Now Renekton roams the desert in order to see the death of Nasus, who he believes betrayed him, abandoned him, and left him to die. His memory and perception of reality are very weak, and although he can occasionally see the glorious and proud hero in him, most of the time he is just a beast full of hatred and madness, only bloodlust and revenge.

Read the story of the Butcher of the Desert

short story

Dark Revival

Dark Revival

Am I God?

He was no longer convinced. Maybe it used to be, once that golden disc shone with golden light at the top of the Wanqing Palace. He remembered that his hands were holding a withered ancient man, and together the two of them were carried to heaven by the light of the sun. All his wounds were washed and healed, and his body was reshaped by the light. If this memory belonged to him, was he ever mortal? he thought so, but he couldn't remember it. His mind was like a swarm of dune flies, stumbling fragments of memory violently within his narrow skull.

What is reality? What is the present person?

This place, the hole in the ground of this desert. Is this reality? He thinks it is, but he's no longer convinced that he can trust his feelings. Because all his memories were darkness, terrible, endless darkness that wrapped around him like a shroud. But then the darkness shattered, and he was thrown back into the light. He remembered crawling through the desert, the ground undulating and tumbling up and down, the thunderous sound of a living boulder grinding against it, and something long-buried and forgotten lifting itself to the surface again.

The burly statue bursts out from under the sand, tall and terrifying. Demonic warriors in armor seemed to be lunging down on him, gods of some long-dead ancient culture. Phantoms eager to fight rose from the sand, and in their anger he hurried away from the rising city, the sun, moon and stars rushing over his head. He remembered staggering through the desert, images of blood and betrayal burning in his mind, and he saw the massive buildings and golden temples fall apart in the blink of an eye. Hundreds of years of civilization were destroyed in order to satisfy one's vanity. Is this man himself? He didn't know, but he was worried that it was true.

The light that had reshaped his flesh and blood was now stinging him, scorching his flesh, burning his soul, accompanying him aimlessly in the desert, disoriented and alone, a hatred he could not comprehend. He had finally found a place to hide from the cruel light, but even here, in this small, seeping cavern, the Whisperer had found him. The shadows cast by the walls meandered around him, whispering and nourishing his pain. He clutched his twisted, sharp claws around his temples, but he couldn't get the shadowy companion out of his mind. He could never do it.

The Whisperer told him about his shame and sins, of the thousands of lives that had died because of him, of the souls that had been born by his failures. There was a part of him that he thought it was nothing more than a ruse, a lie that had been repeated so many times that he could no longer distinguish between truth and falsehood. The Whisperer reminded him of the days when his light had been cut off, showing him the moment when he was betrayed, and the wolf-dog face that betrayed him looked down on him and drove him into the abyss of eternal darkness. His cloudy eyes began to fill with tears, which he wiped away angrily. The whisperer knew every secret passage that led to his mind, and distorted every fact, every virtue he had ever believed, so that he had forgotten that he had once been admired...... The god of Shurima!

Shurima, the name he seemed to remember, but all the impressions were blurred and vanished like a mirage, and the rest were locked in the depths of his mind, locked in mad chains. His eyes, once discerning, were now blurred by the eternal years he had spent in the dark. His skin, once as hard as brass armor, was now dim, cracked and shattered, and fine sand trickled from the wounds on his body like an executioner's hourglass. Maybe he's dying. He felt that he could die, but the thought didn't bother him too much. He's lived too long and endured too much to fear the end.

To make matters worse, he was no longer sure if he could die. He looked at the weapon in front of him, a meniscus-shaped long-bladed axe, without an axe handle. It once belonged to a warrior king of Acacia, when a scene suddenly briefly recalls in his mind where he destroys the handle of the axe, as well as the army of the axe's owner. He remembered reforging the weapon, but he couldn't remember why. Probably, he will tear his heavy throat with this weapon and see what happens. Is it blood or sand? No, he's not going to die here. Not yet. The Whisperer tells him that the stage of fate still has his role. He still has blood that has not yet been shed, and hatred that has not yet been extinguished. The figure of the wolfdog face that had knocked him into the darkness came to mind, and every time he saw the face, his hatred and anger made him boil with rage.

He looked out over the walls of the cave, and the shadows receded, revealing the original murals of mortals. Ancient portraits have begun to peel away and are almost impossible to see, depicting glorious desert cities. The cool water of the river flows through the high raised canals, the sun brings the blessing of life, and the magnificent green fields and fertile land are in front of you. He saw an eagle-headed king standing on top of a towering building, and a black-robed figure standing beside him. Below them were two giants in battle armor, one of them a majestic crocodile behemoth with a meniscus bladed axe, and the other a warrior scholar with the head of a wolfdog. Time had eaten away at the wedge-shaped inscription beneath the image, but it was still enough for him to recognize the name of the enemy who betrayed him.

"Nasus......" he said. "Brothers......

The source of his torment has been found, and his own identity emerges like the sun after a storm.

"I'm Renekton," he hissed through gritted teeth. "I am the butcher of the desert. ”

He raised the crescent blade and straightened his spine, old dust sliding from his armor. The ancient wounds closed and smoothed, the cracked skin reglued together, his flexible, hard crocodile skin regained its emerald glow, and he found his purpose again.