AN: Rewrite of Chapter 1.

Disclaimer: I don't own the League of Legends.

As the everlasting night falls on the streets of Noxus, a boy strides over to his bedroom window and stares to the distance beyond the glass, dreaming of faraway lands. He eagerly awaits his mother's return, while staring to the brightly-lit west where his national rival resides. In his hands, he absentmindedly caresses the blade that his mother had given to him for his tenth birthday. It was a simple, yet elegant blade that carried the Noxian seal at its hilt with his name carved into the metal. His mother had meant it as a well-meaning gift, and he has accepted it as such.

Even though he is but a child, he knows many things that a fourteen year old boy should not know. He knows the cruel and harsh history behind the plains that he resided in, the unspoken rule of where only the strongest may survive. His mother made it painfully clear when a Noxian man broke into their home only to be struck down. But, most likely due to the blood that runs through his veins, what made this incident matter so much to him wasn't the fact that the 'lack of kindness' that his mother had showed to him was not on purpose. Emotions carry weakness, and weakness brings about death.

The boy turns away from the window, predicting that his mother will not be coming home for another night, and absentmindedly throws the knife from his hand to the opposing wooden wall, embedding itself in the middle of the cross of a picture of the Demacian Crest. His mother had once brought it home, saying that it was a good scapegoat for target practice. But he knew that this crest was more important to his mother than she was letting on. The tilt of the head and stance, the seemingly uncaring, cunning eyes that glimmered, gave it away almost too easily. It was a crime, the child knew, to have the crest of your rival hanging on your wall. Not an official crime, not one that can be charged with a legitimate sentence, but one of a social branch, where scornful eyes and curses muttered under breathes will follow you to your death.

Maybe it's genetic, but he had found his laceration of the Demacian crest to be strangely enjoyable.

He flung himself onto his bed. As he stared at the ceiling, his mind wandered towards his memories in a futile attempt to channel memories of his father, as he had tried many times. When he had asked his mother, during one of their happier moments, about his heritage, the tone of her voice while she sharpened her blades was not one of love or compassion, but came off as an implication of mutual respect and awe. As far as he knew, his father and his mother had little to no mutual affection towards each other. When questioned on how they led to procreating him, his mother would shrug it off with categorizing it as a 'moment of weakness'.

Despite of how his mother had referenced his father, he was not short of affection from his single parent. She would give him just enough to survive by himself, like any other Noxian child, and would sometimes give a light embrace or two. She had never allowed him to attend the Noxian schools like the other children, nor did she ever let him go out by himself. She had always made sure he was with her, never leaving her sight.

He sometimes grew jealous, of course, when he sees the schoolchildren walk through the path that cut past his house, prancing with armblades and magic alike. But he respected his mother's wishes.

As he began to fall asleep, the scraping of boots and knives resonated from the floor below. He opens his eyes. He slides off the bed, grabs the knife from the bedside table and silently heads down with the blade clutched tightly in his right hand. As he approached the staircase, he peeked down from the banister to the living room below. He could not see much, but he managed to catch a glimpse of a flash of red hair. He let out a breath as he tucked the knife away.

His mother had returned.

He stepped down the stairs, careful not to make any noise as he entered the kitchen. His mother was sitting at one of the chairs, bloody, bruised and her eyes hiding behind her long red fringe. The chair was tilted back, her boots on the table and twirling one of her prized knives with her fingers. Under the weak light, he could see glistening sweat and her tired breathing from a long day of work. Obviously, she was fatigued and definitely not interested in talking to her son.

Wouldn't stop him from trying, anyway.

She didn't give any recognition to him as he walked into the room. He took the seat opposite the table, sat up as straight as possible and stared at his mother, sometimes looking around to break contact.

There were a few minutes of uncomfortable silence. Much to his surprise, it was his mother who broke it first.

"So... how was your day?"

He was stunned by the oddly common question, and shook his head warily.

"It was fine."

"No intruders?"

"None."

"Did you practice today?"

"Yes."

"Score?"

"13 bulleyes for throwing knives, 2 bounces at maximum and withstood their sharpness."

"Hmph. Anything else?"

"…No, mother."

"Hm."

"…Mother? How was work?"

"Nothing special. Why?"

"No reason…just wanted to know a bit about the life in the city…"

"Hm."

Katarina suddenly struck the table with the bloody knife, embedding it into the wood. But he did not flinch. He simply held his head steady, unfazed by his mother's actions.

With the temperature of the room going down by a few notches, the child decided that his daily ten minutes of his mother had been completed. He got up from his seat, muttered a goodnight, and started back up the stairs. As he ascended the stairs, he got a glimpse of his mother pulling the knife out of the table and restarting its twirl.

He shut the door and flung himself onto the bed. Why couldn't she be like other mothers, those spoke of in his books? Why couldn't she show more compassion? Why did she have to make every single short conversation, if you can call it that, like stepping onto a minefield? Why couldn't she just talk to him like a normal person? And why doesn't she let him out of this accursed house? Why can't he just attend normal Noxian schools like normal Noxian children? And why couldn't he see his father? What was his mother hiding from him?

And who was his father anyway?

His tantrum did not last for long. He had been used to such questions flowing through his head, but he did not have the guts to even ask her about them. He had never seen his mother angry with him, the worst being only the lack of his recognition. But he did not want to know how his mother is like when she is angry. The blood stains across her body are already proof of that.

Strangely exhausted, he attempted to sleep. But the pangs of hunger in his stomach keep him awake, having not eaten since the afternoon. Eventually, the pain subsided and he begins his journey into his dreams. But what he saw was nothing but darkness. All he saw, all his memories, were darkness. It was like his entire brain was engulfed in a black mist. He was in a world, where he couldn't see. And he liked it that way.

At least, he hoped he did.

He was suddenly awakened by knocks on his door. Bleary eyed and hungry, he forced himself to stumble towards the door and turned the handle. There, he saw nobody. He looked left and right, but there were no signs of his mother anywhere. But when he looked down, he found a full loaf of bread pinned to the floor with a clean knife, together with the familiar sight of the luminescent red flask that always seemed to rejuvenate him.

Dinner.

He bent down to dislodge the knife. He picked up the bread and the flask, and turned back to his room. Before he had even shut the door, he was already gnawing away at the piece of bread and taking sips of the red fluid. As he ate on the edge of his bed, he felt his eyes start to water. He soon finished the food and drink, brushed off the crumbs on the bed and laid back to sleep. The mist of darkness seemed to have risen from his head, leaving him somewhat comfortable. Under his breath, he thanked his mother for keeping him alive.

Eyes closed, he broke into a slight smile as he fell into the deep abyss of his dreamyard.