Mortals, in their relentless search for meaning, tend to overcomplicate things. They create religions, philosophies, intricate political systems, all to try and find an answer to the great, resounding question of "why". I, who have had more time than most to contemplate the subject, have come to a much simpler conclusion. There is no "why". There is only the "now". And in the now, there are only two practices that truly matter: the brewing of a perfect cup of tea and the pursuit of balance. Everything else is just background noise.
Which is why, at the end of each day, when the cacophony of 'The Last Cup' finally ceased, I would go up to the rooftop. Our small patch of flat, wind-swept territory, perched on the spine of the great bridge that both united and divided two worlds. It was my sanctuary. On one side, the arrogant golden glow of Piltover's spires piercing the sky. On the other, the misty abyss of Zaun, breathing out its green, chemical glow. And me, in the middle. The point of balance.
I wasn't there to practice martial arts in the way mortals understand it. I was there to recentre myself. Most nights, I would sit cross-legged in the middle of the roof, feeling the cool concrete beneath me, and give myself over to a process that, in other lives, in other worlds, had a name. Here, I currently called it 'operating the silent forge'.
I was immersed in this process, feeling the world's energy flow through me, when a disturbance in the pattern caught my attention. A presence. Intense, nervous, but trying desperately to be silent. I opened my eyes. Leaning against the small structure that gave access to the rooftop stairs was Vi. Her arms were crossed, an attempt to look casual, but her knuckles were white. She had been watching me, I didn't know for how long.
"Lost something, Bubblegum?" I said, my voice a little hoarse from disuse. "Eddie's sweet-stash is three floors down, in the opposite direction. And he counts every biscuit."
She straightened up, stepping out of the twilight shadows. The usual bravado in her posture was absent. In its place was something rawer. More vulnerable. It was the expression of someone who had found the limits of their own knowledge and hated the feeling.
"I was watching," she said, her voice low, almost accusatory. "What were you doing? Just sitting there. It looked… dangerous."
I stood, stretching muscles that protested the stillness. "It was the opposite of dangerous. It's called balance. You should try it sometime. It does wonders for the digestion and lessens the urge to punch walls."
She ignored the jibe. Her grey eyes were fixed on mine, full of a seriousness I rarely saw in her. "That… that night. With Grime's men." She swallowed, as if the words were difficult to form. "That wasn't a brawl. I know brawls. Grew up in them. A brawl is loud, ugly, desperate. Whoever hits harder, faster, wins. What you did… was something else."
She took a few steps towards me, the sound of her boots on the concrete the only noise besides the wind. "Vander taught me to fight. Boxing. He showed me how to use my weight, how to turn my hip into a punch that breaks bones. And the streets… the streets taught me the rest." Her gaze was distant, reliving a thousand battles in dark alleys. "They taught me to fight dirty, to bite, to kick, to do whatever it takes to be the last one standing. That's how you survive down there."
She stopped a few feet from me, the frustration plain on her face. "But you…" she gestured with her hands, helplessly, trying to give shape to a concept she didn't understand. "You didn't need any of that. You weren't stronger than them. You made them look… stupid. Like clowns. You dismantled them. It wasn't about who hit the hardest. It was like you knew the perfect balance."
The final request came almost as a whisper, stripped of pride, just a raw, burning need. She looked me in the eye, the dying Piltovan light reflecting in her grey eyes.
"Teach me. Teach me how to be strong like that. Properly strong."
An existential sigh went through my body. Brilliant. Another lost street-pup, asking me to teach her the secrets of the universe. I wasn't a teacher. Not anymore. In another life, in another world, I had guided an entire sect of cultivators. I'd had disciples who were born geniuses and others who had as much talent for internal energy as a rock has for ballet. And I trained them. I turned pebbles into raw diamonds. I demanded discipline, I broke their egos and rebuilt them. It was exhausting. It was gratifying. And I had sworn to myself I would never do it again. Yet here was Vi, with the stubbornness and raw fire I recognised in the best, and most troublesome, of my old students.
"I am not a teacher," I said, the answer automatic and honest. "And you already know how to fight. You have strength, you have heart, and you have a rage that could set the river on fire. That is more than most people have or ever will have."
"It's rage! That's all I have!" she burst out, her frustration finally spilling over. "I'm strong enough to break walls. But that doesn't help Powder with her inventions when I'm not there to protect her from the bigger kids. It doesn't help Claggor when he gets tricked. It doesn't help Mylo when his mouth starts a fight his fists can't finish! You… your strength protected them without you even breaking a sweat. That's what I need. I don't just want to be stronger. I need to be… better."
The word struck me. To protect. That was the one universal language that transcended worlds, lives, and species. It was a motivation that, to my eternal dismay, I understood intimately. She didn't want power for herself; she wanted a shield for others. Damn it. Her and her disarming sincerity.
I stared at her for a long, silent moment, weighing my desire for an uncomplicated life against the painful sincerity and the raw potential that burned in her eyes. My boredom, my wish for peace… they both lost.
"Alright," I sighed, and the sound was like an ancient rock shifting. "But we do it by my rules. And I'll tell you now: you will hate every second. The first rule is: forget everything you think you know about fighting. What you know is how to be violent. It is not, and never will be, the same thing. Be here, in this exact spot, tomorrow, before the sun touches the first Piltover tower. Alone. And don't be late. I hate lateness."
She nodded, a fierce determination replacing the vulnerability in her eyes. The storm was back, but now, perhaps, it was ready to learn how to control its own lightning.
The next morning, the rooftop was a realm of two worlds. The cold mist of Zaun rose from one side like the breath of a slumbering beast, while the opposite horizon began to bleed with the first rays of the sun, painting Piltover in gold and pink. Vi was already there when I arrived, jumping on the spot to keep warm, a ball of nervous energy ready for action. She was expecting to hit something. The disappointment on her face was priceless when the first lesson began.
"Stand still," I said, instructing her to take a low, firm stance. "And breathe."
"I am breathing," she retorted, impatient.
"No. You are panting. It is not the same," I corrected. "Close your eyes."
She huffed but obeyed. The first stage of any training is not about what you can do, but about what you can stop doing. Stop getting distracted. Stop fighting yourself. Stop letting your strength leak out through all the cracks of your impatience.
"Your strength is like an uncontrolled wildfire," I began, circling her. "Loud, impressive, but it burns too fast and leaves nothing but ash. You fight with your muscles, with your surface-level anger. That is why you get tired. And it is why," I gave an almost casual flick to her shoulder, completely unbalancing her, "you are unstable."
She stumbled, surprised and frustrated. "What's the point of this?! How is standing still going to make me stronger?!"
"Sit," I commanded. She obeyed, dropping onto the cold concrete. "We're going to find the source of your fire. I want you to forget your fists for a moment. Find your centre. Four fingers below your navel, there is a 'core'. Think of it as the silent reactor in the heart of a great machine. All true energy is born there."
She tried, her brow furrowed in concentration. "I don't feel anything. It's just… my gut."
"Because you have never stopped to listen," I said. "Now, find your flame as well. In the centre of your chest. It is your anger, your passion, your stubbornness. Feel it. Hot and small, yes?"
She nodded slowly. "Yeah. I feel that."
"Good. Now comes the hard part." I approached and placed one hand lightly over her core, and the other over her chest. "These are the two parts of you that matter. The reactor and the furnace. Currently, they work against each other. Your furnace burns without fuel, and your reactor remains cold and dormant. You are going to learn to connect them."
For the next hour, that was all we did. Breathing. She would breathe in, and I would instruct her to pull the energy from the air and the world not into her lungs, but into her core.
"Feel the reactor warm up, Vi," I would say. "Fill it. Store the energy. Do not waste it."
Then, on the exhale, the second part. "Now, guide that warmth from your core to your furnace. Not as an explosion. As a steady flow of fuel. Use the energy of your centre to make your heart glow. Turn the angry ember into a constant, controlled flame."
It was an alien concept to her. But slowly, something began to shift. Her breathing, once shallow, became deep and rhythmic. The tension in her shoulders eased. A dangerous, hot calm began to settle over her.
"On your feet," I said. She stood, more centred, more solid.
I began to move in slow, fluid combat forms. She imitated me, still clumsy. "You're still using your muscles!" I corrected. "You have the fire lit and the reactor warm. Now use them! Every movement originates from the core, travels through your body, and explodes outwards through your fists, fuelled by the purpose that burns in your heart."
"What purpose?" she gasped.
"That is the question you must ask yourself every second of every day. Always see a reason to fight, or your movements will be empty." I pointed to the sun now shining over Piltover. "Let its light guide you. Anchor your strength in something greater than the anger of the moment. What is your mission?"
"To protect…" she replied, and this time the word had more weight. "To protect my family."
"Good. Then follow that heart. Do not lose sight of your mission. Let it be the fuel for your furnace. Use it."
At the end of the morning, when we were both drenched in sweat, I stopped. She was exhausted, but the way she held herself was different. Rooted. Powerful.
"Vander's boxing taught you to be a weapon," I said, facing her. "What you are learning here is how to be both the forge and the smith, all at once. You will not just wield strength; you will create it."
I drew closer to her, my expression serious. "This flame you have learned to control... the power you're beginning to draw from your core. You think it's for burning your enemies. But that is only its crudest use. The real power," I said, "is in becoming a beacon. Strong enough to burn for as long as needed, bright enough to guide those you love out of the darkness. You too can be a lighthouse, and shine as brightly as the sun."
She stood in silence, her breathing heavy. The lesson was over.
"That…" she said at last. "...was a lot harder than getting beaten up by five blokes in an alley."
I allowed myself a rare, genuine glint of approval. "It always is. Violence is the easy noise we make so we don't have to deal with the difficult silence in here." I tapped my own head. "The real battle is always with yourself."
Then I watched her go down the stairs, already walking with a little more balance.
I did say I wasn't the best example of a teacher. And it was true. I wasn't teaching her to be a better fighter. I was handing her the keys to her own internal forge, teaching her the first, most basic principles of how to feel and move her own energy.
I was, essentially, giving an engineering manual to a hurricane with pink hair. The chances of her using this knowledge to cause significant structural damage to people and property were… astronomically high. But at the very least, the assembly would be fun to watch.