Chapter 119 - 119: The Unlucky Old Man
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Vander arrived at the abandoned building in Zaun's Middle Layer with a heavy heart. He was there at the invitation of the major factory owners, but he knew this "negotiation" was a powder keg.
The issue was, quite simply, Kael.
Kael's factory had introduced something Zaun had never seen: the "996 blessing" (working 9 am to 9 pm, 6 days a week), which ironically felt like a vacation to Zaunites used to 16-hour shifts in toxic fumes. Kael provided room, board, one day off a week, and a full gold coin salary. But his greatest "weapon" was the supply of fresh food and medicine he secured through his Noxian-Piltovian trade deals. In a city where fresh fruit is a legendary luxury, Kael's workers were eating like kings.
For the other factory owners, this was a dimensionality reduction strike. They couldn't compete. Their workers were starting to demand "human rights" or, worse, setting the old factories on fire.
Vander sat at the table, surrounded by the men who used to be his financial backers. In the past, they valued his "order" because it kept the gears turning. Now, they saw his protection of Kael as a betrayal of their class.
"It seems I've come for nothing again today," Vander said, breaking the suffocating silence. He moved to stand, but the door behind him clicked shut.
Vander's eyes narrowed. Blocking the exit was a man in the crimson and black steel of a Noxian Sergeant. Beside him stood a pale, sickly Chemist from the Sump, smelling of sulfur and rot.
"You actually defected to the Noxians?" Vander questioned, his voice low and dangerous.
"We're just cooperating, Vander," one factory owner retorted. "You chose Piltover; we chose an Empire."
The Noxian Sergeant stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with the fanaticism of the expansionist empire. "Vander, the 'Black Hound.' Join us. In Noxus, your strength will be rewarded with true power."
"And what of those without 'talent'?" Vander shot back. "Cannon fodder? Lab rats? I know your Empire."
The Sergeant's expression chilled. "In that case, you'll have to stay with us for a while."
Vander clenched his fists, ready to activate his exoskeleton. But a sudden, sharp sting in his spine made his world tilt. He looked back in shock to see one of his own subordinates—a man he had trusted for years—withdrawing a syringe of murky alchemical sediment.
The betrayal was swift. The potion paralyzed Vander's nervous system instantly. As he collapsed, the Noxian Sergeant drew his blade, signaling his men to execute the rest of Vander's guard—including the traitor. Noxus had no room for those who betrayed their masters, even if they were useful.
The Sergeant looked down at the paralyzed Vander. He didn't just want the factory owners; he wanted the Shimmer formulas. In the cutthroat politics of Noxus, bringing back a biological super-weapon was a guaranteed ticket to the high command.
"Take him," the Sergeant ordered. "And prepare the Chemist. We have a 'meeting' with the young Piltovian next."
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