The plane landed with a dull thud, its wheels screeching against the scorching tarmac of McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas, Nevada. Alex "Caelux" Evans stepped off the aircraft, a single duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The air was dry, thick with the scent of asphalt and jet fuel. His headphones blared old Linkin Park tracks, drowning out the chaos of the bustling airport. "I tried so hard and got so far..." He exhaled, adjusting his hoodie, and pushed forward.
Waiting for him at the exit were two men clad in black suits, their expressions unreadable beneath tinted sunglasses. No words were exchanged as they led him to a black Cadillac Escalade, a sleek, imposing beast of a car that gleamed under the merciless Nevada sun. The doors locked with a mechanical clunk as soon as he stepped in.
The ride was long and surreal. They sped down the I-15, leaving behind the neon glitz of Vegas, the towering casinos fading into the barren wasteland of the Nevada desert. The cities and towns they passed were shadows of civilization—abandoned gas stations, cracked roads, sun-bleached billboards advertising places that no longer existed. A dried-up lakebed stretched endlessly to his right, and to the left, a decrepit motel flickered its "No Vacancy" sign like a dying heartbeat.
An hour later, they arrived.
Alex leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at the city before him—if it could even be called that. It looked like something pulled straight from a zombie apocalypse movie. Collapsed buildings, graffiti-smeared walls, shattered streetlights barely clinging to existence. The few cars still present were either stripped to the bone or rusted beyond recognition.
"Where the hell are we?" Alex finally asked.
No response. The men in suits didn’t even glance his way.
The SUV rolled to a stop in front of a towering, decrepit skyscraper, its once-pristine glass exterior now stained with grime and neglect. Without a word, they motioned for him to step out. The doors slammed shut behind him, and within seconds, the car was gone.
Alex took a deep breath and walked through the rusted revolving doors.
The lobby was cavernous, its vastness stretching into eerie shadows. Dust particles floated in the dim, flickering fluorescent lights. The air reeked of mildew and something metallic, like rusted steel and dried blood.
Scattered across the massive hall were dozens of people, some standing alone, others murmuring in tight circles. A few faces were familiar—college-level midlaners, former prodigies, and ladder demons from NA solo queue.
A few were talking in hushed tones, spinning tin-foil hat conspiracy theories about where they were.
"Bro, I’m telling you, this is some government black ops shit. No way they’re spending this much money just to make NA good."
"Nah, dude, this is like that one dystopian anime. We’re about to get battle royale’d."
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A voice called out. "Whew. Hey man, how's it going? I never thought I'd see a familiar face here."
Alex turned his head.
It was Ethan "Zephyr" Hayes, his usual easygoing smirk plastered on his face. He extended a hand.
Alex stared at it, then turned away.
Behind Zephyr, a chuckle. Brandon "BZhao" Zhao. Lean, muscular build, chiseled jaw, dark Asian features sharpened by the dim lighting. He grinned. "Not gonna lie here, champ, I'd never thought you'd be rejected this early."
Zephyr shrugged. "He likes me. He's just having a bad day—you'll see."(Arrogant fucker. I'll make sure I destroy you so bad next year that you grab a rope yourself.)
BZhao snorted. "Whatever, bro. Sounds gay to me."
A few laughed.
Before Alex could respond, the lights flickered violently. A massive LCD screen at the front of the room blinked to life.
Was it there the whole time?
The murmurs grew louder.
On the screen, a face appeared. Faker.
Silence.
Then, the floor beneath them rumbled. A stage rose from the shadows, metal grinding against metal. The lights shifted, centering on a lone figure standing at its peak.
She was small, delicate yet commanding, her black hair streaked with iridescent purple that shimmered when the light hit just right. A sweet yet devious smile played on her lips. Her presence sent waves through the room.
A whisper from the crowd. "It’s our goddess…"
Alex fought the urge to gag.
Soo-Ah "LilMochi" Kim, better known to her American fanbase as Summer Kim, had arrived.
"Hellllloooo Twitch! It’s ya girl LilMochi!" she giggled, striking an exaggeratedly cute pose at one of the drones now floating above the room. "Smile guys! You’re on stream!"
Some of the simps grinned like Aberrant Titans from a AOT, their eyes shining with unsettling reverence.
Alex looked at them all in pure disgust. He ruffled his jet-black hair, exhaling sharply before shifting his gaze back to the LCD screen.
More drones descended, their cameras adjusting. The stage lights burst to full power.
"WELCOME EVERYONE TO THE MIDLOCK PROGRAM!"
A deafening murmur swept through the hall. What the fuck is going on?
The screen flickered. Faker spoke. His Korean words flowed in calm, measured tones.
Nobody understood.
Soo-Ah grimaced. "Damn it, that’s too polite. How the fuck are we supposed to rile up these fuckers??" she thought.
She adjusted the mic, her voice now sharper.
"The Demon King poses a question for everyone: 'What do you think is the most important trait of a midlaner?'"
"Adaptability!"
"Synergy and Teamwork!"
"Game Knowledge and Macro!"
Faker spoke again. Soo-Ah translated, but added her own twist.
"All very important traits. However, these are all secondary only to one absolute."
The room fell silent.
She smirked, stepping forward.
"A true midlaner doesn’t just crush their lane opponent. They annihilate the entire enemy team's will to resist. They don’t just lead their team—they enslave them with their brilliance, forcing them to submit to their vision. The greatest midlaners aren’t team players.
They’re Monarchs ruling with an iron fist and unyielding ambition."
The tension thickened. A slow, almost eerie chuckle broke the silence.
A lone figure stepped forward, his black hair catching the stage light, a hint of deep blue weaving through the strands.
He grabbed Soo-Ah’s mic.
"Look no further. I AM the true monarch. All the people in front of me are nothing more than leveling materials for MY Ascension.
Listen to me. You are all PEASANTS. Genetic mongrels. Bend the knee."
Laughter rippled through the room. Some were amused. Some were impressed.
Fewer took him seriously.
Project Midlock had begun.