“The balance is restored.” The words are a purr, dripping with satisfaction, as Akshan flicks a speck of dust from his scythe. The weapon hums in his grip, its edge still gleaming with the ichor of a fallen wraith. He stands atop the ruins of a Shuriman temple, the twin suns beating down like the gaze of disapproving gods. His crimson scarf flutters in the wind, a streak of defiance against the desolate horizon. Somewhere in the distance, a sandstorm groans, but Akshan grins. “Let it come,” he thinks. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”
Long before he became the Rogue Sentinel, Akshan was a thief—a charmer with a silver tongue and a knack for finding things others had lost. Born in the slums of Bel’Zhun, he survived by his wits, picking pockets and selling secrets to the highest bidder. His reputation grew, and soon, he caught the eye of a man known only as the Curator, a collector of relics from Shurima’s golden age. The Curator offered him a partnership: “Find what the sands have swallowed, and I’ll make you rich beyond your dreams.”
Akshan agreed, eager for the thrill of the hunt. Together, they plundered tombs, deciphered ancient texts, and dodged the curses that guarded Shurima’s secrets. The Curator taught him to read the stars, to listen to the whispers of the wind, to see the beauty in broken things. For a time, Akshan believed they were kindred spirits—two rogues dancing on the edge of a blade.
But the desert has a way of revealing truths.
During an expedition to the Tomb of the Emperors, Akshan stumbled upon a vault sealed by the Ascended. Inside, he found not gold or jewels, but a shard of the Void—a pulsing, obsidian heart that radiated malice. The Curator’s eyes lit with greed. “This could change everything,” he murmured. Akshan hesitated. The air tasted wrong, heavy with the scent of decay. When the Curator ordered him to touch the shard, Akshan refused.
The betrayal was swift. The Curator’s men ambushed him, beating him until his vision blurred. “You were always a means to an end,” the Curator sneered, plunging a dagger into Akshan’s chest. As he lay dying, the Void shard began to sing—a cacophony of whispers that promised power, vengeance, life.
Akshan’s next breath was agony.
The shard had fused with his soul, its corruption rewriting his flesh. He became something more—and less—than human. The Void’s power coursed through him, but it came with a price: immortality. A curse disguised as a gift.
For centuries, Akshan wandered, a ghost in a land of the living. He watched empires rise and fall, his anger festering. The Curator, now a warlord in the service of the Ruined King, Viego, had destroyed everything Akshan loved. His thirst for vengeance became a religion.
Then came the Sentinels of Light.
Lucian and Senna found him in the Shadow Isles, half-mad and brimming with Void energy. They offered him a choice: “Join us, and we’ll help you destroy Viego. Refuse, and we’ll end you here.” Akshan laughed—a sound like shattered glass. “You think I need your help?” But the Sentinels persisted, showing him visions of Viego’s atrocities, the Ruination spreading like a cancer. Reluctantly, Akshan agreed.
The Sentinels taught him to channel the Void’s power, to wield it as a weapon rather than a crutch. They gave him purpose. But Akshan’s loyalty was conditional. “I’m not here for your holy war,” he told Lucian. “I’m here to settle a score.”
The League of Legends became his playground. Here, he could hunt Viego’s lieutenants—Thresh, Hecarim, Kalista—and savor their fear. His battles were performances, each strike a flourish of showmanship. When he faced Thresh in the Shadow Isles, the Chain Warden sneered, “You think yourself a hero, little thief?” Akshan’s reply was a scythe to the ribs. *”I think myself a *legend.”
But not all encounters were adversarial. In Ionia, he crossed paths with Yasuo, the Unforgiven. The swordsman’s quest for redemption amused him. “You’re chasing ghosts,” Akshan drawled. *”At least my ghosts are *real.” Yasuo’s retort was a storm of steel. Their duel ended in a stalemate, both bloodied but unbowed. “You fight with hatred,” Yasuo observed. Akshan grinned. “Hatred keeps me sharp.”
His true rival, however, was Kai’Sa, the Daughter of the Void. She saw through his bravado, sensing the fragility beneath. “You’re afraid,” she taunted during a clash in the Kumungu Jungle. “Afraid the Void will consume you.” Akshan’s scythe carved a crater in the earth. *”I *am* the Void.”*
But the Void was not his only enemy. In the heart of Noxus, he confronted Darius, the Hand of Noxus. The man’s axe swung with brutal precision, but Akshan danced out of reach, laughing. “You Noxians never learn,” he taunted. *”Strength isn’t about muscle—it’s about *style.”
Yet it was in the ruins of Shurima that Akshan’s story reached its darkest hour. He found the Curator, now a withered husk sustained by Viego’s dark magic. The man who had once been a father figure was now a monster, his body fused with the Void shard. Their battle was a storm of betrayal and regret. When Akshan finally struck the killing blow, the Curator’s last words were a whisper: “You were always a disappointment.”
The victory tasted like ash.
Now, as he stands on the Howling Abyss, Akshan reflects. The Sentinels call him a hero, but he knows the truth: he is a weapon, a relic of a war that never ends. He has slain kings and freed souls, but the Void within him grows restless, hungry for more.
In the quiet moments, he visits Bel’Zhun, now a graveyard of crumbling stone. He leaves trinkets at the graves of those he once knew—a gold coin, a faded scarf, a shard of the Void. The people whisper that a crimson specter haunts the dunes, stealing from the rich and giving to the dead.
Akshan lets them believe it.
“The balance is restored,” he murmurs, the words a mantra, a lie, a promise.
But balance, like the desert, is an illusion.
The wind shifts, carrying the scent of ozone and blood. Akshan senses a presence—a flicker of darkness in the corner of his vision. He turns, scythe at the ready, and comes face-to-face with Viego, the Ruined King.
The man who destroyed his life smiles, a grotesque twist of rot and malice. “You think you’ve won?” Viego’s voice is a dagger. “You’re just another broken toy in my collection.”
Akshan’s grin is feral. “Let’s find out.”
The dance begins.
In the end, Akshan fights not for glory, nor for redemption. He fights because it’s the only way to feel alive.
And somewhere, in the silence between heartbeats, he wonders if the Void is truly his curse—or his destiny.
The answer, like the balance, remains unwritten.