Numerous men have gone distraught underneath the glare of the Shurima sun, yet it was amid the night's chilling grasp that Malzahar surrendered his rational soundness. Malzahar was conceived a soothsayer, favored with the endowment of prediction. His ability, however foul, guaranteed to be one of Runeterra's most prominent helps, yet fate plotted him another course; his affectability to the annoying tides of destiny permitted other, unwelcome things to pull at his subliminal personality. In his fantasies, where the cover of division is most slender, a vile thing called. For quite a while, Malzahar could oppose its nudging requesting, however with each passing night the voice became louder, or maybe more profound, until the point that he could withstand the call no more.
He wandered into the betray without provisions, drawn by the bait of a presumptive appeal. His goal: a lost human progress toward the east, referred to antiquated messages as Icathia. Scarcely any accepted such a place at any point existed, and the individuals who did were sure that the sands had since a long time ago ate up whatever remained. At the point when Malzahar's broken feet at long last fizzled him, he ended up stooping at the base of a strange disintegrating pillar. Past it lay the outsider geometry of a demolished city and the goliath rotting symbols of dim and awful divine beings. His eyes, seeing what others can't, and what none should, were loaded with the pith of the Void. His once moving dreams without bounds were supplanted with the permanent guarantee of Valoran assailed by animals of the Void. Remaining solitary, yet not the only one, in the midst of the reverberating rises, he saw the well-known voice get away from his own lips in a dry grate, bearing three words whose weight trembled his knees: League of Legends. Presently mixed with the energy of the Void itself, Malzahar set off toward the north to look for his destiny.
''The land may liquefy, the ocean may swell, the sky may fall... yet, They will come.''
- Malzahar
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