Visiting was one thing, but no matter how one visited, things had to be done in the proper order. After getting the information he wanted from Kalan's mouth, Faen nodded, then cast his gaze toward the depths of Fae'lor Island. "We'll resolve the matters in Ionia first, and then we'll go visit our great Starchild."
Hearing this, the group nodded.
Although the current situation was complex, even involving entities older than Ionia itself, seeing Faen's confident demeanor naturally instilled them with courage. In silence, they followed behind Faen to continue the mission they bore.
Meanwhile, Kalan stood rooted to the spot, seeming somewhat lost. His original mission was to bite the bullet and walk the path of darkness to the bitter end, but now... should he continue? If he continued to fight Faen, it would certainly fulfill Prophet Soraka's prophecy, and he would likely be damned eternally. But his subconscious instincts told him things weren't that simple anymore...
"Keep up. What are you standing there for?" Seeing Kalan's hesitant and bewildered state, Faen said calmly: "Prophet Soraka had you do this so you could focus entirely on taking Syndra's place in the Dreaming Pool. This would allow darkness itself to return to Ionia once more, granting Ionia true balance to face the coming era of strife. I hold the same objective."
Hearing Faen's words, Kalan's expression shifted, but ultimately he took a deep breath, nodded, and said: "I understand."
This was a lie; Kalan didn't actually understand what was going on at all. The problem was, Kalan felt he had to do something—and he had personally felt Faen's terrifying strength. If Faen wanted to, he could kill Kalan in the span of a few breaths. Forget resisting; even reacting might be a luxury.
Under these circumstances, Kalan didn't think he possessed anything that would be of great use to Faen. Since he didn't know what to choose, he decided to follow his heart, even though he knew very well he was obeying Faen's orders based on a distant, impossible fantasy.
And so, the group marched onward toward the deepest parts of Fae'lor Island.
Meanwhile—
A cold light flashed. A fleeing Noxian soldier's eyes filled with terror, but before he could let out a scream, the scar on his back rapidly split open and spread. Accompanied by a slightly pungent odor, the soldier collapsed and died at an astonishing speed.
As the soldier died—"Nice move, little brother."
Seeing this, a young woman who had just killed one of the man's comrades with her short swords cast an admiring look at her younger brother. Glancing at his sister—especially at the indigo tattoos wrapped around her eyes—the young boy's eyes flashed with a hint of envy.
To Ionians, tattoos were not marks of shame. Many spirits in Ionia favored blessing their chosen practitioners with tattoos. For instance, the martial monks of the Shojin Monastery who achieved a certain level of mastery would tattoo a divine dragon on their proudest fist, foot, arm, or even the top of their head.
And for an Ionian spiritual leader like Karma, when casting spells, the magical blessings of past generations of Enlightened Ones would also manifest briefly as wondrous glowing patterns on her skin. This indirectly gave the populace a higher acceptance of tattoos and similar markings.
In a perilous place like Fae'lor, anyone possessing unique tattoos had clearly received corresponding recognition, bearing the distinctive ink as a mark of honor.
Thinking this, the boy said: "I have my somewhat talented teacher to thank for that."
"A somewhat talented teacher... you mean Sage Okin?" the young woman asked, raising an eyebrow. In Ionia, a Sage is slightly lower in reputation and status than a Master, but undeniably, they are still highly respected and revered.
The boy just shrugged without answering, instead asking: "Did you bring that thing?"
"Of course." Hearing her brother's question, the young woman nodded. She opened a leather pouch tied to her lower back and slowly drew out an object tightly wrapped in wax seals and leather.
She carefully unwrapped the outer leather, revealing a wax-coated, fist-sized black crystal.
"Did it get wet?" the boy asked softly.
The young woman gently shook the crystal. With that slight movement, a flash of orange firelight darted through the center of the black crystal, like an ember being fanned.
Seeing this ember, a look of excitement and thrill flashed in the eyes of the woman and the boy.
"I don't know what happened on Fae'lor to make those Noxian dogs flee in such a panic, but regardless, we cannot fail to capitalize on this beautiful chaos," Sirik said with venomous hatred. "The Noxians will surely scream in despair during this disaster. In the name of the Unspoken, they will die in agony, and all their sinister goals will fall completely flat, with no chance of ever succeeding!"
Hearing this, the boy nodded, his brow furrowing with shared hatred for the enemy.
The "Unspoken" was actually a new name they had given themselves. They were the last remaining warriors on Fae'lor—before Noxus seized the island, they were all sentinels of the fortress. With the fall of Fae'lor, some of their comrades left, some died, some lost their souls, and some even completely despaired of Ionia and chose to join the Noxian ranks.
But there was also a group who constantly felt the shame of that defeat burning inextinguishably in their hearts. Beneath their seething hatred, the desire to drive the Noxians out of their ancestral lands had never died. Having lost all their honor, missions, and glory, they called themselves the Unspoken, determined to reclaim their honor in their own way.
According to the information they had gathered, the reason the Noxians lingered here—aside from it being a highly contested military chokepoint—was, in their estimation, due to the presence of Syndra, who was sealed here by the ancient Spirit of Ionia. That name represented loss of control and chaos.
"We must kill Syndra," the young woman, Sirik, said solemnly. "No matter what those Noxians are planning, we must stop them and destroy it!"