Chapter: A New Dawn in a City of Progress

A faint haze clung to the bridge connecting Piltover, the City of Progress, to Zaun's shadowed undercity. Debris and lingering smoke whispered of the brutal conflict that had just ended. Bodies of enforcers and Zaunite revolutionaries lay scattered, silent reminders of the night's chaos. Amid them, a wounded boy stirred.

Orion opened his eyes to a world swimming with pain. He lay on the cold stone, covered in grime and blood. He felt an odd duality in his mind: the memories of a Zaunite child and, somewhere deeper, those of an adult mechanic from another life. In that previous existence, he had been an ordinary man with an extraordinary talent for building custom gear and engines—nothing too grand, but respected by many.

He recalled his end, the moment of death, and the offer from a being of godlike power. A great wheel, inscribed with the names of countless worlds—Dragon Ball, Naruto, Black Clover, and more—spun before him. When it stopped, it pointed to "Arcane," a series he barely knew. Granted three wishes, he chose improved comprehension and learning speed, a healthy body, and knowledge of how to adapt a Transformers-inspired Energon formula for human use.

Now, reality crushed him in the form of a mangled arm and a blinding pain in his right eye. He was alone, or so it seemed, until a gruff voice broke through the haze.

"Still breathing?" an enforcer said, looming over him. Though battered himself, the man lifted Orion into his arms instead of leaving him for dead. Other enforcers glanced over, but no one intervened. Too many lay wounded or dying to question a small act of mercy.

"I need a medic now!" the enforcer barked. In and out of consciousness, Orion saw shapes moving. Medics bent over him. Words blurred: "Amputation," "prosthetic," "no guardians." Terror flickered. Would this new life end before it began?

"I'll take him," the enforcer declared, his voice firm. "He has no one else."

They rushed Orion to a makeshift station. Dim lights burned as medical personnel assessed him. The verdict was grim: his right eye destroyed, his left arm unsalvageable below the elbow. Everything went dark.

He awoke to a blur of bandages and faint candlelight. The sting in his bandaged eye and the numbness of his left arm reminded him of what he'd lost. An older man sat on a stool nearby, weary lines etched into his face.

"Name's Grant," the enforcer said quietly. He was known in Piltover as the older cousin of a rising enforcer named Marcus—though the two rarely saw eye to eye. While Marcus had his own path, Grant lived a quieter life in Piltover with his devoted wife, Clara, who rarely ventured beyond their home. "You're in Piltover now. Found you on the bridge."

Orion tried to speak, but only a rasp escaped. The boy he now inhabited was called Orion—he felt it in flashes of memory. Beyond that, he held an entire lifetime of knowledge from his past existence. The two identities merged awkwardly in his mind. He couldn't reveal too much, not yet.

Days bled into weeks as he convalesced in Grant's humble quarters. In place of paternal warmth, Grant offered respectful distance, providing Orion with food, shelter, and books. Orion soon learned that Clara, Grant's wife, busied herself with housekeeping and quiet charitable endeavors—always polite, but never prying into the painful details of Orion's background. From the books they left him, Orion learned about Piltover: gleaming spires, cutting-edge research in steam-based machinery, and a bubbling tension with Zaun. The war might be over for now, but distrust festered on both sides.

Adjusting to life with one functioning eye and a missing arm proved a challenge. Once a skilled mechanic, Orion struggled with simple tasks like buttoning a shirt. Yet the wish for heightened comprehension began to shine through. He adapted faster than normal, training his mind to handle the rigors of daily life.

His second wish, a healthy body, felt like an ironic joke now, considering his grievous injuries. Still, beneath the bandages, his constitution seemed sturdier than that of an average child. The medics remarked on how well he healed.

Late at night, he let his thoughts wander to the formula he'd once dreamed of—a human-safe Energon analog. He saw every line of it in his mind, as though etched by a blueprint. But he knew forging it too soon would be dangerous. Piltover's thirst for innovation was matched by the ruthlessness of certain factions. If they discovered he held the key to a revolutionary power source, it could spark a new arms race.

Grant, unaware of any hidden complexity in his young ward, mostly went about his own duties. An enforcer's life was one of routine patrols and tension with the undercity. If there was guilt in saving a boy from the enemy ranks, Grant never showed it. Clara, too, maintained a gentle reserve, offering meals and a warm place to rest without pressing Orion for details he wasn't ready to share.

One afternoon, Orion set out to test his boundaries. Grant had left him with a small toolkit—only a few wrenches, a screwdriver, and bits of scrap. Orion's single hand trembled as he tried to assemble gears, all the while remembering the dexterity he once had. But he persevered, determined not to let this world define him by his injuries.

Pain flared whenever he moved too abruptly, yet the more he tinkered, the clearer his thoughts grew. The heightened learning speed allowed him to absorb new ways of problem-solving. Without a second arm or eye, he had to innovate. He discovered a knack for bracing parts with his bandaged stump, turning it into a makeshift clamp. Over time, assembling clockwork baubles became meditative—a step toward reclaiming his old passion.

During a short walk with Grant, Orion noticed a group of enforcers harassing a Zaunite peddler. The tension in the air was palpable. The man's small contraption—some kind of steam-powered knickknack—was confiscated without explanation. Orion realized that Piltover's pursuit of order often came at the undercity's expense.

"I know it's not fair," Grant said afterward, catching Orion's troubled look. "But we keep the peace however we can."

Orion's heart clenched. He had been on the other side of that bridge, literally and metaphorically. Although grateful to Grant—and kindly treated by Clara—he couldn't ignore the imbalance roiling beneath Piltover's polished façade. There might come a time he would stand against its authorities if he believed justice demanded it.

On a frigid evening, Grant guided Orion into a workshop behind the house. A single lantern illuminated shelves of mechanical odds and ends. Tools hung from pegs, each gleaming in the faint light. In the center of the room sat a half-finished mechanical exoskeleton arm.

"You'll need something," Grant said, his voice gruff with an undercurrent of concern. "We've got decent engineers here. With enough time and money, we can build you a prosthetic. This old project belonged to one of my friends. It's incomplete, but maybe you can help finish it."

Orion's eyes widened. Though crude, the device was a marvel of gears and metal plating. It reminded him of what Piltover could become—on the cusp of something extraordinary. He ran his single hand over the frame, imagining how he might improve its design or power it more efficiently.

"Thank you," Orion said, his voice barely above a whisper. He meant it.

That night, he stayed awake, examining the exoskeleton by lamplight. If he could refine it, he might regain some functionality. Driven by his knowledge, he scribbled notes on scraps of paper, outlining possible improvements: lighter materials, better joint articulation, and eventually a stable power source. He thought of his Energon formula, but part of him hesitated. Even if he found a way to create a small batch to power the arm, would it attract unwanted attention?

His biggest concern was also the most tantalizing: the promise of Hextech. Though he didn't recall everything about Arcane, he knew that magic crystals would one day become a cornerstone of Piltover's marvels. If he introduced the concept of Energon—modified to work with human biology—before the era of Hextech, it could shift the timeline catastrophically.

So, he resolved to pace himself. First, he would craft a workable prosthetic that ran on standard steam or early chemtech. Once he had proven its success, he could start cautious experiments with the formula. Trial and error would be his guide.

The weeks ahead were filled with trial indeed. Each day, Orion labored in the hidden workshop, testing gear ratios and calibrations for the exoskeleton. He repurposed leftover bits of brass and steel, hammered them into shape, and tested their tensile strength. A single miscalculation could cause the apparatus to jam or, worse, injure him further.

He also wrestled with the city's stigma. A Zaunite child tinkering with advanced devices was sure to draw suspicion, so he kept his activities discreet. Grant, busy with his enforcer duties, seemed content to let Orion spend time on a project that gave him focus. Clara would occasionally check in with quiet kindness, offering tea or a reminder to rest.

One night, Orion made a breakthrough. He crafted a rudimentary piston system, powered by a small reservoir of compressed steam. The exoskeleton's fingers flexed, squeaking in protest but moving all the same. Elation flooded him, and for a moment he forgot his injuries. With proper tooling and more resources, he could refine it further. The question remained: how to acquire those without raising eyebrows?

Despite the constraints, Orion pressed on. The determination that once guided him to master mechanics in his previous life now surged in this one, amplified by his wish for faster comprehension. Every book, every design he studied, turned into another stepping stone toward a new future. He wanted to build, to innovate, to push the boundaries of science and perhaps even brush against magic.

Still, the ghosts of the recent conflict lurked just beneath the city's gleaming surface. Orion felt the tension in the cramped silence of the workshop and in the suspicious glances from Piltovans when he ventured out. Stray comments about Zaunite "riffraff" reminded him that, despite the kindness Grant and Clara had shown, he was far from welcomed by everyone.

At night, he sometimes dreamed of that cosmic wheel and the deity that had cast him here. The memory sparked gratitude, but also anxiety. Arcane was not a lighthearted place. It was a realm of innovation set against heartbreak, of alliances and betrayals, of brilliance and tragedy. He vowed to tread carefully.

Slowly but surely, the battered child from Zaun and the accomplished mechanic from another world became one. Orion's skill with tools improved. His mind adjusted to reading with only one eye. His new life was rough around the edges, but he felt more alive than he ever had.

He realized the potential for forging something entirely new—something that might eclipse even the wonders Piltover dreamed of. His injuries, far from a weakness, now fueled his resolve to design better machines, for himself and perhaps others.

He was only at the beginning. Hextech had yet to be discovered, and the city stood on the brink of upheaval. Uncertain alliances and hidden ambitions brewed behind closed doors. But through it all, Orion held to a quiet hope: that he could carve a place for himself in this realm and maybe even change its course without destroying the balance the godlike entity had cautioned him about.

For now, he would bide his time—heal, tinker, and learn. His journey had only just begun, and the City of Progress, with its gleaming promise and lurking shadows, awaited whatever he might create.

Authors note: 

I've wanted to tackle this project for a long time but lacked the courage until I wrote my first story, which gave me the confidence to start. Though that initial attempt left me feeling burned out, I might revisit and revamp it one day. For now, I'm focusing on this new story, and I hope you enjoy it.