"Teacher, I heard people say the food here is amazing."
Seraphine stood on the sidewalk, pointing toward a restaurant adorned with Piltover-style decorations.
The gladiator match had ended, and the three of them had already left the arena.
Wanting to fulfill a small wish of hers, Seraphine had planned out the entire day.
"I promise you two will love this place!"
"Noxus isn't exactly known for its cuisine—or leisure in general," Ryan replied, eyeing the sign that read Hayden Pavilion, a flicker of memory in his eyes.
"This used to be the home of a lady from Piltover who died heroically in battle. The current owner should be her son—he'd be eighteen by now."
A family crest was etched on the wooden gate of the pale stone building.
As Ryan looked at it, a voice from long ago seemed to echo in his mind:
"Ha! I don't care for democratic comforts—I'll make Seth proud to be a Hayden!"
The woman had never quite matched the grace of Piltover nobility—she was more like a warrior from the Freljord.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Ryan's mouth as he stepped toward the door.
"Come on. Let's take a look."
Syndra floated just behind him, her interest piqued by the unfamiliar expression on his face.
"Great! The food here really is delicious—Annie and I ate here once!" Seraphine added brightly, nodding with enthusiasm.
It had taken some effort to track this place down.
Her two teachers rarely indulged in earthly pleasures.
Without a little nudging, they wouldn't have given it a second glance.
"Welcome!"
The boy inside was busy and cheerful, waving as the three entered.
But when he saw Ryan at the front, his smile froze mid-motion.
His face turned serious. Then, with practiced sincerity, he bowed deeply.
"President Meredith—welcome to Hayden Pavilion. Thank you for everything you've done for us."
Gone was the casual cheer from earlier; his tone now carried genuine gratitude and respect.
"Seth. It's been a while," Ryan said with a light nod.
"You should've told me you were coming, General. I didn't prepare anything in advance."
Scratching his head sheepishly, Seth quickly ushered them in, then flipped the sign outside to Closed.
When he turned to clear out the remaining guests, Ryan spoke quietly:
"No need. Just find us somewhere quiet."
"Already taken care of!"
Seth smiled and gestured for them to follow as he led them upstairs.
They walked down a long hallway to a door adorned with an intricate coat of arms.
Seraphine's eyes widened slightly at the sight of the emblem, whose central motif resembled an old lawbook.
"Teacher… this symbol…"
"The battle emblem of the Trifarian Legion," Ryan said, voice low with memory.
"Each of us added a mark to it. Over time, it became the design you see now."
"My father made it clear before he passed," Seth added quietly.
"He wanted this room preserved—for his old comrades."
He pushed the door open and led them in.
The room was spacious, decorated in deep blacks and reds.
Noxian austerity defined the atmosphere, save for a long table at its center.
As they stepped inside, lights flickered on overhead, casting a steady glow across the room.
"…It's incredible," Seraphine murmured, barely above a whisper.
Under the light, Seraphine could see the murals lining the walls.
Before a cliff, an army clad in black and red stood in formation.
At the front were two commanding figures—one draped in a white robe, the other clad in black battle armor.
She recognized them instantly: Grand General Swain and her teacher, Ryan.
The army stared down at a vast grassland below, where a city seamlessly intertwined with nature sprawled in the distance.
Its buildings appeared to grow from the land, with only minimal adjustments to accommodate human life.
Towering trees stood like sentinels throughout the city, their leafy canopies glowing faintly as if swaying with bioluminescence.
"Grote's masterpiece?" Ryan asked, his gaze lingering on the mural.
"Yes," Seth nodded.
"Uncle Grote painted it over three days and nights. He said... his friends died in that battle."
Ryan's voice was quiet but firm.
"We'll take back what was once ours."
"Placidium?" Syndra asked, studying the mural more closely.
Her expression shifted, troubled and contemplative.
Even after all this time, the place still stirred a sense of resentment in her.
"The Battle of Placidium," Ryan said.
"The Empire's greatest defeat. Swain commanded, and I was his second."
They had brought only half of the Trifarian Legion into that battle—and still, they had crushed nearly all of Ionia's organized resistance.
But in the end, only he and Swain walked away.
The rest of the army perished. None surrendered. None fled.
Had they not left some troops behind on the island of Fae'lor, the losses would have been even more catastrophic.
"That war was all Darkwill's fault!" Seraphine said bitterly.
If the teacher had been given proper support, there's no way they would've lost!
Ryan, however, spoke with the calm of someone who had long made peace with history.
"A loss is a loss. We were outmatched. Even if we fought that battle a hundred more times, the outcome wouldn't change. Letting Grote leave back then... was the right call."
"I never felt that way, General. I should've died out there."
The voice came from behind. They turned to see a man in a chef's uniform standing at the doorway.
He was short and stocky, his frame made bulkier by layers of soft fat. Grote.
Seeing everyone looking at him, Grote scratched his head awkwardly with one thick arm.
"I haven't kept in shape lately," he said with a sheepish grin.
"This body's not what it used to be."
Ryan's eyes dropped to Grote's right leg.
It was concealed under the chef's uniform but was clearly artificial.
"Still working?"
"Like a charm! The Empire's prosthetics are just as good as the real thing. I still can't believe the Empire would remember someone like me… a broken man. General, really, there's no need to thank me."
Grote chuckled and gave the mechanical leg a hearty slap.
He hadn't felt this alive in years—and a part of him still burned to stand at Ryan's side in battle once more.
"This is what you earned," Ryan replied quietly, shaking his head.
"Everyone, sit down, order whatever you like. Mentor Seraphine, I didn't think what you said last time was actually true."
Grote limped into the room, motioning for them to take their seats.
He remembered the pink-haired girl well from her last visit.
People had whispered that she was Ryan's apprentice, and that alone had left an impression.
Once everyone sat down, Seraphine leaned in and murmured a few words to Seth, who nodded and departed to prepare the pre-arranged dishes.
Seth bowed respectfully before leaving.
Though still young, he'd trained under Grote for years—his skills in the kitchen now rivaled his mentor's.
"Mr. Grote, I really loved the food you and Seth made last time," Seraphine said with a bright, cheerful smile.
"That's why I brought my teachers here."
"Haha! Back when I was in the warband, I used to cook that dish all the time. Xin Zhao ate more of it than anyone."
Grote chuckled, but the smile soon gave way to a more somber expression.
"Alexandra his mother left early… and then his father last year. When I got forcibly discharged—thanks to the General—I figured the least I could do was help out a little."
He turned to Ryan, excitement lighting up his face.
"General... you think I could head back to the front lines with this leg?"
"Don't even think about it," Ryan replied faintly.
"I haven't been reinstated yet myself."
"Ah, come on! You and the Commander practically run the Empire now."
Grote puffed up slightly, beard bristling with mock indignation.
"Xin Zhao came by a few days ago. Drank my best wine and still wouldn't let me back into the Legion. That guy used to beg me for rations back in the day! Now he's vice-general and thinks he's above us."
He grumbled, starting to rattle off names of old comrades.
"Wedlin can't even outrun me. Jaden? Not half as strong as I am…"
Though he spoke with frustration, his voice had unmistakable warmth—a longing for the camaraderie of the past.
Ryan listened quietly, his expression tinged with nostalgia.
Most of the Trifarian Legion's current soldiers were once under his command.
Those he hadn't discharged for injury had remained near his estate, training quietly, waiting for the day he and Swain would be summoned once more.
"Seriously, though, General," Grote said, voice rough with emotion.
"You were incredible at the Immortal Bastion that day. It's just... a damn shame."
Regret clouded his face.
He hadn't been there when Ryan rallied the Legion to honor their fallen brothers.
That absence haunted him.
If only I'd gotten the prosthetic sooner...
The thought stung, but he knew better than to dwell on impossible wishes.
Still, pride shone in his eyes. He had served under two of the greatest men the Empire had known. And no one could take that from him.
"Mr. Grote, you're still serving the Empire in your own way," Seraphine piped up, cheerful as ever.
"You're part of the new merit exchange program—see?!"
Grote perked up.
"True! The Commander stopped by recently. Said they were setting up something like that here. I didn't get it at first, but I think I agreed to it."
"Merit exchange offices are usually run through veteran-owned shops," Ryan explained.
"The Empire provides enchanted items to be traded for service points. It's a way to reward those who've sacrificed—and still want to give back."
The policy had been Ryan's idea originally, with Swain refining the logistics.
The goal was simple: help war veterans maintain dignity while ensuring the Empire's strength endured.
New generations marched off to war; wounded veterans returned home, their purpose often lost.
The Empire, scarred and weary, needed rebuilding. He and Swain would see to that.
"It's not too much trouble," Grote said.
"What kind of things should I keep stocked? I should prepare properly."
This was his responsibility now. He wouldn't let it fall short, especially not with Ryan and Swain behind it.
Besides, Hayden's Pavilion had earned quite a fortune under their protection. It was only right.
"The Empire won't ask for donations," Ryan said patiently.
"Magic items, survival gear, weapons, even access to certain privileges—all can be exchanged. Just report what you distribute, and the rest will be handled."
"No problem, then. I've saved up enough gold. Next year I'm sending Seth to the Academy—so I'll take care of this exchange too."
Grote was Noxian, born and raised within the walls of the Immortal Bastion.
His love for the Empire had never wavered, even after his forced retirement.
If anything, seeing his comrades rise made him prouder of who he was—and what he'd been a part of.
If the Empire asked for it, he'd give everything.
Not just an exchange shop—his whole fortune, if that's what it took to see Noxus rise again.