|Title||The Ruined King|
|Release Date||January 21, 2021|
|560 (+ 95)|
|7 (+ 0.7)|
|57 (+ 3.5)|
|0.658 (+ 2.5%)|
|34 (+ 4)|
|32 (+ 1.25)|
|Game Info Wiki||leagueoflegends.fandom.com|
Viego is a champion in League of Legends.
|Once ruler of a long-lost kingdom, Viego perished over a thousand years ago when his attempt to bring his wife back from the dead triggered the magical catastrophe known as the Ruination. Transformed into a powerful, unliving wraith tortured by an obsessive longing for his centuries-dead queen, Viego now stands as the Ruined King, controlling the deadly Harrowings as he scours Runeterra for anything that might one day restore her, and destroying all in his path as the Black Mist pours endlessly from his cruel, broken heart.
Few know of the kingdom to the east, far across the seas, whose name lies all but forgotten among the ruins that dot its shores. Fewer still know of its foolish young ruler, whose lovestruck heart was doomed to destroy it.
Now a grave threat to all, that man’s name was—and is—Viego.
The second son of a dynastic king, Viego was never intended to lead. Instead, he lived a life of comfort that made him complacent and selfish. Yet, when his older brother died unexpectedly, Viego, who possessed neither the inclination nor the aptitude for rulership, suddenly found himself crowned.
He showed little interest in his position until he met a poor seamstress, Isolde. So taken was he by her beauty that the young king offered her his hand in marriage, and thus, one of the most powerful rulers of the age was wed to a peasant girl.
Their romance was enchanting, and Viego, who’d rarely shown interest in anyone other than himself, devoted his life to her. The two were inseparable—he scarcely went anywhere without Isolde, always lavishing gifts upon his queen, and his attention could seldom be broken when she was present.
Viego’s allies fumed. Unable to interest him in governance, and with the nation beginning to unravel under his questionable rulership, some plotted in secret to end their new king’s reign before it had begun. His nation’s enemies, meanwhile, saw an opportunity to strike. And the vipers began to circle.
Thus did an assassin’s poisoned dagger one day come for Viego. But the king was well defended, and the dagger did not strike true—instead grazing Isolde.
The toxin worked quickly, and Isolde fell into a ruinous torpor, while Viego could only watch in horror as his wife’s condition grew ever more serious. Overwhelmed with fury and despair, he spent every last coin within his coffers trying to save her.
But it was all for naught. Isolde perished in her bed, and Viego was consumed by madness.
His search for an antidote became desperate, crazed. Unable to accept his wife’s death, every treasure of the kingdom—every scrap of wealth—was sacrificed to his quest to return her to him. As the land fell into disarray, Viego hid himself away with Isolde’s body, becoming hateful and violent.
Then came the day he learned the secret of the Blessed Isles, of its water that healed any ailment. With his great army, he stormed the peaceful country by force, slaughtering everyone who stood in his way until he at last breached its inner sanctum and let his wife drift beneath the blessed water. She would return to him, no matter the destruction he wrought. No matter the cost.
And for just one moment, she did.
Isolde arose a horrifying wraith of shadow and rage, and in her pain, her anger, her confusion at being ripped from death, she took Viego’s own enchanted blade and thrust it through his heart. The magic of the waters and the ancient sword clashed, and the chamber’s energy erupted, tearing across the Isles and trapping everything it touched in tortured, conscious undeath.
Yet of this, Viego remembers nothing. His country collapsed into ruin, great nations rose and fell, and in time, even his name was forgotten... until, a thousand years after his death, Viego stood once more. And this time, he would not fail.
His mind twisted by the same dangerous obsession he possessed in life, Viego’s unflinching, deranged love fuels his every action, his every desire, his every atrocity. The deadly Black Mist pours freely from Viego’s broken heart—ripping the life from everything it touches—and he uses the Mist to scour the world for some way to return Isolde to his side.
Legions will fall before him only to rise again in his service, continents will be swallowed by living darkness, and the world will pay for every moment of happiness it stole from an ancient ruler laid low by all-consuming love. He cares naught for the destruction he causes, so long as he can see Isolde’s face again.
His reign is terror.
His love is eternal.
And until Isolde returns to him, all will fall before the Ruined King.
|"No price is too great. No atrocity beyond my reach. For her... I will do anything."
Each time Viego thought of her face, it looked a little different.
Sometimes, the eyes were just too far apart, or too close together. Or her cheeks were a little too thin or a little too wide. Sometimes, her hands lacked the calluses of a seamstress, but other times, they were gnarled and thick from long days holding scissors and needles. She wore a gown some days, and others, a simple work frock, and on others still, she wore nothing at all. She was never the same, but always the same, never there, but always present. A ghost of the heart Viego no longer possessed, rent open when... when...
Viego, on his shattered, blackened throne at the bottom of the world, slammed his king’s blade deeply into the rock beneath, cracking the obsidian and sending a brutal tremor across the entirety of the Shadow Isles.
To his left lay a painting he could no longer bear to look at, for the fair Isolde’s countenance had been too perfect to lay eyes upon, too lovely to grant him any peace or respite. He had torn her away, leaving only the image of a foolish young king who had believed the world was kind centuries before, but who now was rightfully dead.
Or if not dead, something else.
Viego could not remember much of his old country that was not twisted by shadows or anguish. In his memories, he stepped out upon the sandstone streets and only saw Isolde before him. Every fresco on every wall contained her within a painted world that only he could touch, only he could see. Yet when he went to reach for her, the illusion broke away, and he was here, surrounded on all sides by the putrid waters that had stolen her all over again.
Viego ripped his blade from the ground and stood, smashing its great heft into the floor and walls as he wailed. Then he was still for a long while, regarding the ancient painting from the old kingdom as if he had seen something new. Regarding himself as he was before the Isles had been swallowed up by darkness.
“Viego,” he said. “So handsome. So young. What became of you, Viego? Where have you gone?” He dropped the painting to the floor, its frame cracking awkwardly as the canvas crumpled beneath it.
“Where are you, Isolde?” said Viego. “Why won’t you come back to me?”
But he already knew the answer.
To most, the Black Mist is a plague, a vector for monstrous, life-sucking wraiths to assault the living and steal them away until the sun dies and the world crumbles into nothing.
To Viego, it is his great, unending sadness, pouring ceaselessly from his broken heart. A testament to his love, of better days long gone by, and a cruel reminder of what was taken from him so long ago.
It is this very Mist that scours the land, tendrils infecting everything with their grim power, draining the life from whatever they touch until all that remains glows with the soft, necrotic green of the Ruination. Yet this, too, has a purpose, for as Viego’s sadness ebbs and wanes, the Mist surges forward, searching as if drawn to something... something old, familiar, safe. The wraiths and spirits that travel within it do what they will, but the Mist itself, no—it grasps ceaselessly for her.
Everything Viego does is for her.
And now, it has found something, far from the shores of the Isles, far past the docks of Bilgewater and the coasts of Ionia. Something on the mainland, hidden within a modest city at the edge of a river. The object calls to Viego, screams for Viego, demands his attention at all costs. And though the people wail, though they run from the blanket of death that rolls softly across their homes and fields, though the wraiths shriek and the horrors stir to feed, Viego hears but one voice, and one voice alone.
“Viego,” he imagines it says, for he cannot make out the words.
The Ruined King bursts from the fog like a hungry shadow, tearing through the first guard he sees as he lifts his blade high above the ground. The man’s face contorts in pain as his body melts away and his spirit is absorbed into the Mist, but Viego barely pays him any attention before he brings his sword down upon the second. Everywhere around him, ghouls feast upon the living, tearing them apart as their souls are dragged away to join the king’s legions.
Searing flesh sails through the air, arrows tumble across space, swords clatter, and warriors fall.
It does not matter to Viego.
He raises a single hand before the city’s great wall, and the Mist rushes forward, stones falling away as the structure becomes tainted with decay. Viego simply steps across the threshold, and suddenly, he is through. He cuts down two more men as he moves silently toward the source of the voice, then another. They mean nothing. None of them bear any weight, and not one matters at all. Their spirits simply rise behind him, to do as he wills.
The ruler of this city now stands before him, a proud man protecting a treasure of some kind, Viego is sure. But as a fellow leader, as a skilled warrior, perhaps he would make a better vassal than hungry spirit.
“Stop,” says Viego, raising a single hand once more. The Mist, the wraiths, the horrors, the fighting—everything seems to freeze on the Ruined King’s command.
“Behind you is a treasure you could not fathom the importance of. I will see it returned to me, and in exchange, you will serve me personally.”
The man seems to stumble over his words, grasping at something he cannot quite muster the courage to speak. But Viego gives him time, and slowly, the words form on his lips: “If I give you this treasure, will you spare the city?”
The Ruined King seems disappointed. Whether he ponders an answer or reflects on the situation, this man will never know, as Viego suddenly appears above him, his great blade slicing down through the heart of this small, frightened warrior-king. His body slides harmlessly down the massive greatsword, as blackness spreads across his skin.
Viego rips the door behind him open, and there, the treasure lies.
An old, worn-down music box, a gift from Viego’s wedding day, whispering something he cannot quite hear. It seems possessed by grief, by boundless, immeasurable sorrow, but Viego simply holds it before his eyes, imagining the soft smile that will surely dance across Isolde’s face the day he sees her again.
“What have they done to you, my love?” he coos, as the man he slaughtered slowly rises from the earth, ghostly greens and blues throbbing from between the cracks in his skin.
“Do not worry,” he assures the music box. “I will find you. It is simply a matter of time.”
And with that, Viego is gone, vanishing as wraiths devour the city.
- Viego's Champion Page
- Universe of League of Legends Page
- Ruined King: Gameplay Deep Dive
- Champion Insights