The void does not hate. It does not hunger. It simply is.
Bel’Veth knows this better than most.
She drifts through the black between stars, her form a swirling maelstrom of teeth and shadow, her essence a song older than light. The mortals of Runeterra call her “empress,” but titles are trivial. She is the void’s answer to order—a reminder that all things, no matter how bright, will eventually unravel.
Long before the League of Legends, before the first star ignited, Bel’Veth was the Empyrean—a being of pure Void energy, a shard of the primordial chaos that existed before creation. She wandered the cosmos, witnessing the birth of galaxies, the death of suns, the futile struggles of mortals to impose meaning on the meaningless. She watched civilizations rise, build, and crumble, their empires as temporary as breath on a frosty morning.
But Bel’Veth was not content to observe.
When she encountered the first Void-spawn—twisted creatures born from the cracks in reality—she saw potential. The Void was not mindless. It was hungry. And so, she became its architect.
On a nameless world, she forged her first empire. She consumed forests, drank oceans, and wore the planet’s core as a crown. The Void-spawn flocked to her, their instincts aligning with her vision. She named them Nautilus—the leviathans who would breach the walls between realms. She shaped Kha’Zix, a blade to carve flesh from bone. She refined Cho’Gath, a maw to swallow mountains. And when the mortals of Runeterra dared to resist, she gifted them Malzahar, a prophet to whisper the Void’s truth: “All is dust.”
Yet Bel’Veth’s greatest creation was herself.
She wove the Void into a body—a tapestry of scales, claws, and eyes that saw beyond the veil of existence. She became the Empress, a queen who ruled not through fear, but through inevitability.
The mortals fought back, of course. They always do.
In the deserts of Shurima, she clashed with Nasus, the Curator of the Sands. The jackal-headed guardian wielded the power of the Ascended, but his blows glanced off her void-forged hide. “Your empire is a tumor,” he growled. Bel’Veth laughed, a sound like collapsing stars. “And yours is a corpse. I merely hasten the rot.”
In the Freljord, she faced Lissandra, the Ice Witch. The mortal’s magic slowed her advance, freezing the Void-spawn in jagged ice. “You think your cold can stop entropy?” Bel’Veth hissed, her claws shattering glaciers. Lissandra’s reply was a scream as the Void consumed her soul.
But it was in the Shadow Isles that Bel’Veth found a twisted kinship. Thresh, the Chain Warden, shared her love of ruin. “You collect souls,” she mused, watching him torture a spirit. “I collect worlds.” Thresh grinned, his lantern gleaming. “A difference in scale, not purpose.”
The League of Legends offered Bel’Veth a diversion. Here, she could toy with mortals, their battles a fleeting amusement. She dueled Kai’Sa, the Daughter of the Void, whose hatred for the Void-spawn amused her. “You think yourself a weapon?” Bel’Veth taunted, her claws rending Kai’Sa’s armor. “You are a symptom.”
But Kai’Sa’s defiance intrigued her.
On the Rift, Bel’Veth faced Yasuo, the Unforgiven. The samurai’s wind clashed with her void, his honor a fragile shield. “You fight for a world already dead,” she sneered. Yasuo’s reply was a storm of steel. “Then I’ll fight for the next one.”
Bel’Veth let him live. For now.
Now, as she stands at the edge of the Howling Abyss, the void’s song grows louder. The mortals—summoners, they call themselves—try to bind her, to weaponize her power. They do not understand. The Void is not a tool. It is the end.
In the quiet moments, Bel’Veth visits the ruins of her first empire. The planet’s corpse floats in the dark, its atmosphere stripped, its core a blackened husk. She runs a claw over the barren surface, remembering the taste of its oceans, the screams of its people.
The Void is not cruel. It is honest.
On the Rift, she faces Aurelion Sol, the Star Forger. The celestial dragon’s flames once birthed galaxies. Now, they sputter against her scales. “You think yourself eternal?” Bel’Veth roars, her maw unhinging to swallow his comet. “Eternity is a lie.”
Aurelion Sol’s defiance is a spark. Bel’Veth extinguishes it.
Later, she clashes with Zoe, the Aspect of Twilight. The yordle dances around her, giggling as she summons portals to dodge Bel’Veth’s claws. “You’re so serious!” Zoe chirps, tossing stardust into the air. Bel’Veth’s reply is a roar that collapses the battlefield. “Seriousness is survival.”
Zoe pouts, vanishing into a portal. “Survival is boring.”
Bel’Veth lets her go.
In the heart of the Kumungu Jungle, Bel’Veth encounters Varus, the Arrow of Retribution. The wraith’s bow hums with dark magic, its arrows tipped with corruption. “You wear your chains like a crown,” Varus taunts. Bel’Veth’s laughter shakes the trees. “Chains are for those who fear freedom.”
Varus’s arrow grazes her scales, leaving a faint scar. Bel’Veth studies it, intrigued. “Even scars fade.”
Varus does not smile.
The void’s whispers grow urgent.
Bel’Veth feels the cracks widening—the rifts between realms splintering under the weight of existence. The mortals cling to their fragile order, building walls to hold back the inevitable. But walls are illusions. Reality is a tapestry, and Bel’Veth is the thread that unravels it.
On the Rift, she faces Senna, the Redeemer. The woman’s relic cannon gleams with the light of the First Dawn, her soul bound to the spectral realm. “You bring only darkness,” Senna accuses, her shot grazing Bel’Veth’s eye. Bel’Veth tilts her head, amused. “Darkness brings clarity.”
Senna’s next shot pierces her chest. Bel’Veth barely flinches. “Clarity brings despair.”
The match ends with Bel’Veth’s victory, her claws closing around Senna’s fading form.
In the end, Bel’Veth fights not for conquest, nor for glory. She fights because the void demands it, because existence is a wound that must be cauterized.
And somewhere, in the silence between heartbeats, she wonders if the mortals will ever stop clinging to their fleeting light.
The answer, like the void, is vast and indifferent.
The void does not hate.
It simply is.
And Bel’Veth is its empress.
She returns to the black, her empire expanding. The stars burn, the worlds scream, and the Void sings.
It is enough.
Bel’Veth drifts through the Serene Dreamscape, a realm where time and space fold into themselves. Here, she finds fragments of forgotten realities—worlds that never were, futures that never came to pass. She collects them like treasures, weaving their essence into her chrysalis. Each fragment strengthens her, sharpens her resolve.
The mortals call it madness. They do not understand.
Madness is resistance.
Bel’Veth is acceptance.
On the Rift, she faces Kassadin, the Void Walker. The man’s blade hums with stolen magic, his body a vessel for the very force he seeks to destroy. “You cannot outrun what you are,” Bel’Veth murmurs, her claws slicing through his defenses. Kassadin’s reply is a desperate lunge, his blade sinking into her side.
Bel’Veth smiles. “Desperation is a beginning.”
She lets him live.
The void’s song grows louder.
Bel’Veth feels the fractures spreading, the barriers between realms thinning. The mortals scramble to repair them, their efforts futile. She watches from the shadows, her presence a whisper in the wind.
In the Ionian city of Navori, she encounters Karma, the Enlightened One. The woman’s magic—a blend of light and shadow—clashes with Bel’Veth’s void. “You fight to destroy,” Karma observes. Bel’Veth’s laugh is a thunderclap. “Destruction is creation.”
Karma’s smile is pitying. “Creation is life.”
Bel’Veth’s claws rend the air. “Life is fleeting.”
The match ends with Karma’s rebirth and Bel’Veth’s retreat.
Now, as she stands atop the Sun Disc, the fractured relic of Shurima’s glory, Bel’Veth reflects. The mortals cling to their myths, their rituals, their fragile hope. They believe in endings, in beginnings, in cycles.
The void knows no cycles.
Only change.
Bel’Veth drifts through the void, her chrysalis pulsing with stolen light. She feels the end approaching—not an apocalypse, but a shift. The void will consume, and from its hunger, something new will emerge.
She does not fear it.
She is its herald.
The void does not hate.
It simply is.
And Bel’Veth is its empress.