Arcane: In This New World

Tarren pulled his hood tighter as he stepped into the bustling heart of The Lanes, it doesn't feel right wearing it now, not after what he's seen so far. The sight before him was almost unrecognizable compared to the gritty undercity he had left behind two years ago. The streets, while still overshadowed by the towering structures of Piltover, buzzed with life.

The people walking past him looked... healthier. Their clothes were no finer, their homes no more lavish, but there was a brightness to their eyes, a spring in their step. Even the air, still tinged with the faint, acrid tang of industrial pollution, seemed less oppressive. The heavy green haze of smoke that had once choked the streets was thinning, dissipating little by little.

Tarren's gaze shifted to the people around him. In the past, eyes would follow him warily, or worse, with ill intent. He had grown used to the subtle tension of hands clutching knives beneath cloaks, the lurking stares of those watching his every move. But now? The stares were gone. No one lingered at the corners, no one sized him up as he passed. Instead, there was an air of cautious acceptance—perhaps even hope.

What stood out most, however, were the armed men stationed at nearly every intersection. Unlike the enforcers of Piltover, these guards were clearly local. Their weapons were worn but functional, their presence felt but not intrusive. They were not feared, nor revered. Instead, they were simply there, as much a part of the landscape as the dirt beneath Tarren's feet.

He passed groups of children laughing and playing under the watchful eye of a smiling woman, who guided them toward a nearby school, a school that Tarren once went to. That building, once a crumbling shell of its former self, now stood bright and vibrant. The sight stirred something deep within Tarren—bitter nostalgia. He had never seen that building looking so… good.

As he wandered further into The Lanes, Tarren couldn't help but pull back his hood, feeling self-conscious, as no one was wearing one. The polluted air, though still harsh, felt strangely comforting as it filled his lungs. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to feel it without judgment or hesitation.

He was home.

The optimism in the streets carried through even as the path narrowed into a familiar alleyway. Gone were the desolate silence and the ominous shadows of his childhood. Now, the alley bustled with activity—vendors called out to passersby, neighbors leaned out of windows to chat, and workers repaired roofs or reinforced old walls.

Tarren smiled to himself. This place, once the scene of so much hardship, was transforming before his eyes.

As the alley grew narrower, the noise of the bustling streets faded into quiet. At last, he reached his destination: Benzo's shop. The sign hung above the door, the lettering freshly repainted. It was both familiar and strange, like a memory half-remembered.

With a deep breath, he knocked on the door and stepped inside.

The bell above the door chimed softly, filling the room with the melody. The shop was brighter than he remembered. The walls, once bare and stained, were now covered in fresh wallpaper—milky green with red accents. Candles burned in polished holders, their glow complemented by newly bought battery-powered lights that cast a warm, inviting hue across the space.

Tarren looked around, taking in the neatly arranged shelves and displays. Even the standing clocks, their rhythmic ticking filling the room, were polished to perfection.

He caught his reflection in the glass face of one of the clocks. The young boy he had been and the young man he had become seemed to overlap in the polished surface, two versions of himself split by years and experience.

A voice broke through his thoughts. "Coming!"

Tarren turned toward the stairs at the back of the shop. Footsteps echoed as a familiar figure descended.

Benzo appeared, dressed in a well-tailored jacket and sporting a pair of shiny new glasses. His expression shifted from casual annoyance to shock as he saw Tarren standing in his shop.

"You're back," Benzo said. He descended the last few steps, his movements slower now that he knows who it was.

Tarren smiled, his hands in his pockets. "Long time no see."

Benzo shook his head, a laugh rumbling in his chest. "At least send a message next time, kid. Give me a chance to tidy up the shop."

"And ruin the surprise? Never," Tarren teased. He gestured to the pristine interior. "Besides, if this isn't tidy, I'd hate to see what your new standards are."

Benzo scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "With you here, the place's bound to be messy. One more space to put the mess in suits me fine."

Tarren chuckled and stepped forward, pulling the older man into a hug. "It's good to see you, old man. You look... healthier. After everything."

Benzo patted Tarren's back with a firm hand. "Vander's not about to let me kick the bucket, you know that."

As they parted, Tarren glanced around the shop again. "A lot's changed since I was last here. I suppose it's all Vander's work?"

"It's all of ours," Benzo corrected. "Vander's the one who lit the fire, sure, but this?" He gestured around them, to the shop, to the streets outside. "This is what we fought for. It's what we bled for."

"And is it everything you hoped for?" Tarren asked.

"Not everything," Benzo admitted, a shadow of weariness crossing his face. "But it's enough. It's what we dreamed of, back in the worst of it."

Benzo's expression brightened as he clapped a hand on Tarren's shoulder. "But look at you. All grown up, making waves topside. I hear you've been working on magic, eh? Is it because of that strange stone I gave you all those years ago?"

Tarren pulled out his necklace, the crystal glinting faintly in the light. "Something like that," he said with a grin.

Benzo laughed, his deep voice echoing warmly. "Come on," he said, pulling Tarren toward the door. "I'll take you to Vander's. You're an adult now—maybe we can even share a drink."

As the two stepped out into the alley, Tarren couldn't help but smile. 

—

The Last Drop Inn, once a haven for the overworked and able bodied of The Lanes, had become a true centerpiece of the community. The air buzzed with conversation and laughter, still a similar vibe to that of the past

The smell of aged wood and faint traces of spilled beer were still present, grounding Tarren in memories of his childhood. Yet, the additions—a brighter corner near the windows, reinforced beams, and even a new chandelier patched together from salvaged materials—were unmistakable signs of change.

He glanced at the guards stationed by the door. Something has definitely changed, this place is more guarded, more important for the others.

His thoughts were interrupted by Vander's booming voice, carrying across the room like it always had.

"Oi, Benzo! Who let you wander this far from your shop? Thought you'd be too busy polishing scrap to grace us with your presence."

Benzo smirked, his massive frame leaning comfortably against the bar. "I'm here as an escort, you brute. Look who's tagging along." He jabbed a thumb in Tarren's direction.

Vander turned fully, his eyes squinting for a moment before they widened. A broad grin spread across his face. "Well, well, well. Tarren. You sly little fox. Or maybe not so little anymore. Why didn't you send us any messages these past few years."

Tarren chuckled, shaking his head. "You're the one who told me to not go here. Besides, what are they calling you now? Supreme leader? Great Vander?"

Vander barked a laugh, slapping the bar. "Cheeky as ever! Sit down, sit down."

As Tarren slid onto a stool, Benzo took the seat on his right. The left was already occupied by a wiry man nursing a mug of dark ale, who paid them no attention. Vander grabbed a jug, expertly filling a large glass of beer and setting it in front of Tarren.

"On the house," Vander declared. Then, glancing at Benzo, he added, "You too?"

Benzo waved a hand dismissively. "Not today. Day-drinking doesn't suit a man of my size and dignity."

"Dignity, huh?" Vander muttered, shaking his head as he pointed at Benzo's belly, chuckling, and turning to Tarren again. "So, nineteen now, yeah? You've grown. A lot. Wait till the others see you. Bet they won't even recognize you."

Tarren grinned. "Where are they, anyway?"

"At school," Benzo interjected, crossing his arms.

Tarren blinked. "School? I mean, I get it with Mylo and Claggor, but Powder? Ekko? Really?"

"The big man made it mandatory," Benzo said, jerking his thumb at Vander. "Every kid in the Lanes. No exceptions."

Tarren raised an eyebrow, half-amused, half-skeptical. "Mandatory? What happens if they skip?"

"They get put to work," Vander replied, wiping down the counter. "Carrying planks, hauling stones, patching leaks—whatever needs doing in the parts of the city still being rebuilt."

"Unpaid labor, then?" Tarren teased, taking a sip of his drink.

"Call it a life lesson," Vander said with a shrug. "They'll either learn the value of school, or they'll learn the things that we have to do in the past, unpaid. Either way, they're contributing."

"Harsh," Tarren murmured, though his tone was more impressed than critical. "But it makes sense."

He took another sip, savoring the unfamiliar bitterness of the beer. "Speaking of which, why are you still running this place, Vander? You've got the whole of the Undercity to manage, don't you?"

Vander leaned on the counter, smirking. "A man's gotta have his hobbies."

Tarren glanced over his shoulder at the bustling crowd. "This is just a hobby?"

"Says the kid who started dabbling in tinkering which then led to him being able to control magic with science," Vander shot back with a grin. "Heard about what you've been up to topside. Seems like all that effort I put into getting you into the academy paid off."

Tarren's expression softened. "I couldn't have done it without you, Vander. Really."

Vander waved a hand, brushing off the sentiment. "You earned your place, kid. I just gave you a shove in the right direction."

Benzo, who had been watching the exchange with a faint smile, leaned forward. "Still in touch with the academy?"

"Yeah, I kind of work there now." Tarren said, tilting his head curiously. "Why?"

"You know the dean?" Benzo asked.

"Professor Heimerdinger? He's my mentor," Tarren replied.

Benzo's face lit up. "Perfect. Maybe this'll be easier than we thought, eh, Vander?"

Vander frowned, shaking his head. "Not now, Benzo. Let the kid settle in first."

Tarren's brow furrowed. "Do you need something from me?"

"Later," Vander said firmly. "My office upstairs. For now, enjoy your drink. Look around. Take in how much things have changed."

Tarren shrugged, lifting his mug. "Fair enough."

Benzo stood, clapping a heavy hand on Tarren's shoulder. "I'd stay, but the shop won't run itself. You know your way around here, yeah?"

"Yeah," Tarren said with a nod. "I'll see you later."

As Benzo lumbered out, Tarren found himself alone at the bar. The chatter of the crowd faded into the background as he nursed his drink. He let his thoughts wander, a mix of nostalgia and curiosity pulling him in different directions.

The Last Drop might have changed, but at its core, it was still the same.

And so was Tarren, he realized. No matter how much he'd grown, no matter how far he'd gone, this place would always be home.