an electric shock. As if Yi had pressed a hidden point, flipped a subtle switch in his nervous system. Yasuo staggered, gasping, eyes wide.

But he didn’t fall.

He shook his head like a dog shaking off water. Gritted his teeth.

Yi was testing him.

He could have ended it. But he didn’t. Why?

Yasuo knew the answer.

Because Yi wanted to see him try.

And Yasuo would try. Even if it destroyed him.

With a roar of effort, he attacked again.

Thrusts. Curved slashes. Low strikes, high strikes, diagonal cuts. He used all the speed he had, all the improvised technique he’d learned from years of training with Yone. But Yi… danced.

It wasn’t just that he anticipated movements.

It was as if he existed in another time.

And maybe he did.

Amrita didn’t reveal its champions’ gifts—only their victories. But Yasuo had studied. The videos he’d watched dozens of times. The fights too fast for the common eye. Those wins that seemed magical—maybe they were.

He’d thought Yi used speed like a flash, like an explosive strike.

But now… now he saw the more terrifying truth:

Yi could access that state even while standing still.

As if time around him were liquid, and he were dry at the storm’s center.

Yasuo sweated, felt his muscles burn, his breath grow shallow, his pulse race until it buzzed in his ears. And Yi?

He slipped between attacks like mist. Dodged by millimeters. No hurry. No noise. Like trying to hit a leaf that reacted to the wind of his movements, never touching the ground.

It was infuriating.

It was too perfect.

Yasuo changed tactics. Attacked with anger, kicking up sand from the ground—a dirty move, an attempt to blind the veteran’s vision, creating an improvised dust curtain. He used the distraction to circle around and strike from the side.

"Yone would say tactics are part of the sword too."

But nothing.

Yi simply wasn’t there.

He disappeared and reappeared meters away, his hair perfectly in place, his expression serene. It didn’t even look like they were fighting. It was almost a lesson in patience—or a silent insult.

“Damn it…” Yasuo spat to the side. “You don’t even make a sound.”

With a yell, he raised his sword again and channeled the wind in circles around the arena. Gusts spun, cutting the ground, crackling in the air. He wanted to trap him, create a whirlwind that would force him to stop, even for a second.

But the veteran… slid through.

As if the very element that obeyed Yasuo loved Yi.

It was humiliating.

Yi slipped between the currents with ease, taking only light steps here and there, his body moving back on its own, flowing with the energy like water in a rapid. Forcing Yasuo to chase him, cursing, slamming his feet against the polished floor.

Yasuo clenched his fist.

I won’t give up.

Not while he’s looking at me like that.

When he finally closed the distance, he went all in.

And that was when he realized: Yi still hadn’t drawn his sword.

Yet, with a bare-handed motion, he parried the attack like it was a child’s toy. And with his other leg, in a simple, almost effortless movement, he swept Yasuo’s feet out from under him with a precise trip.

It was a clean strike.

Sharp.

Cruel.

Yasuo’s body fell like a cut puppet. The sound of his collapse echoed through the arena like thunder without lightning.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Yasuo lay there, staring at the open sky above. Petals from the ancient trees drifted slowly, and he could almost swear he heard the sound of his own pride shattering.

The gap between them wasn’t just skill. It was an entire universe of difference. Between haste and patience. Control. Strategy. Absolute mastery of body, mind, space, and time.

Yasuo didn’t feel this as failure, but as an undeniable truth.

He was so, so far beneath.

He wasn’t ready.

He thought of Yone.

The flawless older brother. The brother who woke early, trained, studied, took care of the house, their mother. Yone was discipline. Yasuo was chaos. It had always been that way.

But Yi…

Yi was something else.

Yi was both.

Furious talent and steel-forged discipline. Lightness and precision.

He was unreachable.

He was terrifying.

The weight of silence broke only when two fingers touched his forehead. A gentle, firm, almost respectful touch. Yi kept him pinned, leaning over him. There was no superiority in the gesture. Just quiet acknowledgment. As if saying: You tried.

“Good attempt,” Yi said, his voice low, clean as the first drop of rain after a wildfire.

Yasuo blinked.

He couldn’t respond immediately. His pride bled. But something warmer grew inside him. Something even defeat couldn’t erase: the will to improve.

When Yi stepped back, leaving the arena’s center with the same lightness he’d entered, Yasuo stayed there for a moment. Breathing. Feeling the sun’s heat on his face. The dust in his mouth. The ache in his bones.

He made a decision. With every fiber of his being.

This wouldn’t be his peak.

It was the beginning.

Lee Sin announced the end of the round, and his classmates applauded. But the sound was distant. Irrelevant.

Yasuo wouldn’t remember the fall. He’d remember the abyss.

And the silent vow born there:

One day, he’d cut that abyss in half.

The sky bled gold and purple as the duels neared their end.

Students dispersed in animated groups, discussing strategies, trading friendly taunts, replaying every strike given and taken in their minds. The training field seemed to breathe easier now, as if exhaling the tension it had held all day.

But Yasuo didn’t speak.

No one dared choose Yi as an opponent after that.

The veteran’s absolute—and silent—victory loomed over the arena like a long shadow, impossible to ignore. Even the proudest among them chose to step back, muttering excuses, averting their eyes. The wind that once hummed between wooden posts and curved roofs now seemed subdued. Respectful.

Yasuo didn’t ask for a second chance.

He didn’t rise trying to mask the pain or play the hero. He walked away from the arena’s center with slow steps, feeling the weight of his body and the weight of defeat merge into a silence that was his alone. He sat near the arena’s edge, by the flower-wrapped pillars, where the sound of wind through leaves drowned out the echoes of the crowd and other fights.

He closed his eyes. Breathed deep.

There was no shame here—not anymore. Just a tangle of thoughts rearranging themselves, trying to fit the reality he’d experienced. The difference between knowing someone was strong and being crushed by them was brutal. But there was beauty in it too. Clarity.

In that touch to his nape. In the precise sweep. In the good attempt.

In the way Yi seemed to move outside of common time.

Yasuo had been obsessed with power his whole life. He wanted to win, to be noticed, to be free. But now… he wanted to understand. The depth of technique, of mind. The fierce peace of that man who defeated without anger.

When the club meeting ended, and his classmates trickled away, only a few lingered, chatting among themselves as robots swept the arena’s edges with bamboo brooms.

Yasuo stood slowly.

He walked to the left stands, now nearly empty. Yi was still there, beside Lee Sin. And it didn’t take much to understand that the younger man wanted to talk.

Yasuo stopped a few steps away. Took a deep breath, his voice steady, unshaken.

“I want to train with you.”

Yi didn’t answer immediately. His gaze didn’t turn. Just silence, absolute as a blade frozen midair.

Yasuo took another step, and the air around them seemed to compress. He wouldn’t beg. He wouldn’t cry. But he’d put everything he was, everything he had, into that choice.

“I know I’m not good enough. Yet.” He said. “Today, I saw how far I have to go. I saw how far ahead you are… but I also saw that I can walk. That I can learn. If you let me, if you guide me—I’ll reach you. Even if it takes everything I have.”

Seconds passed like years.

Then, Yi turned his head. Their eyes met, for the first time, as equals.

Not in skill. But in courage.

Yi studied him like a farmer assessing a field before sowing. There was no rush in his analysis.

The veteran raised a hand and, in a slow motion, nodded.

“Very well.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. But to Yasuo, it felt like he’d won the world.

A breeze passed between them, light. The kind only heard when one is quiet inside.

Yi turned fully then, facing him.

“Tomorrow, at sunrise. Arena 03E.”

Yasuo nodded.

And finally, he felt that the wind wasn’t just noise in his ears.

It was a path.

Chapter Text

The sky dissolved into shades of purple and deep blue, and the breeze drifting through the academy’s outer courtyards carried the subtle scent of hanging flowers. It was the end of the day, and Yasuo’s body protested with every step he took back toward the dormitory.

"We almost died, huh?" Sett murmured, his shirt tied around his head and his shoulders heavy.

"Almost?" Yasuo panted in reply. "I died at least three times. Stubbornness just brought me back."

The two laughed with that exhausted humor that only comes after being crushed by something grand—or by someone like Yi. They would have kept walking to the dorms, had Yasuo not suddenly stopped.

She was there.

Sitting alone at one of the stone tables in the courtyard, under the soft glow of arcane lanterns.

Ahri.

The nine-tailed fox, her hair loose, notebook open, pen spinning idly between her fingers with feigned disinterest. She wrote slowly, her eyes half-lidded, as if the words danced on the tip of her tongue before letting themselves be captured.

Yasuo hesitated. A foolish impulse—maybe just exhaustion mixed with… longing.

"Go on ahead. I… forgot my dignity back there. Gotta go get it," he told Sett, vaguely pointing in the opposite direction.

Sett shot him a sidelong glance, mischievous but silent. He only nodded with a smirk.

"Go on, you hopeless romantic."

Yasuo took a deep breath, ignoring the jab, and veered off his path. His steps carried him to Ahri’s table—light, curious, almost feline. Before announcing himself, he peeked at what she was writing. He couldn’t make much sense of it—just disjointed words, spiraling doodles in the margins, one underlined note in angry strokes: "Karma is hell."

"Snooping isn’t polite, you know?" Her voice cut through the air before he could even speak.

He startled, laughing nervously.

"Ahri! I… just wanted to know if it was poetry or a curse."

She lifted her gaze slowly, a mischievous smile forming on her painted lips. Her eyes gleamed—that dangerous glint of someone who knew far more than they let on.

"Depends on the day." She snapped the notebook shut with a soft click. "So, wind swordsman, how was your blood baptism at the club?"

Yasuo let out a theatrical sigh and dropped onto the bench beside her.

"Let’s just say… Yi is my master now."

Ahri blinked once, twice, then let out a low whistle.

"Congratulations… or my condolences. Haven’t decided yet."

He laughed, but something tightened in his chest. His voice lowered, almost confessional.

"I’m… a little scared, honestly."

"Hm?"

"The gap between us is huge. He dismantled me with a finger. I couldn’t even… do anything worthwhile today."

Ahri studied him with a softer expression. Not pity—never pity—but a kind of tenderness she hid well behind her teasing.

"Did you know Shen hates green gummies?"

Yasuo blinked, confused.

"What?"

"Karma doesn’t like reading. She does it because she has to. Shen, the bastion of discipline, throws green gummies into the garden when he thinks no one’s looking. Ashe snores. Syndra talks to herself. Fiora keeps a diary where she describes the most symmetrical cuts she’s ever made. And Yi…"

She leaned in, her face nearly touching his.

"Yi is severely nearsighted."

Ahri whispered it like an ancient, sacred secret.

"On his first day in the club, he broke his glasses fighting a senior. Spent ten minutes seriously dueling the wind. Literally. Because he couldn’t tell if his opponent was near or far."

Yasuo fell silent. One second. Two.

Then he burst out laughing—the kind of laugh that couldn’t be held back or shamed.

Ahri joined in, her laughter mingling with his, as if the world felt lighter at that table.

"Is that real?"

"According to rumors…" She winked. "Of course, this was back in his first year, so all the seniors from then have graduated. No way to verify now. And I’m sure none of his classmates would dare snitch. But the lesson stands—legends aren’t born from nothing, Yasuo." Her laughter faded into the cool air. "They’re written. They start from the ground up. Like us. Like everyone here."

Yasuo sighed, and this time, it wasn’t from exhaustion. It was almost relief.

"So… there’s hope for me?"

"You still don’t get it?" Ahri nudged his arm. "You’ve already started."

She stood, tucking her notebook into her bag. Before leaving, she turned and winked.

"Oh, and Yi can’t swim. Can you believe it? He’s a god on solid ground, but toss him in a pool… and he’s sushi."

Yasuo smiled, sincere. A grateful smile.

"Thanks, Ahri."

"Don’t thank me yet." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Yi’s gonna break you down until you’re reborn. And when that happens… I expect you to bring me tea during break."

"Deal."

Yasuo watched her walk away, her fox tail swaying gently, as if dancing with the wind.

He leaned back on the bench, eyes on the sky.

He was exhausted.

But he felt lighter.

Yes, the road was long.

And it was good to remember—no one started from nothing.

The sky had faded into deep blue by the time Yasuo crossed the courtyard separating the dormitories. The damp grass softened the sound of his footsteps, and in the center, the great willow tree swayed lazily, its long branches like dreamy fingers brushing the evening air.

In front of the male dormitory, the entrance steps held a familiar—and now, familiar in a different way—figure.

Irelia was there, sitting with her knees together, bare feet resting on the step below. She wrote intently in a hardcover notebook, dark strands of hair falling along the side of her face.

Yasuo had a fleeting thought—he really did seem to have a knack for approaching girls with notebooks.

"If this becomes a trend, I might start carrying a diary too," he announced, half-teasing, half-charmed.

Irelia looked up with a faint smile, as if she’d been expecting him. She didn’t rush to close the notebook or hide what she was writing.

"If you do, let me know. We can have dramatic reading sessions in the garden," she said, tapping the empty space beside her.

Yasuo sat down. His legs still ached from training with Yi, but the lightheartedness Ahri had planted in his chest continued to bloom. Maybe it was post-death relief—or resurrection, as he preferred to see it.

"I was sure I’d find just your sword stabbed into the courtyard with some dramatic note."

"Almost." He adjusted his position beside her, muscles still protesting. "But, you see… I fell with grace."

"Mhm. Sure." Irelia laughed, her eyes glinting with mild sarcasm. "Tell me everything. I’m curious."

And he did.

Of course, he embellished. The bruised ribs became an "honorable reminder," the stumble transformed into a "tactical descent," and Yi—well, he was still a monolith, but at least Yasuo allowed himself the luxury of calling him "my master" with a hint of disguised pride.

Irelia laughed, of course. But she listened. Listened fully, with her whole body, as if she knew each sentence held twice what was said. When he finished, she rested her chin on her hand and sighed.

"Graceful. In your head, at least."

"Dignity is an aesthetic choice," he retorted, raising an eyebrow.

"In the Assassins’ Club, it dies in the first five minutes," Irelia said, tucking her hair back. "The arena was closed. The lights cut out randomly. Stealth test, survival, precision. More targets than I could count. Literally." She flicked her pen as if crossing names off an invisible list.

Yasuo’s eyes widened.

"That sounds… actually assassin-like."

"It was."

"Who runs that? An ogre? A psychopath?"

"Shen."

The name landed like lightning in the center of the courtyard.

Yasuo tried to picture the stoic figure of Shen in that role, but all he could see was that perfect coldness, those eyes that cut through people like glass. If that man had ever smiled, it must have been before the universe began.

"What?!" Yasuo nearly choked. "Shen, the poster boy of Amrita? ‘Discipline above all’ Shen?"

"The very one."

"The guy who throws green gummies in the garden?"

Irelia laughed loudly, a sound as sharp as the blades she wielded.

"That’s amazing. Thanks for telling me."

"And the worst part," she continued, leaning in as if sharing something the willow tree shouldn’t overhear, "is that he’s terrifying in there. Disappears. His strikes could shatter someone’s soul, I swear. Good thing seniors don’t spar with freshmen."

"Lucky you," Yasuo muttered, more to himself.

Silence lingered for a moment. The night itself seemed to listen.

"Find out anything else?" he asked.

Irelia raised an eyebrow.

"You think I spend all day just writing poetry? Please. I collect intel."

And then she began.

"First, what everyone knows: the Amrita Triad. Shen, Yi, and Karma. They represent three facets of what they call ‘balance’—the immutable, the adaptable, and the merciful."

"Charming~"

"Right. They uphold the institution’s public image. Everything revolves around the symbolism of immortality. The crystal. The lotus flower. You’ve noticed, right? The entire academy’s structure is built around it. They don’t just want to train mages or warriors. They want to forge… legacies. And they say Amrita is obsessed with transcending death."

"Ironic, considering we have a psychopath for a teacher..." Yasuo grumbled before asking slowly, "And the official rival?"

"Sharur." Irelia answered without hesitation. "Almost everything we do here, they replicate. Or try to surpass."

But then she leaned in. And her tone shifted.

Lower. Darker.

"But…" she continued, "what I found isn’t public knowledge. I talked to Shen. Charm, tact, the finesse Zelos taught me."

Yasuo chuckled.

"You used your brother as an excuse again?"

"Of course. And it worked. Combined with things I already knew, and… well. I uncovered some gems."

She turned fully toward him, as if each revelation carried real weight.

"All three in the Triad have a deep connection to the spirit world. Not just ‘strength’ or ‘discipline.’ They’re like conduits—that’s what makes them so absurdly powerful."

"That explains so much," Yasuo murmured, remembering how he’d felt facing Yi.

"Karma is the most politically influential. Also the gentlest. Not any less powerful, but… different. Strategic."

"And Shen?"

"Has an adoptive brother in Sharur. He avoided the name, but someone in the club shouted ‘Zed’ before being silenced. Captain of their assassins’ club. The tension was palpable."

Yasuo let out a low whistle.

"That reeks of conflict. A fractured brotherhood."

"Yes. And as for Yi… I asked about you, of course. Heard some things."

She paused. And when she spoke again, her voice was quieter, like a secret.

"Yi disappears every weekend. Never says where he’s going. Shen grumbles about it but doesn’t interfere. When I asked, Shen brushed it off as ‘youthful indiscipline.’"

Yasuo stayed quiet. The distant rustle of leaves seemed louder, more present.

"I found out he grew up in a gated compound in the capital. Traditional, secretive—internal bureaucracy keeps almost everyone out. A spiritual stronghold, from what I’ve heard."

"Sounds like the kind of place that shapes you down to the bone," Yasuo remarked, serious.

"One of his old classmates mentioned… a tragedy. Something that happened there. Never went public, but early in his second year, Yi changed. His technique grew aggressive. Intense. Almost violent. And when the classmate brought it up…"

"Shen stepped in?"

"Like a wall. Silence fell like a spell. He publicly reprimanded the guy and ended the club meeting early. No one dared bring it up again."

Yasuo dragged a hand down his face, feeling the weight of that revelation settle like mist over his shoulders.

"So… they protect each other. The seniors."

"All of them." Irelia closed her notebook with a soft snap. "Amrita does too. This place has more secrets than rules. And it won’t be easy uncovering anything… without stepping on their turf."

Yasuo didn’t answer immediately. He looked at the willow tree, its branches swaying gently in the warm night breeze. For a moment, he felt small against the vastness surrounding him. But also… challenged.

"Then let’s step," he murmured.

Irelia laughed, standing up.

"Lightly, swordsman. Or the ground will answer."

Chapter Text

Yi woke up early. Always.

Before the bells, before the lanterns flickered to life in the corridors, before daylight dared to touch Amrita’s high windows.

It was habit. Discipline. But it was also escape.

He had a taste for silence.

In the absence of sound, his thoughts had room to align like blades. And Yi liked to align everything—movements, gestures, the deviations of fate. He was methodical, almost to a fault. But no one reached where he had without being a little fanatical about order.

He was about to graduate. A semester, maybe two, and the cycle would close.

Yi expected no great surprises that year. Not out of weariness—he didn’t permit himself that luxury—but because, by then, nearly everything was familiar. He was in the final stretch before graduation, his merit sheet too full to fit on Amrita’s boards. Admiration came easily, greetings were automatic, and the professors already treated him as a peer rather than a student.

There was peace in that. A routine as predictable as the blade at his hip.

Too much peace.

On long nights, when his head hit the pillow before sleep, Yi sometimes thought of home.

Not clearly. Not with visible nostalgia.

But like someone remembering the taste of water from an old well.

Warm in summer. Icy at dawn.

The scent of damp wood. The muffled sound of voices behind closed doors.

A kind of memory he pushed to the back of his mind—as if even his own body were forbidden to dwell on it.

Some pains, Yi kept under lock and key.

And he carried the weight like he carried his posture: without complaint.

In Amrita’s halls, his steps were the firmest.

And yet...

The year surprised him.

There was tranquility in living among books and blades. Yi had always believed a serene spirit was like a still-surfaced lake: calm above, deep beneath. He spent his days studying, refining technique, correcting stances, and memorizing treatises on the art of the cut. After curfew, he'd slip away with Lee Sin for clandestine card games in Shen's dorm—who, despite feigning austerity, always ended up opening the door with a resigned sigh. Juvenile folly, of course. But follies too could be sacred rituals.

He’d already accepted this would be a quiet year. An elegant close to a solid path.

Then the boy arrived.

Yasuo.

There was something in that name. Something that itched at his memory, like a forgotten melody playing faintly. Yi noticed the unruly hair first—a whirlwind trapped in a body that didn’t yet know it was a temple. Then came the gaze: stubborn, proud, a chin lifted higher than his legs could sustain, half-arrogant... an uncomfortable mix of hunger for discipline and disdain for authority. But what caught his attention most was the sword.

It wasn’t rare for freshmen to carry blades. It was rare for them to believe in them.

Yasuo believed. In a crooked, imperfect way. A faith without form yet, but burning.

At the first ceremony, Yasuo had been... impulsive. Asking to be his apprentice then and there, in front of everyone, offering nothing but his own recklessness?

Ridiculous.

But also... honest.

And Yi valued honesty, even when wrapped in youthful pride.

He refused, of course. Not out of scorn—but because it wasn’t time. He asked Ahri to watch from afar, with her teasing, charming way. The girl was like smoke: everywhere, smiling, hearing more than she should.

Yi knew how to use the tools at hand.

(Among seniors, this was called "unofficial supervision.")

A redundant gesture, since she’d do it anyway. But Yi wanted to know. Wanted to see.

And he saw.

Saw the boy fail. Saw him run, sweat, stumble. Saw Jhin torment him with shots and metaphors. And still, he kept going. Clumsy. Arrogant. Full of flaws that should’ve been corrected with steel and discipline. But he didn’t flee. Never.

That, Yi respected.

The name kept nagging. Yasuo. A sound too familiar. Until, one predawn, flipping through a compendium of defensive tactics with one eye on his phone and his hair in a lazy bun, Yi understood.

Of course. It was obvious.

On the other side of the screen, Yone complained about Labrys’ coffee. "Undrinkable," he said. Yi sent a photo of his own chrysanthemum tea with the caption: education starts with the mouth. The kind of jab Yone pretended to hate. He’d grumble back, but he always replied.

Their conversations were a quiet constant. A ritual, four days a week, sometimes more, sometimes less—they tried to limit it. Focus on studies.

They traded barbs as naturally as they dueled. There was something intimate in that exchange—not romantic, well... not always—but complicit. Yi knew Yone’s quirks better than some families knew each other. Knew when he was lying just by response time. Knew when he was worried by the drier tone.

It was during one such exchange that Yi asked, bluntly:

"Do you have a brother?"

Silence. Then:

"Had."

Just that.

But Yi already knew. Of course he knew. Not from records—he’d never break protocol. But from the gestures. The little repetitions.

Even the disdain for mushrooms was the same—Yasuo wrinkled his nose like a spoiled cat, something Yi noticed the first time the boy invaded his table at lunch. He’d laughed. Filed it away.

That boy had a model. Someone he mimicked with involuntary dedication.

And Yi knew that model.

Knew the tics.

The way he masked hesitation with a cynical smile.

The habit of kicking innocent pebbles when irritated.

The stupid quirk of silently judging others’ stances, as if it improved his own.

Yasuo spun his sword twice before an offensive move—exactly twice—just as Yone had in his first year.

And when asked about family, he averted his eyes with such bad acting it was almost endearing.

Yi didn’t comment. Preferred silence. But there was a pang there.

Yone hadn’t lied.

But he hadn’t told, either.

Maybe he’d even mentioned it before. But in such absurd, fragmented ways—talking about a "problem" that followed him everywhere. That slept in the wrong places. That ate his food at dawn. That sprawled through the house. That complained, fought, existed.

At the time, Yi thought it was a cat.

Literally.

And for a while, he’d wondered if that was really it.

Yone, eventually, clarified. More or less. Dropped the name, made a dry remark. Apparently, it was a delicate subject. And Yi respected boundaries. Always had.

But... still.

He wished he’d known. Earlier.

Maybe it shouldn’t matter. But it did. Because it was Yone.

And Yone was never just a friend.

The rest came like a current.

The first spar at the Battle Club.

Yasuo chose him.

Could’ve picked Fiora, of course. More predictable. More merciful. (Lie: Fiora was an elegant hurricane.)

But he chose Yi. With the courage of someone who didn’t yet grasp the depth of the chasm.

Yi didn’t hesitate.

Accepted the duel. Measured his steps. Evaded the blade with a subtle shift of his hips. Tapped Yasuo’s forehead with two fingers—a gesture almost paternal, almost cruel.

The boy fell. But he fell seeing.

And that was enough.

When he heard the request repeated, this time at dusk, Yasuo’s eyes still bright with exertion, Yi knew he’d lost. In the good way. He surrendered with a sigh. Almost smiled.

"Very well."

Yes. Yasuo was Yone’s brother.

But Yi pretended not to know. Out of respect? Amusement? Strategy?

Maybe all of it.

Later, alone in his room—one of the few luxuries of sloppiness he allowed, hair in a messy braid, phone in hand—Yi reviewed counterattack strategies while his other, quieter life blinked on screen.

Yi: He survived Jhin’s class. Rumor says he almost became a carpet.

Yone: Don’t care.

Yi: You read this far.

Yone: Go to sleep.

Yi smiled. Curled under the blanket, phone beside him—he knew it wouldn’t take long. As always, the notification returned.

Yone: Does he still spin his sword twice before attacking?

A short, quiet laugh. He typed, unhurried:

Yi: Yes. Like it’ll change the world. Your fault.

Yone: He thinks it does. (But only when someone’s watching.)

Yi: He asked to be my apprentice.

Silence. Five whole minutes—too long for someone who "didn’t care." Then:

Yone: And you?

Yi: I accepted.

Another pause.

Yone: Good luck. He’s a nightmare.

Yi: I like nightmares with potential.

Yone: He’s an idiot.

Yi: So’s his brother.

Yone typed. Stopped. Deleted. Rewrote.

Yone: ...Even more of one.

Yi laughed into his pillow.

Yone: Will you go easy on him?

For a moment, he stared at the ceiling before answering.

Yi: Never.

He sighed. With that half-smile no one saw.

The phone buzzed again.

Yone: Free this weekend?

The question was dry, almost indifferent. A lone phrase, no emojis, no period. As usual. But Yi knew the invisible tone beneath. That slight hesitation disguised as disdain. The poorly hidden expectation.

He typed, eyes still on the ceiling.

Yi: Have to study.

The reply came fast, like a shove.

Yone: You study all week.

He smiled, already picturing the other’s expression—the huff, the faint frown, the corner of his mouth twitching in annoyance. Too easy to predict.

Yi: Now that I’m officially mentor to a walking hurricane, I have to set an example. Also, training him Saturday.

Yone: You pretend to be composed, but I know you’re thrilled. You’ll even tie your hair properly tomorrow.

Yi laughed. A low, nasal sound muffled in the sheets.

Rolled his eyes with exaggerated flair and typed faux disdain:

Yi: Idiot.

The reply came in seconds:

Yone: Hack.

Banter. An old dance. A language of their own, refined over time. Sharp words that, between them, had always been care in disguise.

A pause. Yi was about to lock the screen when the last message arrived:

Yone: At least go out at night. Sleep in the capital. Amrita’s trains run 24 hours—no excuses. Sunday still exists.

Yi sighed. Didn’t answer immediately. Thought of the distant city lights, the softer mattress at home—dinner with his parents, petting the neighbor’s cat, a Sunday spent busy.

Well. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t expected it.

He closed his eyes and typed the last thing of the night:

Yi: Goodnight.

Locked the screen.

Set the phone aside, settling into the sheets with lazy slowness. The room held the chill of predawn, the distant sound of wind against the windows almost a lullaby.

And Yasuo, asleep in the freshman dorms, had no idea the man he’d now call "master" traded confidences with the brother he’d sworn to forget.

But Yi wasn’t a hypocrite.

He wanted to see him grow.

And maybe, he also wanted to see how far Yasuo could go unshaped. Without Yone as the archetype. Without Yi as the mirror. He wanted to see what lay at the core of that chaos. If there was a hero there. Or a disaster.

Or both.

By morning, no one would notice Yi had slept little.

He’d be there, punctual as ever, sword at his hip, breath steady.

But inside, he’d carry that quiet, living expectation:

"Now, Yasuo will begin to know the path of the sun."

And Yi would be there to see. With attention. With demand. With respect.

And with the kind of care only a true master knows how to hide too well.

Chapter Text

Yasuo had been so excited, so full of anticipation, that he had completely forgotten the cruelest part of the deal.

"Training at sunrise."

When he heard those words during the ceremony days prior, he had nodded like someone signing a peace treaty—moved, honored, nearly teary-eyed. The problem was, on that Saturday morning, as he stared at the still-dark sky and the merciless alarm blared at 4:40 AM, he wanted to void the contract. Who in their right mind woke up this early on a weekend? Yi, apparently.

At Amrita, weekends were—with many air quotes—"free." The school didn’t require mandatory attendance for classes, but it expected students to be responsible enough to study or train on their own. "Responsibility as spiritual discipline," read the signs in the hallways.

He dragged himself to the dorm bathroom with the grace of a rock tumbling downhill. Half-asleep, he showered, combed his hair in the dark, and dressed in his uniform with ritualistic laziness. His sleeves were crooked, his collar was askew, and a stubborn bit of sleep still clung to the corner of his eye. But he was ready.

Thanks to Ahri—who always seemed to know what he needed before he did—he’d discovered that intuitive maps were scattered throughout Amrita.

Designed specifically for directionally challenged students.

In other words, for Yasuo.

One of them was in the central dormitory courtyard. Arena 03E, where training would take place, was in the east wing—the area Sett, in his mocking wisdom, called "the seniors' corner." It was where the older students gathered, the zone of respectful silence, or, in Sett’s own words: "where fists fly, but with elegance."

Yasuo perked up. Underground, refined, inspired by the classic arenas of Ionia—or so the rumors said. The perfect place to begin his personal legend.

He bounced down the hallway.

The elevator was magic-powered. Yasuo let out a silent "wow" when he realized it didn’t shake, didn’t make noise, and even emitted a faint scent of tea leaves.

The east wing corridors had wide pillars draped in living tapestries, with handwoven branches swaying gently in the enchanted breeze. Everything felt sacred. The silence here wasn’t empty—it was full. A silence with weight.

When he reached Arena 03E, what he saw stole his breath.

The ceiling had a natural light that mimicked the morning sky, even though they were meters underground. Magic, of course. But it felt like more—it felt like a miracle. The floor was polished wood. The stands rose in a solemn semicircle, empty. And at the center of the arena, already waiting—of course—was Yi.

Seated in lotus position, eyes half-closed, hands resting on his knees.

Meditating.

Or sleeping with perfect posture. Hard to tell.

It was a beautiful, almost sacred image. Yasuo descended the stairs slowly, humming softly to quell the nervous flutter in his stomach. When he got close, he waved enthusiastically.

"Good morning, Master!"

Yi opened his eyes. They were calm, attentive. But there was a thread of quiet amusement there.

"You’re on time. I’m surprised."

"I’m punctual when it matters," Yasuo said with a smug grin.

"Good. Then you have no excuse to fail."

Yi rose in a single motion, as if his body weighed nothing. He walked to the side and picked up two wooden training swords. Tossed one to Yasuo with mathematical precision and pointed at the real sword strapped to the boy’s hip.

"Leave it outside the arena."

"But…" Yasuo hesitated, touching the hilt of his weapon. "I thought—"

"You don’t need style right now. You need structure."

With no room for argument, Yasuo carefully set his sword by the stairs and approached.

By now, Yasuo was absolutely certain nothing else could shake him. Not after everything. He was where he wanted to be: at Amrita. He was himself. Yasuo. A name that was starting to echo through the halls.

He had friends, a foundation. He had Ahri, his partner in laughter and absurd plans. He had Irelia, his advisor and emotional anchor. He had Sett, who shared with him the sacred gift of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

And now, he had Yi.

Senior Yi. The Legendary. The Unbeatable. The Unbreakable. 

The fastest with a blade and the calmest with a cup of jasmine tea.

Inside, he was screaming. It was like his life had become one of those heroic tales he’d heard as a child. He was training with Yi! Before or after classes, he’d have exclusive sessions! He’d learn the secrets of the Spiritual Sword from the legendary swordsman himself! He’d surpass everyone! He’d be a prodigy, he’d—

Thwack!

The pain came before the sound.

The tip of the wooden sword struck his temple with the subtlety of a lightning bolt. Yasuo staggered, nearly falling on his backside.

"Ow!"

He hadn’t expected that.

Not at all.

He stared at Yi in disbelief. The older man hadn’t even moved. He just returned to his basic stance, as if nothing had happened.

"Wrong posture," Yi said, serene.

"It was just a small thing!" Yasuo protested.

Thwack.

Another strike. Fast. Precise. Surgical.

"Unbalanced spirit."

And so began hell.

Disguised as training.

Yasuo wasn’t sure what he’d imagined.

Maybe something cinematic. Gleaming swords. Cutting winds. Cool poses.

Not this.

Posture wrong?

Thwack.

Talked too much?

Thwack.

Frowned or huffed?

Thwack.

Thought in the wrong place?

Thwack.

And then Yasuo understood.
Or rather—began to understand.

Yi wasn’t… what he’d imagined. He wasn’t the gentle, enigmatic master from a martial arts novel. He wasn’t the ancestral sage who spilled metaphors while patting his head.

He was…

Strict.

Stricter than Yone.

Yone corrected him, yes. He was demanding. But at least he looked apologetic when he pushed him during training or gave lectures with the air of an older brother.

Compared to Yi?

Yone was a monk, an angel embroidered in silk.

Because Yi didn’t lecture.

He struck. Always with that absurd precision. He corrected, with patience. With persistence. He wasn’t cruel. But he was unyielding. He didn’t humiliate. But he didn’t relent either. He never raised his voice. Never. Gently, yet intensely, he seemed to genuinely believe Yasuo was capable of more.

And the worst part? Yi didn’t even seem angry. He corrected like someone pruning a bonsai.

"You’re too tense."

Thwack! Temple.

"IT’S SATURDAY MORNING!"

Yi looked at him. A long, calm, unhurried look. Then he replied softly:

"Blades don’t know what day of the week it is."

Yasuo was convinced he had a goose egg the size of a pigeon on the side of his head. By the sixth time the wooden thwack echoed, he let out a dramatic groan and dropped to his knees.

"This is torture," he grumbled, rubbing his temple.

Yi just watched.

Head slightly tilted, like someone observing a stubborn dog trying to bite its own tail.

"You’re really rigid, you know that?" Yasuo continued, massaging his temple. "My old teacher hit me with words. You prefer blunt objects."

"If your teacher only used words, he failed. With you, words go in one ear and out the other."

Yi crouched with feline fluidity. Pointed at Yasuo’s chest.

"You’re in too much of a hurry. You don’t see the path ahead because you want to reach the end too fast."

"Of course I do! I want to graduate, be the best. Win tournaments. Shine..."

"Then train in silence. The spirit doesn’t shine by shouting. It shines when it’s steady enough to be a beacon."

Yasuo fell quiet.

For the first time, not out of fear of the sword, but because… it was a shock.

"Again," Yi said. "But this time, close your eyes. Listen to your body. Don’t force it."

"I’m not forcing—"

"You are. Even your forehead is screaming."

"It’s just my face."

"Your face is wrong."

Yasuo bit his lip to keep from laughing—or crying. He wasn’t sure.

He started over.

Tried to listen.
Tried to feel.

The wood of the sword. The floor beneath his feet. The breath in his chest.

The next few minutes passed at a different rhythm.

More silence. Fewer thwacks.

Yi didn’t praise. But he didn’t strike either. And coming from him, that was almost a medal.

When they paused, Yi went to the side of the arena, picked up a small glass vial with a ceramic lid, and handed it to Yasuo.

"Mix it in hot water. One spoonful. Before bed. It’ll help with the pain."

Yasuo stared at the vial like he’d been handed a trophy.

"This is… for me?"

Yi blinked once, slowly.

"No. It’s a gift for your classmate. Of course it’s for you, boy."

Yasuo smiled—exhausted, sore, nearly delirious.

With a sigh, he stood. His knees ached, his shoulders were tense, and his pride… well, that had stayed outside the arena, along with his stylish sword.

He closed his eyes.

Breathed in.

Breathed out.

Tried not to think. Not about Yi, not about the pain, not about the cold floor under his bare feet. Just… existed.

When he moved, it was different. His arm wasn’t forcing—it flowed. His grip on the sword was less greedy. His feet didn’t seek speed—they sought balance. It was still Yasuo, of course. A little flashy, a little impulsive, full of mistakes. But there, even if just for a moment, was the seed of what Yi saw.

When he finished the simple sequence of movements, he opened his eyes and looked at his master.

Yi didn’t smile. But he didn’t correct him either.
He just nodded.
And that was enough.

"Was that… better?" Yasuo ventured.

"It was."

Yasuo’s chest swelled with pride.

"But you’re still crooked," Yi added, balancing his wooden sword on one finger.

"Can’t you just say ‘good job’?"

"I could. But it wouldn’t be true. ‘Good job’ comes after a thousand tries. This was… acceptable."

Yasuo huffed but smiled. Acceptable was practically praise, coming from him.
Now he understood why Ahri had hesitated to congratulate him.

It wasn’t until the eighteenth correction—and the eighteenth thwack!—that Yasuo began to grasp what Yi truly meant.

It wasn’t just about the sword. Or posture. Or the exact way to move his feet. It was about listening. Really listening. Understanding.

And apparently, pain was an excellent teaching aid.

That was how, purely out of the desire to not get hit anymore, Yasuo finally focused. Truly. Not with his head full of dreams and epic soundtracks. But with an annoyed, almost revelatory clarity that said: "Okay, if I mess up, I’m getting hit again, so I’d better not mess up."

And it worked.

When his next move came out clean—steady stance, proper breathing, aligned sword—something shifted in Yi’s gaze.

The senior didn’t smile. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t make a grand gesture. But he said, in his ever-balanced voice:

"Better. You’re starting to listen."

Yasuo nearly dropped to his knees again—this time from pure joy. That was almost a compliment! Almost!

"Did you just say I did well?"

Yi raised an eyebrow, nearly smiling.

"Saying that would be dangerous. Might make you forget everything by tomorrow."

"See? All it took was hitting me enough," Yasuo panted, sweating in places he didn’t know could sweat. "Can we do this again tomorrow? Or maybe tonight? I can take it!"

Yi arched a brow. Placed the wooden sword back on the side of the arena with the care of someone concluding a ceremony. Then he crossed his arms and replied lightly:

"No."

"Come on!" Yasuo protested, flopping onto the floor with the clumsy enthusiasm of someone who’d forgotten how to stand. "It was just getting good!"

"Rest is part of training," Yi said calmly. "The body needs breaks. The mind too. And I have business in the capital."

"Like what?" Yasuo asked, suspicious.

“Weekend with family.” Yi turned to grab his cloak. “Even a senior needs that.”

"Family, huh? You totally seem like the type to drink jasmine tea on Sundays."

"I do. And meditate. And sleep. You should too. While you can."

Yasuo raised an eyebrow.

"Master’s advice?"

“Senior’s advice. Enjoy your weekends while there’s no battles. Because they’ll come. And then, you’ll wish you’d rested more.”

The silence that followed was different from before. Not the tense silence of expectation, but a comfortable, mature one.

Yasuo nodded, without irony.

"Understood."

Yi gave a slight wave and disappeared down the hall of living tapestries, as if floating.

Alone in the arena now, Yasuo sighed deeply, lay back down, and stared at the enchanted sky on the ceiling.

Okay, he thought. Maybe waking up at 4:40 AM on a Saturday is worth it. For this.

His body ached. His temples throbbed. His ego had taken a beating with more dignity than he’d thought possible. But for some reason he couldn’t explain… he was happy.
Really happy.

He was here. Training. Learning. Getting hit. But standing firm.

Chapter Text

Rest.

The word echoed like a taunt. Yi had said it with the same unyielding serenity of someone offering water to a bound, thirsty man. Advice. But it had sounded like an order. The kind that couldn’t be argued with. The kind that carried the weight of a "don’t you dare disobey."

Yasuo could still feel the heat of training evaporating from his skin. His hands burned with the urge to break something. But there was something in Yi’s voice—something deeper, scratching where anger couldn’t reach—that made him stop.

Breathe.
Think.
Sleep?

Not now. Not yet.

First, he thought of home.

But going home meant dealing with Yone.

And he didn’t want to deal with Yone.

His older brother was always home on weekends. Without fail. Religiously. Like a clock hand that never slipped. Every Saturday morning, Yone returned. Rigid as ever, predictable as an old timepiece—and Yasuo hated clocks.

Not that he hated his brother.

Or maybe he did. A little.

It was hard to put into words.

A bitter mix of longing and resentment.
Of missing and frustration.
Of "why are you like this?" and "why can’t I be different?"

Yone wasn’t cruel. Never had been.
Not truly arrogant, either.

But every serious glance, every measured word, every rehearsed silence—all of it felt like an invisible wall between them.

A fortress built from small gestures.

And Yasuo still didn’t know—or maybe didn’t want to know—how to climb it.

So, no.

He didn’t want to see Yone now.

Not tomorrow.

Not anytime soon.

Going home meant reopening wounds that still ached out of reflex.

Meant facing that damned chamomile tea always warm on the table, as if Yone could guess everything—and say nothing.

Meant confronting the unspoken questions living in his eyes.

No.

Today, he’d stay away.
At least for Saturday.

Because, yes, Yone always vanished on Sundays.
Who knew where.

That irritated him, too. The way he’d disappear like smoke. No explanations, no messages, no care for whether Yasuo thought he might be dead in a ditch or trapped in some ancient temple.

Gone.

As if Yasuo were nothing.

Not that it bothered him.

No, of course not.

He wasn’t some kid needing explanations.

He didn’t need anyone.

Least of all Yone.

Anyway. He needed to figure out what to do on Saturday. And then the idea struck like sunlight piercing fog.

Explore Amrita.

Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? After all, Amrita wasn’t just the Academy. It was a city disguised as a school.

The faculty even called the surrounding area the "second city." And it made sense—no one could stand being locked in that temple-school in the middle of nowhere, an hour from the capital, without going insane.

Around the institution, there was everything. Cafés with poetic names, libraries smelling of incense, parks where students trained—or pretended to study—public pools, little tea and crystal shops, teahouses where time seemed to move backward, small homes tucked into winding streets where real people lived real lives.

It was a dream.

A magical simulation of real life.

And Yasuo wanted to see it all.

His spirits lifted. For the first time that day—maybe that entire week—there was something that didn’t hurt to think about.

He returned to the dorm. Tossed his sweaty clothes into the hamper, ignoring the warning about punishment for mess. Turned on the shower. The hot water fell like an apology for the last few hours. He didn’t forgive it, but he let the heat soften his muscles, wash away the metallic taste still lingering in his mouth.

Then, he prepared the tea.

The herbs were in the bundle Yi had left. A small scroll tied with twine, as if the senior had guessed Yasuo would meddle early. His handwriting was a mix of patience and threat: "Use before sleeping."

Yasuo wasn’t good with rules.

So he used it now.

He mixed the leaves like he’d seen his grandmother do back when the world was still simple. A bit of wormwood, dried lotus flower, and some strange powder that smelled like winter. The aroma filled the room, and for a moment, he almost felt safe.

Almost.

He took a sip. Grimaced.

It tasted awful.

But the pain in his shoulders seemed to retreat, timid.

He left the cup half-finished on the desk and grabbed his phone.

Two names were already pinned at the top of his messages.

IRELIA
SETT

His partners in escape, laughter, chaos.

He typed without overthinking:

"Thinking of heading out. Wanna explore Amrita with me?"

Sent it before doubt could catch up.

Before the old voices could say it was better to stay.

The replies came fast.

Irelia, as expected, answered with near-military precision:

Irelia: Exploring could give us tactical advantage. I want to map the surroundings. I’m in.

Yasuo laughed. That was so… her. Dedicated enough to turn even a stroll into battle strategy. But he knew. Behind the calculated front, there was excitement. A disguised spark between the straight lines of discipline.

Sett was direct, as always:

Sett: Hell yeah. But I’m out by sunset. Gotta pack for Ma’s place.

It was impossible not to smile. Even in brute force, Sett had a way of balancing the world—like a wall that knew when to become shelter.

Marked, then.

Yasuo dressed with a faint awkwardness he’d never admit under torture. It was the first time he wasn’t wearing Amrita’s uniform since arriving. No formal embroidery, no ancient emblems stitched with magic, no ceremonial academy colors. Just regular clothes.

Casual. Free.

Sett was in the underground training hall when Yasuo went to find him.

Rumor had it he’d annoyed Lee Sin so much the senior allowed a lightning-round spar just to shut him up. Yasuo arrived in time to see the finale: Sett spinning midair like a bear on fire, landing one last hit before grinning, sweaty and satisfied.

"Ready?" Yasuo asked, arms crossed.

"Born ready," Sett replied. "Just needed to punch something before dealing with too many people."

He laughed, took a two-minute shower, and strolled out of the locker room like the world was his stage.

In the courtyard between dorms, Irelia was already waiting, seated under the shade of an enchanted cherry tree, its leaves floating in slow motion as if trapped in a dream. She wore light pants, a wine-red jacket, and that gaze that always seemed to weigh intentions and trajectories.

"You’re late," she said, not getting up.

"Sett’s fault," Yasuo replied.

"Always is," they said in unison. And laughed.

The trio headed for the bridge leading to the second city. It was never just an extension of the academy. It was more. A transition zone. A place where rules were looser, where life seemed to flow with more color and less hierarchy.

The bridge was long, suspended by stone arches that glowed gold when touched by light. Below, a dense, living forest stretched like a green sea. Towering trees with leaves as large as curtains mingled with flowers that never wilted—always blooming, always exhaling scents that smelled like memories that never existed.

Eternal spring.

The cable car slid soundlessly along enchanted wires, gliding through the air with impossible smoothness. From up there, they could see the glittering lights of the "city" in the distance—small houses and shops woven together by curved streets, cafés with rice-paper verandas, alleys that seemed to hide stories and secrets.

"This place…" Yasuo murmured, standing by the glass edge. "...doesn’t feel real."

"That’s the point," Irelia said. "To remind us we’re still part of something bigger. That there’s life beyond Amrita’s walls."

"And decent food," Sett added. "I can smell grilled meat from here."

When they arrived, they were swallowed by another reality.

The air was lighter. Warmer.

Laughter filled the streets. Music echoed from unknown instruments—some like liquid flutes, others like singing stones. Children darted between stalls of sweets and floating toys, while adults sat at shared tables, trading stories and tea.

In the squares, artists performed impromptu shows: dancers with enchanted veils, acrobats who floated for seconds before touching ground again, musicians wearing masks of legendary beasts.

"Nothing like Amrita," Yasuo said, mesmerized.

Sett was already chewing something by the time they noticed. Some kind of spiced meat and golden mushroom stuffed in bread.

"We should come here every weekend," he mumbled, mouth full.

Yasuo looked at them both. Saw in them a kind of family he hadn’t chosen but, somehow, would choose again if he could.

Maybe that was what Yi had meant by "rest."

Not sleeping.
Not stopping.

But letting yourself remember who you are when no one’s watching.

The café looked like it had been plucked from a carefully polished dream.

The doors opened with the soft chime of enchanted bells, and the escaping aroma was a warm blend of spices, burnt sugar, and fresh leaves. The interior was a delicate composition of dark wood, velvet, and stained glass that cast colored light on the floor. Every table seemed to tell a story. Every corner exhaled sweet secrets.

They tried to contain their youthful excitement when faced with the menu. They’d walked in smiling, masking that childlike giddiness that only surfaces when stepping into a place too beautiful to feel real. Their eyes danced between the elaborate names, the steep prices, and the little golden illustrations on the menu’s pages.

Then Yasuo saw her.

Ahri.

Sitting at a corner table beside Karma, both notable for entirely opposite reasons in that moment.

Karma sat upright, serene, sipping plain tea—probably unsweetened. Her gaze, though calm, seemed to carry the weight of an entire world folded inside her cup. She watched Ahri with affectionate concern, like someone tending to a storm they’d chosen not to control.

Ahri, on the other hand, was a carnival in human form.

She was surrounded by a fortress of sweets. There were colorful milkshakes, mini-cakes, caramel-rimmed coffees, donuts stacked into unstable towers, and an obscene amount of whipped cream spilling over everything. She chewed like the universe would end before her next bite. Lips smeared with pink frosting, eyes half-lidded with childlike bliss.

Yasuo froze. The contrast between them was comical—and yet fascinating.

Ahri noticed his stare. Smiled.

And waved her fingers at him, carefree, gorgeous, and messy.

Yasuo blinked, stunned. Waved back with a small, automatic gesture.

"What was that?" Sett muttered, peering over his shoulder.

"Not sure if I just saw a goddess or a toddler unleashed in a candy shop," Yasuo replied, still in shock.

"Both," Irelia concluded.

Soon, they refocused. Irelia opened the menu like she was consulting a war tome.

"They have traditional Demacian recipes here," she said, pointing to a section with elegant calligraphy. "And some from Ixtal, too. That’s rare."

Yasuo skimmed the pages slowly, his stomach preparing for something almost sacred.

Until he saw it.

Strawberry pancakes with whipped cream.

Ever since he was little, that had always electrified him. When his mother announced she’d make them, he’d bounce around, restless, circling the kitchen like a storm of bare feet. He’d always get his lips dirty. Always laugh too loud. And she—patient, tireless—would wipe him clean with a napkin and a kiss.

And when she was too tired, Yone would make them instead.

Without a word, he’d just repeat the ritual.

Yasuo would grumble, nitpick, say they were undercooked, dry, "you always burn them, idiot." But he’d eat every bite. And when Yone wasn’t looking, he’d sneak more.

He’d never admit it.

But his brother’s pancakes tasted almost as good as their mother’s.

Nowadays, he pretended to hate them.

"These are soggy," he’d say.
"Too dry," he’d complain.
"You always burn them, moron."

But his mouth would start chewing before he finished the sentence.

Yone wasn’t here.

But his absence took up an entire space in that café.

Like the scent of an old room.

Like a forgotten teacup left on the table.

"You getting that?" Sett asked, pointing at the pancakes.

Yasuo hesitated. For a second, he thought saying yes would be surrendering. But then he realized resisting was its own kind of weight. And he was tired of weights.

"Yeah. The pancakes," he said. "And hibiscus tea."

"You and your old-lady tastes," Sett teased.

"Respect your elders."

Irelia smiled. Said nothing, but was glad to see him smiling.

They sat by the window, where they could watch the world outside.

The waiter floated over to take their orders. As they waited, they talked about trivial things: a bet between freshmen, an upcoming inter-academy duel, the possibility of Yi being a disguised android.

And when the pancakes arrived—steaming, golden, piled with glistening strawberries and whipped cream like clouds—Yasuo felt his heart slow.

He took the first bite.
Closed his eyes.

And for a moment, she was there again—his mother, with warm hands and a sweet laugh. And just behind her, in a corner of memory, Yone, pretending not to care but watching with that tired look that said: it’s fine, idiot. Just eat.

Yasuo smiled.

Swallowed carefully, like swallowing a time that wouldn’t return.

The pancakes had been devoured slowly, as if savoring was also a way to guard the memories.

Conversation flowed easily between sips of tea and muffled laughter. There was something about that afternoon—maybe the sugar, maybe the softer silence around the café—that made everything feel suspended, as if time were breathing with them.

Irelia wiped her fingers with an enchanted napkin when she said, casually:

"I think I’ll go home, too…" Like she was commenting on the weather. "Just for a day. If you’re going, Yasuo, we could take the train together."

Yasuo paused, cup halfway to his lips.

Go home.

The question wasn’t loaded with malice, nor did it hide another intent. It was simple. Almost kind. But the effect was like shattered glass.

He looked out the window.

People still danced in the square. The distant music seemed cradled by laughter. And yet, inside, the word "home" felt strange.

Irelia noticed his hesitation. Didn’t push.

Yasuo took a few seconds before answering. Stared into his teacup, as if the answer lay in the dregs.

"Yeah. I’ll go," he finally said, voice low. "We can go together."

He meant it. Or, at least, almost did.

Besides, Amrita had been exhausting enough.

"I’ll be back Sunday night," she added, smiling. "Don’t wanna miss Monday’s training."

"You’re insane," Sett laughed. "Coming back from a trip just to train at dawn? I can barely wake up on Mondays."

"That’s why Kennen beats you," she shot back, keeping it light.

Sett raised his hands in surrender, chuckling.

They talked about classes, schedules, the seniors everyone wanted (or feared) as mentors. Yasuo instinctively skipped any mention of Jhin. His stomach still twisted at the memory of that training session. That wasn’t teaching—it was emotional dissection.

"I’m excited to study under Hurong," Irelia said suddenly, eyes bright. "He’s one of the great internal combat masters. But he only teaches second-years…"

"By then, you’ll have memorized all his books," Sett muttered, sipping a pink milkshake topped with candy confetti he’d never admit to loving.

"Obviously," she replied, zero irony.

Yasuo smirked. It was comforting how Irelia could be intense without bitterness. Committed without blindness. He admired that about her.

Hurong was legendary. Strict but fair. The kind of teacher who earned disciples by conviction, not obligation.

Then Sett leaned in, eyes gleaming.

"Hey, you guys see the bulletin board?"

"The one in the main hall?" Irelia asked.

"Yeah. They posted this morning. Rumor is Professor Souma’s coming back to teach this year."

Yasuo stopped.

For a moment, the café’s noise vanished. He blinked slowly. His spoon stilled in the cup.

"Souma?" he repeated, as if the name had traveled through time to reach him.

Sett nodded eagerly.

"Yeah! They say he’s back from retreat in the Celestial Peaks. Still in one piece, believe it? Barely aged. And he’s taking the most promising students."

Yasuo leaned back in his chair.

Souma.

At Amrita, he was a name on honor boards. A legend whispered in hallways. Up there with Kusho, Kennen, Doran—figures who seemed more myth than man.

But to Yasuo…

To Yasuo, Souma was real.

He was the first adult who’d truly listened to him.

Not just heard his tantrums and mischief—but listened. To the restless soul, the wind behind the rebellion. He remembered clearly, at nine years old, being kicked out of breeze fundamentals class for accidentally turning the janitor’s broom into a walking tornado.

While other adults called him a problem, Souma had pulled him aside and said, with a patient smile:

"You have something rare. The wind likes you."

The first adult who saw him—small, rebellious, restless.

No one else spoke to him like that. Like he was part of nature—not a mistake of it.

The memory burned in his chest like cold embers.

"That’s… amazing," he finally said.

Sett nodded, pleased to deliver good news.

"Think you’ll get a shot at learning from him. Word is he’s taking a special class this semester."

Yasuo said nothing for a few seconds. But inside, a spark—one of the good, rare ones that didn’t hurt—began to glow.

Chapter Text

The sky had already melted into old gold when Sett said goodbye to the two of them, leaving behind Yasuo’s easy laughter and Irelia’s meticulous gaze. There was a curious tenderness in it all—in the way Yasuo resisted surrendering to the moment, as if every joy were a betrayal of his own pain; or in how Irelia watched everything with hungry eyes, the gaze of someone who’d already learned the world wasn’t bound by the rules pretending to order it.

Sett laughed along. Cracked jokes, clapped backs, smiled like a man carrying the world on his shoulders but swearing he felt light. He was good at that. At pretending.

On the way back to the dorm, he greeted three classmates—two seniors and a freshman who always seemed a little too wide-eyed at everything. He turned on the charm, flashed smiles, tossed out a witty remark about that week’s combat uniforms, drew genuine laughs—even from those who didn’t much like him. It was easy. Almost automatic. A born talent, maybe. Or a well-trained defense.

In his room, he packed his bags. He did it with exaggerated precision, almost performative, as if he knew someone might check later. A slightly dirty sneaker left out strategically, like he’d left in a hurry. The wrinkled pillowcase, the bedside lamp still on—subtle signs of a brief absence. Nothing conspicuous. Nothing that would betray what he’d really do that night.

Because he wasn’t going home yet.

Not that he didn’t love his mother. He did. More than he could admit—even to himself. But she didn’t know. And she couldn’t know. She believed, with a heart full of hope, that he was "on a new path." That he’d left behind the blood, the fists, the shadows that once nearly swallowed him whole. That Amrita was a fresh start. A temple, a second chance.

And he let her believe it.

Not out of cruelty—but because it was easier that way.

The truth, as it often was, was uglier. Dirtier. Deeper.

Amrita wasn’t just his mother’s request. It was a plan. A map to something he’d been tracking for years, pieced together from whispers, half-told stories, and names scratched from official records. He wasn’t here just to study, or train, or "redeem himself." He was here to find.

To understand.

Maybe even to take revenge.

He left the dorm before the night bell rang. The sky had sunk into a twilight purple, and the temperature dropped slowly, as if time itself were holding its breath. Amrita seemed suspended—between the real and the legendary—as it always did when night fell.

The path to the library was a theater of shadow and light. He passed two corridors, veered onto a narrow bridge where lanterns floated at lazy intervals, and avoided the clusters of students gathered around outdoor hearths.

Every step was calculated. He didn’t want attention. But he didn’t want to seem invisible, either. A delicate balance—and a perfect one for someone like him.

The Amrita Library wasn’t just a repository of books. It was a living, pulsing organism where magic and technology wove together effortlessly. Floating portals, corridors that stretched on their own when summoned by intent, tomes that whispered when opened—everything here seemed designed to disorient or dazzle, depending on who dared enter.

But Sett wasn’t here to be dazzled.

He knew exactly where to go.

He descended the spiral staircase, its steps carved from what looked like living stone. Each turn tightened the silence, as if the sounds of the world were being left behind. One, two, three full rotations until the lower landing. Here, the air was thicker. And faintly perfumed with something ancient—incense, perhaps, or the very scent of time.

He turned right at the first hallway. Passed rows of shelves organized by arcane disciplines, ignored the floating alcoves and magical lamps that flickered to life at his presence. Crossed a short bridge between two vaults—below it, only abysses of pages, volumes, and silence. Floor after floor of history, oblivion, and buried power.

He reached the solid wood door.

Not just any door.

This one seemed... less enchanted. Less vain. And for that very reason, more real.

He pushed it carefully. The hinge creaked—not for lack of magic, but perhaps from disuse. Inside, the temperature dropped another degree. The shelves formed circular aisles, each section seemingly belonging to a different era: hung armor, banners of extinct kingdoms, maps of territories that no longer existed. The floor was uneven stone, and the light came from magical orbs fixed to invisible tracks on the ceiling.

He knew where to look.

The Wars section.

He started with the obvious—modern conflicts, treaties, academy timelines. Skipped it all. Moved deeper, where the titles grew older: arcane clashes, magical rebellions, the age of mantra trenches. An entire shelf dedicated to Noxus. Studied, yes. But avoided. Always disorganized, as if the stories there unsettled even the shelves themselves.

And then, finally, there it was.

"Runic Wars."

Three shelves. That was all. Maintained like relics—no dust, no disorder, no missing volumes. A diligence that drew attention by its very existence.

And there, between the two oldest volumes with gilded spines, Sett found what he was looking for. Exactly as his mother had said. Years ago. In the middle of an offhand conversation, between laughs, she’d let it slip. A section few knew. A mechanism.

"... there was even a secret thing there, I remember your father fiddling with it when we were young, no one remembers how it works anymore..."

He remembered.

It was here.

A near-imperceptible carving in the shelf’s wood. A sequence of arcane symbols. Three taps. A turn. A gentle push in the opposite direction.

And the wall moved.

Not much. Just enough to reveal a narrow passage, dark, guarded by a silence too ancient to be natural.

Sett didn’t hesitate.

He stepped inside.

And behind him, the shelf became just that again—a shelf.

Chapter Text

Sett disappeared as he’d said he would.

Well, Yasuo and Irelia lingered on their walk, visiting more interesting shops tucked between the beautiful, well-lit streets. There was a quiet poetry to the glass storefronts, the clean sidewalks reflecting the yellow glow of tall streetlamps, the distant voices weaving through the night.

Then Yasuo saw it: a flute.

In a dimly lit corner, hanging beside a pair of dusty violins, it rested with the silent elegance of something nearly forgotten. His chest tightened—just a subtle pang, as if a thread tugged at his soul—and for a moment, he froze.

He loved flutes.

Of course, that was a well-kept secret. Where he’d grown up, he’d learned not to leave room for more weaknesses; there was no space for lightness where everything weighed heavy. But beyond that, Yasuo loved music—deeply.

He had a sharp ear and an unusual memory for notes, tones, and melodies. Sometimes, on nights that were too quiet, he wondered if, in some distant, improbable life, he might have stood under spotlights, playing on stage or recording songs that others would listen to alone.

But those were silly thoughts.

He was the one who suggested going inside.

A "Let’s take a closer look" tossed casually into the air, but his eyes stayed glued to the glass.

Irelia just nodded lightly, as if she understood the call behind his voice.

The shop was cramped, its old wood steeped in the thick scent of varnish and yellowed paper. They touched everything.

Irelia tested a triangle and knocked over a box of bells.

They got a mild scolding from the owner—a grouchy old man with sharp eyes that glittered with love for every inch of the chaos he kept. Then, as if moved by curiosity or disarmed by their honest laughter, he led them to the back.

There, it was another world: shelves lined with relics, instruments from distant countries, one-of-a-kind pieces, ancient records sorted into cracked wooden crates.

Yasuo dove in.

His fingertips traced the edges of vinyl sleeves with delicate recognition, spotting artists few even knew.

It was good.

Silently good, the way only things that don’t need to prove anything can be.

Then he heard Irelia mutter.

"What’s the difference between these two?" she asked, pointing at two instruments that, at first glance, looked identical.

Yasuo answered without hesitation.

He talked about the wood, the strings, the sharper tone of one, the earthy resonance of the other. He named a master luthier from the heart of Ixaocan who crafted them.

"One’s closed-hole, the other’s side-cut. The timbre’s completely different. This one—" he pointed, "—is better for folk music. The other takes more breath but is more versatile."

She looked a little surprised.

Her eyebrows lifted as she gave him a sidelong glance, that sharp little smirk of hers—the one that said she’d just found another crack in his polish.

"Wow. That was… weirdly specific," she remarked.

He looked away, scratching the back of his neck. Mumbled something dismissive—"It’s nothing" or "just a dumb hobby." Nothing to brag about, obviously. Just something he liked. A lot.

They talked a little longer.

He made her laugh by imitating a dramatic opera singer. She pointed at a weird fluorescent album cover and swore she’d buy it just to mess with Zelos.

In the end, Yasuo picked out a vinyl of traditional Ionian dance tracks—the same one his mother used to play on cleaning mornings, back when he was too young to understand the lyrics but old enough to never forget the melody.

He paid calmly, gave the shopkeeper a quiet nod of thanks, and tucked his purchase away with double care, as if carrying something fragile.

They left in silence—but a comfortable one, almost conspiratorial.

The city stayed alive around them, and soon they stood once more before the golden gates of the station leading back to Amrita Academy.

It was time to go.

With night fully fallen, stars began slipping through the darkening veil of the sky—shy, scattered, as if watching the city from very far away. They grabbed their bags from the dorms before heading to the platform. Funny… there was always a train waiting. Even when no one seemed to have called it. Probably magic, Yasuo figured. Or maybe there were two trains running at once, switching on invisible shifts—yeah, that made more sense. Still, there was something enchanting about that synchronicity.

They boarded the steel-and-wood carriage, the scent of grease and sun-warmed varnish thick in the air. Yasuo chose one of the worn but comfortable seats and sank into it with a soft sigh.

He wasn’t restless. He was tired.

The week had been a whirlwind. Exams, training, presentations—days burning into each other like half-smoked cigarettes. But what weighed on him most wasn’t his body (Yasuo had stamina, always had) but his mind. A fatigue that couldn’t be sweated away. Theory classes, with their rigid disciplines, endless readings, texts full of pompous words… it was like wading through mud with his eyes open. He tried. But it was hard.

He let his head fall back against the seat, eyes half-lidded. Deep down—way deep down—he missed his mother’s arms like crazy.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud. He wasn’t that kind of son. But it was true. He wanted the smell of incense in the living room, the sound of balcony sparrows, the whistle of the kettle she always forgot on the stove. He wanted home.

The ride was quiet. Irelia, beside him, scrolled through her phone, absorbed. Yasuo peeked. It was the Labrys Forum, Amrita’s internal network. Student photos. Comments, likes, recent posts.

But what caught his eye for a second too long was a girl. White hair, short, firm expression. Strong posture. He didn’t say anything. Just watched, briefly, then let it go.

The train rolled on under the moon. City lights began flickering past the windows—gold and green smudges against the night’s dark fabric. Yasuo stretched lazily, arms reaching high in a wide arc. The capital approached like a sigh of concrete.

They disembarked together, the cold breeze brushing their faces like an old call.

They paused on the platform. A second of silence.

Then a respectful nod. An unspoken pact of camaraderie that needed no words.

They went their separate ways.

Yasuo slung his bag over one shoulder. Over the other, the vinyl.

By the time he left the station, the sky was a black tapestry dusted with neon. The city never seemed to sleep—or maybe it just pretended to rest, always with one eye half-open. Yasuo had almost forgotten the capital’s nocturnal chaos: cars rushing like restless beasts, food stalls exhaling spice and steam into the air, bright billboards reflecting off windows and faces like stage lights in a theater without curtains.

At Amrita, everything was ethereal. Even chaos had a silent discipline, as if suspended by some invisible thread of order and purpose. Even the teachers’ shouts, even student clashes, felt like they belonged to a world above the visceral.

Here? No. The capital was another reality. But Yasuo liked it. A few steps were all it took to feel at ease again.

His feet retraced familiar paths. No rides, no transport—he liked walking. The route took longer, but that was fine. He passed the concrete gallery, turned at the plaza lit by pale blue streetlamps. Smiled to himself at a new graffiti tag on the usual wall. The capital was a hot-blooded beast, but he knew how to handle it.

When he reached the entrance to the so-called First Lands, he exhaled.

This was home.

The capital, though fused at its core by all races and banners, still fractured into internal territories. Invisible borders split the districts: Demacians in one corner, Noxians in another, Shurimans further south. Each people with their own architecture, customs, temples, and ways. That was why the city felt endless—because it was made of worlds glued together with concrete.

The Ionians had their own corner, too.

And among them, neighborhoods with their own rules and traditions—tiny spiritual republics with unique rhythms.

That was what made it fun.

He took the underground station connecting the outer districts. Got off near home and walked the rest. The streets here already smelled and sounded different. The corner market, the ice cream shop with colorful chairs, the plaza with its cracked concrete benches and kids running too late at night. The stationery store, the tea house, the cluster of shops selling everything under the sun.

It all smelled like home.

Yasuo smiled.

But of course, leaving Amrita also meant facing the reality he’d left behind.

"Look who’s back…"

The voice was rough, edged with laughter and nicotine.

"Honor’s little brother."

"Bastard’s back in the gutter."

Figures gathered in the shadow of the alley. He’d known them since he was a kid—or rather, he knew their faces. They’d never been friends. They’d always been there, with nothing better to do than toss dirty talk into the wind and pretend they ran something.

Yasuo wasn’t a kid anymore.

And it’d been a long time since he ignored their comments. He didn’t walk past them now, either, didn’t pretend not to hear.

The truth? Sometimes he thought those idiots liked getting hit.

A laugh slipped out, bitter with disdain.

It wasn’t fun—it was well-mannered fury. The kind that doesn’t shout but answers.

He stepped forward without hesitation. Words sharp as blades cut through the air, venomous old taunts.

"We always knew you’d come crawling back."

"Too bad you didn’t bring your brother’s crown. Maybe then your dad would notice you."

"Or your mom—who knows if she even remembers your face."

Yone.

Yone.

Yone.

The damn name drummed inside his skull like a broken tambourine.

Suddenly, he was thirteen again, chest tight, fists clenched, the shadow of his older brother suffocating him from behind.

What a joke of a name. What a well-dressed farce. What a perfect fucking son.

He’d forgotten these last few days, but now it all came rushing back.

The bitterness of comparison tore through him.

At Amrita, he could pretend he was just himself.

Here? No.

Here, the world reminded him who he wasn’t.

The first punch was his.

Of course it was.

He wasn’t a kid hiding behind his mother’s legs anymore.

Wasn’t a smudged draft of the other.

Wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last.

An arm tried to grab him from the side—missed.

Another landed on his ribs—hard, brutal.

Yasuo grunted at the impact but gave back twice as bad: a straight shot to the jaw, another to the gut.

The air left his opponent in a hollow gasp.

"Let’s see who’s whose shadow now."

A third laughed, stepping closer—Yasuo lifted a hand almost lazily.

The wind answered.

The boy flew like a sack of meat into the wall, back hitting with a dull thud.

Another tried to lunge—bad move.

Yasuo grabbed him by the collar, body light with rage, and struck:

Jaw. Gut. Chin.

Three clean hits. Three punishments.

There was something ugly in him right then.

A dark kind of pleasure, a dirty memory of all the times he’d swallowed tears, silenced anger, accepted blame that wasn’t his.

The fight dissolved into street dust.

Curses spat like broken teeth.

Ragged breaths, tense shoulders, the smell of sweat and blood.

Now, one-on-one, against the loudmouth who’d always mocked him—words like snakes, who could wield wind as well as anyone in their community, ego bigger than his talent—but Yasuo knew.

He hadn’t trained for nothing. Hadn’t pushed himself every day for nothing. And he proved it now: analysis, reading, then attack. Dodged strikes with the ease of someone who already knew the rhythm of the dance. Blocked gusts before they even formed, as if predicting every move. It wasn’t just instinct—it was preparation.

He knew his rival would use an area technique to compensate for lost ground—he always did. But Yasuo had trained for that, too. He’d valued every moment. The nights in the old garden behind the house. His own reflection in the window glass as a makeshift combat mirror. Bruised fists. Sore muscles. Bravery and shame stitched together.

A punch to the jaw. Another to the ribs. Then the gut—three precise strikes, rhythmic as war drums.

The opponent fell.

Yasuo staggered, too. His nose bled. The cut above his eyebrow ran hot and thick. His ribs screamed.

But he stayed standing.

Didn’t hesitate.

Grabbed the guy by the collar, yanked him up with pulsing fury.

This was the part where, in stories, a cool one-liner came.

A cape-fluttering hero, a pretty scar, a wise gaze. A dramatic soundtrack, silence all around, everyone panting in awe.

But here?

No glory.

Just bitterness. Raw anger. Unforgiven.

This worm had tormented him for years—mocked his speech, shoved him in hallways, stole coins meant for bread, humiliated him when he missed a training strike.

Yasuo had learned to fight back at seven. And lost.

At fourteen, he made bullies hesitate—but still fell.

At fifteen, he hit harder.

At sixteen, he won—with plenty of bruises.

Now, at seventeen?

He didn’t need to lose to win.

He was stronger.

One more punch. Just one. To erase what was left of that shadow.

He raised his fist.

And then he heard it. Of course he did.

That voice.

Firm. Grave. Sharp. Hard.

"Yasuo."

Like a blade driven into wood.

Idiot. Of course he’d show up. Of course he’d speak.

Yone.

He could ignore it.

Could pretend it was just street noise, meaningless interference. Could clench his fist and finish what he’d started—finally, without interruption, without some taller, cleaner ghost dictating how to live.

But the grip on his arm came fast. Firm. Unyielding.

And again—like always—he stopped.

How humiliating.

It was almost automatic. As if his body remembered the authority that hand had always held, even when it shouldn’t. As if instinct still answered before rage could. Yasuo hated it. Hated that he still reacted the way his brother expected.

"Let go," he snarled, but it came out choked with frustration, not force.

And then came Yone’s damn lecture.

He didn’t need to hear the words—Yasuo already knew them by heart.

"There’s no honor in winning through anger."

 

"You still chase fights as if they’ll make you someone."

 

"This isn’t strength, Yasuo. It’s escape."

 

Bullshit.

Words from someone who’d never had to prove himself.

Easy to talk when people respected you even in silence. When teachers listened at the first call. When your steps were steady, assured, as if the world made space just for you.

Yasuo glared at him. That stern, cutting expression.

Silence sharp as judgment.

He hated that, too.

Dropped the guy like a rotten sack of potatoes. Yanked his arm back violently. His bag slipped off his shoulder with the motion, and he spat the words like shards of glass:

"Fuck off, Yone. Why are you even here, huh? It’s late. Go disappear like you always do. Just leave."

The older brother didn’t answer right away. His expression hardened. Grew colder. That clenched jaw, those narrowed eyes, as if biting back something unsaid.

Always like this. Always controlled. Always above.

And of course Yone looked impeccable.

Stupid high pink ponytail—pretentious, ridiculous, but somehow it worked in an irritating way. Expensive cologne. Tailored jacket. Probably on his way to some date. Yasuo almost laughed.

Who in their right mind could stand that walking glacier?

"You’re gonna crash and burn," he thought. "You’ll meet someone, drop a few philosophical lines, kiss like a robot, and go home like the world’s just another shelf to organize."

Yasuo bit back the laugh before it escaped.

Swallowed the venom. Just a little.

The truth was, distance made things easier. At Amrita, time and space created the illusion of safety. There, he could pretend he didn’t care. That there was no resentment. That being Yone’s brother was just a footnote, not a curse.

But now—here, on this shadowed sidewalk, after a sweaty, bloody fight—being close again felt like a punch to the soul.

And the worst part?

The worst part was that, for a single stupid second, Yasuo almost wanted to laugh.

Because it was insane. Completely insane to have missed that bastard.

But he had.

And that just pissed him off more.

He kept walking. Fast. Head down. Didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want reconciliation. Wanted a hot shower, some quiet, maybe that vinyl playing softly in the background.

But Yone, of course, followed. Like he always did when it was already too late.

Because that’s what brothers did, right?

Missed the right time. Found the right path.

Or the opposite.

The way home was a mess of quick, almost running steps, as if his feet could outpace what his throat didn’t know how to name.

Yasuo stormed through the streets like a boy carrying a tempest in his chest, desperate to reach shelter before it spilled. His bag bounced against his back with every sharp movement, as unsteady as his thoughts. He didn’t look around, didn’t acknowledge curious neighbors or the barking dog at the corner. The world was white noise.

He arrived home the way he always did: like a hurricane.

The gate flew open with a familiar shove, the sound echoing through the entryway like intimate thunder.

He took the steps two at a time, tripped on the first—that damn first step, always a little too high—cursing under his breath.

"Shut up, Yone," he muttered out of habit, even though his brother hadn’t spoken.

His hand gripped the railing with the automatic precision of someone who’d fallen before and learned the lesson. He stomped inside, letting his irritation spill into the corners, soles hitting the floor like he wanted to be heard but not confronted.

His bag hit the wall with a tired thud. He lazily held out the vinyl to his mother, mumbling something—maybe "here" or "sorry."

But she didn’t comment on his sour expression, the scratches on his face, or the dark stain on his shirt. She just hugged him—arms full of tenderness, smelling of coconut soap and lavender. Kissed his face insistently, smoothing out the folds of his pride one by one.

Yasuo sighed.

Long. Heavy. Warm.

Let himself melt a little.

Sink.

He needed time. A few silent minutes, his chest rising slow, shoulders finally easing. The anger bleeding out like ink in warm water.

When he finally sat at the table, eyes calmer, he found dinner waiting—crisp-edged rice, steamed vegetables, sesame-crusted fish. His favorite, still warm.

His mother talked about Mrs. Hikari’s garden gnomes, which seemed to move on their own. Complained about leaves clogging the gutter, the plant dying despite proper care. She didn’t mention his bruises, but her eyes did—silent vigilance disguised as small talk.

In the corner, Yone prepared gauze and alcohol like it was some ancient ritual. Didn’t say a word.

Never needed to.

It was that same routine care, precise and unchanging—even after everything. Yasuo still complained, like he did now, scowling at the sight of the soaked cotton.

But he didn’t run.

He’d learned the hard way that the body collects its debts if neglected.

Sat on the kitchen stool, yanked his sleeve up angrily.

"This fucking stings," he grumbled.

Yone didn’t answer, but his touch was careful.

And Yasuo, between clenched teeth and half-shut eyes, stayed.

Chapter Text

Yone's room was a mirror of the morning that announced itself: calm, meticulous, with no room for mess or hesitation.

The still-timid sunlight streamed through the high window of Labrys' dormitory, casting golden stripes across the waxed floor. Personal space, absolute silence. Luxuries earned, yet ones that never truly felt comfortable.

Even before the clock struck six, Yone was already awake. It was always like this. Waking was never a struggle against sleep but an automatic gesture, almost ritualistic. He sat up in bed silently, feet on the cold floor, his breathing measured.

There was something meditative in repeating the same motions: folding the blanket into perfect lines, aligning the books on the desk, reviewing the day’s list. He separated his precisely folded clothes with clinical precision, placed them inside the small, dark travel backpack—which he checked twice before closing—with a book of Ionian poetry hidden at the bottom. A secret vice. Finally, he picked up his phone from the nightstand—one silent vibration.

An unread message. A short video sent by Yi, probably from the morning training session, and undoubtedly featuring Yasuo in the spotlight. He ignored it. Not out of a lack of curiosity—he knew, with unsettling precision, how his brother moved in combat. But there were too many things in the world to feel all at once.

Still, he typed out a "good morning" and sent it. It was the kind of gesture Yi didn’t demand but deserved.

Nothing more.

Always direct.

Always respectful.

Always… balanced.

Yone wasn’t the type to let himself slip into the edges of emotion.

Returning home on weekends was, for him, an act of survival.

Not because he loved Labrys any less—on the contrary, he respected the school with silent devotion. He was grateful for its structure, its rigor, its prestige. But he also saw it as a gilded cage, where beasts wore uniforms and masks. And among them all, Caitlyn Kiramman was the worst.

She was precise. Too smart to ignore, too elegant to confront. She knew exactly where to strike with her sharp words, always wrapped in diplomatic smiles. "You run, Yone," she’d say. "Train, study, study, train, until there’s no room left to remember anything~"

Yone never responded. But sometimes, he left the room early.

Wukong was the opposite. So loud, impulsive, reckless… so alive. The boy had latched onto him since their first year, like a curious little monkey clinging to a rock it believed was a mountain. Annoying, yes. But there was an unconscious tenderness in it. As if protecting him was, in some way, still taking care of someone who no longer asked for protection.

And so, on Saturday, as always, he escaped.

He walked through Labrys’ halls with his headphones off but snugly fitted as a social shield. The light backpack on his shoulders, posture straight, eyes steady. He caught the 7 a.m. bus. Got off two stops earlier than usual.

He walked the familiar streets with muscle memory earned over years. Shops opening their doors, the smell of fresh bread spilling onto the sidewalk. He made the essential stop: Lotus Flower bakery.

He bought his mother’s favorite sweets: cream tarts with fruit and heart-shaped butter cookies.

He also picked up a simple sunflower, small but yellow as the morning sun—the same one he’d bought since he was twelve, when he’d first heard, on a night Yasuo was asleep, a story about his father.

She had told him how gentle he was, how he made her laugh, how he called her his sun. She spoke with distant eyes, her face soft with memory. And Yone, silent as ever, took notes. Memorized the gestures. Repeated them.

It was the least he could do.

He had learned to imitate him as if it filled some void.

In music.
In poetry.
In gestures.
In presence.
In reputation.
And in gifts, of course.

"He used to bring me sunflowers."

What Yone had were only fragments of memory: a hoarse voice humming lullabies, large hands teaching him to hold a toy sword, the scent of soursop and fresh paint. But he saw his father every day in the mirror—in the shape of his eyes, the line of his jaw, the way his mother hesitated before touching his face.

That’s why he bought the sunflower.

Because if he couldn’t bring his father back—even while trying to assume his mantle—he could at least bring a piece of love to her.

The stuffed pastries were bought last.

An almost automatic gesture, like a persistent habit from when Yasuo was a child and would eat three at once without pausing to breathe. Yone would say it was excessive, but he always bought more than necessary.

And he kept buying them,
even now.
Even while pretending it was just because they were on sale (they never were).

The sunflower swayed slightly as Yone walked, its reflection distorted in the fresh water.

The gate creaked when he pushed it, louder than last time. Another item for the list. The latch was loose too. The bathroom doorknob still turned with resistance, meaning no one had fixed it since his last visit. And the plumbing… he could already hear the grumbling of the old pipes whenever the upstairs shower was turned on.

"More things to fix."

Yone closed his eyes for a second, feeling the weight of that routine. Study, train, intern at the Assassins’ Club, patrol the night rounds, send money home, fix what was broken, protect what was still intact.

And Yasuo…

Yasuo, who was now at Amrita.

He took a deep breath, leaving the backpack on the living room chair, the sweets on the table, and the sunflower in a tall glass of fresh water. His mother was still asleep, which was rare. She’d probably had another one of those endless night shifts at the hospital. She worked too much—maybe because she’d always had to.

Maybe because she knew Yone would be watching, and she wanted to seem invincible in her eldest son’s eyes.

She had always been incredible.

The morning passed between light hammering, faucet repairs, and gate adjustments.

The hanging garden, a recent request from his mother, was perfectly set up by the time the clock neared noon. Small pots with herbs—mint, basil, rosemary. A touch of green over the concrete. Just as she wanted.

He’d check the front steps later. He’d examine them carefully.

Since they were little, everyone knew: the first step was taller. That’s why they always skipped straight to the second.

But the youngest in the family sometimes forgot in his excitement.

One misstep, and there Yasuo would be—tripping, falling, laughing afterward as if it didn’t hurt.

"He’s going to forget the first step again…"

The handrail was still loose, and Yone knew—he knew—that Yasuo, in one of his impulsive sprints, would end up hurting himself. Again. So he tightened the screws, replaced the bases. Silently. Without a word. And no one would notice. As usual.

In Yasuo’s room, he’d pick up the scattered clothes, open the window, reorganize the haphazardly stacked books. A kind of discreet care, almost imperceptible. But constant.

He’d also prepare dinner in advance before leaving, like he did every weekend when his mother was tired. She’d pretend to be strong, as she always did, but he recognized the exhaustion in the way she held her cup, in the way she smiled with downcast eyes. So, he made sure everything was ready.

Because it was easier that way.

By the end of the day, everything would be there.

The handrail.
The extra pastries in the bakery bag.
Dinner with her favorite food.
The cleaning.

Yone wasn’t one for words.

Words, in him, always seemed too big for the space between his teeth. So he acted instead of speaking. Action as language. Care as speech.

The shadows had stretched when he finally allowed himself to sit.

The sun, now low, tinted the living room walls with amber and rust. Time flowed slowly. Outside, neighbors dragged chairs, someone washed the sidewalk with a hose. Inside, a faint scent of rosemary and sugar lingered from the morning.

Yone flipped through his Labrys planner for the third time—as if rereading deadlines could change the inevitable nature of his obligations. There was no pleasure in it, only duty. The kind of responsibility that piled up in scribbled lists, like an emotional minefield.

Sitting on the couch, he felt the weight of fatigue settle along his spine, his shoulders slightly lower. His head, however, was pulled back firmly—by his mother’s hands, insisting on brushing his pink hair as if he were still seven. And he allowed it. It was an old ritual, uncomfortable and familiar.

"This is a griffin’s nest, Yone…" she murmured, a pink strand between her fingers.

"Your gift to me, unfortunately," he replied, not lifting his eyes from the page.

Impossible to tame without diplomacy or patience. He’d inherited that from her, just as Yasuo had. A trivial detail, perhaps, but one that tied the three of them together—the same rebelliousness in strands going every which way, as if even their hair refused the order he valued so much.

There was almost a smile there.

It was a rare but precious routine—the wordless intimacy, the shared care in the gesture. The brush sliding through stubborn strands as the clock ticked forward. He savored it. Even if he’d never admit it.

First on the event list: Sharur.

Not exactly what he’d call exciting.

Yone sighed.

Zed.

Great.

Just the memory of last year’s inter-academy sports event was enough to send a slight discomfort up his spine. A meaningless volleyball game between schools, a miscalculated ball, and the misfortune of hitting Zed right as he was trying to impress a girl from Amrita—the same one who’d laughed quietly as he doubled over, hand on his face.

Yone closed the planner for a moment.

He’d rather pretend it never happened.

Zed, of course, wouldn’t—and had promptly put him on a blacklist.

Next: Amrita.

Ah, yes.

The duels.

The adrenaline there was different—no audience, no medals, no spectacle. Just sweat, focus, and technique. The pressure of the moment, breath caught between one step and the next. It was knowing he could lose—and lose with style.

Because losing to Yi was never a shame.

It was almost a privilege.

But of course, he’d never say that out loud.

And speaking of Yi…

He’d stolen the neighbor’s cat again.

Not violently, of course—Arroz, the white, spoiled feline with a permanently unimpressed expression, was complicit in this routine. The creature pretended to disdain Yi with the offended dignity of a minor deity, but invariably followed him, leaping over Wuju’s low fences as if there were no nobler choice. And then, the proof of the crime: a photo sent minutes earlier. The cat curled up on its usual cushion, eyes half-lidded, a green scarf around its neck (Yi called it "Wu Clan style"). The caption? "Natural charm. Rare these days."

Yone rolled his eyes. A small gesture, nearly imperceptible, but accompanied by the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Insufferable.

It was always like this—Yi had this absurd talent for turning everything into a veiled provocation: training sessions, matches, even the most mundane conversations. Every phrase carried an invisible edge of irony, like a challenge wrapped in affection. An official, declared rival, with whom he exchanged rehearsed barbs and carefully polished sarcasm. But there was something beneath the surface. A tone. A pause. A silence that always said more than words.

Yone sometimes visited Wuju—the district was private, too remote, surrounded by ceremonial torii and spiritual barriers, as if demanding reverence just to be approached. Yi’s parents, however, seemed to like him enough to always secure a visitor’s pass in advance. "I like that smile, dear. You’ve got a good friend," his mother had once said. Yone pretended not to hear. But he remembered.

He was about to reply with some snide remark about Arroz’s musical taste (Yi insisted on playing classical guqin to lull the cat to sleep) when he noticed—in the dark reflection of his screen—his mother peeking over his shoulder.

"Really…?" he muttered, in a tone as exasperated as it was familiar.

She didn’t say anything. Just arched an eyebrow with an innocent air, as if she’d casually stumbled upon an ancient secret.

"I have nothing to hide," he grumbled, turning off his phone with meticulous slowness.

But there was color in his ears. A faint flush, almost imperceptible against his skin.

She laughed. That quiet laugh, the kind of someone who knew too much and judged too little. Then she walked past him, smoothing his still-messy hair.

"Going to start prepping dinner?"

"Should’ve been done already," Yone replied, standing with his usual composure—though one side of his hair was still stubbornly curled, rebelling against the immaculate image he so carefully maintained.

In the kitchen, washing vegetables with precise, careful fingertips, Yone’s gaze strayed—just once—to the phone by the sink. He ignored it. (At least for now.)

Later.

Bookstore.

A new release by Master Buxii—Ionia’s greatest living poet, author of verses as sharp as they were subtle, almost always read in silence but rarely forgotten.

Unpublished poems.

Rare. Refined.

And, of course, the perfect pretext.

Not that Yi needed pretexts. But this time, it was official. They’d been planning it for weeks.

"Cultural visit," Yi had said, in that exaggeratedly serious tone he only used when pretending to be composed. "Exchange of lyrical interpretations," Yone had replied, without looking up from his book.

Both of them knew.

Buxii was the only poet who could make them both fall silent at once, along with countless others. There was something in his verses—in the irregular meter, in the images that drifted like mist over ancient hills—that seemed to speak directly to things neither of them knew how to name.

And that was fine.

Silence was also a language. And fortunately, they both knew it well.

In the kitchen, steam rose in slow spirals, perfuming the air with the promise of dinner.

Yone moved with the precision of a craftsman—or a warrior. He washed the rice like someone clearing a battlefield, each grain treated with respect. The fish, coated in a delicate sesame crust, rested quietly before meeting the fire. Steamed vegetables, cut into perfect diagonals, stood like soldiers lined up for a parade only he could see.

The recipe didn’t need to be read. It was engraved in his memory like a mantra, one of many he’d carried since childhood. He knew it by heart, and he also knew who would devour it in record time, between mouthfuls and laughter-interrupted sentences.

Chatterbox, he thought, suppressing a smile.

But whatever.

Not that he minded.

As he finished the last details, he heard his mother quietly stepping out. Her "rest" was never really rest—and right now, her entertainment involved commenting on the new garden gnomes Mrs. Hikari had bought. The discussion, likely animated, was about whether one of the gnomes was winking—and if it was intentional.

Yone focused on the final cut of the mountain radish, as if the precision of the angle could keep the world spinning. In a way, it did.

Because there were days when keeping dinner flawless was all he could do.

And all that was expected of him.

As steam condensed on the window, he thought of Yasuo—his younger brother probably didn’t know yet.

The inter-academy event was approaching, and for the first time in years, it would be held in Amrita’s halls. Labrys students would be welcomed as guests—or cordial rivals, which was almost the same—for demonstrations, panels, simulations.

The event, of course, was restricted to upperclassmen.

But freshmen could watch.

Yone had no doubt his brother would find a way to be there. He’d probably skip the mandatory lectures—Inspiring Youth Through the Art of War or Ethics and Tradition in Life’s Path—and show up only for the exciting parts.

Typical.

As predictable as he was restless.

Just like him.

Yasuo was a whirlwind in formation, still learning the direction of his own wind. But, though he’d never admit it, Yone felt… a quiet satisfaction—the kind kept at the back of the throat, between one spoonful of rice and the next mission.

Dinner ready. Table set. Nothing out of place.

He left the kitchen with one last glance, like someone reviewing a temple.

Upstairs, he took a quick shower. Massaged his shoulders in slow circles, trying to loosen the stiffness that had built up since morning.

His skin bore the weight of too many identical days.

And there was always the chance—the constant threat—that the Assassins’ Club would call for a last-minute mission.

For now, silence.

He hoped it would stay that way.

Clean clothes, subtle cologne, hair in place.

Phone. Wallet. Keys.

Everything in order.

He walked downstairs with the lightness of someone always prepared for the worst but secretly hoping for just an ordinary night.

He kissed his mother’s cheek—she was still engrossed in some conspiracy theory involving gnomes and contemporary art.

"Don’t wait up."

She just nodded, like she always did—a simple gesture that carried an entire language of care.

Yone left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Nothing to disrupt.

Nothing off plan.

The route to the bookstore was familiar, mapped in his memory with the same precision he used in the dojo or the kitchen. Still, Yone checked the fastest path on his phone, more out of habit than necessity. Pedestrian traffic at this hour could be unpredictable, and he had no time to waste.

But then, his gaze drifted.

Slipped, as if pulled by a habitual force.

That corner.

Just a few meters ahead.

The old convenience store, with its faded green awning and flickering lights that always seemed on the verge of collapse.

And of course—Yasuo.

Obviously.

Yone stopped, his entire body stiffening with bitter familiarity.

Another fight.

Great.

He didn’t intervene immediately.

Just watched.

Disgust came before he could stop it. A faint tic at his mouth, the corner of his lips twitching, an almost inaudible sigh escaping with a quiet "tsk" between his teeth.

The same scene, repeating like a cursed cycle.

Yasuo grabbing someone by the collar.

Fist already half-raised.

Raw anger pulsing in the gesture.

Yone knew this.

His brother’s body spoke before his mouth did—and Yone had long since learned to read every unspoken phrase.

For a second—just one—he let disappointment seep into his gaze.

He expected more.

Still did.

But Yasuo was the same as always.

The same rebellious, impulsive, defiant boy.

How many times had he been the one dragging that kid away from trouble? How many sermons had he preached, how many rules had he laid down, how many times had he insisted on a discipline that never took root?

And now… he’d crossed the line.

The guy Yasuo was holding hovered between defiance and fear. It was obvious what would come next, and Yone had a choice.

Look away.

Ignore it.

Let his brother reap his own thorns. Let him drown in his own shadows, his own anger.

But he couldn’t.

His jaw tightened.

His eyes hardened.

And his voice—always firm, always enough—cut through the air:

"Yasuo."

Just once.

That was all it took.

His approach was quick, his movements trained. A firm hand on Yasuo’s arm, gripping, stopping—not with aggressive force, but with surgical precision.

Prevent.

Measure.

Discipline.

Again.

The same routine.

The same frustration.

He never learned.

Yone felt his heart grow heavy, crushed by a thought that sank too deep:

"Where did I go wrong?"

Because the truth he hid even from himself was this—he raised Yasuo.

Raised him with his own shoulders, his calloused hands, with the words he remembered from their father and the ones he’d had to invent alone after.

If Yasuo was like this… it was his fault.

He’d failed.

But now wasn’t the time to drown in that swamp.

The boy jerked free with controlled violence, kicking stones down the path as if the world owed him something.

He left without looking back.

Typical.

Yone stood there for a moment, alone with the silence that always followed.

He took a deep breath.

Swallowed hard.

Moved on.

Frustrated.

Worried.

Always in silence.

Perfect…

Chapter Text

Yasuo woke up that morning with more pain than he’d have liked—and, curiously, in places no blow had touched. Not a bruise. Not a dislocation. Not even drama, which was serious coming from him. It was a quiet, diffuse, almost existential ache, one that had settled into his muscles like it paid rent.

Turning over in bed was a minor hell. Sitting up? A utopia. When his mother called him for breakfast, all he managed in response was a groan that sounded like a cat had learned to speak Shuriman and chosen “death” as its first word.

“Yasuo, dear? Everything alright?”

“Dying slowly, but with dignity.” That’s what he thought. What he said was:

“Ughn.”

From the silence that followed, he knew she’d understood enough to make the decision he feared more than any physical pain: calling Yone.

He wanted to scream “NO.” Wanted to bolt to the door and lock it. But his body refused to cooperate—and pride, that bastard, still thought itself worthy of respect. So all he did was bury his face in the pillow and accept his fate.

The footsteps in the hallway were a countdown. The door creaked open softly, and there he stood.

No ointment. No medical bag. No words.

Yone. With his usual austere expression, so restrained it was like a haiku poem dressed in sweatpants.

Yasuo let out a long sigh, pure disdain.

“What now?” he muttered, face still smothered in the pillow.

Yone didn’t answer. He approached with the same cutting silence he’d use to cross a field of untouched snow.

Sat on the edge of the bed.

Poked his side.

“AH!” Yasuo writhed. “The hell was that?!”

“Examining.”

“Are you using a finger or a knife?”

“If it were a knife, you’d be bleeding, not whining. Breathe deep.”

“You breathe.”

Yone ignored him. Pressed another spot on his ribs. Yasuo yelped.

He thought about screaming, insulting him, thrashing around like a dramatic diva in a third-rate play. But his brother’s serious face—that clinical gaze, free of mockery or affection—made everything more irritating than it should’ve been. Not worth it. Not now.

So he swallowed his words. Huffed. And let it happen.

They stayed like that for minutes: one examining, the other serving as a grumpy test subject.

Neither mentioned the night before. Or the fight. Or the whole week Yasuo had spent at Amrita.

Silence. The kind that said everything and nothing at once.

It was almost their default. When Yasuo got his acceptance letter, for example, the most Yone had mustered was a sober “congratulations,” wedged between two breaths and half a sip of tea.

Dry. Restrained. Punctuated.

About as emotional as a tax stamp.

But Yasuo had valued it.

Not because it was warm—it wasn’t—but because it was real. Yone didn’t know how to lie (it was a matter of integrity). Never had. If he said “good job,” he meant it. If he stayed silent, you didn’t even deserve that.

And considering how the two of them had been these past few years—more like rival ronin than brothers—that small gesture had been almost poetic. Short, cold, and strange. It was… interesting.

Not to say pleasant.

Anyway.

The night before, after the fight, Yone had helped clean his wounds. Nothing major: a damp cloth, some bandages, a salve that smelled like eucalyptus and resentment. Routine, almost ritual—repeated since childhood, when Yasuo would pick fights with kids twice his size and come home looking like he’d brawled with a drunk bear.

But as soon as he finished, Yone vanished. Didn’t eat with them. Left in a hurry, like something more important was waiting. Yasuo, frankly, was grateful. His brother’s presence was like standing trial in a courtroom where the judge was also a mirror: annoying, uncomfortable, impossible to ignore. Better this way. Alone, he could be as expressive as he wanted—like a performance artist in a play whose audience was just his mother and a cat napping on a chair.

And that’s what he did. Chattered until his voice gave out. Recounted everything with an enthusiasm that almost made up for the exhaustion: the seniors who seemed plucked from war stories; the teachers, who must’ve had degrees in sadism (he loudly complained about Jhin, the “aesthetic psychopath,” who taught art like he was training assassins). He bragged, eyes shining and pride inflated, about his dubious achievements. And of course, he talked about his friends—even if the word was new. Sett, who was a wall with legs, and Irelia, whose patience bordered on miraculous.

And Ahri… well. Ahri was a chapter of her own.

He called her his lucky charm, because saying what he really thought would’ve been stupid. Funny, mischievous, pretty—he said it out loud, but didn’t linger. He knew dangerous territory when he stepped in it. And his heart, that traitor, was already slipping too often where it shouldn’t.

He tried to keep that in mind. Tried.

His mother listened with that smile only she had. Calm, warm, almost magical. Laughed at his jokes, questioned his exaggerations, and—to Yasuo’s dismay—even found his dramatic teacher impressions funny. When she remarked, with that same mischievous glint, about Ahri (“Oh, she’s pretty, huh?”), Yasuo pretended not to hear. Changed the subject with the grace of a drunk man crossing the street.

Then came the good part.

He talked about Yi, in a tone only someone like him could muster—proud by nature, arrogant by style.

Classic Yasuo.

It was like he’d won a secret lottery. Being personally trained by Yi! The master. The terror of the dojos, the living legend with serene eyes and lethal footwork. Having exclusive access to him was, in Yasuo’s words, “a privilege reserved for the few geniuses recognized in their lifetime.”

His mother laughed. Found his bluster and excitement amusing.

“I like that boy,” she said, just like that.

Yasuo paused. The phrase hung in the air, lingering like an unfamiliar perfume.

“You know Yi?”

But he didn’t ask. The thought flickered and vanished before it could become words. He figured Yone must’ve talked about his rival at home when Yasuo wasn’t around—maybe complained enough to make Yi a familiar figure. Yeah. That had to be it.

Now, back in the present, with Yone poking his lower back like he was searching for a crack, Yasuo just grumbled.

“You could be gentler. You’re not the one who’s all busted up.”

“Not busted. Just inflamed.”

“Oh, great. That’s so comforting.”

Yone made a sound that, by some miracle of nature, could almost be interpreted as a near-laugh, a breath. Not a real laugh, of course—that would require emotions more expansive than his brother seemed capable of. But it was enough.

The silence between them returned, thick as tea steam—and almost as uncomfortable. Until, in a voice as serene as it was suspicious, the older brother said:

“Did you eat something strange yesterday?”

Yasuo rolled his eyes, visibly offended by the implication.

“‘Strange’ is relative. If you’re asking if I ate a scorpion marinated in gunpowder, no. If you’re asking if I ate well… well…”

He paused dramatically, just to annoy. It worked. The slight twitch of Yone’s left eyebrow was a victory.

“I started with Amrita’s healthy, frugal breakfast,” he said, like reciting poetry. “A bowl of miserable granola, unsalted bread, green-whatever juice I refuse to name… A feast for a depressed rabbit.”

Yone didn’t respond. He was as impassive as ever, but the air around him felt colder.

“Then, I refueled with what actually matters: pancakes, chocolate cookies, coffee strong enough to kill a horse… Oh, and a handful of candy I found in my pocket. Probably Sett’s leftovers. Or contraband. Anyway. Nothing unusual. You know I survived my whole childhood like this, even with Mom screaming ‘Yasuo, that’ll kill you before twenty.’”

Yone sighed, already foreseeing his brother’s fate—and it wasn’t glorious.

“Oh, and I had tea,” Yasuo added, with that exaggerated casualness he only used when hiding something. “Dried herbs, red petals, smelled nice, tasted awful. Mixed it with other infusions, tried honey, nothing helped. A senior gave it to me.”

Yone stopped.

His expression shifted from “clinical examiner” to “scandalized teacher”, which for Yone meant tilting his chin slightly and pursing the corner of his mouth.

“Red petals?” he asked.

Yasuo nodded, curious about the reaction.

Yone sighed like someone about to educate a wild animal.

“Probably Akahana.”

“Aka-what?”

“Akahana,” Yone repeated, with annoyingly precise diction. “A rare flower. Red. When dried, it has a subtle, almost sweet scent. But the taste… well, you experienced it.”

Yasuo wrinkled his nose. The taste was still there, stuck to his tongue like an old grudge.

“It’s used by high-performance practitioners. Fighters at their limit. Very expensive. Very effective. If prepared correctly and, above all, taken at the right time.”

A meaningful pause.

“Which is not in the morning.”

Yasuo huffed, burrowing deeper into the covers like a resentful mollusk.

“I know how to make tea, Yone.”

“You know how to make a mess,” he shot back, eyes half-lidded. “If you had equivalent talent for following instructions, maybe you wouldn’t be groaning like an eighty-year-old with gout.”

Yone stood, brushed his pants with surgical precision, and continued like he was reciting a manual:

“Akahana works as a deep restorative. If taken before sleep, it helps the body recover so well some duelists can train daily without collapsing. But it demands rest. Joint stillness. Fiber silence. Peace.”

He gestured with his chin at his brother, coiled like a moody sushi roll.

“And not being chugged by a hyperactive brat who then ran around like a sugar-high toddler.”

“I didn’t run that much,” Yasuo grumbled, voice muffled by fabric.

Yone ignored him.

“I’ve used a few doses myself, when I could. A luxury. A rare gift. One no sane person would waste without reading the instructions.”

The lecture came like a sheathed blade: sharp without drawing blood. Yasuo muttered something unintelligible, probably a slur disguised as a yawn.

“I’m sure,” Yone went on, slightly more acidic, “the senior who gave this to you mentioned something. No fool would waste Akahana on someone unguided. Unless, of course, that senior wanted to be rid of you faster.”

“He just said to take it…,” Yasuo hesitated. “…at some point.”

“‘At some point.’ Of course.”

Yone rolled his eyes—a gesture as rare as an eclipse. Yasuo saw it and savored the small victory.

“You’re impossible, Yasuo.”

“And you’re predictable,” he shot back, already ducking under the blanket. “This is what I get: a free lecture, not even decent coffee to go with it.”

Yone still looked at him like a puzzle he’d given up solving but still felt a faint fondness for having tried.

And he stood there, silent. As if deciding, finally, that some pains you had to earn.

Or at least learn from.

“Tea or medicine. No ointment will fix this,” Yone declared at last, with the finality of a judge closing a case.

And without another word, he left.

Yasuo heard the footsteps fade down the hall, then the front door opening, closing with that familiar dry click. The kind of sound that marked not just an exit, but the end of a conversation that, for all intents and purposes, had never truly begun.

Of course. Running away again.

Great.

Yasuo sank deeper into the pillow, suspicious. This was becoming too much of a pattern: Yone always found an excuse to vanish at the day’s most important hours—i.e., before meals. First, he thought it was pride. Then, maybe diet. But now…

Now he was starting to suspect something deeper. Something personal.

Had Yone… found out?

There’d been a time, when Yasuo was thirteen, hormones and resentment at war. He was irritated, exhausted, and had heard “Yone” fifty-two times that day—counted. Teachers, classmates, even the librarian. All with that same reverent tone, like his older brother was some legendary warrior and he, Yasuo, a noisy rat who just happened to share the same blood.

“Your brother won the semester tournament,” “Your brother aced calculus,” “Your brother looks like a real samurai,” “Why aren’t you more like him?”

That day, Yasuo came home determined to restore his honor.

So, in an act of pure, glorious payback, he retaliated with mushrooms. Well-hidden. In the food. Yone hated mushrooms with near-spiritual fervor.

Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe it was cathartic. Or both. Whatever.

Now he was alone again. And despite the pain, it almost felt like a gift. At least staying in bed was a blessing. Mostly.

But Yasuo had never been good at staying still. Restless by nature, fidgety by vocation. Being immobile was practically punishment. One he maybe deserved, but still hated.

Luckily, he didn’t have to endure it long.

The door creaked softly, announcing the one person he actually wanted to see right now: his mother.

She entered with a gentle smile, deftly balancing a simple wooden tray—polished and full of quiet affection. The tea steamed in a yellow mug—his favorite, with an old crack near the handle and a poorly drawn fox.

“Turmeric,” she said, setting it down carefully. “With a little milk and honey. Delicious, if I do say so.”

Yasuo sat up with the effort of a wounded samurai returning from war and accepted the drink like it was ambrosia.

“Hmmm…” he murmured, eyes closing for a second. “Perfect.”

She sat at the foot of the bed, smoothing the blanket with that automatic motherly gesture of fixing what wasn’t broken.

“You always do things your way,” she said, fondness veiled. “And you always pay the price. But at least you take the tea when it’s ready.”

Yasuo smirked, sipping like the gesture could cure his pride too.

He didn’t stay down for long. Considering everything he’d faced in life—falls, defeats, bruises, fractured ribs—the Akahana’s muscle pain fell into the “tolerable with complaint” range. His muscles protested, sure, like activists demanding rights, but they didn’t stop him from dragging himself to the bathroom.

As he stretched with the care of a centenarian, he grumbled internally:

“Yi could’ve been more specific, huh?”

Not that the senior hadn’t warned him. He had. Said: “Before bed.”

The problem was subtlety. As if a simple “before bed” was enough for someone like Yasuo. The bare minimum should’ve been: “Take only before sleep, then remain still for at least six hours, or your body will feel like it was run over by an angry buffalo that then reversed.”

That was instruction.

But no. Yi, with his austere ways, his scholar-monk face, preferred to teach through ambiguity and pain. As if suffering was part of the pedagogy.

Yasuo could almost see him, that serene gaze and calm voice saying: “It’s important you learn for yourself.”

And of course, Yasuo did it his way. Brewed the tea midday, drank it, ran around, fought, cursed. Great plan. Except for the part where his bones now felt like they’d gone on vacation without notice.

“He did it on purpose,” he thought, bitter.

It was the only explanation. Yi was testing him. Had that too-peaceful smile, that benign look hiding dubious intentions. A good guy with a quiet demon in his pocket. Classic.

“Probably wanted to see if I’d read between the lines,” he muttered, rubbing his neck.

The worst part? It might’ve worked. Because Yasuo, for all his flaws, hated being wrong.

And being wrong in front of someone like Yi… was unacceptable.

Especially if the master didn’t even need to scold him. Just look. Just stay silent. Like Yone.

Ugh.

The world was full of men who were too damn quiet.

Yasuo downed the last of his tea in one gulp and took a deep breath.

“Okay. No more magic flowers before bed. Lesson learned.”

Chapter Text

The backpack’s zipper snarled, stubborn, as if protesting against yet another book being shoved inside—because, of course, the logic of evenly distributed weight had never been part of Yasuo’s repertoire. He ignored the zipper’s complaint with solemn indifference and straightened up, rolling his shoulders until he heard that satisfying crack of a joint lamenting its own existence.

The good news: he was finally ready. The bad? He was absurdly late.

“Ah, perfect,” he grumbled, glaring at the clock that seemed to laugh in his face with numbers dancing on the edge of tragedy. “Just perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Curfew technically didn’t apply on weekends… technically. In practice, that meant Amrita’s administration pretended not to care, as long as students didn’t start fires, massive brawls, or cinematic escapes over the side energy fences.

He slung the backpack over his shoulder, crossed the room, and tripped over the parallel universe that formed whenever Yasuo spent more than ten minutes in any organized space. Misplaced boxes. A training rope he swore hadn’t been there before. And, inevitably, the rough scabbard grazing his foot.

The second sword.

He stopped. Just for a second.

It was there. It always had been. Half-hidden, half-forgotten. The wooden hilt cracked at the edges, the blue wrap no longer blue—more like… the memory of a color. A ghost of dye.

Yasuo took a deep breath.

“You again.”

He could take it. Technically, he should.

It wasn’t that the sword was useless. It was good—or had been, once. He couldn’t remember anymore.

But Yasuo refused. Not out of stubbornness, exactly, but principle. He’d grown up hearing the elders say that fighting with one hand was heresy, that it was dishonorable to enter battle without giving your all. It was part of the traditional dogma in his district—a culture dragged in from eras past.

A written and documented law.

Yone, of course, wielded two with mastery—and with unbearable pride, as if he’d been born with both already strapped to his fists.

But Yasuo? He chose a different path. Always chose.

The path of “I only need one,” of “doing more with less,” of “my skill is enough.”

Maybe it was arrogance. Maybe defiance. Or maybe it was his way of telling the world: I’m not you.

The smaller sword had been in its scabbard so long it had probably grown roots. Rusted? Definitely. Neglected? No question. Yasuo didn’t even bother unsheathing it to check. It was an older model, mismatched with his current one—practically a museum piece. But to him, it symbolized something bigger: the refusal to walk another’s path, the reminder that his way—however crooked—was still his.

“You stay.”

He nudged it back with his foot, half-annoyed, half-resigned. Leaving it behind was almost a ritual. The sword stayed. Yasuo moved on.

He left in a hurry—not the most elegant farewell, but sincere enough: a quick kiss on his mother’s cheek, a rushed wave, and then he was on the street, running.

The night wind dragged the city along in neon hums and hurried footsteps. Yasuo wove through the sidewalks as if late for his own destiny—which, in a way, he was.

The Amrita jacket dangled from one arm, his other hand gripping the backpack strap like it might flee. A spectacle worthy of someone who treated “punctuality” as a vague suggestion.

But it was good exercise, he told himself. If he even needed to justify the chaos.

Even at night, the district didn’t sleep. Lights strung on cables, flickering signs, open apartment windows full of voices—everything conspired to make him feel less alone in his rush.

The station emerged as a visual relief, that familiar structure blending technology and tradition. Yasuo breezed through the turnstiles, ignored the tired glances of the staff, and headed straight for the train cars.

Not many students remained. Most—the prudent, the diligent, the ones who knew how to plan—had probably boarded before sunset.

Him? He’d spent the only “training” session of the week with Yi—or, well, fighting, if you could even call it training.

He chose an empty car, slipping between seats until he found a quiet corner. Dropped his bag beside him, tossed the jacket over it, and finally let his body melt into the seat.

Peace.

For exactly seven seconds.

“Yasuo.”

He swallowed hard.

The voice came with the quiet force of distant thunder. When he looked up, there he was: Lee Sin.

Senior. Master. And, of course, the kind of figure who made even his own shadow straighten up when he passed.

Lee stepped in with effortless grace—a courteous nod, the same unshakable posture as always—and, of all the empty seats in that damn train, he chose that one. On purpose. It had to be.

Yasuo adjusted himself, forcing composure he didn’t feel. Gave a subtle, respectful bow.

“Sir.”

Lee merely nodded. No reproach in the gesture, but nothing reassuring either. Like staring into calm waters, knowing something beneath could swallow you whole.

He settled across from Yasuo, arms crossed with rehearsed precision. Didn’t speak immediately. Didn’t need to. His presence alone filled the space with silent weight.

Yasuo pretended not to notice. Adjusted his bag like that scrap of fabric could shield him from the strangeness in the air.

This wasn’t the usual Lee.

The crooked smile was missing, the practiced lightness he sometimes used to play the cool mentor, like he was starring in an ad for his own reputation. Not tonight. Tonight, he was different. Polished. Restrained. Like a surface waxed too smooth—beautiful, but slippery.

And Yasuo’s instincts—that primal creature sleeping beneath his rationality—whispered, low but firm:

Something’s wrong.

Still, he could do nothing. Or pretended he couldn’t. Sat straighter, stared out the window, pretended his reflection showed more than just his own uncertainty.

Lee broke the silence first. His voice was soft, almost casual, but there was something in the tone—a slight hesitation, metal caught between words.

“So… congratulations. Heard you were accepted as Yi’s apprentice.”

That was it. No frills. No fanfare. A brief, almost offhand remark. But no disdain, no sarcasm. Just… a lack of shine. As if the words were spoken out of obligation, or maybe as a symbolic offering in a conversation that needed to happen for other reasons.

Yasuo nodded, cautious. “Yeah. Pretty recent.” And, because he didn’t know what else to say: “Thanks.”

They talked, then. About nothing.

Food—Lee mentioned that if you hit the kitchen before break ended, you could snag dessert with real cocoa.

“Only for the curious, of course,” he said, with a half-wink that seemed rehearsed but not well-executed.

Yasuo laughed lightly, politely. The info was unexpected. Almost out of place, like a flower growing through concrete. But there it was. Maybe Lee was trying to lighten the mood. Maybe he wanted to see how Yasuo would react. Or maybe he just wanted to talk about chocolate for a second to forget… whatever weight he carried.

Music. Dance. Small distractions.

Nothing important enough to remember.

Nothing irrelevant enough to forget.

And then, between pauses, came the question.

“And Sett?” Lee said, like dusting off an old item on a shelf. Not looking directly. Almost casual.

But Yasuo saw.

Saw Lee’s eyebrow twitch—a tic. Quick, microscopic. But there.

The space between question and answer stretched too long. As if the question itself was being replayed in Yasuo’s mind.

“Sett?” he repeated, buying time. “He’s a good guy. Sharp. Gives solid advice. A bit sloppy, maybe. But reliable. We get along.”

Lee nodded, and for a moment too long, said nothing. As if waiting for an addition. As if expecting Yasuo to say something he didn’t know he needed to hear.

But Yasuo didn’t.

The silence returned, thick as smoke. Lee didn’t explain the question. Yasuo didn’t ask for an explanation.

For now, that was that.

The school station approached. Platform lights bloomed in the window like beacons on a sea of glass. Yasuo didn’t know exactly what had just happened—if it was just an awkward conversation or a seed being planted.

But one thing was certain:

This wasn’t a normal night.

Yasuo took his time standing.

Maybe out of laziness. Maybe hesitation. Maybe just to avoid walking side by side with that silent aura Lee left behind, like invisible smoke clinging to the walls.

The senior rose with flawless composure. A warrior who didn’t need war to remember he was dangerous. Yasuo watched him cross the car and exit, only then allowing himself to move. Kept his distance. Not out of fear, but… prudence.

On the platform, a few other students disembarked—scattered in pairs or trios, voices hushed.

But his focus wasn’t on them.

It was on the welcoming party.

And this wasn’t just any welcoming party.

Yasuo felt the chill crawl up his spine before he understood why. A physical reflex. Instinctive. Like a wild animal scenting predators on the wind.

There, standing under the cold entrance lights, were some of Amrita’s seniors.

Karma. Shen. Fiora. Xin Zhao. Yi.

All gathered, as if waiting for someone important. And as Lee Sin approached, Yasuo understood—it was for him. That small congregation of intense presences and eloquent silences moved with its own gravity. A warning pulsed in Yasuo’s mind, clear and flashing:

Something’s very wrong.

He tried to ignore it. Tried to rationalize. Maybe it was just an admin meeting. Some council. A formality. But part of him—the part too good at reading between lines—knew better.

As he passed Yi, he raised a hand in a casual gesture, with his usual relaxed smile. A simple, light greeting.

But Yi… didn’t respond.

Jaw tight, eyes hard. He bit the inside of his cheek, like holding back words that couldn’t be spoken. And as Yasuo passed, he muttered something dry, barely audible, a thread of voice dragged by the wind:

“See you tomorrow, Yasuo.”

The tone said enough. Something was happening. And Yasuo definitely wasn’t part of it.

The seniors began to disperse. None looked back. None cared about curfew.

They vanished into the night and wisteria shadows as if part of the campus itself—or something hovering above it.

Weird.

Yasuo sighed, shaking his head. Overthinking would only make him later. And maybe worse.

He moved on. The campus was quiet now, and the school’s barriers—those near-invisible domes by day—now rose with clarity, tracing energy lines in the air like veins under the sky’s skin. The atmosphere grew denser at night. A muffled sound, as if the outside world had been pushed into the background.

A reminder: they were protected.

He’d gotten used to it in the first week. Almost forgot it wasn’t normal.

Wisteria hung from arches and balconies, asleep, branches swaying in the night breeze. Beautiful. Peaceful. Almost poetic.

He let himself breathe deep. He was far from the District. Far from the worms. The demands. The old speeches.

Being at Amrita, as strange as it was, was still a request for peace he’d made to the universe. And the universe, generous or tired, had obliged.

So he walked.

One step at a time, toward the dorm.

Narrow, familiar paths, his quick steps losing stiffness as the campus’s tranquility embraced him.

Then he heard it—cutting through the air like a poorly told secret—that voice.

Playful. A low laugh at the end.

“Late, as always, hurricane.”

He stopped before turning, but the smile came anyway. Natural. Almost involuntary. He’d recognize that lilt anywhere. And there she was, lounging lazily on a thick tree branch, feet swinging, eyes half-lidded with sarcasm.

Ahri.

In her hand, a treat clearly not part of the official menu. Probably smuggled from the kitchen with some minor spell or excessive charm—both equally effective.

“You still haven’t gotten tired of scaring people from treetops?” Yasuo asked, stepping closer, his tone lighter, like stepping out of his own head.

Ahri chuckled softly, took another bite, and answered lazily, “And you still haven’t gotten tired of challenging curfew like it’s decorative?”

Yasuo huffed, crossing his arms with dignity that fooled no one. “Had my reasons.”

Ahri arched a brow, amused. “Oh, right. Reasons. Like arriving in style. Or getting lost in your own ego.”

“Maybe both,” he admitted, smirking. But there was more. Her presence was always like this. Half-sunlight, half-shadow. As if Ahri floated between comfort and enigma.

She didn’t climb down. And he, more curious than impulsive, dropped his bag, grabbed the trunk, and—with some effort and a stifled curse—managed to sit near her.

Not too close. But close enough.

She didn’t comment on the struggle, just watched with gentle calm.

“Had I known you’d come up, I’d have offered you half,” she said, lifting the treat like a trophy before taking another lazy bite. “But you seemed too busy pretending you’re not curious.”

Yasuo sighed, leaning his shoulder against the trunk. “Fine. I’m curious.”

She smiled at the corner of her lips. “About the seniors?”

He nodded, eyes still on the branches above, as if the answer might fall from them.

Ahri toyed with the treat before speaking.

“I never leave, you know?” she began, unexpectedly soft. “I’m from the Second City. I don’t have… anyone waiting for me outside Amrita. No urgent reason to make excuses. So I see more than people think.”

Yasuo turned slightly—not enough to intrude, but attentive.

“That sounds like the start of gossip.”

She laughed, but there was something sad beneath it.

“Maybe it is. Maybe I shouldn’t tell. But I like you enough to gossip a little.”

Yasuo’s face warmed. Not exactly something he knew how to handle.

“Ahri—”

“Shh.” She raised a finger, pointing to the distorted sky above. “The seniors… don’t gather like that for no reason. Ever. You feel it, right? They have access to parts of Amrita even we and regular instructors don’t step in. And when they all vanish like that…” She clicked her tongue. “It’s because something happened. Or will.”

“Any idea what?”

Ahri took her time answering. The treat was gone. She licked her fingers with the calm of someone closing a book before the good part.

“I have suspicions. But telling you would be a little irresponsible. And a little dangerous.”

A pause.

“…But if I were you, I’d start sleeping with an extra sword by the bed.”

Silence.

The wind carried a loose petal between them, and Yasuo watched it dance as if it understood everything.

Ahri’s gaze slid to him, and she smiled. Softer this time. Almost protective.

“Sleep with one eye open, little hurricane.”

The silence between them lingered—not uncomfortable, but tense in a new way. Almost delicate. Yasuo wasn’t sure when the air had grown thicker, warmer. Maybe it was her tone, or how her sweet scent mixed with the night, like an unintended promise.

He inhaled deeply. The fragrance was light, sweet, almost floral—but with a warmer, more intimate undertone. An involuntary invitation to lose focus, and Yasuo almost accepted.

But no.

Yone would’ve wrinkled his nose if he saw. Or maybe just crossed his arms and raised a brow with that “Really? Now?” look. Yasuo exhaled, mentally stepping back from the cliff his teenage thoughts wanted to leap off.

Composure.

Not the right moment.

His older brother had at least taught him that. Knowing when to keep your feet on the ground, even when the whole world—or a very pretty girl with a fox tail—seemed determined to distract you.

Yasuo swallowed dryly. Smiled. Silently. Savoring the company, the moment. No need to say anything. This was enough.

Ahri noticed, of course. She always did. A faint glint passed her eyes, as if appreciating his effort. Their gazes held a second too long.

Then, as if obeying an old choreography, they looked away at the same time.

“Goodnight, Yas,” she whispered, soft, almost sacred.

“Goodnight…” he replied, with a tenderness that surprised even himself.

Ahri descended from the tree with the enchanted lightness of someone born to dance with the wind. Her tail swayed behind her, rhythmic, almost hypnotic. Her long hair caught the moon’s silver fragments, scattering reflections as if she carried a piece of the sky with her.

Yasuo watched her go—silent steps, a trail of perfume and presence—until she vanished into shadows and wisteria.

Only then did he release the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. A hand ran through his hair with slight nerves, and he laughed, quiet, to himself. He wasn’t sure if he was more confused by what she’d said… or by what she’d been, in that moment.

Right. Time to head back.

He grabbed his bag, dusted himself off, and resumed the walk to the dorm. The campus was quieter now, wrapped in that attentive silence that isn’t emptiness, but vigilance.

He walked steadily, but his mind was elsewhere.

Mental note:

Sleep hugging his sword.

And maybe fetch the second sword next time he visited the district. Not to use. Of course not. Just to… leave under the bed. For caution.

No big deal.

Just instinct.

Just… safety.

Or fear.

Or something in between.

So Yasuo entered the dorm. A little calmer. A little more alert.

And with his heart—ridiculous as it seemed—beating out of rhythm.

Chapter Text

Yasuo woke at sunrise, a sacrifice most would call penance. But in that moment, it was theater, glory—the hero rises early, yes, still sweat-damp from turbulent dreams, a thin line of drool smeared over the sheath of his sword—the stuffed bear that had guarded him from night terrors. He stretched with a low groan, body still warm from the blanket and an excess of youthful pride. On the other bed, Sett lay face down, arms splayed like a defeated warrior on a field of feathers. He’d been absent the night before—and Yasuo, for some reason, had avoided asking why.

Maybe out of apprehension. Maybe pride. Or because, honestly, there was no time for it now.

It was the second official week of Amrita, and with it, his second training session under Yi’s tutelage. It was also, perhaps, the beginning of his silent investigation.

The shower was quick and cold. He needed clarity, needed to shake off sleep. Sword at his hip, sneakers on his feet, jacket slung over his shoulder, and the sky still peach-colored. The granola bar vanished between bites before he even descended into the underground of Arena 03E.

There, as expected, Yi sat in lotus position. The blue light of the chamber reflected off the platinum frames of his glasses, and for a moment, Yasuo thought he was asleep again—but no. Yi meditated with the posture of a blade buried in the earth.

This time, Yasuo didn’t hesitate. No nerves, no reverence. Just a firm greeting and a voice more confident than before.

"Morning, Master."

Yi only murmured something resembling a greeting but didn’t get to continue. Yasuo was already hurling words like shuriken.

"Those herbs you gave me? Spent the whole day in pain. You could’ve warned me before handing me poison disguised as medicine."

Yi raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"And does fighting count as training? Like, self-defense and all. ‘Cause yesterday, listen—" He gestured with his hand. "There was some trouble. Nothing major, just... a scuffle. Neighborhood stuff."

The senior tried to interject, but Yasuo was already switching topics with the momentum of a wild horse.

"And Lee Sin, huh? He just pops up outta nowhere. Was he with you yesterday? ‘Cause he seemed kinda..."

Silence. Yi’s expression closed off. Not anger—but a warning. A signal. A subtle tug of reins.

Yasuo noticed.

Dangerous territory. But... no cowardice.

The older man sighed, removing his glasses calmly. He wiped the lenses with the hem of his robe before speaking:

"You need to learn to think before you speak. Some questions can land you in... delicate situations."

Yasuo frowned but swallowed the lecture. What did that mean, exactly? What secrets were being kept? And by whom?

Yi replaced his glasses and rose with the lightness of someone who’d trained more with wind than stone. He approached Yasuo and studied him in silence. His eyes scanned the younger man’s still-swollen face, lingering on the cut above his eyebrow.

"No physical training today," he announced, his voice as soft as steel before it sings. "We’re studying sutras."

Yasuo scoffed. Loudly. A staged protest, complete with an eye roll and arms dropping to his sides like a tragedy victim.

"I came ready for action. And you wanna shove me in a library?"

The senior’s lips curved slightly—a smile. Small, satisfied, like someone who wins without needing to say it.

"The mind must be sharpened like the sword. Or do you just want to be another brute with quick reflexes?"

Yasuo wanted to retort. Wanted to say brutes win battles too. That he’d been trained in the streets, in blood and dust, not the perfumed halls of Amrita. But he held back. Not just out of respect, but because of a spark of intelligence that sometimes made itself heard in his head.

They had to walk to the nearest library entrance, which, yes, also earned some grumbling. Amrita wasn’t small. Not at all. He muttered that Yi could’ve warned him earlier, just to save time—a complaint the senior answered with grace:

"In haste, the river stumbles on stones. The wise arrive unhurried… and still laugh at the journey."

Yasuo made a face so honest he felt his own eyebrow twitch. He definitely didn’t know who’d written that, and honestly? Preferred it that way.

"Are you, like, seventy years old?"

Yi didn’t answer. Just smiled that mischievous, slightly impertinent smile, as if savoring the suffering of a wayward youth.

But he added, in the practical tone of someone adjusting a kimono fold:

"It’s not like I could’ve texted you, anyway."

Yasuo narrowed his eyes. He was sure that even if Yi could, he wouldn’t. Out of sheer spite. Or that twisted master logic.

Idiot.

And incredible.

Fuck it. He liked Yi.

Couldn’t deny it. The kind of person who inspired respect without forcing it. Who made you want to follow—even when he got on your nerves. Yasuo might complain about reading sutras, but he was excited. He wanted to win. Win everything. Dominate every competition. Make history. He dreamed big, yeah. And unapologetically.

Before they lost themselves in books, he stopped in the hallway.

He stretched an arm in front of Yi, blocking the path. The senior arched a brow, silent, as if asking "yes?" with a look.

"Your phone," Yasuo explained, with a quick gesture, like it was obvious. "I promise I won’t be the kind of annoying apprentice who texts at dawn."

(Lie. He totally would.)

The older man sighed, resigned. Pulled the phone from his pocket and handed it over.

Yasuo took it with the natural curiosity of a snoop. Eyebrow raised, he first noted the basics: understated, plain case, no stickers or decals. The wallpaper? Boring. The default system image, a pale green stylized wave.

He asked for the passcode. Yi seemed to think for a moment, gaze dropping as if digging up a forgotten number. Then he answered calmly:

"Zero-eight-zero-six."

Could’ve meant anything. Yasuo immediately thought of August 6th. He sighed, almost automatic, before the thought fully formed. Birthday? Maybe? The date was unsettlingly familiar.

But Yi added, in that neutral tone that dismantled theories:

"One of the dates for the Spiritual Blossom Festival."

Oh. Right. It was. The temples overflowing with flowers, kids painting their faces, the breeze sweet with incense and sticky rice.

He kicked the birthday thought away like a pebble on the path. Not that it mattered, anyway. He was there for the number. And curiosity, maybe. But mostly the number.

Unlocked, the wallpaper was the same. Nothing personal. Nothing fun. The interface clean, almost monastic—few apps, folders labeled with functional coldness. A phone that revealed nothing about its owner. Which, ironically, said a lot.

He opened the contacts.

Two pinned at the top: Fair and Emmai. Bahrl dialect. Father and mother.

Yasuo’s brows lifted. That was... unexpectedly sweet. Classic, in a way. The mark of someone at peace with the ties they carried.

But the rest?

The rest was pure chaos. Initials. Codes. Acronyms that looked straight out of a military report. KJ. SH. DH. AR. LS. YN. XZ.

Yasuo blinked slowly, trying to decipher anything. Nothing.

Yi was weird. Probably the whole list was some incomprehensible mental organization system. Just letters, as if the senior were communicating with a mystical council of disguised entities.

The last two were in recent calls—likely his sutra-torturing buddies. Yasuo pictured Yi sitting in a circle of cushions, reciting ancient verses with other forgotten-wisdom fanatics. A book club from hell.

He smiled, involuntarily.

Added his own contact. Couldn’t resist a personal touch. Full name, of course—Yasuo—and a few emojis: a tornado, a sword, maybe a flashing lightning cloud.

Not exactly to seem unruly, but... well. It was the best way to establish familiarity. Emojis spoke for themselves. A way of saying: hey, I’m here. Not just your student.

And for a second, he thought Yi smiled too. Not obviously, but a slight quirk at the corner of his lips, almost imperceptible, like someone reading something funny and keeping it to themselves.

After returning the phone, Yasuo adjusted the sword strap on his hip and fell into step beside the senior. They walked through Amrita’s silent architecture, walls that absorbed sound like they stored ancient echoes. But Yasuo, restless as a new hound, wouldn’t last long in silence.

"But, seriously..." he started, in that overly casual tone that always masked real discomfort, "why exactly do we need to study sutras? Isn’t it kinda... a waste of time? I mean, nobody wins championships reciting proverbs."

It was a genuine question, buried under his usual clumsy arrogance. But Yi didn’t seem bothered. He just took a few seconds before answering, as if choosing words the younger man would understand with minimal resistance.

"The first—and most important—step," he said quietly, "is always to learn a discipline’s teachings and traditions. Even if you don’t like them."

"Okay, and?" Yasuo huffed, hands in pockets, not hiding his boredom.

"Only after that," the senior continued, unmoved, "can you wander. Explore. Break tradition with freedom, question fundamentals with authority. You can try to defy the game’s rules and ignore discipline, Yasuo. But it’s a foolish choice. And in the end... it’ll only make you weaker."

A little blunt? Sure. But Yasuo preferred it that way. Simple answers, even if philosophical. Clear, no unnecessary mystery. Even if it was, deep down, as irritating as a pebble in his shoe.

And entering the library didn’t help.

As soon as they passed through the arched doorway, the scent of old paper and jasmine wrapped around him like sacred mist. The space was vast, elegant, tall windows filtering daylight into soft beams. The pale wood floor creaked faintly, and the air was cool, as if time moved slower here. Aesthetically? Luxurious. Functionally? A lullaby.

Yasuo yawned—unapologetically.

"Gotta be ignorant, but with citations," he muttered, almost to himself, but loud enough.

Yi paused for half a second. Arched his brows with the precision of someone who’d just heard the most irreverent phrase in months. Didn’t reply. Just... kept walking.

But if he didn’t deny it, maybe it was a valid perspective.

At least the library was beautiful. Very beautiful. That softened the punishment. They settled in a side nook where linen curtains swayed in the breeze and the couches looked designed for readings that outlasted entire relationships. The light was good. The peace, almost excessive.

Then Yasuo blinked—just once—and in the next second, a stack of books appeared beside them. He needed to get used to it, but seeing the master use his power so casually was impressive.

Six thick volumes, leather spines, inscriptions in three different languages. Yasuo felt the weight of the task before even opening the first page.

Yi, as if reading his mind, said softly:

"Be patient. And don’t rush improvement. It won’t help."

Yasuo nearly rolled his eyes, but something in Yi’s delivery made him listen. Even if grudgingly.

Then came the good part.

"Next week," Yi said, like commenting on the weather, "there’s a friendly match between Labrys and Amrita."

Yasuo straightened instantly. His ears, figuratively, perked up like antennas.

"Wait, seriously?"

"I’ll only say more," Yi cut in, with that dangerous half-smile, "if you write at least three proper poems on today’s readings. Nothing shallow."

Yasuo blinked. Three... poems?

He was about to complain, to groan, to yell that this was educational abuse—but something in the challenge hooked him. A sudden impulse, fresh determination. Like the idea of winning now came with new codes.

Resigned (and curious), he picked up the first book. The title was long, gilded, impossible to remember at a glance. Something about inner winds and the silence between the soul’s notes.

He started reading. And temporarily convinced himself that between the rustling pages and the sun-warmed air, this too was part of the duel. And like any good duel, he had no intention of losing.

Chapter Text

Though the day had started early, Yasuo was surprisingly alert. The sky still held a pale blue hue, and he’d already been challenged by Yi to yet another one of those mental games the master insisted on disguising as traditional teaching. Poetry, philosophy, riddles. If this was training, he was turning into a zen monk with homicidal tendencies.

But yes, he was excited. Not about the lessons, of course—that would be absurd—but about the conversation with Yi. There was something thrilling about knowing an inter-academic event was approaching. Amrita versus Labrys. The best from each school. A clash of seniors with the air of an informal tournament. A game of prestige, strategy, and rivalry cultivated with affection and well-placed punches.

Except for one unfair, infuriating, utterly arbitrary detail: freshmen weren’t allowed to participate.

“Who came up with that rule?” Yasuo muttered under his breath, nearly hissing. He bit back a half-formed curse, stifled by Yi’s presence.

The older man replied with that voice laced with polite irony, more irritating than any shout:

“It’s a matter of strategy. Most freshmen are restless, impatient, too ambitious to understand the difference between healthy rivalry and pointless hatred.”

It sounded like an elegant metaphor. But it also sounded like a very direct jab.

Yasuo pretended not to catch it. Selective ignorance was his specialty.

Fine. The event was for the seniors. Friendly, formal, “aimed at fostering camaraderie between academies.”

Blah, blah, blah.

He doodled a spiral in his notebook. A line leading nowhere.

The truth was simple: he wanted to attend. And he would. Skipping Professor Jhin’s class—that walking psychodrama with a penchant for metaphors—was just a bonus. Or it should’ve been.

But when he actually had time to think… the weight settled.
And settled like a stone.

Yasuo was in the middle of Ancient Philosophies, where the professor was so old she moved like a thousand-year-old tree on a breezy day, and then—between scribbles, the sound of flipping pages, and heads nodding off—it hit him.

Labrys and Amrita. Labrys would come to Amrita.

Yone was from Labrys.

Yone would come to Amrita.

…Code red. Red as blood.

Yasuo’s spine turned to ice.

“No, no, no…” he whispered, barely audible.

Amrita was the only place where Yasuo didn’t have to be the other one.

Here, he was just Yasuo. The promising swordsman. The stubborn rookie. Yi’s student. A troublemaker with too much talent for his own good.

No one here had any idea about the ties he hid. No one cared about Yone. Except… Irelia. She knew. But she was trustworthy. Loyal as few were. Even if she sometimes seemed too wise for her age and too eager to meddle in others’ lives.

Still, just imagining Yone’s presence made discomfort bloom like rust inside him.

It wasn’t fair. Amrita was neutral ground. An unspoken promise of a fresh start. And now, the past threatened to invade that sacred soil as if it were just another diplomatic exchange between institutions.

But of course… of course Yone would do what he always did at Labrys. He’d pretend Yasuo didn’t exist.

He was good at that.
An expert at that.

During Labrys’ events, when Yasuo attended as a spectator beside their mother, Yone would walk past him like he was a shadow on the wall. A blur. Without so much as a glance.

Pathetic.

Stupid.

Bitter.

It was comforting to believe he’d act the same now. That he wouldn’t open his mouth to say, Hey, little brother, or anything else absurdly out of character and context.

No one would notice.

Yone wasn’t the type to make a scene. And they didn’t even look that much alike, to begin with. I mean… Yone was their father’s spitting image. Broad shoulders, firm jaw, quiet eyes. The posture of someone born to be remembered.

Yasuo… well, he wasn’t sure who he resembled. The mirror never answered. But he was sure of one thing: it wasn’t Yone.

Different fathers.

Different stories.

Nothing in common.

Except the hair.

But no one would notice.

No one.

Right?

…

What if someone did notice?

Yasuo felt his heart start to drum the frantic rhythm of a funeral march. What if someone connected the dots? Pieced it together? What if some random student—one of those overly observant types who knew everything about everyone as a hobby—remembered Yone had a younger brother? What if they looked at him and… saw?

What could possibly happen that was so horrible?

Everything.

Being compared again. Having classmates whisper, nudge, ask, What’s it like being his brother? Or worse, saying everything made sense now—his swordplay, his talent. As if he were just an echo of something that already existed.

Reliving it all. The whole mess. Like the past had bought a VIP ticket to invade the present and laugh in his face.

And on top of it all… he’d lied.
Lied. To Yi’s face.

Yasuo’s stomach twisted into a sailor’s knot.

How would the master react if he found out? He didn’t seem like the type who cared about bloodline formalities. Yi probably didn’t care about titles, surnames, anything that reeked of hereditary vanity. But still. Yasuo had omitted. Deliberately. Deceived. Hidden a fundamental truth from the start, when he should’ve pledged honesty as a disciple.

What if… what if those two had a real feud? What if Yi secretly, deeply, irreversibly hated Yone to the point of despising everything about him? Would he abandon Yasuo mid-training? Kick him out of the arena? Void their unspoken master-student contract?

Yasuo clenched his fist, the pen nearly snapping between his fingers.

And Sett?

His rowdy friend, devoted to his mother, with a loyalty as straightforward as a gut punch. Would he understand? Or feel betrayed? Would he ask why Yasuo hid it? Laugh? Get pissed?

His head was a war drum—thud, thud, thud—each beat bringing a new question, another catastrophic theory.

Yasuo scribbled like a madman. He’d moved past spirals to more… specific shapes. A caricature of his brother emerged in the margins: furrowed brows, sharp nose, perfect samurai stance. And two horns, just because. With a little drool trail. Ridiculous. Stupid. A masterpiece of teenage bitterness.

Then, on impulse, he stabbed the paper. A fatal blow.

Goodbye, demon Yone.

But of course, he was still alive in real life. Damn him.

Yasuo took a deep breath. Maybe… maybe he should just skip the event. That was an option, wasn’t it? Hide in the dorm, pretend he wasn’t interested. Let the world turn without him. Simple.

But he’d miss a once-in-a-lifetime learning opportunity. A duel between schools. Strategy, technique, experience. A showcase of seniors in action—everything Yasuo wanted to see, absorb, study.

And Yi had mentioned the event. In detail. With that look of someone who didn’t say everything but expected you to understand. It was a summons. He wanted Yasuo there. That much was clear.

“Hell…” he muttered, pressing his fingers to his eyes.

For a second—a single, miserable second—he wished Yone would just… disappear. Slip into a dimensional rift, vanish mid-training, never be found. Or have another mission, another excuse.

Anything. Anywhere.

Just not here.

The jolt came as an elbow to his ribs. Sett, beside him, frowned like he was deciphering a riddle.

Yasuo hid the notebook. A reflex. Almost guilty.

“You… good?” Sett murmured, half-concerned. “You look like you saw a ghost. Or wanna kill one.”

Yasuo let out a nervous laugh, the kind that fooled no one.

“I’m fine.” He waved it off. “Just… zoning out.”

“You scribbled through three pages.”

Yasuo shrugged, heart still drumming.

“It’s… conceptual art.”

Sett kept staring like he wasn’t buying half of it. But luckily, he didn’t push.

And Yasuo… just breathed.

No one would know.

He just had to keep it all together. And hope the past didn’t have too good a memory.

The rest of class was a blur.

Yasuo even pretended to pay attention—eyes half-lidded, posture vaguely upright, pen spinning between his fingers like it was performing some intellectual dance. But in reality, he didn’t hear a single word from the ancient professor. His mind wandered through mental labyrinths and apocalyptic scenarios where Yone appeared in Amrita’s courtyard like a shooting star, and everyone—everyone—turned to stare… then turned to stare at him.

Social panic in slow motion.

When the bell finally rang, it was like being dragged back to the surface after too long underwater.

“Finally… food,” he muttered to himself, packing his things with deliberate slowness, as if each notebook was an excuse to avoid reality.

The morning break wasn’t exactly a feast, but Amrita prided itself on healthy snacks. Among them, as Sett called them, “cardboard bars.” And ironically, he loved them.

So much that he bolted the second they left the classroom, pivoting like the protagonist of a war mission:

“Gonna grab as many bars as I can before everyone realizes it’s banana cinnamon day! Be right back!” he yelled, vanishing down the hall with predator speed.

Yasuo laughed. Just a little.

It was a brief smile, the kind that escaped before he could stop it. And he was grateful for it. Amid the mental chaos, Sett’s existence was like a lazy sunbeam—unlikely, but welcome.

But the calm didn’t last.

Irelia appeared soon after. Silent, attentive, as if she’d stepped out of the wall itself. She slid beside him in the hallway, steps smooth, posture flawless. She had that look of someone who already knew the answer before asking.

“What’s wrong?”

Yasuo averted his eyes. Played dumb. Clutched his books to his chest like armor against the inevitable conversation.

But this was Irelia.

The only person here who knew.
And more importantly, the only one he trusted enough to… not pretend.

“Labrys is coming to Amrita,” he said, voice dry. “Next week. Senior exhibition match. Yi mentioned it. It’s a big event. Camaraderie, healthy rivalry… all that pretty talk.”

Irelia paused for half a second.
The silence was telling.

She kept walking, but there was new tension in her shoulders. Subtle, but there. The kind Yasuo only noticed because he felt it too.

“Riven?” he asked, almost without thinking.

She didn’t answer immediately. Just kept her gaze forward, as if focusing on the horizon was the only way to keep the past in place.

“Probably,” she finally said. And with that one word, he knew.

Knew the name unsettled her. Knew the reunion was a possibility that rattled her, even if Irelia was the type to face challenges with stone-bridge steadiness.

Yasuo sighed, a bitter laugh escaping.

“We’re screwed.”

“Mildly,” she corrected, with a hint of humor. “You more than me, frankly.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

Irelia glanced sideways, her expression softening.

“It’ll be fine, Yasuo. Really.”

He almost replied with sarcasm. Almost. But she was faster.

“And even if it’s not… you’re still you. And that’s enough.”

Something tightened in Yasuo’s chest. A good discomfort. Like drinking ice water after running too hard—a pain that, for some reason, soothed. He didn’t answer right away. Just nodded slightly, without fanfare.

The hallway stretched ahead, full of voices, hurried footsteps, students coming and going as if the world were simple.

They walked side by side, where morning light streamed through the high wooden window slats, striping the floor with gold.

At some point, Yasuo’s gaze drifted. One of the side courtyards was partially visible between columns and leaves—wide, tree-dotted, scattered with students enjoying the break. Among them, a few vastaya chatted animatedly, sitting on the grass or leaning against sun-warmed stones. Nothing unusual. They were as much a part of Amrita as humans, with their varied, often fluffy tails.

But seeing the vastaya there struck him oddly.

A lump formed in his throat.

Ahri.

Of course.

It was impossible not to think of her.
Especially after that night.

Yasuo nearly winced, as if his body wanted to physically react to the emotional tantrum bubbling up. It wasn’t anger at her—not exactly. It was… something else. A cloud of half-formed feelings, nameless, placeless.

What if—

No. No. Don’t start.

What if Ahri took an interest in Yone?

That was pure paranoia. A childish projection of the worst-case scenario. Something that didn’t even make sense. But the idea dug a sharp nail into his mind and twisted like a crooked screw.

Yone had always been… like that. Tall, quiet, centered, respected, admired. Yasuo couldn’t remember a single Valentine’s Day when his brother didn’t receive a small pile of perfumed notes and strategically placed candy boxes.

Back in school, he was practically a soap opera character: the untouchable, the unattainable, the desired.

And though Yasuo had no idea what Yone’s life at Labrys was like, he’d bet half his dignity the reputation followed him everywhere.

He let out a long, defeated sigh.

So defeated that, mid-hallway, he dropped his head onto Irelia’s shoulder like a tragic romance in slow motion.

She stopped. Not abruptly. But enough to stare at him, confused, arching a brow with the look of someone ready to listen… or laugh at him, depending on his answer.

“Everything… alive in there?” she asked slowly.

Yasuo didn’t answer immediately. He closed his eyes, imagining a dramatic soundtrack, the world in black and white, petals flying, and Ahri… handing a note to the demon.

His stomach churned. A whole theater of insecurities.

“I just… had a horrible thought,” he grumbled, voice muffled by her uniform.

Irelia smirked, sharp, perceptive.

“The ‘we’re-all-gonna-die-next-week’ kind or the ‘what-if-she-likes-him’ kind?”

Yasuo jerked his head up.

“Are you a mind reader now?”

She laughed, low and short, like someone trying not to mock him but failing miserably.

“You’re transparent, Yasuo. You have the emotional subtlety of a flaming rock.”

“Thanks,” he said, sarcastic. “Such poetic praise.”

“Maybe she likes impulsive idiots with messy hair and inferiority complexes,” she added, as if trying to cheer him up. But her smile was kind.

Yasuo scoffed, almost laughing.

“That’d be convenient.”

“It’d be fair,” Irelia corrected, gently firm. “Because you’re more than someone’s brother. Even if that someone is the official poster boy of a rival academy.”

Yasuo made a face. The discomfort in his chest still danced, but now it felt less suffocating.

“It’s not like I actually care,” he muttered, aiming for casual. But the words fell like a damp cloth—lifeless, unconvincing.

Irelia didn’t hesitate.

“You’re stubborn. And you do care.”

He turned away, but she continued, annoyingly precise.

“I have a good nose for these things. I’ve got siblings, remember? I know exactly what infatuation smells like.”

The word hit him square in the chest: infatuation. Simple, direct, unadorned. As if it were normal. As if she weren’t naming the mess he’d been trying to sweep under his mental rug since the first day of class.

“That’s ridiculous,” he shot back, too loud. His flushed face betrayed him, his gaze darting away. “That’s… not something that bothers—that happens to me.” He coughed, clearly tripping over himself. “It’s just… a random thought, maybe. Fatigue. Sleep deprivation. Poisoning.”

Irelia just arched a brow, amused. The silence between them was heavy with meaning.

“You’re a walking contradiction,” she finally said. “One day, that pride’s gonna trip you up.”

“…Nosy.”

Chapter Text

"Go away, Ahri. I’m studying."

Yi’s voice cut through the air with the same precision he used to slice through doubts and robotic heads—though not necessarily in that order.

Ahri ignored the remark with the grace of someone who had already spent half an hour draped over his shoulder like a lazy princess on a borrowed throne.

"And I’m… socializing." Her drawn-out tone dripped like warm honey, all charm and provocation, while her tail curled idly around one of the pillars. "Weren’t we all instructed on the importance of interdepartmental bonding?"

The room—if it could even be called that—was an open dome in the eastern wing, where white marble drank in the last golden rays of the day. Wisteria hung lazily from a ceiling of woven vines, tinted a deeper pink by the sunset. It was beautiful. Peaceful. One of those spaces in Amrita that seemed built for silence and contemplation.

Which, for Ahri, was a problem.

Silence, to her, was a slow-motion disaster.

The kind that started with a stray thought and ended with existential questions about what she felt, for whom, and why she hadn’t just yanked those answers from Yi’s mind with a mental trick yet (answer: ethics. But a very, very loose ethics).

"You’re in my way," Yi declared without lifting his eyes from the book. But there was a hint of a smirk there. Subtle. That kind of infuriating little curve that said, "I know exactly what you want, and I’m not giving it to you."

"You’re a terrible liar," she sang. "And you’re even worse at pretending to be mysterious. What happened over the weekend?"

He turned the page with exaggerated slowness.

"Nothing worth noting."

"Mhm." Ahri rolled her eyes, still nestled against him. "And I’m a retired math professor. Let’s try again?"

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence was practically its own character—proud, immovable, and just as cynical as its owner.

Ahri stretched an arm, lightly tugging a strand of his hair in petty revenge for being so diplomatically ignored.

"You’re refusing to share gossip with the academy’s greatest source of charisma," she grumbled. "That’s institutional disrespect."

Yi merely raised an eyebrow.

Ahri sighed dramatically, letting her gaze drift across the quiet dome. Shen, seated a few meters away, meditated with the expression of someone pretending not to listen. Fiora honed the edge of her sword as if she could sharpen her patience along with it. And both of them tolerated Ahri like one would a mischievous cat that had decided to live on the library shelves.

Because, well… she had invaded.

The "Quiet Corner," as she affectionately (and venomously) called it, wasn’t exactly meant for juniors. But there was no sign forbidding curious Vesani with zero social filters from entering. So, by default, she had every right to be there.

"I heard," she said, her voice carefully laced with faux casualness, "that a certain freshman was caught in the wrong library. And got a three-hour lecture for it. Three. That’s torture. Do you people have no mercy?"

"And yet he walked out alive," Yi murmured, barely moving his lips.

Ahri shot him a sidelong glance. "You saw it?"

He didn’t answer. Again. But the half-smirk returned. More pronounced now. Arrogant and cryptic.

"Bastard," she whispered, fascinated.

Yes, she knew the obvious part. The rumor was already spreading through the halls: A talented, rebellious freshman had broken the rules and stumbled into a restricted vault of sealed divine weapons. But he’d been digging through alumni records. Accident or provocation? That much was still unclear.

But what she really wanted… was to know about the other incident.

The one that hadn’t been publicly discussed. The one hidden beneath stifled laughter and tense glances.

"The arena, Yi. The red ink. The letter. That whole circus of chaos." Her eyes gleamed. "You’re all being too quiet about it. It’s unnerving."

"Maybe you should let your nerves rest." He finally snapped the book shut with calm finality. "There are better ways to spend your energy. In fact, I recommend a certain impulsive freshman."

Ahri arched an eyebrow, surprised.

"Are you… pushing Yasuo on me?"

"I’m not pushing anything. I’m suggesting you stop bothering me and go bother him instead." The senior stretched with the disciplined laziness of someone who always finished assignments before others even started. "Theoretical classes are over, the pavilions are free, no club meetings, and your boredom is a public hazard. Do something productive with him."

She laughed.

Not that she wanted to think too much about Yasuo.

It was just… he was a curious figure. Fun to observe.

And that wasn’t exactly her fault.

His manner was… complicated. Captivating, in a rough-around-the-edges way.

Ahri didn’t trust people who were too polished—it was like smiling with hidden fangs. Yasuo, on the other hand, let the world see his claws. And yet, sometimes, he seemed to forget he even had them.

Petulant idiot, she thought with a smirk, remembering last week’s glorious episode.

She had slipped through the halls the way only a bored Vesani could—fox tail curled around her legs to avoid dragging, steps feline, boredom worn like perfume. And there he was: dueling with the water fountain.

Literally.

Yasuo, swordsman-in-training, pride of some temperamental god, was twisting the faucet the wrong way. With anger. With honor. With the concentration of a final exam.

She had nearly collapsed laughing. Silently, of course. Like a lady.

(Though the scene had gotten even better when he’d growled as water splashed onto his shirt. Ahri had almost stayed for the encore.)

In his defense—and she hated admitting this—Amrita’s faucets turned clockwise. An architectural crime. A divine test. Or just the administration’s way of reminding students that even drinking water required discipline.

Anyway.

He occupied enough of her thoughts that there was no room for unpleasant doubts. Yasuo’s chaos, in some strange way, was reassuring.

Not that she’d admit that under hypnosis.

And of course, Ahri had to have the last word.

"And you, Yi…" she said in a voice sweet as ripe fruit, her eyes gliding over him with disguised mischief, "are you looking forward to next week? Or… nervous about certain company coming from Labrys?"

She laced the question with poison wrapped in sugar. A light jab. A poke at what she imagined was a sensitive spot—memories.

But Yi didn’t take the bait.

The man, damn him, just smiled. A quiet, unshakable calm in the face of his own emotions.

"Yes, I miss him," he answered. Simple. Honest.

Ahri’s eyes widened, offended on multiple levels.

"How is it possible for someone to be this emotionally stable?" she muttered, huffing. "It’s no fun at all."

There was no drama in Yi’s heart. No shards of glass, no quiet jealousy, no secrets waiting to spill over sleepless nights. Unlike Ahri, he was an emotional fortress. And fortresses like that… well, they were boring to scale.

Fine, Ahri thought, giving up with a performative eye-roll.

Time for a new target.

Time to investigate the freshman.

No more stoic seniors and impenetrable hearts.

Yasuo was volatile, hot-headed, and adorably easy to provoke.

A rare combination. And she, of course, was a natural scholar of interesting phenomena.

(Ah, yes, and obviously she was avoiding Karma. But no one needed to know that.)

With the inter-academy event approaching, it was only a matter of time before the walking perfectionist decided Ahri—by moral obligation and undeniable magical talent—had to participate.

The problem? Magic was complicated.

More than that: magic was intimate. It was feeling too much. It was letting yourself be pierced by things she’d rather keep at arm’s length.

And Karma… well. Karma saw. Always saw. With those calm, piercing eyes that extracted truths before you even decided to tell them.

Ahri preferred not to be read today. Or tomorrow.

Maybe ever.

So yes—chasing after an adorably lost freshman was a legitimate emotional survival strategy.

Besides… he was probably already up to something. With any luck, it involved more faucets. Or something even better.

And so, with light steps and a feline smile, Ahri vanished from the dome. Leaving behind the silence, the seniors, and the wine-colored twilight.

Yasuo had better be ready.

She was bored.

And curious.

A deadly combination.

She slipped through narrow archways, forgotten corridors draped in vines, and hopped onto the limestone fence.

Where could that whirlwind be?

Certainly not in the dorms—freshmen rarely stayed still for long, especially the kind who carried trouble in their pockets and pride in their chests.

But something would lead her to him. One way or another.

Her thoughts, however, soon wandered, contradicting her charming expression and the poised posture of someone who never rushed but always knew where to step.

The scent of sandalwood—that damn scent—still hadn’t completely faded from her memory. Calming, warm, dangerous. A reminder far too gentle of what she wasn’t thinking about.

Nor was she thinking about the sound of her own magic, which had echoed louder than it should have, deeper than she’d wanted. An old incident, nothing more.

It didn’t deserve attention. Not now. Not ever.

That was why she didn’t hesitate to indulge in a strategic raid on the kitchen. A graceful thief of sweets. A sugar-coated heroine.

She loved sweets.

Deeply.

Unconditionally.

She grabbed four caramel pudding cups, balancing them deftly as she escaped through the ventilation window. Theoretically, two were for each of them.

Theoretically.

Because the third had mysteriously vanished before she even left the north corridor.

And the fourth… well, the fourth required Herculean self-control. A true act of virtue. That had to earn her points with Karma.

(Not that she was interested in earning points with Karma. At least not today. Or tomorrow. Or while the inter-academy event loomed like a storm cloud.)

Besides, she couldn’t eat in the dorm. Syndra claimed sweets attracted ants. And while she wasn’t wrong, Ahri preferred to ignore that detail. Sharing a room was tedious enough. Syndra only became mildly entertaining when she needed help sneaking out at midnight, usually for a rendezvous with a student from Sharur.

Ahri found it adorable.

Cute.

Stupid, but cute.

They were like a pair of housecats trying to pass as eagles. A whole silent drama of repressed power and coded messages.

But back to the main point:

Where was Yasuo?

Arena?

Empty.

Dining hall?

Just students studying in silence, like monks in penance.

Classes?

Already over, and she doubted he’d be reviewing material voluntarily.

Difficult.

He was difficult to find.

Ahri was officially in favor of a freshman-tracking system.

But Shen had vetoed the idea.

"Invasion of privacy," he’d said in that tone that seemed to come from an ice cave.

Ugh.

Privacy was a flexible concept, in her opinion. Especially when applied to interesting people.

She balanced on a narrow ledge now, peering between columns. A spark flickered in her eyes—sunlight or magical intuition, it was hard to tell.

But she felt it.

Like an offbeat pulse.

"Found you," she whispered to no one in particular.

Not that she’d been looking, of course.

It was pure coincidence that she had an extra pudding cup in hand. Also coincidence that her hair was freshly styled, her tail neatly groomed, her perfume just applied.

And total coincidence that she’d wiped any trace of guilt from her expression.

Ahri didn’t chase.

She just… anticipated events.

And that was how she found him: sprawled on the still-damp grass, as if life had tripped him and he’d decided to accept the earth’s invitation.

The garden he was in wasn’t exactly a resting area. It was one of Amrita’s training grounds—less manicured than the others, with wilder vegetation, flowers that grew as they pleased, twisted branches and exposed roots. A place where things learned to fight before they bloomed.

Fits him, she thought.

A little rough.

A little pretty.

With the look of someone who has no idea they’re standing in the spotlight.

The sun shamelessly kissed his face. And by the way his arms were splayed, one leg bent and the other draped over his bag, Yasuo had surrendered to exhaustion or stubbornness—both seemed plausible.

Ahri crept closer, her tail floating like a silent curtain. Light steps, like someone intruding on a secret. And leaning in close, she cast a shadow over his face.

"Boo."

No time.

Yasuo, reflexes faster than thought, jerked up and headbutted her.

The dull thunk was followed by two muffled, very undignified yelps.

Ahri staggered back, eyes wide, fingers already massaging the impact point with tiny feline grumbles.

"Ow, for the love of the gods, is your head made of stone?!" she complained, glaring at him with theatrical fury.

Yasuo blinked, dazed, his hair even messier than before, his whole body tense as if expecting a sword strike next.

"I—what? Did you materialize out of the ground?!"

"I cast a shadow!" she shot back, indignant. "It was a courtesy warning!"

He stared at her as if that were the most absurd justification in the world. And maybe it was. But Ahri was good at sounding right even when blatantly wrong.

Slowly, shock gave way to embarrassment. Yasuo rubbed his neck, still disoriented, and muttered something like "sorry" and "didn’t see you coming" and "my bad for the hard head," which she found genuinely amusing.

For a moment, the scent of sandalwood faded. And with it, the uneasy echo of magic. All Ahri heard was the crushed grass, their breathing, and laughter escaping her own lips.

"You’re more dangerous asleep than in a duel, you know?" she said with a teasing wink.

Yasuo scoffed, scratching his neck in sheepish defeat. But something in him softened. Her presence was too unexpected to be annoying. Or maybe he’d just accepted that Ahri was like weather—you didn’t control it, you adapted.

Then she extended her hand, triumphant, offering him the last pudding cup.

"Truce?" she asked, eyes still glittering with mischief.

Yasuo eyed her for a second, wary. Then, recognizing there was no dignity left to salvage, took the dessert.

"Accepted… with reservations," he said, peeling off the lid more carefully than expected from someone who’d just headbutted a classmate.

Soon, they were sitting side by side under one of the larger trees—a gnarled trunk that leaned like an old master too tired to stand straight.

Light filtered through the leaves in golden patches.

Ahri stole spoonfuls of his pudding without asking, and Yasuo pretended not to notice—though he occasionally nudged the cup away with his elbow.

A silent game.

The best way for two stubborn people to converse.

"Do you always invade people’s peaceful moments like this?" he asked after a while.

"Only when they look like they need it," Ahri replied, licking the spoon with indecent calm.

"And I look like I need it?"

"You look like an emotional disaster pretending to be stoic. It’s irresistible."

Yasuo snorted but didn’t argue.

She glanced sideways, satisfied.

Chapter Text

Yasuo wasn’t having his proudest moment. He admitted, with some reluctance, that training under the night wind might not have been his brightest idea. Apparently, fighting his own reflection at midnight—barefoot and starving—wasn’t a practice recommended by masters or doctors. Especially when one of Amrita’s caretakers—the short guy with a beret and a permanent scowl—tried to chase him out of the garden with hoarse shouts. He should’ve listened.

But, well.

Here he was now: with subtle (but far from elegant) dark circles under his eyes, his hair half-tied, and a mood that, while usually acidic, that particular morning bordered on lethal.

Yes, he was tired.

Yes, he was hungry.

And yes, he was still trying to figure out—with increasing frustration—why the hell Yi thought morning sutras, again, were a good way to hone his warrior’s soul.

It wasn’t working.

Yasuo was pretty sure his progress in “contemplative literature” was worse than a fish trying to climb a mountain. Still, he endured. Yi demanded it. And Yasuo wanted to prove he could do it, even if every page of transcendental calligraphy was killing him inside.

And today?

Today was worse.

Last week’s training—the physical trial with the freshmen—was already a distant memory. At least there, he’d shined. Now, though, he had to endure hours upon hours of reflections, speeches, codes, and interpretations. All led by an old man whose entire existence seemed dedicated to torturing youths with indecipherable metaphors.

The professor’s name was Renzo Shimada. A master’s name, a monk’s demeanor. Long beard, steel gaze, posture so straight it defied time itself. His aura exuded a kind of respect Yasuo had zero interest in offering. It was his first time seeing the man, and he already disliked him.

The feeling was mutual. One single grimace from Yasuo was all it took for the old man to decide, with the cruel elegance of the elderly club, that Yasuo would be the morning’s sacrificial lamb.

"Let’s use Mr. Yasuo as an example," he said, with a polished smile.

An example of ignorance, according to his less-than-polite wording.

Maybe he hadn’t phrased it exactly like that. Maybe he’d used prettier terms: “An example of raw perception, yet unrefined by the quietude of knowledge.” But it amounted to the same thing.

Yasuo rolled his eyes. Discreetly.

Or maybe not that discreetly, considering he could feel Irelia’s gaze burning into him from somewhere in the room.

Renzo, with measured voice and thunderous projection, recited the day’s verse like a herald announcing the heavens’ arrival:

“In nameless simplicity, there are no desires. In desireless serenity, the world sustains itself.”

The silence that followed was as dense as it was pretentious. Renzo raised an eyebrow. An invitation. A trap.

The professor’s gaze settled on him like the weight of a mountain. Yasuo, in turn, blinked. And then thought, with all the philosophical sophistication his sleep-deprived brain could muster:

What the hell was that?

The entire class was staring now. Great.

He had no idea. Not even a vague notion of how to respond.

Maybe it was about… not wanting things?

Or about how the world worked better when people just… gave up?

Damn. If that was the case, then he was about to destroy the universe.

Renzo raised an eyebrow. A nervous twitch flickered in Yasuo’s eyelid.

It was now or never.

"Well…" he began, scratching the back of his neck with restrained theatrics, "if I understood correctly… basically, the text is saying that… if we stop wanting things… the world… I dunno, doesn’t explode?"

Someone laughed in the back.

Renzo didn’t laugh. Didn’t even move. Just stared at him with silence as dense as submerged stone.

Yasuo smiled. It didn’t help.

The resigned—and utterly displeased—sigh from Master Shimada filled the room with offensive solemnity. It was the kind of sound that carried centuries of frustration with insolent youths, as if Renzo had been teaching since before Amrita’s founding.

Yasuo held back. Almost said something. In three different languages. But he bit his tongue.

At least for two seconds.

The old man then launched into his sermon, a public condemnation. The verse’s author, he claimed, was essential for anyone daring to step through Amrita’s gates. A name “even the garden’s flowers should recognize,” he said, with irony so subtle it stung.

Yasuo blinked slowly.

Other freshmen averted their eyes.

They didn’t know either. Obviously. But the blame was his. Always his. Because he was the insolent one of the hour. The infamous troublemaker. The heretic who refused to worship the ghosts of the past.

Then, Renzo summarized the teaching:

"Live simply. Avoid the obsessive pursuit of status, possessions, or fleeting pleasures."

It hit like a philosophical slap.

It almost felt personal.

After all, Yasuo was the exact opposite of that.

And just as Master Shimada was about to continue, to dive into the verse’s spiritual aspects and historical significance—Yasuo opened his mouth.

He shouldn’t have.

But he did.

"That’s… weird," he started, voice slightly hoarse from lack of sleep but firm in opinion. "I mean, avoiding status and pleasure? For what, exactly? To live like some useless walking cocoon? Sounds more like resignation than wisdom."

The sentence dropped like a stone into the room’s calm waters.

Yasuo noticed. Of course he noticed.

But it was too late.

The words had escaped straight from the furnace of his frustration into the world, unfiltered, unvarnished. No politeness. No elegance. Just the raw truth he thought—and, honestly, no one else in that room seemed brave enough to say.

He cursed himself mentally. Idiot, he whispered inside.

He didn’t need to be so… blunt.

But it was what it was. A vocabulary still under construction, patience in tatters, and too much pride to pretend the verse made sense. Live a dull, faded life in the name of virtue? Where was the glory in that? It was the kind of talk from people who’d never had to prove themselves.

Yasuo breathed. Waited for divine lightning. Or detention.

He could’ve sworn the professor’s eyebrow twitched.

A subtle movement. A tiny contraction, as if even the old man’s hairs protested at the audacity of youth.

The professor adjusted his tie. An elegant, calculated gesture, but Yasuo recognized the nervous tic disguised beneath composure. It was the kind of action that said, “I’m far too superior to bicker with a seventeen-year-old, but I’m on the edge of the abyss.”

"As I was saying," he emphasized, with the cutting sweetness of a well-sharpened knife, stepping closer to the row where Yasuo was slouching, "before being interrupted by young Yasuo—"

Renzo’s steps were calm. The kind of calm that might precede a fatal strike in a duel.

"That is precisely the shallow interpretation," he declared, now projecting loudly enough for even the garden’s birds to reflect on their life choices. "The verse does not preach passivity. It preaches action without tension."

Ah.

Yasuo bit the corner of his lip. The old man had vocabulary.

"The wise man does not condemn desire," Renzo continued. "But attachment. Not ambition, but obsession. That which hardens the spirit and distorts will. He who forces the river to flow where it does not… drowns."

A pause.

An elegant silence.

"So yes, the young can—and should—pursue excellence. But like a river finding its course: with natural persistence, not forced effort."

…

Yasuo scoffed. Internally.

It made sense. A little. A lot. Damn it.

But he was too grumpy to appreciate the wisdom right then. Maybe later, when he was lying on the rooftop or walking with Yi. Yi would explain it better. Obviously. Yi made it seem like those phrases had been made for him, like he understood them with his body. Not with a blackboard, a tie, and ancestral boredom.

For now?

Screw it.

He turned his eyes back to the textbook. The verse was still there, static, staring at him like an unkind mirror.

He said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

The defeat was silent. And infuriatingly elegant.

The professor, meanwhile, returned to the board with the patience of one who knew he taught seeds—and that some took longer to sprout.

Or maybe never sprouted at all.

Yasuo hoped he wasn’t one of those.

At least the frustration—and mentally crafting unflattering nicknames for Master Shimada ("Oracle of Boredom," "Beard of Plaster," "Sufferable")—distracted him from any other unfortunate thoughts.

Like Yone.

Who, thank the heavens, was perfectly drowned in the depths of his memories now, weighing like a stone at the bottom of a lake he chose to ignore.

When the bell rang, Yasuo stretched over the desk like a bored feline, arms sprawled, head lolling back as he let out an obnoxiously loud yawn. He stayed like that, waiting for Sett or Irelia to move first. He wasn’t exactly the type to lead classroom exits—especially not after a tedious lecture.

Sett seemed… fine. Happy, even. Which was weird, considering applying philosophy on the battlefield wasn’t exactly the half-vastaya’s forte. Still, there was something genuinely serene in the way he mulled over the verses like they were lyrics to an old song. Where was he going with that? Yasuo had no clue. But honestly, whatever.

Irelia, on the other hand, gave him a firm pat on the head as she passed—the kind only self-proclaimed older sisters had the right to deliver.

"Ow, watch the philosophical reasoning," he grumbled, stretching his neck as she smiled with that restrained air of satisfaction. Great. Exactly the kind of passive-aggressive affection he expected.

But everything got better with one promise on the horizon:

Lunch.

Ah, yes.

Hot, delicious, perfect food.

Far from teachers, far from ancestral parables. Just rice, meat, maybe some well-seasoned veggies, and—if the gods were in a good mood—dessert.

Later, he had class with Doran, which, according to rumors and poetic yawns in the halls, was an experience unto itself.

They said the old man philosophized with trinkets, armor fragments, and… duck eggs. Yes, duck eggs. Yasuo had even asked Yi if that was true. The swordsman had just sighed and said something between resignation and reverence:

"Doran is… eccentric. But wise. A master who finds infinity in small things. Or bizarre ones."

Which, honestly, Yasuo found amazing. After all, he himself was a sum of disconnected parts trying to become something greater. Maybe one day he’d learn to philosophize with an egg too.

Either way, the day still held promise.

Three more different professors.

Battle Club meeting.

Lots to do—which meant energy. Lots of it. Food was a priority.

By his second week, he’d already started forming a mental map of his peers. He recognized faces. Knew some names. And, more importantly, already knew who he didn’t like. Strangely, he made enemies with impressive ease—not on purpose, of course. But sometimes, his resting disdain face arrived before his social filter.

Patience.

Still, there was one good thing:

No mushrooms today.

Hallelujah.

On the way to the cafeteria, though, Yasuo’s thoughts took a turn toward… pleasantly compromising territory.

Ahri. There, beside Syndra, under the shadow of a column, surrounded by murmurs and laughter, she looked like she’d stepped out of a living painting. Her hair shimmered in the filtered window light, as if she were exactly where she belonged—and exactly where he should be looking. The warmth that twisted in his stomach for a second was promptly ignored, buried under the mental pile of excuses he was already building.

But the urge to talk won out. And he gave in, like someone who sees no traps in the forest.

"There you are," he said, the smile appearing before the hand wave.

Of course, Yasuo thought Ahri was a wonderful friend.

He reinforced that with conviction, unconsciously, almost like a protective spell.

And like any smart freshman would do with a charming senior, he decided this could be a good tactic. A strategic investment. She was only a year ahead, but she fit into Amrita like part of the furniture—the kind that was gorgeous and historically valuable.

Yes, friendship with… informational benefits.

And so, the two walked side by side to the cafeteria line.

Syndra, on the other hand, didn’t seem the sociable type. Watchful eyes, neutral expression, a faintly threatening aura. Still, that didn’t stop Sett from striking up a conversation with the enthusiasm of someone who believes everyone wants to be their friend—or should.

Yasuo, however, barely listened.

Annoyingly, his eyes kept drifting back to Ahri.

Even while grabbing utensils.

Even while serving rice.

Even while almost spilling sauce on his plate.

In all his delightful youth—that is, seventeen years of glorious immaturity—Yasuo had never been the type to get distracted by girls. Ambition always came first.

The finish line was prettier than any smiling face.

Or so he’d thought.

Because Ahri wasn’t just pretty. She was… pleasant. In an irritating way. It wasn’t just looks—though, honestly, that didn’t help.

There was something about her lips. Always curved in that charming smile, like two blushing petals in bloom. Her skin looked like silk, and the glint in her eyes—well, his eyes were lingering way too long on them.

Focus, idiot.

He cleared his throat, grabbed his juice, and looked away like nothing had happened.

It worked. For about ten seconds.

Because then his thoughts started spinning again, pulling him toward a safer, more familiar anxiety. The club.

There was a meeting today. There hadn’t been one yesterday, which made today’s practically mandatory.

Yasuo could already feel the energy in his body, like electricity under his skin.

Duels.

The word alone left him restless.

That was where he wanted to be. Where he felt he could prove his worth—measured in sweat and sword strokes.

He needed to test his form.

The thought hammered between anticipation and anxiety, like his restless fingers drumming against the tray’s edge. He hadn’t sparred with any peers yet. No real duels since his enrollment—except, of course, with Yi.

But comparing himself to Yi was an exercise in self-sabotage. The gap between them was as vast as the difference between a river stone and a shooting star.

And yet… he felt behind.

Inferior.

At least, here in Amrita.

Because this wasn’t just any academy. It was the academy. The students here were the elite. They walked like they floated, trained like the world depended on it, and spoke with that subtle accent of people who knew more than you.

Arrogant? Sometimes.

With reason? Absolutely.

What was their standard, anyway?

Yasuo wondered, eyes gleaming.

The club would answer all those questions.

His first duel with another freshman. Another swordsman.

Something thrilling.

In a way, he fantasized about the scene with more detail than he’d ever admit. There’d be a soundtrack in the background—some epic music, strings swelling in crescendo. Maybe a coat casually thrown over his shoulders like a mantle, imitating Yi.

One hand on his belt. The other on his sword.

Relaxed posture, but lethal.

Oh, yes.

A presumptuous grin bloomed, adorning the face of someone clearly picturing himself on Amrita’s next-gen poster.

"You’re plotting something," Ahri remarked beside him, in that light, suspicious tone only dangerously observant people could pull off. She leaned in, as if sniffing the air for the spark of impending chaos.

Yasuo briefly wondered if she could detect emotions. Some kind of emotional radar. Wouldn’t be impossible.

"Just… excited," he replied, schooling his face into the most neutral expression he could muster.

"Hm." She arched a brow with the theatricality of a seasoned actress. "That’s what you say now. But tell me, Yas…" Ahri let the words slide out like a dangerous temptation. "Made any faculty enemies yet? Just to see if you’re on the right track."

Yasuo sighed, setting his tray down with more force than necessary at the table nearest the window. The glass reflected the pale sky—and his own exhausted face.

"Master ‘Philosophy’ Shimada is a cruel old man to misunderstood young talents," he replied, with the resigned tone of an unjustly treated warrior.

Ahri laughed, her ears twitching lightly atop her head as she effortlessly slid into the seat beside him, crossing her legs.

"So you’ve started well," she said, pretending to count on her fingers. "In my first week, I annoyed three professors. Three. So, I’m still winning."

Yasuo chuckled, though there was a grumble at the back of his throat.

"Is this a competition?"

"Everything’s a competition," she winked. "Some just pretend they’re not."

Between bites, Yasuo thought maybe he was starting to regain his faith in humanity. Or at least in cuisine. The food was flavorful, balanced, warm—and the juice… oh, the juice.

Fresh orange. Blessed.

Though he was admittedly addicted to soda (the kind he’d tried hiding in his bag), he had to admit: there was something noble and pure about a good, cold juice.

He glanced sideways—more specifically at Ahri, who ate with chopsticks as naturally as breathing. Then, trying to sound casual:

"What about the inter-academy event next week?"

Ahri nibbled the tip of her chopstick, feigning thought, eyes half-lidded. But it was an act—Yasuo recognized that expression. She knew exactly what was happening, with whom, when, and probably the exact hour the armed gods took tea.

Across the table, Sett and Irelia seemed to catch the topic too. Syndra, meanwhile, had elegantly slipped away at the first opportunity.

The duo leaned in subtly, like two predators sensing prey—or, in this case, a source of intel disguised as a charming girl.

Ahri finally shrugged, twirling her chopstick:

"Nothing special. Happens all the time, really. Amrita and Labrys have a… diplomatically healthy relationship."

"Healthy?" Irelia muttered, skeptical.

"Relatively healthy," Ahri corrected, with a sharp smile. "But the real fun is when it’s Sharur vs. Amrita. Those are events."

Sett visibly perked up at the mention, eyes gleaming as he asked for details. But Yasuo and Irelia, synchronized like two drums in a parade, ignored the half-vastaya and pressed:

"What about with Labrys?" they said, almost in unison.

Ahri paused.

Subtly.

Just a fraction of a second where the corners of her lips seemed to hesitate—a faint tension, imperceptible, like a dissonant chord in a smooth melody. But she quickly regained control, smiling lightly, voice now livelier:

"Simple. Only third-years and above can participate. Technically." She emphasized the word like someone who knew loopholes existed. "If you’re a second-year with a senior’s direct recommendation, you might get in. But first-year freshmen are strictly forbidden."

"This again. Why?" Yasuo frowned.

"Because, according to the faculty, years ago, a group of enthusiastic freshmen decided it’d be a great idea to provoke seniors from another academy during the competition." She spun her chopstick like a note of chaos. "Result? Full-on brawl, ten suspensions, three injuries, and a destroyed statue—which, by the way, was ours."

"So there’s no way around it?" he asked, insistent.

Ahri looked at him with that sweet expression that preceded a verbal slap.

"No."

"But if it’s just to—"

"No."

"You’re annoying."

"I’m the voice of reason, and if that’s the case, then you’re the problem."

The group laughed, and Yasuo feigned indignation. But his mind was elsewhere.

There was something curious about how Ahri… avoided the topic. As if the event meant nothing, as if it didn’t affect her at all.

But Yasuo wasn’t stupid.

"What about you?" he asked, voice lower, genuinely curious. "Are you participating?"

The question landed heavier than expected.

Ahri looked at him—just for a second, long enough to leave the answer hanging. Then she turned back to her plate, as if deciding whether to finish her rice.

"I don’t know," she said, with rehearsed lightness. "Maybe."

"Maybe," Yasuo thought, not quite buying it. Karma was her mentor, after all. She could participate. Easily. Gloriously. But something, he sensed, kept her out of it.

And, strangely, he wanted to know why.

Yasuo finished lunch with the dramatic resignation of someone defeated by logic but not by will. Still, he couldn’t resist pushing a little more—out of stubbornness, principle, or just boredom.

"But what if Yi asked?" he sing-songed, sugar-coated provocation in his tone. "He’s a senior, one of Amrita’s jewels. If he said I could..."

Ahri just shook her head, then laughed at the defeated look on his face.

"Ugh…" Yasuo groaned. "Watching is better than nothing, sure, but it’s not the same. I want action, not bleachers!"

For a brief moment, he considered proposing an unofficial duel. Something more… spontaneous. In other words, a fight. But technicalities could be discussed later.

As Yasuo stewed in these revolutionary ideas of juvenile justice, Irelia turned to Ahri with the ease of someone who’d already realized the fox knew more than she let on.

"Do you know who’s participating? Names, format?"

Ahri didn’t hesitate.

Before answering, she elegantly swiped a slice of meat from Yasuo’s plate—prompting him to retaliate by stealing a portion of her rice. Not that much was left.

"The roster’s never fixed," she began. "Since it’s an inter-academy event, they try to keep it fair. Labrys also has to let their freshmen spectate, so they open sign-ups… with conditions. More class hours, no skipping, double responsibility. The usual illusion of freedom."

Yasuo scoffed. Irelia arched a brow but quickly grasped the concept.

"For first and second-years, I don’t know who’s coming. Depends on faculty approval. But the seniors..." Ahri raised her chopstick like pointing to the heavens " there are names that are non-negotiable."

She listed them with the familiarity of someone who knew the backstage—and the backstage’s backstage.

"Caitlyn, obviously. Tactical prodigy. The brightest strategist in her year. But—" her eyes narrowed slightly "—still can’t figure out why a girl like her went to Labrys."

She pondered, then answered herself:

"Ah, right. To fix the delinquents’ posture there. A great sheriff, that one. But nosy. Too much. Irritates me. Hate people messing with my things."

Yasuo found her word choice deliciously suspicious but didn’t comment.

"Leona’s coming too. Cheerful, almost motherly. But on the battlefield" Ahri grinned, eyes glinting "chilling. Flawless. Like the sun decided to fight the shadows and won every time."

"Garen?" Irelia ventured. The dancer, apparently, already knew many Labrys students’ names. Was this targeted research?

"Pummels dummies with the intensity of a natural disaster. The training dummies tremble when he walks in."

"Dramatic," Yasuo remarked.

"Accurate," Ahri countered. Then continued:

"Wukong…" she murmured the name with visible fondness. "He’s a second-year, but everyone still treats him like a freshman. He’s… adorable chaos. Annoyed me at first. Thought he liked me, y’know? Hung around, joked, carried my stuff…"

Yasuo frowned.

"And he didn’t?"

"Nope," Ahri said simply. "He’s just like that. With everyone. But especially with Yi."

She smiled, a glimmer in her eyes—somewhere between amusement and charm.

"Obsessed with him. Idolizes him like some celestial master. A devoted little monkey, copying his every step. Even how he walks."

Yasuo kept his expression neutral. Polished. Almost blasé.

But inside?

Annoyed.

He didn’t know why exactly—maybe the idea of someone else occupying the space that was now his. Or maybe just that nagging feeling that there’d always been a before, a shadow already shaped, a standard to compare to.

Nothing new.

But… unbearable all the same.

He masked the discomfort with a generous gulp of juice.

The orange tasted less sweet now.

Ahri dabbed the corner of her lips with practiced grace, as if even mundane gestures obeyed her choreography. Then, like someone tossing bait into a lake without considering the ripples, she added:

"Oh, and of course… Yone."

For a moment, Yasuo froze. The grimace came before control—automatic, instinctive. The name left a bitter taste. Irelia, with the discretion of a good friend and the violence of an older sister, kicked him under the table. It didn’t hurt, but it was enough to snap him back.

"Yone?" he repeated, forcing his voice neutral. "Uh. Cool."

Ahri either didn’t notice or pretended not to—the latter more likely.

"Well…" she began, twirling her chopsticks like drawing slashes in the air, "you’ll probably love meeting him. Labrys’ ‘cool swordsman.’ Serious, disciplined, centered. But—"

She leaned in, eyes glinting mischievously.

"Little secret: he’s got a short fuse. Delightful to watch. Not with just anyone, of course—very selective. Most students know provoking Yone is a strategic error. But when it happens…"

She laughed. A lovely, light laugh, wrapped in effortless charm.

Yasuo hated how much he liked that laugh.

But short fuse? Wait… what?

Yone?

In his mind, Yone was made of marble: cold, impassive, untouchable. Always had been. The unshakable older brother, the mold everyone wanted to copy—and the one Yasuo wanted to break. Yone didn’t yell. Didn’t snap. Yone… hovered. A short fuse didn’t fit. It felt like a lie. Or worse—a side of Yone he’d never seen.

Yasuo scowled and muttered:

"Sounds like a drag. Probably overrated."

Ahri narrowed her eyes, amused.

"So petty," she teased. "He’s officially Yi’s rival. The rival." Then, with a mischievous wink: "And considering you’re Yi’s kosho, shouldn’t you be excited to see the kind of people he faces?"

The word hung in the air with a citrusy sting.

Kosho. A traditional title. Chosen disciple. The master’s shadow, shaped to perfection. A responsibility Yasuo had accepted with pride… but one that now felt less thrilling.

He scoffed. It was impressive how Ahri could poke exactly the right spot to seem both provoking and wise.

But no.

He didn’t want to see Yi’s rival.

He’d seen enough of that.

He saw Yone in every veiled comparison, every half-praise.

Ahri sat there, amused. Sett and Irelia exchanged glances with little subtlety.

Yasuo stared into his juice like it was a pool deep enough to drown his anger.

"Yi’s rival."

He almost laughed. Because to him, Yone had always been the rival of everything.

The rival for affection.

The rival for the world’s attention.

The rival for his own blood.

Hell.

It was the perfect word. Short, definitive, and absolutely fitting for what Yasuo felt right then.

But whatever.

He forced a smirk, audacious, like he wanted to seem slightly petulant—a gesture almost natural in his daily performance as the rebellious student.

"Probably a boring swordsman," he said, disdain dripping.

He tried to mask the tone with feigned reverence, as if he were, you know, just defending his master’s prestige. A loyal disciple, proud of his mentor. Almost touching, if it weren’t so blatantly biased.

But Yasuo knew. Deep down, he knew that wasn’t the point. What hurt wasn’t about Yi.

It was about Yone.

And that ate at him.

Ahri, by luck or diplomacy, didn’t seem inclined to argue. Her smile remained intact, floating on her lips like decoration, then fading to nothing. Sett, meanwhile, looked drooling with curiosity, and Irelia—the saintly martyr of patience—intervened before the half-vastaya’s mind exploded with more questions.

But then, like someone sprinkling chaos onto already unstable ground, Ahri casually added:

"Either way, you should care. They’re like… best friends. Since first year."

Yasuo froze.

Best friends?

The words hit like a personal insult. A curse wrapped in silk.

Best friends?

It was an internal stumble. A freefall disguised as a casual blink. Because—gods—this was disorienting. Very, very disorienting.

Yasuo felt submerged in something viscous and silent. A kind of cold indignation. The world wasn’t just two steps ahead—it was light-years ahead. He wasn’t the first to seek Yi’s training. Wasn’t the first to be enchanted by that infallible swordsman’s serene voice. Wasn’t even the first to be taken in as a disciple—there’d been another boy who’d caught Yi’s interest.

Fine, that was tolerable.

But now, of course, he discovered his master—the one he truly admired at Amrita, the reason he’d committed to this place—already shared deep bonds with his brother. Bonds silent and deeply offensive.

Yone… always ahead.

First in everything.

Even when Yasuo was trying to escape him.

It was outrageous.

Unacceptable.

And, above all, humiliating.

Yasuo could’ve easily drowned in the kind of self-loathing that dragged on for days, if not weeks. The kind that made him question his own existence. And for a second, sadness crept in—subtle, like a crack in an old mirror.

But the universe, sometimes, took pity.

Ahri, perhaps unaware of the weight she’d just lifted, shrugged and added:

"Eh. At the end of the day, Yone’s boring. Can’t even hold a conversation. Too quiet. Too… robotic. Don’t like him. No fun."

And boom.

It exploded like sunlight cutting through storm clouds.

The shift in Yasuo was almost comical. An emotional transition as abrupt as it was revealing. The gleam in his eyes. The small, victorious eyebrow raise. The grin that bloomed like he’d won a competition no one knew was happening.

Maybe even his shoulders straightened a little.

It was nothing. It was everything.

Internally, he was beaming. His brother might’ve been Yi’s first friend. Might’ve had victories before him, might’ve even taught composure. But… Ahri thought he was lame.

That, dear friends, was a win.

Small, petty, immature?

Maybe.

But deeply satisfying.

He chewed the last of his lettuce, savoring the feeling more than the food. The day still held promise.

And the Battle Club awaited.

Chapter Text

Yi had a problem on his hands.

And curiously, it wasn’t the mathematical formulas some insisted on rendering indecipherable, nor the philosophically dense novels that forced him to reread every paragraph three times to grasp their essence. Those, he had learned to decode with the calm of years and discipline.

Nor was it the theatrical piece Khada Jhin threatened to drag him into, with its calculatedly poetic lines and "ritualistic" costumes, as he called them with suspicious reverence. Though that was, admittedly, a concern—but one for later.

What occupied his thoughts on that strangely stifling day was something simpler. And for that very reason, harder to ignore.

Yasuo was strong.

That, in itself, was no revelation. Yi knew. He had known from the first moment he saw him on the field—impulsive and flawed, but fierce. He had known when he felt him stagger back, knees slightly weak after a poorly planned strike, yet rise again anyway, stubborn as wind curving through a canyon.

That was why he had accepted him. For his strength, yes. But also for his persistence. For the raw urgency in his eyes. For the way he erred with such determination, as if daring the very ground to teach him how to fall better.

But what Yi hadn’t considered—and this, truly, was the mistake—was the degree. The extent.

Yasuo wasn’t just promising. He was too strong.

At least, for someone his age.

It wasn’t something he had noticed in their first spar. The gap between them had been too vast—not just in technique, but in mastery, in years of study, in accumulated silence. In the space between master and apprentice, everything seems smaller than it is, dwarfed by the presence of the more experienced.

But when he saw him face an opponent of equal standing—or at least, one who should have been—the truth became clear.

The duel had been informal. A free training session in the battle club. An observation exercise. Yasuo against a second-year named Daiken—respectable, methodical, technical. A student Yi had praised more than once for his balance and composure.

And yet, to the surprise of many who hadn’t yet been doused by the icy bucket of raw talent without warning, the rookie’s skill was far from negligible. That included his swordsmanship.

Incredible. And terrifying.

Yasuo blocked attacks and countered with such force it almost felt disrespectful. Not out of rudeness, but brutality. As if the mere idea of losing was, to him, unacceptable. A personal offense.

And he probably didn’t even realize it.

The air cracked with each strike. Yasuo advanced like an unbridled storm, his feet carving furrows in the arena’s sand with every lunge. The bokken—the training sword—though wooden, rang like metal under the force of impact, and Daiken could barely breathe between blocks. His muscles trembled with fatigue, but Yasuo’s seemed fueled by something beyond adrenaline.

A lateral slash, too fast to predict.

The thud shook even the most distant spectators when the sword struck Daiken’s forearm. The skin beneath his uniform must have been red, and the grunt that escaped him was more anger than pain—anger at being cornered by a rookie.

He reacted like a cornered animal.

He twisted his torso with a guttural noise, his elbow driving into Yasuo’s jaw like a hammer, forcing him back. The impact sent blood gushing from the freshman’s nose, drop by scarlet drop onto the pale sand.

And yet, once he recovered, the breath of laughter that escaped Yasuo was undeniable. A rough, hoarse sound—a challenge to the gods. The blood was there, but his eyes gleamed like knives in the sun. His body ached, certainly, but it was a pain that fed him.

Ironically, it only fueled the rookie further.

‘You won’t put me down,’ his eyes said. ‘No one does.’

Small whirlwinds of wind and sand began forming at Yasuo’s feet, eager for his next assault. Daiken, breathing deeply, retreated two steps—and then vanished.

Not a quick movement. Not a trick of light.

He simply faded from sight.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Teleportation? A crude summary, but visually close—an advanced technique, too bold, allowing Daiken to slip between spaces like a fleeing shadow.

Then he reappeared behind Yasuo, the bokken already in motion, a precise strike aimed straight for his ribs.

But Yasuo reacted in time. His body turned before the sword completed its arc, reflexes sharp as a bristling cat’s. And it wasn’t just that—he countered with a gust of wind, a horizontal slash that tore through the air with a sharp whistle, forcing Daiken back again.

And then, true chaos began.

Daiken vanished and reappeared—left, right, diagonal, high—but Yasuo didn’t try to guess. He attacked every empty space, every possible direction, as if telling the universe: “If I cut the air enough, I’ll eventually hit flesh.”

And he did.

The senior watched in silence from the polished wooden stands bordering the battle club’s arena. His fingers rested under his chin, his neutral expression barely hiding his growing unease. The slight furrow of his brow—not much, just enough for the most attentive to notice—was an unspoken exclamation.

Beside him, Lee Sin chuckled softly. A rare sound, almost a breath, but loaded with meaning. He had seen the furrowed brow. He knew what it meant. Yi, even silent, was alarmed.

Because there was, indeed, a problem unfolding in that arena, beneath the flowering branches trembling on the pillars with each dry impact of the training sword.

Yasuo… heavens.

He wasn’t fighting. He was bulldozing.

He moved with such momentum that reasoning seemed a luxury—or perhaps, an obstacle. He acted. Charged. Attacked. Slashed as if each strike were a matter of survival. There was no hesitation, only urgency.

And that was, in itself, fascinating. But also… unsettling.

Because deep down, Yi sensed something more profound, more serious: they were fundamentally different. Not just in method, but in ideology. In essence.

Yasuo was everything Yi had learned not to be.

His steps were impatient, his turns laden with contained fury. Every lunge felt like an attempt to crush. Domination. There was an urgency to win, not for the merit of learning, but to erase the other. As if the opponent weren’t a mirror or a stepping stone… but an enemy to be eradicated.

It was like watching a river trying to break a rock by force—when it could simply flow around it.

For a brief moment, Yi wished he could close his eyes. Sigh. Lower his head and let the feeling pass like dust in the wind. But he didn’t. Not that he regretted accepting him—he didn’t. But there was an uncomfortable discomfort. A vague shame in himself. For not considering enough. For accepting Yasuo based on will—his own and the boy’s—without weighing all the consequences.

The realization that he had left too many loose ends and been surprised by the obvious. It wasn’t like him.

Yes, Yasuo’s strength was real. Yes, his talent was undeniable. But without polish, that strength threatened to become something else. Something less noble, less clear.

“He’ll be startled by his own reflection one day,” he thought.

The aggressive stance. The overly attentive, almost predatory gaze. The dilated pupils, the shoulders tense as ropes about to snap. There was light in Yasuo—but also shadow. And now, with adrenaline pulsing and the freshly claimed victory still vibrating in the air, it was hard to distinguish them.

When the final strike came, it was no surprise. A dry, precise, brutal thrust—the wooden sword hitting Daiken’s chin with a hollow, definitive sound.

Oh, poor boy…

The body collapsed.

Silence.

Some freshmen gaped; others stared at the ground as if it held answers. There was applause, yes. But timid. Lukewarm acknowledgment. More wariness than celebration.

And that—that strange void between respect and fear—said everything.

Yi, from the stands, remained still. Breath held, thoughts spiraling slowly. The real challenge wouldn’t be training him. It would be refining his emotions.

It took a while before Yasuo finally relaxed.

His body remained defensive even after the fight, as if the air still carried the scent of battle and his muscles refused to yield. His breathing was heavy. Almost audible from the stands. And yet, he stood motionless, as if the clash were still being digested inside, not yet fully processed.

But then came the smile.

Crooked, proud—not exactly arrogant, but deeply satisfied. When he turned to the stands and his eyes met Yi’s, even from afar, something in him softened. As if saying, without words: “See? I can do it.”

And against all the weight of expectation on the senior’s shoulders, Yi softened too. A little.

Oh, yes.

He was still just a boy.

Nothing more. Nothing monstrous. Nothing uncontrollable—yet.

His style, of course, was a problem. It was… a fight of urgency. As if Yasuo lived at war with an invisible enemy and could only breathe once his opponent was neutralized—or erased. His sword seemed an extension of inner restlessness, more than martial philosophy.

But yes, he was still young. A boy. Maybe not exactly a child—Yi avoided infantilizing his freshmen, even if he saw many as such. But the flame there was still raw, burning without awareness of its own heat.

When Yasuo returned to the stands, the field had already shifted.

The assistants—autonomous golems of polished stone and amber eyes—carried Daiken away with silent efficiency. One activated a basic healing seal before heading to the infirmary. No one shouted, no one protested. Just restrained glances, the unspoken sense that this was part of it.

Life at Amrita, like at other academies, wasn’t made of softness.

The next pair was already descending into the arena, this time with training staffs in hand. The pause was minimal. The circle never stayed empty for more than seconds. Even with an unconscious student or the taste of blood lingering, routine continued. Naturally.

Everyone here knew what they were getting into.

Yasuo arrived shortly after, his steps unsteady from adrenaline, too light for someone who had just dismantled an opponent. His hair disheveled—grains of sand clinging to loose strands—and a muffled laugh on his lips, as if still chewing on victory.

There was something chaotic about this boy. Not the blind, destructive kind—but a living disarray, a restless energy that took shape even in moments of rest. He sat down casually, panting, but with the posture of someone expecting praise.

His ego, clearly, was inflated.

But… who could blame him?

Winning was pleasurable. Winning like that, even more so. And winning under his mentor’s gaze was fuel for a youthful soul.

Yi, however, wasn’t sure what to say.

Or if he should say anything.

A silence stretched, starting to feel like a void. A gap begging for a bridge, however small. Yi hesitated. And, with a foolishness he wouldn’t admit aloud, chose not to overthink.

In a rare impulse, he reached out and lightly ruffled Yasuo’s fringe, as if trying—in vain—to brush off excess sand from a boy who had just played in an open field. A near-paternal gesture. Or too fraternal for his position. Enough to disarm tension before his next words could sound like reprimand.

“Have you dueled before?”

Yasuo blinked, surprised. His body froze for a moment. It wasn’t hard to guess the turmoil behind his eyes—paranoia, calculation, futile attempts to predict where this question led. His mouth opened slightly, as if wondering, “What does he mean?” “What did I do wrong?”—all in fractions of a second, a silent avalanche Yi immediately noticed.

Regretting how it sounded, he softened:

“That was an intense fight,” he explained calmly. “Not something I usually see in freshmen. At least, not those who haven’t lived battle.”

Yasuo blinked a few times, then nodded.

“Ah,” he finally said. “Yeah. Well—I don’t know if you’d call it dueling… more like street fights. Stupid brawls.”

He waved a hand, as if dismissing the subject. But there was pride in how he continued:

“But it worked. Good practice. Better than sandbags and bamboo, for sure.”

Yi simply nodded, thoughtful.

Ah.

So that was it.

Not a history of refined martial arts—but survival that, through stubbornness and necessity, had taken form. The aggression, the impulse, the desire to strike before being struck… it was all imprinted there.

It explained much.

And yet, not everything.

Yi refrained from continuing the conversation. Withdrew into his usual silence, where he could observe more clearly than words allowed. Fortunately—or by calculated chance—his good friend Sett approached, interrupting the moment with the energy of someone who never learned restraint.

“Hell yeah, prodigy!” he exclaimed, grinning, fists almost trembling with excitement. “You made Daiken look like a training dummy, I swear! That combo… That was dirty. I felt it here!”

He punched his own chest theatrically, laughing loudly.

Yasuo matched his tone: laughter, relaxed shoulders, rapid, overlapping words of euphoria. They talked over each other, interrupted, praised—like two stray dogs proud of surviving winter. It was endearing, in a way. Unsettling, too.

The savagery there was alive. Raw and genuine.

Yi watched with distracted attention, not judging, but noting. The two were chaos: disheveled, sand clinging to their clothes, sweat dripping down their temples. But there was something beyond the external mess. A gleam in their eyes. That pure, almost childlike excitement of those who think fighting is the best thing in the world.

And then he saw them.

The scars.

One on each face. So similar that, for a second, they almost mirrored each other.

Both crossed their noses, the pale, whitish tone of old marks. But the difference was subtle—and telling.

Yasuo’s was clean. Precise. Almost elegant.

Sett’s was jagged. Twisted. Spontaneous.

Yi held his gaze too long, perhaps, before catching himself.

Where had they come from?

The question wasn’t trivial. Scars carried stories. And no matter how many challenges students faced, no freshman should bear marks of what was learned only later. Even Yi had no scars, and he had crossed blades with champions. Yone, too, had fought in dozens of tournaments—his body flawless as unblemished paper.

Yasuo, however… was young.

Young, and already with a surgical scar on his nose.

Someone had marked him.

Someone skilled. Too skilled for a common brawl.

He didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Not yet. The danger of interpretation was acting before the full truth emerged. But in that moment, Yone loomed uncomfortably in his memories.

…That idiot…

At the same time, Yi chastised himself for the thought.

Complicated.

Something was aligning.

And he didn’t like what he sensed.

Chapter Text

“Lillia, please.” 

Irelia’s voice was firm, almost formal, but there was a forced sweetness there, a careful polish—the request made with the calm of someone trying not to startle a butterfly resting in their palm. The faun girl in front of her remained hidden behind her notebook—a thick volume with a floral cover and dog-eared corners, clutched so close to her face it might as well have been part of it.

“I swear it’s nothing illegal... well, not that illegal” Irelia corrected with a sigh. “Just... not entirely authorized.” 

Lillia mumbled something under her breath, inaudible, and took a step back. Her long ears twitched slightly, betraying the discomfort she was trying to hide. It wasn’t very effective—neither the notebook shield nor her silent refusal.

Irelia leaned in, her hair falling like a dark, perfumed curtain. The gesture made Lillia shrink even further, but it also drew out a tiny, involuntary "eep!"—which Irelia found, despite herself, utterly adorable.

A charm.

But she shook her head. She wasn’t here to get distracted by cuteness. Or, at least, she was trying not to.

“Look” she continued, her tone lower now, almost conspiratorial. “I just want to take a peek at the classified techniques section. I know Shen wouldn’t approve. He already told me it’s “not the appropriate stage yet”... and that I should focus on fundamentals. But...”  —a brief pause, her face turning slightly “fundamentals are what everyone has.” 

Including Riven.

Especially Riven.

The name passed through her mind like a splinter, and Irelia took a deep breath. It wasn’t envy, exactly. It was... urgency. Riven was good. Really good. And if Irelia didn’t just want to keep up but surpass her—or at least shut her up with a well-placed, flashy strike—she needed more.

Something impressive.

And that’s why she was here: practically stalking a second-year student, a library assistant, through the emptied halls of Amrita. A little humiliating? Maybe. But Irelia had done worse for less.

“I won’t even take the book! I just need a little time to check it. I promise I’ll put everything back” she added, more as a bonus than an argument.

Lillia lowered the notebook half an inch. Her large eyes—brown with a faint greenish glimmer—stared back with wary hesitation.

“B-but... Sector 13 is restricted...” Lillia whispered, her voice as hesitant as dry leaves brushing against each other. “You need Level Two clearance...” 

“Level Two?” Irelia asked, genuinely surprised. “That’s a thing?” 

Lillia nodded, still hugging the notebook like a protective pillow.

Of course it’s a thing, Irelia thought. Everything in Amrita was bureaucratized. Techniques, hot springs, even the dorm’s quiet hours had a code only monks and ghosts understood.

But Irelia wasn’t about to take “no” for an answer without exhausting every possibility.

She crossed her arms, her expression firm—like a beautiful, determined statue.

“Lillia, listen. I’m asking respectfully, even if it doesn’t seem like it. It’s not that I want to break rules for fun, it’s that I need this. If not for me, then for... justice. Strategic excellence. You get it?” 

The word "excellence" seemed to echo strangely in the cold halls. And Irelia realized, too late, how dramatic she’d sounded. She grimaced at herself. But it was true. In part. On some internal, poetic plane of her heart, surpassing Riven was a matter of justice.

Because no one should get to act like they’re the best just because they were born with more muscles and a pretty smile.

She looked back at Lillia.

“Just... help me. I swear I won’t get you in trouble.” 

Lillia hesitated. Her small hands clutched the notebook tighter. Then, slowly—very slowly—she sighed.

“O-okay... one hour. Just one.” 

Irelia’s smile came so fast she forgot her own composure. Just for a second—but her eyes sparkled. And in that second, she looked more like the girl she’d been before the academy.

Then she cleared her throat, straightened up, and gave a small bow with her hands pressed together.

“One hour will be enough. Thank you, Lillia.” 

The faun girl muttered something like "oh dear, oh dear" and started walking ahead, slowly. Her steps were light, almost floating, as if apologizing to the floor with every contact. Irelia followed. More serious now. More focused.

Because as proud as she was of her victory, she knew: this was just the beginning. If she was going to fight in Riven’s world—Sett’s, Yasuo’s, all the other names starting to shine—then she had to learn to carve her own path.

Even if it had to be in silence.

Lillia hesitated when they reached one of the library doors, her eyes flicking back to the notebook. She murmured something else, and this time, Irelia listened closely. The faun’s voice was soft but firm within its hesitation:

“There are five clearance levels...” 

“Five?” 

“Yes... Level One is open. That’s what almost everyone uses. Sector 13 is Level Two, only for qualified Seniors. Level Three needs faculty approval... Level Four requires a letter from the Amrita Council. And Level Five... only the Headmaster.” 

She said it with near-reverent weight, like reciting the layers of a sacred temple.

Irelia blinked.

Five levels to become someone useful.

She sighed deeply, crossing her arms. A quiet anger—one that was becoming familiar—rose in her chest.

"At Labrys, I bet it’s not like this. I bet Riven’s out there smashing targets, skipping class, breaking walls, and no one says a thing. I bet they even get points for it."

She huffed, trying to recompose herself.

“I swear I’m not trying to steal war spells. Or peek at secret faculty maps. I just want to study. Exercises! Infiltration techniques. Silent advances. I’ll learn them anyway, I just want to... speed things up.” 

Lillia seemed torn between empathy and flight instinct.

Irelia took half a step forward, resisting the urge to grab the girl by the shoulders and shake her with desperate sweetness.

“You don’t understand,” she said, her tone more sincere now, less diplomatic. “Labrys is coming next week. I’m not joining the inter-academy matches, but...” 

She breathed. Lowered her gaze. Her voice came out quiet, almost bitter:

“But I am challenging Riven.” 

It was the first time she’d said it aloud. And it sounded as ridiculous as it felt inevitable.

“I’m not hiding behind regulations while she struts around like a general. I’ll be ready. And if you can help me just a little, I swear I won’t forget.” 

With silent resignation, Lillia nodded. And together, they entered the library.

The atmosphere inside was always wrapped in suspended calm, the wooden hallways fragrant. Thick rugs swallowed their footsteps, and the scent of old paper hung in the air like a memory. They discreetly climbed the stairs to the second floor, where Sector 13’s shelves hid.

At the entrance, a discreet desk guarded access. Behind it, a yordle with glasses so large they looked—in Irelia’s silent opinion—like a second head. Her golden fur and permanently curious expression made her seem perpetually on the verge of sneezing, yet there was an adorable firmness to her. No austerity, just attention that knew how to be strict without being harsh.

Lillia approached delicately, withdrawing a small, shimmering card—ornamented with seals, marks, and a pale silver rune—which she offered with both hands, like presenting a flower about to lose its petals. Irelia would’ve guessed that pass granted access to Level Three, maybe even Four, judging by the energy it radiated.

The yordle looked up, adjusted her glasses with a gesture so exaggerated it nearly swallowed half her face, then simply nodded. No words. No additional records.

Irelia stifled the urge to smile. She dipped her chin slightly, giving a discreet bow before slipping into the sector, heading straight for the section informally known as the assassins’ club.

There was something enchanting there, and not just because of the aura. The shelves lined the walls like beautiful fortresses. Titles in varied languages, crimson leather covers, margins alive with scribbles from long-gone hands. Infiltration techniques, retreat strategies, silent movement methods with minimal heel weight—and among it all, philosophical reflections on the ethics of stealth, or the spiritual symbolism of absence.

Amrita was peculiar. Many clubs recorded their teachings, no matter how niche or strange. When a group stood out enough—through creativity, effectiveness, or sheer audacity—the school legitimized their records, archiving them as references. Within those pages, past students conversed, and Irelia shivered at the thought of silently replying to voices no longer at the academy.

Lillia bowed slightly, timidly, almost apologizing to the air, whispering a reminder:

“One hour.” 

Then she disappeared down the hall. Irelia waved in gratitude—genuine this time—before turning to what she’d come for.

On a nearby table sat a simple but well-bound notepad. She pulled it closer and began scanning the books—first with her eyes, then her fingers. Occasionally, she jotted down names, dates, loose ideas. The yearbooks in this wing were an unexpected treasure, updating themselves each term, displaying the names, photos, and contributions of students who’d left their mark in clubs and side projects. A hall of fame for the brilliant and discreet.

She flipped through a few volumes with growing curiosity until one name made her stop.

Zelos.

Irelia’s heart tightened in her chest like a warm breath. A smile escaped, unpermitted, spreading slowly across her face.

There he was. The photo showed him serious, but his eyes were smiling—that way only he could. The text beside it listed some of his contributions to the stealth sector, particularly on "movement across uneven terrain" and "multi-soundpoint distractions."

She lowered a finger, touching the edge of the image with tenderness. The gesture was intimate and childlike, like when he’d absently booped her nose, teasing her for how much she furrowed her brows when focused. The memory came with such clarity that she laughed softly—a small, nostalgic laugh, nearly silent.

“I’ll surpass you too, you know?” she murmured, like a secret promise. “But without losing you along the way.” 

She closed her eyes for a moment.

And then, against all expectations—or maybe just against her own pride—she cupped her hands solemnly, as if preparing to thank the gods. But instead of a sacred prayer or ceremonial chant, she did something more personal. An off-script request. A quiet, intimate plea, almost shy, but utterly sincere.

“Oh Guan Yun, just spirit, warrior symbol,” she murmured, firm as if summoning a sacred blade “Patron of luck in uncertain times, please have mercy on a hardworking student. If possible, if at all possible... let the books have illustrations.” 

Because Irelia, though not the type to shirk her duties, was far from built for long readings. She avoided them whenever possible. Her mind, sharp for movement, for the rhythm of the body, the precise cut between one note and the next in a dance, simply wandered on static pages. It was like asking a river to become a pond.

Her performance, of course, was admirable. But it was sweat, not talent. Effort, not calling. While others learned with eyes hungry for words, Irelia danced until the motions were etched into her skin. She ran trails and rehearsed forms until her body memorized what her spirit was still grasping.

Her brothers, they were readers. When she wanted to learn something, she’d ask Ohn or Zelos to read aloud while she stretched her feet, rolled her shoulders, or just closed her eyes and let the words pour over her like music. They never complained. Sometimes teased—"When are you gonna learn to read on your own?"—but they always read. Ohn did it patiently, like a monk; Zelos with theatricality, doing voices and dramatic pauses, as if narrating an epic just for her.

She never knew how to repay them—or so she thought. She could only dance for them, fight for them. That was her way of making them proud. Taking care of family.

When she finished her silent prayer, she carefully unclasped her hands, took a deep breath, and pulled one of the thicker tomes. The cover was dark, firm to the touch, the title embossed in near-invisible relief: "Advances and Assaults in Hostile Terrain Structures—Analysis of the Last Thirty Years."

It sounded promising. And absolutely unbearable if it lacked pictures.

With careful fingers, she opened the first chapter. And there they were.

Illustrations.

Clean diagrams. Precise strokes. Trajectories in crimson ink, marking weight, direction, and focus. Postures mapped with near-theatrical precision. Curved arrows and handwritten notes from students long gone, some even scribbled with marginal indignation or excitement. And, best of all: on many pages, little stylized figures demonstrated maneuvers with such expressiveness she could almost hear them moving.

Irelia let out a light laugh, like someone receiving a long-awaited letter and getting emotional just seeing the seal.

“Blessed be Guan Yun,”  she murmured, resting her fingers on the page.

The visual study continued. Slow, but efficient. She observed each stance with the gaze of someone mentally dancing, snapping photos of some pages to practice later. She studied foot positioning, hip sway, the economy of motion. These were approach techniques, environmental use, visual focus manipulation. She’d done some intuitively, but there were refinements here she’d never imagined. A footnote, for example, explained that certain sounds—short tongue clicks, tapping walls at specific angles—could gauge depth in dark halls. Another, more poetic, read: "The blade that arrives without sound is the one that listens before it touches."

She copied that line. It was too beautiful to forget.

Page after page, Irelia found herself less frustrated and more engrossed.

Chapter Text

If someone had told Yasuo a year ago that he’d be snooping around Yi’s dorm, he would’ve laughed out loud—maybe even spat out his soda on reflex—and declared that would only happen on the day the sky fell or professors stopped taking attendance. Yet there he was, eyes gleaming like a cat in uncharted territory, heart pounding as if he’d swallowed a marching band. Dignified? Not even close. But incredibly pleased with himself.

The seniors’ building was another world—minimalist lines and elegant austerity, architecture that reeked of privilege and past glory. Even the floor seemed to know whose steps it bore. Yasuo felt like an honored intruder, a brat who’d gained access to the temple of the gods, and every inch of the place screamed with the effortless cool of those who’d already won.

Unlike the freshmen dorms, there was no gender segregation here. With private rooms, en-suite bathrooms, and probably state-of-the-art coffee makers or lavender humidifiers, there was no room for such trivialities. Anonymity gave way to personal dominion—and, of course, the freedom to lock oneself in a private sanctuary undisturbed. A sanctuary like Yi’s. Just approaching those doors was an event. And Yasuo wanted to memorize every detail, to recount it all to Sett later, dramatizing each word with grand gestures, as if he’d escaped Olympus with a secret.

The elevator climbed too slowly for his taste. The metallic hum of cables, the monotonous drone—all of it clashed with the frenzy of thoughts sparking beneath his messy hair. Yasuo leaned against the metal wall, arms crossed, a smirk on his lips.

“You guys even get cookies in the elevator,” he muttered, eyes narrowing in mock accusation. “Meanwhile, I’m stuck in the freshman dungeons, living off vending machine coffee and crumbs.”

Yi didn’t answer. Didn’t even turn his head. Just blinked slowly, as if weighing whether words were worth the effort. That was enough for Yasuo to understand he had free rein to take the cookies. And he did. Three, to be exact. One to eat now, another for the trip back, and the third… well, maybe as proof of the expedition.

The air conditioning was brutal. A clinical, almost offensive cold that made the hairs on his arms rise even under his shirt. Yasuo, who rarely indulged in anything with sleeves, felt the chill slither down his spine like an icy tongue.

But screw it. No cold in the world could extinguish the excitement burning in his chest.

The elevator chimed, and Yasuo trailed after Yi like an obedient yet smug pup—the kind that only pretends to follow because it wants to be seen doing so. He felt like the apprentice of some legendary master—and in a way, he was. Pride swelled in his chest like a balloon about to burst. Reaching that floor was already halfway to paradise, and he stepped into the hallway like a man entering a secret temple.

Yi’s room, of course, was at the very end. A cliché worth noting—as if the universe knew he needed that theatrics. Yasuo didn’t say it aloud, but he thought, with relish: Of course it’s the last door. Of course it has a balcony. Bet it overlooks the forest, where he meditates at dawn, dressed in white like some mystic anime character. Listening to jazz. Or thunder. Or both.

His head buzzed as he walked, eyes devouring the details—side doors, polished floors, sniffing out secrets. He imagined a collection of samurai figurines lined up in discreet glass cases. Or maybe dozens of tea tins, organized by origin, type, ideal temperature. Perhaps swords—different styles, sharp or ceremonial, each with stories etched into the blades.

And what if… ah, what if he’d kept the championship cloak from two years ago? That fabric floating mid-battle, olive green slashed with gold—Yasuo remembered every fold. He’d watched those tapes dozens of times while cramming for the Amrita exam, always late at night, feet cold, chin propped on his knee. Sometimes he fantasized about wearing something like it one day. Not identical, of course, but with the same invincible aura.

And the blue scarf from the winter tournaments? That one was too poetic to have been tossed. It had to be there, folded with millimeter precision in some lavender-scented drawer.

Yasuo nearly tripped from sheer excitement. He felt on the edge of a secret, like he was about to uncover something.

When they reached the door, his heart hammered faster. The wood was thick, dark, with subtle carvings at the corners—branches, maybe flames, maybe waves, he couldn’t tell. A touch between natural and esoteric. And at the center, a small polished iron plate with clean, austere letters: Wujing Yi.

This was real. He was really here.

But before he could say anything—before Yasuo’s half-raised hand dared touch the doorknob—Yi turned, calm as a monastery on a rainy day, and pointed to the floor beside the door. The gesture was simple, almost careless, but its intent was sharp as steel.

Stay.

A silent word. A soundless order, unbreakable. Yasuo gaped, frozen, finger still hovering midair, trapped in the illusion that he’d be allowed inside.

The door closed. Without fanfare, with a firm click of the knob, the dry sound of exclusion.

“He dared—” Yasuo hissed, incredulous. “You locked me out?!”

The thick wood now seemed to mock him, and Yi’s nameplate flickered like a “No Freshmen Allowed” sign. The hallway suddenly felt colder. Yasuo pressed his forehead against the door, lips parting in a dramatic pout. He knocked lightly once, hopelessly, just out of spite.

“Unbelievable.”

He muttered nonsense—maybe a curse, maybe a veiled threat—and crossed his arms. He could’ve left, could’ve waited downstairs like a decent person. But no. He’d stay. Planted there. Like a loyal yet indignant apprentice.

At least there was a silver lining—and he wasn’t one to let a chance to gloat slip by, even if only to himself. After all, today meant training, and glory be, training that didn’t involve paper, scrolls, or damned books. No ritualistic readings of ancient philosophies. Just sweat, motion, and impact.

Yasuo almost smiled, biting the corner of his mouth. He knew. Knew with absolute certainty. Without false modesty—because false modesty was an art he’d never master—that his performance at the battle club meeting had been… exceptional.

He’d expected more resistance. More brutality. He’d braced for failure, or at least a dignified, cinematic defeat—something that would leave him sprawled on the ground but covered in honor. And what did he get?

An older opponent and a fight that, honestly, hadn’t even demanded 100%. That victory had slid into place like a well-landed strike—a little blood, a lot of pride. The guy barely had time to process what happened before Yasuo was mentally celebrating, even before the referee called it.

Of course, he still had more to show. The adrenaline hadn’t even fully kicked in. It was like he was just warming up, shaking the dust off his joints. And that… that thrilled him. Made him fierce.

Part of him already wanted to challenge everyone in the halls. Test strengths, test styles. Measure his real level, without the club’s formal veneer. But the other part—quieter, deeper—whispered that old, nagging refrain:

You’re still not on Yone’s level.

Tch. Nonsense to think about. But inevitable.

It was like a lazy shadow trailing him through the halls. An ancient whisper that returned every time he felt invincible. The memory of that precise cut, that pure technique. Yone was another world, a kind of perfection that irritated more than inspired. But Yasuo, rebellious by nature, clung to a belief with the desperation of a castaway:

I’m infinitely more promising.

Yone was a completed puzzle. Yasuo was chaos and brilliance. The spark, the unpredictable flame. A work in progress. And that, in a way, was more dangerous.

Or so he tried to convince himself.

He rubbed his nose lightly, annoyed by the throbbing sting from the elbow he’d taken to the face—a parting gift from his defeated opponent. It had been more exhilarating than painful in the moment, he’d admit. A sharp crack that reverberated through his bones and lit that wild glint in his eyes.

But now… it was just annoying. And he didn’t want a swollen face if he was spending the day with the master.

He took a step back from the door, arms crossed. The hallway’s silence weighed on his ears, but Yasuo’s head buzzed with all that barely contained energy.

He called me to train. He wanted to. That means something. He was impressed.

“I would be too,” he murmured to himself, a smirk tugging at his lips.

He was proud, no doubt. Practically floating.

But still… why the hell couldn’t he go inside that room?

Yasuo had to wait. Long minutes, endless. Or maybe not that long, but boredom made time crawl like honey uphill.

He spun on his heels, pressed his forehead to the door again, sighed loudly, tested the latch (still locked), huffed, pretended to turn and leave—but he wouldn’t. Obviously not. A sacrifice worthy of an epic. And just as he decided maybe he should try the latch a fifth time with more creativity, Yi emerged.

Placid. Calm. As if he hadn’t left Yasuo stranded in the frigid hallway for ages. Without even seeming to notice the sheer outrage dripping from the freshman’s face, he walked out, shutting the door with a firm click, no rush whatsoever.

Jerk.

Without his usual jacket draped over his shoulders, Yi seemed lighter, his look a bit more casual—though his posture still radiated that effortless elegance. In one hand, he carried a simple backpack, no heroic emblems, which was mildly disappointing. In the other, an open notebook filled with absurdly beautiful cursive script.

A diary? A war grimoire? A book of secret recipes? Could be anything—but the pages on display were packed with meticulous notes, interspersed with collages, stamps, symbols, and other details that seemed more… intimate.

Yasuo tried to peek, of course.

“What’s that?” he asked, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

Yi glanced at him briefly over the pages, as if weighing how much to say. Always measuring his words. Then replied:

“It’ll be useful for you.”

That’s it?

“Uh… but where’s it from?”