Arcane-Shattering time

I couldn't see a thing. The blindfold dug into my face, tight enough to make my skin itch. My wrists were bound, the ropes biting into my skin every time I stumbled—which was often. The guards didn't say much. They just shoved me forward, their silence somehow more threatening than insults or taunts.

The air changed the further we went. The faint hum of machinery turned into a constant roar, and the smell hit me: oil, sweat, and something sour—like rot. It was heavy, almost choking.

"Keep moving," one of the guards barked.

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered under my breath, nearly tripping over something that felt like a cable. Their response? Another shove, harder this time.

When they finally yanked the blindfold off, the brightness hit me like a slap. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the sight in front of me. It wasn't just a mine—it was something worse. A factory, a prison, and a graveyard all rolled into one massive cavern.

The place was alive, but not in any way that felt right. Workers moved like puppets on strings, their chains clinking as they walked barefoot. They carried tools, hauled rocks, and repaired machines, all under the watchful eyes of guards perched on catwalks above. Rifles gleamed in their hands, ready to fire at the first sign of disobedience.

The workers… they didn't even look human anymore. Hollow eyes, faces smeared with grime, bodies slumped from exhaustion. Some wore what was left of Piltover enforcer uniforms, the badges torn off long ago. Others were dressed in scraps I recognized from Zaun's streets. And then there were the kids.

The kids were the hardest to look at. Barely more than skin and bones, they lugged around equipment too big for their small frames. One boy, no older than eight, struggled to carry a toolbox nearly his size. His knees buckled with every step, but he didn't stop.

I felt my stomach twist. This wasn't oppression. It was worse. It was cruelty, plain and simple.

Silco had promised zuan freedom. Vi said it was his vision, how his vision for Zaun was supposed to break the chains of Piltover. But looking around, all I saw were chains—literal and figurative. Silco hadn't saved anyone. He'd just replaced one master with another.

He wasn't a liberator. He was a liar. A hypocrite.

Zaun wasn't a nation of freedom—it was a lie built on the backs of people like this. People like me.

"The ends justify the means," That was silco mindset. But how many lives had he crushed under those "means"?

"Move," one of the guards barked, grabbing my arm and yanking me forward. They dragged me into a smaller room off to the side of the cavern. It was quieter here, the roar of the machinery dulled by thick walls. Shelves lined the space, cluttered with broken tools and spare parts. In the middle of the room was a workstation.

"This is where you'll work," the guard said, pointing at the bench. "Fix what we give you. That's it."

The second guard leaned in close, his breath reeking of shimmer and decay. "No funny business. No weapons, no gadgets. You try anything, and we'll make you wish you hadn't."

His hand hovered over the whip at his belt. I didn't need a detailed explanation.

"Got it," I said flatly.

"Do you?" The first guard grabbed my shirt, yanking me so close I could see the scars on his face. "One mistake, and you're done. Understand?"

I nodded. They shoved me toward the workstation and slammed the door behind them.

The room wasn't locked, but where was I going to go? Guards patrolled everywhere, and the walls were lined with pipes pumping chem-liquid. Its green glow was faint, but I knew the sound well—the hum of chem-gem being processed.

Chem-gem. I hated the stuff. Zaun's lifeblood and poison all at once.

It was mined from black rock and refined into a gas or liquid, depending on the heat. It powered almost everything in the undercity. It was the same material that had poisoned the air in Zaun for decades. Piltover used it too, though they didn't suffer the same consequences, since they could always push the population downward towards the undercity.

My parents had died mining this crap. The memory hit like a punch, but I shoved it aside. Dwelling on it wouldn't help me now.The past was the past, I had to focus right now.

I picked up the first broken drill they'd dumped on the table. Small, compact—designed for precision work in narrow tunnels. Fixing things wasn't new to me. Benzo had taught me the basics after my parents died, and I'd gotten good at it over the years.

My hands moved automatically, but my mind raced. The guards checked in often, inspecting every repair I made. If something didn't work—or if they suspected I was up to something—I'd pay the price. And I'd seen what happened to people who messed up.

The guards here were different. Disciplined. Efficient. Not like Silco's usual thugs. These guys didn't crack jokes or slack off. They worked like the machines they oversaw, cold and unrelenting.

For days, I kept my head down, fixing what they gave me. Tools, lights, drills—nothing fancy. I made sure everything was just good enough. The punishments for failure were brutal, and I wasn't eager to test their limits.

But then I found it.

Sifting through the scrap pile one night, I spotted a broken flashlight. Most people would've tossed it aside, but I saw the potential. I slipped it under my shirt and brought it back to the workstation.

When the guards were gone, I took it apart. The chem-battery was still intact. The rest of it? Fried beyond repair. But I didn't need a working flashlight. I needed something else.

I worked slowly, carefully. Patience, Ekko. One step at a time.

Outside, I heard the guards shoving another worker through the gates. A kid. Short brown hair, big amber eyes, and skin smudged with dirt. She looked terrified as she stepped into the nightmare.