|Title||The Madman of Zaun|
|Real Name||Doctor "Mundo" Edmundo|
|Release Date||September 2, 2009|
|Health||582.52 (+ 89)|
|HP Regen||8 (+ 0.75)|
|Attack Dmg||61.27 (+ 3.5)|
|Attack Speed||0.625 (+ 15.3 (+2.8)%)|
|Armor||36 (+ 3.5)|
|Magic Resist||32.1 (+ 1.25)|
- For outdated and now non-canon lore entries, click here.
|Utterly insane, unrepentantly homicidal, and horrifyingly purple, Dr. Mundo is what keeps many of Zaun’s citizens indoors on particularly dark nights. This monosyllabic monstrosity seems to want nothing more than pain – both the giving of it, and the receiving of it. Wielding his massive meat cleaver as if it were weightless, Mundo is infamous for capturing and torturing dozens of Zaun’s citizens for his nefarious “operations,” which seem to have no overall point or goal. He is brutal. He is unpredictable. He goes where he pleases. He is also not, technically, a doctor.
Stories differ as to the first sighting of Zaun’s unpredictable purple madman. Some say they first saw him as a baby, crawling through the Piltover marketplace and terrifying the upper-class aristocrats with his foul smell. Others say he was born in Zaun and spent the first years of his life sloshing through the sewers and choking the life out of sumprats. Only one thing is for sure: when he was roughly three years old, he arrived on the doorstep of the Zaun Asylum for the Irreparably Troubled.
The other inmates of the asylum kept Mundo at a distance, but the asylum staff found the boy a source of constant fascination. They looked at him not as a child to be raised, but as a patient – a thing to be studied. Why was he purple? Who could have survived giving birth to someone of his size?
Within a year of his arrival, the doctors realized his skin was never going to change from its shockingly bright shade. When Mundo turned four, they discovered the extent of his unprecedented strength when he accidentally crushed an orderly’s windpipe for not bringing him his favorite type of candy (toenails). When Mundo turned six, they discovered he had a relationship to pain that was... unusual. To say the least.
Specifically, Mundo didn’t seem to mind pain. More than that, he actively sought it out. If left unsupervised, he’d stick sharp instruments into his shoulders. If he was placed anywhere near other patients, it’d only be a matter of minutes until one or both of them could be heard screaming in agony.
Soon the asylum staff tired of merely observing Mundo. It was time, they decided, to start experimenting. Whether they began their tests out of medical curiosity, a desire for scientific breakthrough, or sheer boredom is unknown. Whatever their reasons, the doctors unquestionably put a great deal of effort into understanding the purple enigma before them.
Over the next several years, they tested his tolerance for pain. They’d stick needles into his fingernails, and he’d giggle. They’d put hot irons to his feet, and he’d fall asleep. Soon, scientific curiosity gave way to outright frustration: they couldn’t get Mundo to react negatively to pain at all, and they couldn’t understand why. Not only that, but whatever damage they could do to him invariably healed itself within a few hours.
Throughout his teenage years, Mundo’s life consisted of complete isolation and routine torture.
He’d never been happier.
He came to see the doctors as aspirational figures. If pain was Mundo’s passion, it was seemingly these doctors’ life work: their myriad attempts to push beyond his pain threshold grew more unconventional as the years went on, including dipping his feet in acid and throwing flesh-eating mites on his face.
The asylum doctors were initially amused when the purple teen began to refer to himself not as “Mundo,” but as “Doctor Mundo.”
He’d steal a syringe from an orderly and fill it with a mixture of cavernberry juice from breakfast and god-knows-what from his chamber pot. “Mundo make medicine!” he’d happily exclaim before jabbing the concoction into his own forehead.
In time, however, Mundo grew tired of experimenting on himself.
Later, many would speculate what Mundo’s motivations were. Some assumed he was taking revenge for the years of torture he endured at the hands of the asylum staff. Others thought he was merely a psychopathic monster with no sense of morality.
The truth was much simpler: Mundo had decided it was time to put his research into practice.
One night, Mundo snuck into the kitchen. There, he found a massive meat cleaver. “Medical” blade in hand, Mundo proceeded to go from room to room, “operating” on every “patient” he found with no logic to his method of “treatment” other than what would amuse him the most at any given moment.
By daybreak, every single person in the asylum was “cured,” save for Mundo.
He donned a physician’s coat from one of his victims, his massive muscles ripping it as he pulled it over his gargantuan frame. Mundo had realized his dream. He was a doctor! As a new member of a long and illustrious line, he had to share his medicinal skills with the rest of the world. His work had just begun.
He barged through the locked doors of the asylum and past the steps where he’d been left so many years ago. Mundo walked into the streets of Zaun, a smile on his face and a spring in his step.
The doctor was in.
|“Mundo will let you know upfront: this probably hurt very much.”|
|DO NO HARM
It has been while, Mundo thought, stroking the massive purple tongue that hung from his mouth like an executed criminal swinging from gallows, since Mundo made a housecall.
He rolled out of his bed (a large wooden box filled with sharpened knives and rusty nails), brushed his teeth (with a nail file), and ate breakfast (a cat). Mundo felt exuberant. He felt alive.
Today was a fine day for practicing medicine.
He spotted his first patient hawking shimmerdrops just outside Ranker’s Limb Maintenance. The man limped around in a circle, shouting at everyone within arm’s length about how shimmerdrops would make their eyes roll into the backs of their heads and how if they didn’t buy some right now, right this second, then they were damn idiots and did you just give him a condescending look? Because he’ll kill you and your family and your family’s family.
Mundo took out his notepad, a tool he often used to mark down observations about his patients, both past and present. The notepad was large, yellow, and imaginary.
Patient exhibits signs of mania, Mundo would have written if he hadn’t been tracing random squiggles in the air with a meaty finger. Possible infection of nervous system via cranial virus, he might have inscribed if he were capable of such multisyllabic thought.
“MUNDO CURE HEAD AND FACE AREA GOOD,” he said to himself.
Rank was just about to pack up his shimmerdrops and head home for the night. He needed to get new shoes. These ones rubbed his feet raw when he walked, and at the end of a long day’s work, hadn’t he earned the soft leather of grayeels?
As Rank was thinking this, a huge purple monster jumped out of the shadows and yelled, “MUNDO HAS RESULTS OF YOUR BLOOD WORK.”
Mundo left his first patient more or less as he found him (save for a few limbs) and took to the Commercia Fantastica, a market specializing primarily in gearwork toys. Though most of the shops were closed, Mundo spied a lone Zaunite teetering to and fro as he stumbled down the path. The Zaunite sang a song of a Piltovan beauty and the shy boy from the undercity who loved her, except he seemed to have forgotten most of the words apart from “big ol’ eyes” and “gave it to her.” An empty bottle dangled from his hand, and he looked as if he hadn’t had a bath in months.
Was this man afflicted by the same disease that had ravaged the shimmerdrop dealer? Was this a virus? An epidemic in the making? Mundo had to act fast.
This was clearly a man in need of medical attention.
“TAKE TWO OF THESE AND TALK TO MUNDO IN MORNING,” the purple monstrosity said as he tossed a meat cleaver into the drunk’s back.
Mundo descended into Zaun’s Sump level. If there was a virus going around, chances were it originated here. There must be a patient zero somewhere. If he could just cure the first sufferer of this mystery disease, Mundo knew he could cure the rest of Zaun.
But how was Mundo to find one specific patient in the sprawl of the Sump level? What steps would he take to isolate, quarantine, and fix this most suffering of Zaunites? How would he–
Mundo heard something. Footsteps, and a rhythmic clang of metal against metal.
He followed the noise as carefully and quietly as he could – wouldn’t want to spook the patient into running away and infecting even more people – and found exactly what he was looking for.
A young boy. No older than fifteen, probably, with a shock of white hair and a large metal sword-looking-thing in his hand. He had some sort of hourglass tattooed onto his face. Maybe a warning? A symbol that he was not to be approached under any circumstances?
Mundo knew he’d found him. Patient zero.
It would be a complex operation, requiring skill, planning, a careful eye and–
“YOU MIGHT FEEL A LITTLE STING,” the creature said, leaping out. His enormous purple form hurtling through the air, massive cleaver in hand, tongue flapping in the wind.
The boy was surprised, but not unprepared. Anybody hanging out in the Sump knew to be ready for trouble at a moment’s notice, and the kid had plenty of time to prepare.
Nothing but time, in fact.
No two ways about it: this was a troublesome patient.
He refused to answer Mundo’s questions about his medical history, and repeatedly evaded Mundo’s attempts to make him take his medicine. He repeated himself over and over again (perhaps suffering from a case of physical amnesia?) and had no respect for Dr. Mundo’s authority.
The two scuffled over the child’s sickness for what felt like hours. Mundo made what he thought were very salient points about the merits of treatment, but the child constantly evaded Mundo’s attempts to help him.
Mundo grew tired of arguing with the boy. He mustered up one final attempt at treatment, wielding his precision scalpel with the artistry of a Demacian duelist. The words of his medical vows – “MUNDO FIX ALL THINGS, MUNDO DO MEDICINE VERY HARD” – ran through his head again and again. His desire to cure this child filled him with purpose and determination.
He swung with all his might.
The treatment was a success.
But then – somehow – the treatment reversed itself. Whatever good Mundo had accomplished in his last attempt at a cure was suddenly undone. To Mundo’s utter confusion, the child scurried away, utterly uncured.
Mundo screamed in irritation.
“WHY CAN’T MUNDO SAVE THEM ALL?” he screamed to the sky.
Not every operation was a success. Mundo would be the first to admit that. Still, Mundo tried to focus on the positive. Apart from this most recent patient, Mundo had helped an awful lot of people. He’d done a full day’s work, and now it was time to rest.
As the sun came up, Mundo retired home and tucked himself into bed. Who knew what tomorrow might bring? Another patient to help. Another epidemic to stop.
A doctor’s work was never done.
- November 10th, The Making of the Madman from leagueoflegends.com
Journal of Justice