Prologue

The desert stretched endlessly, a golden sea shimmering under the relentless gaze of the sun. Shurima, a land of unforgiving beauty, bore the scars of countless battles, its sands soaked with the blood of those who sought to conquer or defend it.

Ancient ruins, relics of a time when the sun's light was a blessing and not a curse, jutted out of the dunes like the bones of a great beast. To the untrained eye, the desert seemed still, lifeless, but in truth, it was a battlefield waiting to erupt.

For centuries, Shurima had been both a cradle of civilization and a graveyard for ambition. The great sun-disk that once granted ascension to worthy champions lay in ruin, a silent witness to the empire's downfall. Yet Shurima had not died—it endured. The desert was resilient, as were its people. When the Noxian war machine arrived, many cities fell quickly, but others resisted, unwilling to bow to an empire that viewed them as nothing more than pawns in its endless pursuit of power.

One such city was Bel'zhun, a vital hub of trade and culture now under Noxian control. Its towering walls bore the black-and-red banners of the empire, but beneath the surface, rebellion brewed. The resistance, a network of Shuriman loyalists, fought not for power, but for survival—for the right to exist as they had for generations, free from foreign rule.

In the streets of Bel'zhun, the tension was palpable. Noxian patrols marched through the bazaars, their boots clashing against the stone, a sound that echoed like a constant reminder of conquest. Merchants and artisans worked under watchful eyes, their faces stoic, their movements careful. The presence of the Noxian military was a weight that pressed down on the city, suffocating its spirit.

Among the rebels, whispers spread of hope and desperation. They spoke of freedom, of reclaiming their city and driving the invaders into the sands. But they also spoke of the Demon of the Desert, a man whose name struck fear into even the most hardened among them.

Su'Rhaal, known to his enemies as the Demon of the Desert, was a captain in the Noxian army, a man whose reputation preceded him. Born into the harsh plains of Noxus, Su'Rhaal was the son of a tribal chief and the product of a brutal tradition that honed warriors into weapons. His eyes burned red, a mark of his people, and his strength was said to rival that of beasts.

Su'Rhaal led the Desert Raiders, a Noxian warband forged to crush resistance in the shifting sands of Shurima. His victories were numerous, his methods efficient yet merciless. To the Shurimans, he was a symbol of everything they despised about Noxus—an unstoppable force, a grim reminder of their subjugation.

Yet, behind the fearsome title lay a man. Su'Rhaal was pragmatic, driven not by cruelty but by duty. To him, Might was the only language the world understood. But there were cracks in his resolve—moments when the screams of the conquered echoed in his mind, when the weight of his deeds threatened to break the unshakable façade he had built.

At his side was Zanaiya, his mentor and lieutenant. Four years his senior, Zanaiya was as much a guardian as she was an ally. Her sharp intellect and unyielding loyalty made her indispensable, and her presence tempered Su'Rhaal's harsher impulses. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with, feared not only by their enemies but also by those within their own ranks.

Far from the scorching sands of Shurima, in the polluted depths of Zaun, another story unfolded. The city was gripped by change, its underbelly ruled by Silco, a man whose vision for independence came at a terrible cost. Under his care was a young girl named Powder, a fragile spark destined to ignite into chaos.

While Zaun teetered on the brink of transformation, the world around it was no less volatile. In Shurima, the battle for Bel'zhun mirrored the struggle in Zaun—both were wars of control, of freedom, of identity.

In the end, it was not the mighty empires that shaped the future, but the individuals caught in their tides, each carried the weight of their own stories, their choices rippling outward in ways they could never imagine.

The Demon of the Desert had come to Bel'zhun, and with him, the sands of Shurima would once again run red.