Five days later—at the mouth of the western river of the Nokmerchi Plains.
A ship had just arrived. As it reached the estuary, its sails dropped in one smooth motion.
"Duke, big brother! We've arrived at the Nokmerchi river mouth!"
As Lux ran from the deck into the cabin, Duke—who was holding a floating anti-magic leaf in his palm—lifted his head and replied, "I know. I just lowered the sails."
"I sent out drones to scout ahead before," Lux said, breathless. "This river's current is fast, and since the terrain slopes from north to south, if we sail too quickly, we could crash into rocks or even sink!"
"That's why I slowed down," Duke said calmly. "According to my calculations, we'll reach Borleham by noon for a short rest, then head out to sea. Three days later, we'll be back in Piltover."
Hearing his detailed plan, Lux nodded without question. She never doubted Duke's arrangements. Anything he decided always turned out right. Following him meant peace of mind.
He would clearly tell her what she could do now, what she needed to wait on, and what she should focus on first.
He made detailed plans according to her talent, ensuring she never took a single unnecessary detour.
But at the same time, when it came to the subtleties of dealing with people—those things that couldn't be taught—he let her experience them herself. Even if she stumbled and got hurt, he would always be there afterward to clean up the mess.
That was why Lux called him different things in different situations. In daily life, Duke was her big brother; in study and training, he was her teacher.
"All right, go rest for now. We'll reach Borleham by noon."
"Got it!"
Watching Lux leave, Duke returned to his training, using the Force to familiarize himself with the texture and patterns of the anti-magic leaf—perfecting his control over it.
This thing, once mastered, would be the ultimate assassination tool against any mage.
Just a single touch could drain a sorcerer's mana completely—and the process caused sharp, searing pain, rendering them helpless in an instant.
That was when Duke would strike—snapping his target's neck in a blink.
Time flowed quickly. The ship, carried by the current, reached Borleham even earlier than Duke expected.
Even though he had slowed the ship's power, the river's gradient made its flow vary dramatically across sections.
Through the crystal window of the cabin, Duke saw Borleham's simple, shabby dock.
Under Edith's steady hand, the ship approached the pier. From within the town came a clamor of noise—shouts and cries drifting all the way to the riverbank.
"Duke! It sounds like something's happening in the town!"
As soon as Duke stepped onto the deck, Lux ran up to him. Duke narrowed his eyes toward the noise. He saw villagers armed with pitchforks, spears, and even manure forks, following a gray-haired woman toward a tall tower in the corner of the town.
"Looks like the villagers of Borleham are rioting."
"R-rioting?" Lux gasped. "Then there'll be… casualties?"
Ever since witnessing the Night of Turmoil in the Capital, the word "riot" struck a deep chord of dread in her. What was happening in Borleham filled her with unease.
Duke studied the direction the villagers were headed and soon identified their destination—a tower that stood out awkwardly among the modest houses.
It was as if its builder had intentionally wanted it to look completely different from everything else around it.
The result was a tower that stuck out like a sore thumb.
"Wanna go take a look?"
Duke tilted his chin toward the mob. Lux hesitated briefly, then nodded firmly.
Seeing this, Duke smiled and patted her head. "Good girl, always so kindhearted."
"Then let's go have a look."
The two followed the villagers quietly. No one noticed the extra pair trailing behind—they were too busy shouting and fuming.
Before long, the crowd reached the tower gates. The tall, gray-haired woman led the charge, kicking open the wooden door. Inside, the tower's owner finally appeared—drawn out by the commotion, his attention falling on the intruders.
He was short—very short—but wore an oversized coat, a massive hat as wide as the doorway, and an equally oversized gauntlet on his left hand, big enough to crush a man's skull. His iron boots clanked with sparks and crackles of lightning at every step.
When Duke saw him, his lips curved up slightly. Just as he suspected.
The Evil Little Sorcerer—Veigar.
"Wicked fiend!" the gray-haired woman shouted, pointing her sword at him.
Veigar grinned under the shadow of his hat brim, raising his tiny form into the air with exaggerated grandeur so that all could see his "majestic" figure.
As the great Master of Evil, he had to look the part.
And indeed, the villagers screamed and wailed—some even fainted from fright, which delighted him immensely.
Raising his staff, he channeled dark energy—rings of inky light spinning into existence as sparks danced between metal weapons and buckles.
The gray-haired woman stumbled back as black fissures coiled around the villagers, forming a towering arcane cage.
But Duke and Lux stood far enough away that the spell didn't reach them. From the sidelines, they simply watched this absurd spectacle unfold.
"Silence!" Veigar commanded, descending each step dramatically, savoring the moment.
The villagers cowered in the glowing prison, purple runes humming around them, claws of energy arching between the bars.
"I can see the fear in your hearts!" Veigar shrieked in his high-pitched voice. "You dare to defy my reign of terror? I am the sovereign of cosmic sorcery—the Great Lord of Evil! I have defeated countless foes of the arcane! None can halt my—"
"My crops got cursed and spawned two whole seasons of nosebugs! That was your doing!" roared a farmer from the crowd, face red with fury.
Veigar blinked, startled.
"What… did you just say?"
"And you lamed my donkey, Dolly, right before the beet harvest!" screamed a woman, shaking her fist.
Veigar froze, utterly dumbfounded.
Lux, wide-eyed, could hardly believe what she was seeing. She had expected carnage—yet the scene had turned into a farce.
"Told you," Duke said with a smirk, folding his arms. "No one's getting hurt."
Veigar wasn't truly evil. He was a Yordle once fascinated by celestial and stellar magic—a being driven by boundless curiosity.
But a thousand years ago, he was captured by Mordekaiser.
Imprisoned and forced to channel his magic for darkness, Veigar was trapped between worlds, cut off from Bandle City.
In that eternal solitude, he was the only prisoner—a torment unbearable for a Yordle.
He was made to cast horrors—spells that strengthened his master's rule or created terror for terror's sake.
Through centuries of suffering, his magic and form twisted beyond recognition.
When Mordekaiser was finally banished, Veigar gained his freedom—but his mind was forever warped.
He embraced the image of evil, convinced that was his destiny.
Yet scenes like this—comically tragic, absurdly harmless—betrayed the truth: he was a would-be villain who couldn't quite get evil right.
A dark comedy of a broken soul.
End of chapter....
IRONBOUND PATRON
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