The desert air is thick with the scent of gunpowder and dust, the faint glow of a lantern casting long shadows across the cracked earth. Graves stands at the edge of an abandoned mining town, his double-barreled shotgun resting casually on his shoulder. The weapon gleams faintly in the moonlight, its polished surface scarred by years of use but still deadly precise. His hat shades his eyes, but the sharpness of his gaze is unmistakable—a man who has seen too much and lived to tell about it. Somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of hextech machinery echoes through the night, a reminder that even the most desolate places hold secrets worth uncovering.
Long before the League of Legends, before the summoners bound his essence to the Rift, Malcolm Graves was a man shaped by ambition, betrayal, and survival. Born into the underbelly of Bilgewater, a city where fortunes were made and lost in equal measure, Graves grew up surrounded by the chaos of piracy and trade. His father was a gambler, his mother a dockworker—both struggling to make ends meet in a world that cared little for the weak. From a young age, Graves learned to fend for himself, navigating the treacherous streets of Bilgewater with a mix of cunning and grit.
His fascination with guns began early. At ten years old, he found a discarded revolver in the gutters of the city, its barrel rusted but still functional. Intrigued, Graves spent hours tinkering with it, learning how to clean, repair, and eventually modify it. By the time he was sixteen, he had built his first custom firearm—a crude but effective shotgun that became his constant companion. It wasn’t just a weapon; it was a symbol of self-reliance, a tool to carve out a place in a world that sought to crush him.
Graves’s rise through the ranks of Bilgewater’s underworld was meteoric. He quickly earned a reputation as a sharpshooter with nerves of steel, his name whispered in both fear and admiration. But his ascent was not without cost. It was during this time that he met Twisted Fate, the Card Master—a fellow opportunist with a silver tongue and a knack for finding trouble. Their partnership was born out of necessity, two men pooling their talents to survive in a cutthroat environment.
“Trust no one,” Graves often muttered, his voice low and gravelly. “But if you have to trust someone, make sure they’re useful.”
Twisted Fate laughed, shuffling a deck of cards with practiced ease. “You’re all business, Malcolm. Where’s the fun in that?”
Despite their differences, the two formed a bond that went beyond mere convenience. They worked together seamlessly, Graves providing the muscle while Twisted Fate handled the schemes. Together, they pulled off some of the most daring heists in Bilgewater’s history, their exploits becoming the stuff of legend. Yet beneath the camaraderie lay an unspoken tension—a recognition that their paths were destined to diverge.
Their partnership reached its breaking point during the infamous Vault Job, a high-stakes operation targeting the vaults of the Black Market Acolytes. The plan was simple: infiltrate the heavily guarded compound, retrieve the stolen artifacts, and escape before anyone realized what had happened. But things went awry when Twisted Fate decided to double-cross Graves, leaving him behind to face the wrath of the Acolytes.
“You always were a snake, Fate,” Graves growled, his voice dripping with venom as he confronted his former partner in the aftermath.
“And you always were predictable, Malcolm,” Twisted Fate replied, his tone calm but laced with mockery. “Some people never change.”
The betrayal left Graves battered but unbowed. He swore vengeance, vowing to track down Twisted Fate and settle the score. But his quest for revenge was interrupted by a new challenge—the arrival of Miss Fortune, the Bounty Hunter. Sarah Fortune was everything Graves wasn’t—charismatic, calculating, and driven by a personal vendetta against Gangplank, the ruthless pirate lord who had murdered her family.
“You’re chasing ghosts,” Graves remarked during one of their early encounters, his shotgun trained on her.
“And you’re running from them,” she shot back, her pistols glinting in the light. “Makes us quite the pair, doesn’t it?”
Their rivalry simmered beneath the surface, each testing the other’s resolve in a series of heated confrontations. Yet despite their animosity, there was a mutual respect between them—a recognition of the sacrifices required to survive in a world ruled by greed and violence. Over time, their relationship evolved into a reluctant alliance, their shared hatred for Gangplank uniting them in a common cause.
The confrontation with Gangplank was inevitable. The pirate lord had long dominated Bilgewater, his influence stretching far beyond the city’s borders. His rule was brutal and uncompromising, and those who crossed him rarely lived to tell the tale. For Graves, taking down Gangplank was more than revenge—it was a chance to reclaim control over his own destiny.
The final showdown took place aboard Gangplank’s flagship, the Dead Pool , a floating fortress bristling with cannons and armed crewmen. Graves fought his way through wave after wave of enemies, his shotgun roaring like thunder as he carved a path toward the pirate lord. When he finally faced Gangplank, the battle was fierce and unforgiving.
“You’ve got guts,” Gangplank sneered, his blade gleaming with dark magic. “But guts don’t win wars.”
“They win enough,” Graves replied, firing a devastating blast that sent Gangplank reeling.
In the end, Graves emerged victorious, though the victory came at a cost. The destruction of the Dead Pool marked the end of an era, but it also left Bilgewater in turmoil. With Gangplank gone, power vacuums emerged, and rival factions scrambled to fill the void. Graves saw an opportunity—not to seize control, but to disappear.
The League of Legends offered Graves a new stage—a battlefield where he could test his skills and forge a new path. On the Rift, he faced opponents who challenged him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Some, like Draven, the Glorious Executioner, reveled in theatrics and brutality, their clashes a spectacle of raw power. Others, like Lucian, the Purifier, wielded precision and conviction, their movements calculated and relentless.
But no opponent tested Graves quite like Jhin, the Virtuoso. Jhin’s obsession with perfection and artistry clashed with Graves’s pragmatic approach to combat.
“You’re all chaos,” Jhin remarked during one encounter, his voice smooth and measured. “Art demands discipline.”
“Discipline gets you killed,” Graves retorted, unleashing a barrage of bullets. “Survival takes creativity.”
Their battles were intense, each strike shaking the very foundations of the arena. Jhin’s meticulous planning clashed with Graves’s adaptability, creating a spectacle that captivated audiences. Yet despite their differences, there was a strange kinship between them—a shared understanding of the fine line between creation and destruction.
Back in the wilds of Runeterra, Graves continued his solitary journey, delving deeper into the mysteries of hextech and firearms. He clashed with Corki, the Daring Bombardier, whose love for aviation and innovation mirrored Graves’s passion for engineering.
“You’re a relic,” Corki teased during one encounter, his aircraft soaring overhead. “Time to upgrade.”
“Relics are timeless,” Graves replied, his shotgun booming as he fired a round skyward. “Ask yourself which one breaks first.”
Their battles often ended in stalemates, neither able to fully overcome the other. Yet despite their animosity, there was a mutual respect between them—a recognition of the ingenuity required to thrive in a rapidly changing world.
In quiet moments, Graves reflects on the nature of his journey. He has faced countless adversaries, survived numerous close calls, and achieved feats that once seemed impossible. Yet he knows that his story is far from over. The pursuit of freedom is endless, its rewards fleeting and ephemeral.
He climbs to the summit of a rocky ridge, his shotgun resting against his shoulder. The horizon stretches out before him, vast and untamed, its promise intertwined with its perils. Graves allows himself a rare moment of reflection, his thoughts drifting to the sacrifices he has made and the battles yet to come.
Somewhere deep within him, he feels a flicker of doubt—a whisper of uncertainty amidst the cacophony of certainty.
Is freedom truly worth the cost?
He shakes off the thought, focusing instead on the present. The void calls to him, its whispers urging him to continue his mission. Yet he wonders if there is more to his role than mere destruction. Could he, in his own way, serve as a bridge between worlds—a harbinger of both chaos and renewal?
He raises his shotgun, the light of distant stars reflecting off its polished barrel. The wind carries the scent of ash and ruin, a reminder of the worlds he has conquered.
Freedom will prevail.
One shot at a time.