Notice IT.
Need. Hurting. NEED!
CLOSE NOW. THEY COME.
NO CHAINS? FREE! Execute!
IN REACH. Indeed! Kick the bucket! Pass on!
Gone. Too fast. No battle. More. I need... more.
A voice? New. I see him. The Grand General. My general.
He leads. I take after. Walking. To where? I should know. I can't recall.
Everything drains together. Does it make a difference? Noxus overcomes. The rest? Minor. So long... since I've tasted triumph.
The war wagon rocks. Rattles. A confined enclosure. Trivial service. The holding up. Goading. Speedier, pooches!
There. Flags. Demacians and their dividers. Weaklings. Their entryways will break. Musings of the slaughter come effortlessly.
Who gave the request to stop? The subordinates don't reply. No commonplace appearances. On the off chance that I don't recall, neither will history.
The pen is opened. At long last! Not any more holding up. WE CHARGE!
Slings and bolts? The weapons of youngsters! Their dividers won't spare them!
I can taste their dread. They contract at each blow as their blockades fragment. Before long!
Noxian drums. Demacian shouts. Magnificence isn't honors; grandness is hot blood staring you in the face! This is life!
A thousand smashed carcasses lie at my feet, and Demacian homes consume surrounding me. It's over too rapidly! Only one more...
The men gaze. There's dread in their eyes. On the off chance that they're reluctant to look upon triumph, I should cull those timid eyes out. There is no dread in the Grand General's eyes, just endorsement. He is satisfied with this victory.
Strolling the field with the Grand General, studying the savagery, I throb for another adversary. He is limped, a leg twisted from the fight? In the event that it torments him, he doesn't demonstrate it. A genuine Noxian. I don't care for his pet, however; it picks over the dead, having earned nothing. His war dogs were all the more fitting organization.
Demacia will be inside our grip soon. I can feel it. I am prepared to walk. The Grand General demands that I rest. How might I rest when my foes still live?
For what reason do we process about? The holding up eats at me. I'm left to my own particular gadgets. The flying creature watches. It's agitating. Were it anybody else's, I would smash it.
Weariness sets in. I've never felt so... tired.
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