The salty breeze carries the scent of brine and gunpowder as Gangplank strides across the deck of his ship, The Dead Pool . His boots thud heavily against the weathered planks, each step a reminder of his dominance. The crimson flag bearing his mark—a skull crossed with twin pistols—snaps in the wind, its ominous flutter a warning to any who dare cross him. In one hand, he holds a bottle of rum; in the other, his cutlass glints under the sun, its edge stained with blood from battles past. Somewhere on the horizon, another rival waits, another prize to claim. To Gangplank, life is a game of conquest—and he intends to win every round.
Long before the League of Legends, before the summoners bound his essence to the Rift, Gangplank was born into infamy. He came into the world aboard a pirate vessel off the coast of Bilgewater, his cries drowned out by the clash of swords and the roar of cannons. His father, Captain Cutthroat, was a ruthless buccaneer whose name struck fear into sailors across the seas. Yet for all his brutality, Cutthroat had a weakness: his son. From the moment Gangplank could walk, he was trained to follow in his father’s footsteps—to become a legend feared by friend and foe alike.
But legends are not born—they are made. And Gangplank’s path to greatness began in tragedy. When he was just ten years old, Cutthroat fell victim to betrayal. A mutiny led by his first mate left the captain dead and his crew scattered. Young Gangplank watched from the shadows as his father’s body was thrown overboard, the waves swallowing him whole. That night, something inside Gangplank hardened. Revenge became his lodestar, his every thought consumed by visions of vengeance.
He survived by clinging to scraps of knowledge gleaned from his father’s stories. Cutthroat had always spoken of power—not just strength, but cunning. “A true pirate doesn’t fight fair,” he’d say. “He fights smart.” With these words etched into his mind, Gangplank bided his time, learning the art of survival among the lawless ports of Bilgewater. By the age of sixteen, he had earned himself a reputation as a scrappy opportunist, willing to do whatever it took to get ahead.
It wasn’t long before he found himself drawn into the orbit of Miss Fortune, the Bounty Hunter. Sarah Fortune was everything Gangplank wasn’t: disciplined, calculating, and driven by justice—or so she claimed. Their paths crossed during a raid on a merchant ship laden with gold. While Gangplank sought riches, Sarah hunted criminals. Neither trusted the other, but neither could deny their shared talent for chaos.
“You’re reckless,” Sarah remarked after they narrowly escaped a naval patrol. “One day, that recklessness will get you killed.”
“And your rules will make you predictable,” Gangplank shot back, tipping back a flask of rum. “Tell me, how does it feel to be so… tame?”
Their rivalry simmered beneath the surface, a tension that would define their relationship for years to come. Yet despite their differences, there was an unspoken respect between them—a recognition of the fire that burned within them both.
As Gangplank grew older, his ambitions expanded beyond mere plunder. He wanted more than wealth; he wanted dominion. Bilgewater itself became his battleground, its streets teeming with smugglers, mercenaries, and opportunists. Among them was Twisted Fate, the Card Master, whose charm and sleight of hand made him a formidable adversary. Fate operated in the gray areas, playing both sides of the law to suit his whims.
“Power isn’t about holding cards,” Fate once quipped during a tense negotiation. “It’s about knowing when to fold.”
“And folding gets you nowhere,” Gangplank replied, slamming his fist on the table. “I take what I want—always.”
Their encounters were volatile, often ending in violence or uneasy truces. But even Fate recognized Gangplank’s ruthlessness, his ability to turn any situation to his advantage.
Through sheer force of will, Gangplank carved out a kingdom for himself in Bilgewater. He seized control of the docks, imposing tariffs on trade and extorting protection money from merchants. Those who resisted met swift and brutal ends. His flagship, The Dead Pool , became a floating fortress, its cannons capable of leveling entire towns. Under his rule, Bilgewater thrived—but at a cost. The city’s streets ran red with blood, its people living in constant fear of their self-proclaimed king.
Yet Gangplank’s reign was not without challenges. One fateful night, disaster struck. A mysterious figure known only as Pyke, the Bloodharbor Ripper, emerged from the depths to exact his revenge. Pyke had once been a sailor betrayed by those he trusted, left to die in the ocean’s embrace. Now, he returned as a ghostly specter, his harpoon dripping with the blood of traitors.
“You think yourself untouchable?” Pyke growled during their first confrontation, his voice a guttural rasp.
“I am the tide itself,” Gangplank sneered, raising his cutlass. “You can’t stop what’s coming.”
Their battles were savage, each strike fueled by raw hatred. Pyke’s agility and spectral powers made him a deadly opponent, while Gangplank’s brute strength and cunning kept him one step ahead. Yet no matter how many times Gangplank drove Pyke back into the shadows, the Ripper always returned, his thirst for vengeance unquenchable.
The turning point came when Gangplank’s empire nearly collapsed. Miss Fortune, now a seasoned bounty hunter, led a coalition of Bilgewater’s oppressed citizens in open rebellion. Her forces stormed the docks, setting fire to warehouses and sinking ships. For the first time in years, Gangplank faced resistance he couldn’t crush outright.
“You’ve ruled through fear,” Sarah declared during their climactic duel, her pistols blazing. “But fear fades when people have nothing left to lose.”
Gangplank fought like a cornered beast, his cutlass flashing in the flames. But even he couldn’t withstand the tide of revolution. In the end, he was forced to flee, leaving behind the empire he had built. As The Dead Pool sailed into the horizon, Gangplank vowed to return—and when he did, no one would stand against him.
The League of Legends offered Gangplank a new stage—a battlefield where he could unleash his fury without restraint. On the Rift, he faced opponents who tested his skills in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Some, like Darius, the Hand of Noxus, wielded brute force and discipline, their clashes a contest of wills. Others, like Fiora, the Grand Duelist, embodied precision and grace, their duels a dance of steel and strategy.
But no opponent challenged Gangplank quite like Illaoi, the Kraken Priestess. Illaoi’s connection to the spirit realm posed a unique threat, her tentacles reaching beyond the physical plane to attack his very soul.
“You cling to power,” Illaoi intoned during one encounter, her voice resonating like thunder. “But power is fleeting.”
“And faith is blindness,” Gangplank retorted, igniting his barrel trap with a smirk. “Let’s see which burns brighter.”
Their battles were epic, each strike shaking the foundations of the arena. Illaoi’s spiritual assaults forced Gangplank to rely on his instincts, to trust in the chaos of combat rather than brute force alone. Yet despite their animosity, there was a mutual respect between them—a recognition of the sacrifices required to achieve greatness.
Back in Bilgewater, Gangplank continued his quest for redemption—or revenge. He clashed with Pyke once more, their rivalry reaching new heights of intensity. He also encountered Fizz, the Tidal Trickster, whose playful antics masked a sharp intellect.
“You’re too serious,” Fizz teased during one skirmish, darting around Gangplank’s strikes. “Even sharks need to laugh sometimes.”
“Laugh all you want,” Gangplank replied, his tone dark and menacing. “Just don’t cry when I gut you.”
Fizz’s agility and unpredictability forced Gangplank to adapt, to think several steps ahead. Yet even Fizz couldn’t match Gangplank’s sheer determination.
In quiet moments, Gangplank 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 power is endless, its rewards fleeting and ephemeral.
He climbs to the bow of The Dead Pool , his cutlass resting against his shoulder. The moon hangs low in the sky, its light casting long shadows across the waves. Below him, the sea stretches out, vast and vibrant, its promise intertwined with its perils.
Dominion will prevail.
One battle at a time.