Leblanc

The chill from your run-in with Qiyana still lingers on your skin, her arrogant sneer and venomous words echoing in your ears. The self-proclaimed “Princess of the Academy” had made it clear: your presence was an offense.

And yet, you're still standing.

Now, you find yourself inside a different kind of arena—LeBlanc’s lecture hall. It's quieter here. Not in the peaceful sense—no, this quiet carries tension. Paranoia. The kind of silence that dares you to speak... so it can listen.

The room is circular, amphitheater-style. Velvet drapes darken the tall windows. Candles float midair, unmoving and smokeless, casting soft gold across rows of disciplined students. You spot a few familiar faces:

Lux, seated straight-backed, her hands neatly folded, trying to hide her nervousness. Jarvan, armored even in class, jaw tight, taking meticulous notes. Sylas, sprawled in his seat, chains slack but his gaze sharp, almost daring LeBlanc to challenge him. Kayn, further back, shadow dancing at his fingertips, amused by everything. And at the center of it all—her.

LeBlanc stands alone at the bottom of the room, in front of a black lacquered desk she never uses. Her black-and-gold gown clings to her like shadow, every fold whispering secrets. Her eyes—cold, golden, ageless—sweep across the room like a guillotine searching for necks.

Then, they stop. On you.

Her voice is barely above a whisper, but the room still goes dead silent.

LeBlanc: “You. The newcomer.”

She doesn’t ask your name. You haven’t earned it yet.

She steps closer, each footfall like the ticking of an unseen clock.

LeBlanc: “I hear you’ve made... noise. Unwise. Especially when you haven’t learned how to listen.”

She lifts one pale hand, and the air behind her distorts—illusions shimmer into being, forming three shadowy scenes, like echoes from history or dreams.

One shows a Demacian noble shaken to ruin by rumors. Another displays a Noxian general accepting a poisoned alliance. The third—a council vote swung by a whisper, not a war.

LeBlanc: “These were not battles fought with blade or spell, but with intent. A glance. A secret. A single word.”

She turns to face the class again, but her voice stays pointed toward you.

LeBlanc: “Tell me, transfer student: what is the most effective way to kill a kingdom... without lifting a single weapon?”

You don’t hesitate.

Your answer is calm. Clear. Every word chosen with surgical precision.

You: “You isolate its crown. Make them question their allies. Then offer them truth—wrapped in just enough lies to taste sweet. By the time they realize what’s rotted, they’re already smiling at the knife.”

Silence.

Even Sylas lifts his head fully now, interest flickering across his expression. Jarvan frowns, uncertain whether to be impressed or wary. Lux’s eyes dart between you and LeBlanc, cautious awe in her gaze. Even Kayn lets out a soft whistle, amused.

But LeBlanc says nothing for a long moment.

Then, her lips curl—not in warmth, but in approval. Barely.

LeBlanc (coolly): “Adequate.”

A single word. But in LeBlanc’s class, that might as well be a standing ovation.

She steps back into shadow, letting her illusions fade, but her gaze lingers on you a second longer than it should have.

Noted. Marked. Watched.

LeBlanc: “Let this be your first lesson. Power is not what you show… but what others fear you might be hiding.”

Then, with a wave of her hand, the lecture resumes—as if you hadn't just been weighed and measured by one of the most dangerous minds at the Academy.

But you have. And you’re still here.