Even though a future Noxus figured into Faen's plans as a potential source of power, it didn't mean he was about to go soft.
In fact, the more complex the situation, the more decisive one had to be.
Claiming one side with total certainty was always better than hesitating and losing both.
Looking at Faen and the terrifying dragon of water-blades swirling behind him, even the most courageous Noxians felt their throats go dry.
They exchanged glances, stuck in a desperate limbo between continuing a hopeless fight or attempting a suicidal retreat.
But as they wavered, a massive, hulking shadow lunged from the darkness behind Faen without a single hint of warning.
Wielding a short-handled hunting blade that looked like a cross between a hand-axe and a cleaver, the heavy weapon moved through the air with zero friction.
There was no whistle of wind, no rustle of fabric—only a silent, lethal strike that no one would dare underestimate.
Shadow-Burst—one of Kalan's innate magical talents.
As a Primordial Kiilash, Kalan possessed a supreme affinity for the wild and the night.
With his bloodline's blessing, a small giant like Kalan could move through dense, brittle shrubbery without snapping a single twig.
Bathed in the gloom, the night itself continuously fed Kalan's strength, maintaining it at the absolute limit of his endurance until the moment of the first strike.
When this nocturnal power erupted, Kalan gained more than just raw force; he achieved the speed to match it.
His eyes locked onto the back of Faen's neck. Kalan had actually arrived the moment the battle began.
He had remained hidden only because he recognized that Faen's power was extraordinary, biding his time to pool his energy in the dark.
Now, Kalan was certain: this was the moment Faen was most relaxed.
Against such a foe, only a cold, decisive Shadow-Burst could end it in one blow!
However, as Kalan lunged, a playful smirk curved Faen's lips.
Immediately after, those pitch-black eyes turned toward him without the slightest hint of evasion.
Faen didn't even fully turn his head, but Kalan could feel it: this wasn't a casual glance; the man was literally looking into him.
Kalan's heart hammered against his ribs, but his face didn't falter. Instead, his gaze turned feral.
He knew that if his Shadow-Burst failed to kill or severely wound his target, the reality that followed would be agonizing.
He roared, his blood-vitality erupting from his skin.
His feline eyes glowed with a vicious light, and the horns on his forehead crackled with a dull, rhythmic arc of energy.
"DIE!!!"
Facing Kalan's "do-or-die" resolve, Faen's eyes showed none of the emotions Kalan expected—no flinching, no panic, not even a trace of surprise.
The lack of reaction sank Kalan's spirit while simultaneously fueling the desperation in his gaze.
Suddenly, Kalan felt his chest tighten.
A mountain of pressure surged from every direction, crushing the air out of his lungs.
It was water—or rather, the mist! Kalan saw it clearly now.
What was suffocating him wasn't some mysterious sorcery, but the very source of all life in this world.
Except now, the vapor had become unnaturally thick. Inside it, Kalan felt like he was struggling in a sea of industrial glue and jelly.
The momentum gathered in his hunting blade—which should have cleaved Faen's neck clean through—hit the heavy, silken mist like a stone hitting a vast, invisible sponge.
The massive kinetic energy was absorbed and dissipated at an incredible speed.
Disbelief flashed in his eyes. The strike had failed.
Despair began to set in, but Kalan didn't give up; he immediately tried to retreat.
But the moment he twitched a muscle, the nearly solidified vapor locked him in place, suspended in mid-air like an insect in amber.
Faen looked back at the immobilized Kalan, staring at his pair of horns and his three thick, whip-like tails.
He nodded thoughtfully, then extended his palm and made a slow, crushing gesture.
Under the mounting pressure of the water vapor, the hunting blade—forged from the fangs of a Basilisk—let out an agonizing screech of metal.
A moment later, it disintegrated into fine dust, drifting through the gaps of the mist and falling to the ground.
All that remained in Kalan's hands were two useless, empty hilt-stubs.
Faen didn't escalate the violence. He waved his hand, releasing the pressure and letting Kalan drop.
"Stay put. I have questions for you in a moment."
Kalan was free, but his muscles were in a state of post-overload recovery.
He didn't dare move recklessly. He crouched on the ground, panting heavily, using the darkness to accelerate his healing.
"Spend this time thinking about that purple-skinned prophet," Faen added calmly. "I don't want you 'forgetting' anything when I ask."
Kalan, who had been frantically calculating how to break the stalemate, froze.
He looked up at Faen, his eyes wide with absolute, staggering disbelief.
The "Purple-Skinned Prophet"—the one who had given Kalan the prophecy, given him the choice, and ultimately led him to join Noxus during the first war.
While Kalan knew her as the Purple Prophet, the rest of the world—and players of League of Legends—knew her by another name.
The Starchild, Soraka.
His meeting with this prophet was one of Kalan's deepest secrets; even his beloved wife and children knew nothing of it.
Hearing Faen speak of it so casually sent Kalan into a state of unprecedented confusion.
But Faen didn't care; he turned his attention back to the battlefield, commanding his blade-dragon to finish the Noxian legion on Fae'lor.