He frowns, more thoughtful than judgmental. "Right, a thousand. Historical."

With gloved hand and scrap of cloth kept for this singular purpose, Jayce begins to manually wipe down the remaining bits off his weapon. "Guess that's another difference. Piltover's known as the city of progress. We're inventors. Pioneers. Always looking for a brighter tomorrow."

Or so he thought, anyway.

He shoves the sullied cloth into his back pocket and sheathes his mace. Glancing at the would-be pyre, measly fire earnestly trying to catch, he adds, "But I guess you could call it hubris or... privilege. We weren't accustomed to war. To something as relentless as the blights."

Anyone who had laid eyes on the Jayce of a year ago would've clocked that fact within a few minutes. Even now, he skirts true familiarity, hardened but still naïve. Flirted with death, but never endured the burdens of continuous pursuit.