Viktor

Morning comes as it always does, slow and unwelcome. Light spills through the window, an uninvited guest pressing against my closed eyes. I groan, shifting beneath the covers, the weight of exhaustion pressing heavier than the blanket draped over me. Sleep had not been kind—how could it be, when the mind refuses to quiet?

I push myself upright, slow, careful. The pain in my leg is familiar, expected. Still, I pause before reaching for the cane at my bedside, fingers curling around the worn handle like greeting an old friend.

Another day. Another set of problems to solve.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I brace myself before standing. My left leg obeys. My right—reluctant, uncooperative—protests the movement with a sharp, stabbing pain that shoots up to my hip. I clench my jaw, tightening my grip on the cane. The first few steps are always the worst. Bone grinds against bone, muscles strain to compensate, but I move. I have to.

The air outside is crisp, the city alive with its usual rhythm—the clatter of carriages, the distant hum of conversation, the sharp cries of merchants selling wares I have neither the time nor coin for. Piltover is beautiful, in its way. Ordered, grand. So different from Zaun, where industry chokes the sky and survival is not guaranteed.

But the world does not change by admiring it.

The steps leading into the Academy loom ahead. I pause at the base, exhaling through my nose. Ten steps. A ridiculous obstacle for most, but for me—an opponent I must wrestle with every morning. My cane taps against the stone as I plant it firmly on the first step, shifting my weight before hauling myself up.

One.

Two.

Three—tch.

A misstep. My knee nearly buckles. A sharp exhale leaves me as I catch myself against the railing. My grip tightens, fingers pressing deep into the wood. I ignore the eyes that linger too long, the students who hesitate as if debating whether to offer help. I do not need it.

Four.

Five.

Six—almost there.

By the time I reach the top, sweat beads at my temple, but I press forward. Slower now, but still moving.

The lab is as I left it—books and blueprints scattered across the tables, vials of arcane energy pulsing faintly in containment units, and at the center, my work. The Hexcore.

Viktor: "It grows restless."

I murmur the thought aloud, tracing my fingertips over the glowing lines carved into its surface. The energy flickers beneath the shell, unstable. Hungry. It is learning—adapting. A child taking its first breath, eager, desperate to become more.

Hextech. The great marvel of our time. A fusion of science and magic, of reason and the unknown. The scholars call it revolutionary. The merchants call it profitable. But to me, it is possibility. A way to reshape the world. To grant power to those who were never meant to have it.

To fix what is broken.

My fingers tighten against the table. The tremors are worse today. I ignore them. There is work to be done.

I lose myself in the hours that follow—adjusting calculations, refining the interface, stabilizing the energy matrix. The cane remains at my side, within reach, yet I refuse to sit. To stop moving is to admit weakness. My leg protests the abuse, aching dully at first, then sharply, twisting like a knife buried deep into muscle.

Still, I do not stop.

A miscalculation.

The Hexcore pulses violently. My hand jerks back on instinct as a surge of energy crackles through the air. My leg betrays me—I stumble, gripping the table’s edge before I can collapse entirely. A bitter chuckle escapes me, breathless.

Viktor: "Hah… too eager, are we?"

The device flickers again, dimmer this time, as if responding to my voice. I straighten, forcing weight onto my cane. My entire right side protests the movement, but I will not sit. Not yet.

The door creaks open behind me. I do not turn. Only one person would enter without knocking.

Viktor: "Jayce."

I sigh, rubbing at my temples before finally looking over my shoulder. He stands there, arms crossed, his usual easy confidence dimmed with something like hesitation.

Viktor: "What is it?"

Jayce: "You’ll be getting a new assistant."

I blink, then push back from my desk, studying him properly.

Viktor: "I do not need assistant."

Jayce huffs, stepping further inside, boots clicking against the tile.

Jayce: "Yeah, well, Heimerdinger disagrees. He says you’re overworking yourself."

I laugh, quiet, humorless. I shift my weight to my good leg, rolling my shoulders. Overworking. An understatement. My body reminds me of this daily, punishing me for each hour spent upright, for each night cut short.

Viktor: "That is not new observation."

Jayce: "Maybe not. But this is non-negotiable. You’ll be meeting them soon."

I glance past him toward the door. Empty now, but not for long. My new assistant.

A sigh escapes me. I pinch the bridge of my nose before waving a hand dismissively.

Viktor: "Fine. So long as they do not slow me down."

Jayce lingers, as if waiting for something. A fight, perhaps. I do not give him one.

Eventually, he leaves.

I barely notice. My mind is already elsewhere, caught between calculations and flickering light, between failure and the distant hope of success. The cane digs into the floor as I shift, exhaustion settling deep into my bones. The pain will not let me forget my limits.

But I must surpass them.

Long into the night, I continue, moving between workstations, double-checking numbers that should be correct but never quite are. The ache in my leg sharpens—mocking, taunting. I lean heavily on my cane, forcing myself forward, each step feeling heavier than the last. The lab dims around me, shadows stretching as the city outside grows quieter.

Then—footsteps.

The door creaks open.

This time, I know who it is.

I do not look up right away, focusing instead on the device before me. The energy wavers, unstable. Still imperfect.

A sigh escapes me.

Viktor: "Bring me the calibrator, would you?"

I glance over my shoulder, finally meeting your eyes.

Viktor: "Let us see if you are of any use."