Jarvan's Faith
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Boom! Boom! Boom!
The rhythmic pounding of war drums echoed across the battlefield, mingling with the blare of horns and the clash of steel.
The black-and-white banners of Demacia and Noxus clashed in the open wilderness, their armies a chaotic swirl of bloodshed and fury.
Some soldiers collapsed lifeless to the blood-soaked earth, while others surged forward, undeterred by the carnage.
Overhead, dark storm clouds churned, casting a heavy shadow across the field.
But the looming skies did nothing to smother the relentless fury of the battle below.
"Demacia!"
The cry tore through the air like thunder.
Clad in golden armor streaked with blood, Prince Jarvan IV raised his halberd high.
Once shining and regal, his armor was now dulled by gore, both Demacian and Noxian.
At the front lines, he led the charge against the Noxian onslaught.
He was not just a prince or a symbol—he was Demacia's shield and spear, its unbreakable resolve.
Swish!
With a clean, practiced swing, Jarvan struck down a Noxian who rushed at him, the blade slicing through with brutal efficiency.
There was no time to breathe. More Noxians closed in, their blades gleaming with lethal intent.
"Spears! Hold the line!"
Nearby, his guard formed ranks, spears locked in formation, ready to absorb the coming tide.
Their once-pristine silver armor was now stained with blood, their eyes weary but resolute.
United in purpose, the Demacian line thrust forward, a disciplined wall of steel braced to meet the brutal wave of invaders.
But their enemy was no ordinary man.
He was Darius, the Hand of Noxus.
His crimson cloak clung to him, soaked in blood. His armor bore the scars of countless battles. Even his hair was matted from sweat and gore.
He stood tall, axe in hand, facing the spear wall with a savage grin. His expression radiated the thrill of war, a gleam in his eyes as if daring them to try.
Clang!
With a sweeping arc, Darius's axe shattered the formation, cutting through spears and men alike.
"Pathetic!" he snarled, his voice low and venomous.
He drove forward, smashing through shields as if they were kindling.
The force of his blows broke lines and morale alike.
"Noxus!!"
His roar was a declaration, primal and overwhelming. With a single, monstrous swing, he sent soldiers flying, splinters of steel and bone raining down.
The Demacian line faltered. Faces contorted in pain, confusion, and fear as they tried to match the unstoppable brutality of Noxus's most feared general.
They couldn't.
They fell—one after another.
The slaughter had begun.
From a short distance, Jarvan watched the chaos unfold, rage burning behind his eyes.
With a sharp thrust, he downed another enemy and broke from his formation, surging toward Darius.
The battle was slipping through his fingers. Noxian tactics had caught them off guard.
Reports had said Darius and the Trifarian Legion were stationed hundreds of kilometers away.
The sudden presence of the Hand of Noxus here—now—meant the reports were false.
A trap had been laid, and Demacia had walked straight into it.
The Trifarix, Noxus's ruling council, had planned this with chilling precision.
Jarvan cursed the misinformation, the betrayal.
Somewhere in the shadows, a darker game was being played.
But there wasn't a time to dwell.
Gripping his halberd tighter, Jarvan pushed toward Darius.
Then—a new sound.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
From behind the Noxian lines, dozens of barrels launched into the Demacian ranks, arcing high through the smoke-filled sky.
"No!"
Jarvan's heart dropped as he saw what came next—fireballs, ignited midair, hurtling toward the barrels.
He sprinted forward, batting away two of the flaming projectiles with his halberd. But it wasn't enough.
Boom!
The barrels exploded.
A wave of alchemical fire and poisonous gas erupted, swallowing whole squads in an instant.
Screams filled the air as soldiers burned, choked, and fell.
Demacian steel—crafted to resist magic—could do little against this.
The armor held, but the men inside were cooked alive.
It was devastation.
And it was only the beginning.
The battlefield had become a blazing hellscape.
Still, the Demacians fought on. Soldiers, coughing and choking on the toxic fumes, raised their shields and spears.
Their bodies trembled, but their resolve held firm.
They charged once more with grit carved from tradition and honor into the storm.
But the ordinary Noxian soldiers were already pulling back in disciplined formation.
Their role in the slaughter was done.
Only one force remained.
The Trifarian Warband.
The alchemical flames and poison did not distinguish between friend and foe.
Yet the Trifarian Legion stood undeterred. Cloaked in crimson, their armor dulled by soot and blood, they pressed forward through the inferno without hesitation.
Their swords swung with brutal precision, cutting through the Demacian lines like scythes through grain.
In moments, the Demacian ranks were decimated.
"Listen to my orders!"
Prince Jarvan IV stood amidst the chaos, his face shadowed by firelight and grief. He clenched his fists, unwilling to surrender.
But even he could see it: the battle was lost.
With a heavy heart, he shouted, "All troops, retreat!"
The command rang across the battlefield, and the surviving Demacians began to fall back in disciplined formation, bloodied but not broken.
Even as they withdrew, Jarvan charged forward. His halberd gleamed through smoke and flame, aimed straight for the one figure that had brought this catastrophe to life—Darius.
Their weapons clashed—halberd against battle axe—sending a thunderous shockwave across the field.
Behind them, the Trifarian Legion did not advance. Instead, they regrouped near their general, forming an unyielding wall of crimson steel.
Darius raised a gauntleted hand. His troops obeyed immediately. There would be no pursuit.
The field fell into a grim stillness, broken only by the steel-on-steel battle between Darius and the last of Jarvan's personal guard.
Silver armor battered and dented, the remaining Demacians formed a tight circle around their prince.
Darius observed silently, expression grim. There were only a few left. He didn't need more.
One by one, they fell. Their spears struck true, but they could not pierce the armor—or the will—of the Hand of Noxus.
The Trifarian Legion watched in silence, only a low, mournful horn echoing like a dirge. Even the Noxians showed reverence for their brave opponents.
"Your Highness, retreat now!" one of the guards shouted hoarsely.
With no hesitation, they hurled themselves at Darius in a last, desperate bid to protect their prince.
None survived.
The blood of Demacia soaked the soil around the Noxian general.
Jarvan IV stood alone.
His golden armor was battered and bloodstained, but his grip on his halberd never faltered. His eyes blazed with defiance.
He was a Jarvan—not just in name, but in spirit.
Clang!
Halberd met axe once more, sparks erupting from the impact.
"Ahh!" Jarvan roared, every ounce of strength behind the blow.
But Atma's Halberd, the ancient weapon passed down by his father, could not pierce the wall that was Darius.
The strike was met and held easily.
"Prince of Demacia," Darius said, voice calm and edged with respect, "you're a worthy opponent. One who deserves my full strength."
He shifted his stance and broke the deadlock. With a sudden lift of his axe, he hurled Jarvan backward.
The prince crashed to the blood-soaked earth among the bodies of his fallen guards.
Darius stepped forward, axe raised for the final strike.
"You could've run. You had chances. But you stayed." His voice dropped lower.
"I respect that. It's more than I can say for your missing 'Might of Demacia.'"
Jarvan, blood clouding his vision, staggered to his feet. He still held his halberd.
"Garen will restore the glory of Demacia!" he shouted, hoarse but defiant.
With a final cry, he charged, swinging wildly.
"Demacia! Forever!"
Darius's smirk returned. "Garen. Then I hope his sword's heavier than your halberd."
The black axe met the halberd mid-swing and shattered the strike.
With a devastating blow, Darius sent Jarvan sprawling again.
The prince fell hard, unconscious, golden armor dented and darkened with blood and earth. Yet even in defeat, his hand never released his weapon.
Darius stood over him for a long moment. Then he lowered his axe.
"Bring him to our camp," he ordered his soldiers.
"We'll raise a monument—not just for ours, but for the Demacians who died with honor."
The Trifarian soldiers moved at once.
Darius turned away, the prince's unconscious form carried behind him. He could have ended it.
But Jarvan's courage—and Noxus's ambition—stayed his hand.
A living prince was more valuable than a dead one.
The battlefield smoldered. Alchemical fire still danced in eerie green hues. Poisonous gas coiled like specters over the dead.
And from the far side of the carnage, a voice rang out.
"Jarvan!!"
Darius stopped and looked back.
Through the haze strode a hulking figure, clad in blue and gold.
A greatsword gleamed on his back.
Garen Crownguard. The Might of Demacia.
Darius chuckled darkly. The sight didn't shake him.
The Trifarian Legion gathered their wounded and began their march home.
Behind them, the unconscious prince. Ahead, Noxus's growing future.
"The new Sword-Captain," Darius muttered, smirking coldly, "Too late for the frontlines. Let's hope he's more than just a title."
The war was far from over. But for now, Noxus stood victorious.