The first rays of dawn shone on the beams and eaves of Xiongdu, dyeing the pale stone surface golden. The air was stagnant, and in the Gaotai Garden on the east side of Xiongdu, all that could be heard was the soft mournful chirping of birds in the air, and the murmur of the city below as it gradually woke up.

Zhao Xin sat cross-legged on a stone platform, set up a spear on his knees, and landed his hands on the barrel of the gun. He gazed down the garden staircase, the battlements of the city walls in the distance, and the whole of Demacia in the distance. Watching the sun rise in his adopted hometown can often bring peace to Zhao Xin, but today it is not.

His cloak was charred and bloodstained, and his armor was dented and scratched. A few strands of hair slipped out of the bun on top of his head and hung in front of his face, the steely gray strands no longer had the jet-black sheen of his youth. On a normal day, he should have freshened up and cleaned up to get rid of the smell of blood, sweat, and flames. He should have sent his armor to the blacksmith for repair and a new cape. Grooming is courtesy, after all, his identity is the governor of Demacia.

But today is not an ordinary day.

The king is up.

He was the most respectable person Zhao Xin had ever met in his life, and he admired and loved the king more than anyone else. He had vowed to protect him, but Zhao Xin did not appear at the most critical moment.

He took a deep breath in pain. The frustration almost crushed him.

The previous day's mage revolt caught the city off guard. Zhao Xin ran all the way back to the palace, and was injured in many places on the way, but he was numb. For hours, he sat there all the time, alone, letting the chill of the stone penetrate into his bones, letting sorrow, shame, and sin cover his body like a shroud. The palace guards who survived the attack did not disturb his misery. They enclosed the terraced garden so that he could spend his dark moments in meditation. Zhao Xin was full of gratitude for this little kindness. He didn't know how to deal with the anger in their eyes.

Finally, the sun shone upon him, like the light of judgment. The dazzling light forced his eyes to be half-closed.

He let out a long sigh and gritted his teeth. He stood up on his knees and took one last glance at the city he loved and the garden that gave him solace. Then he turned around and returned to the palace.

Many years ago, he made a promise. Now he intends to cash it out.

Weak and depressed, Zhao Xin felt like an indispersible ghost, wandering in the place where he finally died. He would rather he had died in battle. Dying to save the driver can at least die with dignity.

He drifted along the cloisters of the palace, and everything suddenly became cold and silent. The servants did not say a word when they saw him, and walked in a terrible silence. The guards stood guard with sad expressions on their faces. They saluted, but he bowed his head. He doesn't deserve courtesy.

Finally, Zhao Xin came to a closed door. He reached out to knock on the door, but stopped. His hands were shaking, cursing his weakness in his heart, he knocked sharply on the oak door panel a few times, then stood upright, and clubbed the end of the barrel of the gun to the ground. After a long, still moment, he remained motionless, staring directly at the door in front of him, waiting for it to open.

Two guards patrolling the palace appeared around the corner and passed by him, making the sound of armor clashing. His shame made him reluctant to face them. The door was still closed.

"I remember that Marshal Crownguard went to the North Courtyard, Lord Steward," said one of the guards, "and is directing the increase in armaments. ”

Zhao Xin sighed in his heart, but only gritted his teeth and nodded to the guard in thanks.

"Your Excellency," said another guard, "no one blames you"

"Thank you, soldier." Zhao Xin interrupted him. He didn't need their sympathy. The two guards saluted in unison and continued their patrol.

Zhao Xin turned around and walked along the cloister to the north wing of the palace in the direction the two guards had come from. Although Marshal Tiana was not in office, this was by no means a reprieve and a pardon, but only a prolonged ordeal.

He walked through a hall hung with flags and banners, and stopped to see the blue underneath one of the flags embroidered with Demacia's white-winged sword. The flag was hand-sewn by the Queen Mother and her personal maid during her lifetime, and although a third of it was burned, it is still a work of exquisite craftsmanship and magnificence. It had fallen at the Battle of Yanjian Mountain, but King Jiawen personally led the charge in order to recapture the flag, and Zhao Xin was by his side at that time. They broke through hundreds of fur-armoured Fredrjord berserkers before they regained the flag, and then Zhao Xin became the one to carry the banner, and even if the tongue of fire licked off its borders, the flag still fluttered in the wind. That scene turned the tide of the day, and the Demacian soldiers regrouped and won a miraculous victory. After the peaceful victory, Jiawen refused to repair the flag. He hopes that all who see it will not forget the history it represents.

Zhao Xin passed by a small room. Located in a secluded corner of the royal palace, it is a secluded library. The king used to like to spend his evenings here, away from the harassment of servants and nobles. Zhao Xin had spent many long evenings with the king, drinking strong honey wine, discussing strategic and political considerations, and reminiscing about the long gone youth.

In public, Jiawen is always unsmiling and old-fashioned. Here, however, in his spiritual harbor, especially when the glass is at the bottom and the sky is getting brighter, he will laugh until he tears up, and he will speak passionately about his wishes and dreams for his son.

Another burst of pain ran over Zhao Xin. He realized that he would never hear his old friend's laughter again.

In a trance, Zhao Xin found himself walking to the door of the training hall. He has probably spent most of the past twenty years there. It was the real home, the place where he felt safe. He spent an indefinite amount of time with the king. It was also there that the king was delighted to see the prince accept Zhao Xin as a member of his family. Zhao Xin taught the prince swordsmanship, spearmanship, and spear art there; There he wiped away his tears when he fell, and helped him to his feet; There to share laughter and celebrate with him.

The moment I thought of the prince, it was like being stabbed into the stomach. Zhao Xin lost his best friend in life, while young Jiawen lost his father. His mother died in childbirth when he was born, and now he is alone.

Zhao Xin felt like a fish in his throat, and he was about to continue moving, but a familiar sound stopped him: an unbladed sword slashed at a wooden stake. Someone is training. Zhao Xin frowned.