Ionia, Navori Province.
Almost the instant he saw the battle report, a coppery, bloody taste surged into Swain's throat.
Staring at the contents of the report, Swain's eyes trembled incessantly. His knuckles turned white as his hand gripped the thin parchment so tightly it nearly embedded into his palm.
Fae'lor... was lost.
The news exploded in his mind like a thunderclap. It felt as if he had been struck by a pale bolt of lightning tearing through the night sky. His whole body trembled, sweat beading at his temples. For a moment, despair seemed perfectly materialized in this man—because Fae'lor wasn't just some insignificant frontline outpost; it was the iron claw of the Great Noxian Empire reaching into the heart of Ionia. It was the impregnable springboard and fortress Swain had painstakingly prepared for the Empire.
He couldn't imagine what exactly had happened on Fae'lor to cause it to be easily breached by the mere dozens of people mentioned in the report. It had to be known that Fae'lor stockpiled massive amounts of armaments and supplies, guarding the very throat of the entire coastline leading to Navori.
In Swain's vision, it was supposed to be an unyielding steel nail driven into Ionia's spine—a precious legacy that would give the Empire countless chances to try again, regardless of whether this war was won or lost. But now... it was just lost? Gone? Fallen?
The terrifying news did initially seize Swain's throat and mind with shock, but this long-absent, unfamiliar sensation also jolted his spirit awake. This mental shift wasn't due to the failure of the plan itself, but because of the numerous questions extending from this failure. If it was only a dozen or so people, it meant they absolutely hadn't taken it through pure martial force. Or, if they could seize the rear base of Fae'lor with just the martial force of a few dozen people, then it was only a matter of time before they killed him before he even had time to react.
Perhaps there is some unknown secret on that island? Swain thought to himself. As a general who planned before he moved, Swain had conducted extensive investigations into Ionia long before setting out. Therefore, he knew very well that on this ancient land, many legends were not just stories to educate children, but real, existing history. To that end, Swain had made many preparations to deal with any ancient incarnations that might exist. But losing his rear base directly, without any prior warning like this, still far exceeded the many contingencies he had prepared.
Caw, caw, caw...
The cawing of ravens came from outside the window. A sound he once paid no mind to now made Swain feel irritated. Slamming the window shut, Swain cut off the annoying bird calls.
With the window closed, Swain recentered his thoughts on the situation at hand.
Like a red-hot branding iron plunged into ice water—with a sharp hiss and billowing white steam—only a cold, hard core remained. Swain took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, his gaze was a bottomless abyss of cold indifference. All his churning emotions were forcibly suppressed into the deepest sea of his consciousness, sealed beneath indestructible rationality in that moment.
What happened had happened. Anger was useless; accountability could wait. The only question now was—what to do next.
Swain turned his gaze to the map of Ionia. With the fall of Fae'lor, Noxus's seemingly impregnable front line had suddenly become incredibly fragile. Having lost their stable supply line, the situation could no longer proceed slowly as he had originally planned.
The news hadn't spread widely yet, and it wouldn't, at least not in the short term. But as time fermented, this victory would massively boost the morale of the Ionians, and correspondingly, it would strip the Noxian army of its conviction in inevitable victory.
He couldn't drag this out any longer. He couldn't let them turn the victory at Fae'lor into a widespread counter-offensive. More importantly, he couldn't allow the Ionians to forge a new spirit through conventional warfare. If that happened, the Empire might not just face a crushing military defeat, but end up birthing a terrifying new enemy for itself.
He had to force them into a decisive battle—a battle before their morale was fully ignited, before the Noxian soldiers lost their will to fight. A decisive battle the Ionians couldn't avoid, couldn't fight with guerrilla tactics, and had to face head-on with everything they had.
His fingertip stopped, landing squarely on a heavily marked location on the map—the Placidium.
The spiritual holy land of Ionia, the cradle of ancient wisdom, the convergence point of countless sects and factions—the heart of Ionia.
True, it gathered Ionia's most outstanding leaders, strongest martial artists, and most devout priests. But equally true, according to the records of the Warmasons, it was also the most stubbornly traditionalist region.
Originally, Swain devised his plan to slowly nibble away at Ionia's civilization. Because as long as he showed signs of leniency during the attack, he could stoke the delusions of the conservatives there, making them unwitting accomplices in Ionia's collapse.
But now, there was no time for a slow, steady advance. He had to instantly shatter all the spiritual pillars of the Ionian people.
Amidst his thoughts, a clear, ruthless, and perhaps even mad strategy rapidly formed and perfected itself in Swain's mind.
He could no longer disperse his forces to control the long coastline and countless islands. The loss of Fae'lor, ironically, felt like pruning unnecessary branches, allowing him to see the main trunk more clearly. Since the flanks were lost and the supply lines threatened, then to hell with the flanks! To hell with the long supply lines! He would concentrate all his forces like a warhammer forged from the absolute will of Noxus. Abandon all secondary objectives, ignore all harassment along the way, and march in a straight line. With the fastest speed and the strongest force, he would smash directly into—and shatter—the Placidium!
With this resolved, Swain ordered the legion commanders into his main tent. Once everyone was assembled, he spoke coldly under their surprised gazes: "Relay my orders. Halt all subjugation operations in every sector. Recall all mobile detachments and Warmason squads. The First, Third, and Fifth Legions will converge on the main battle line. The logistics units will abandon all supplies except those necessary to guarantee the main legion's rapid advance. The objective: the Placidium. Leave no room for retreat. Spare no cost. We will end this war in their spiritual holy land with the absolute fastest speed!!"
Meanwhile, in the Temple of the Long-Standing—"We should seize this opportunity! Let the Noxians realize their mistakes and repent voluntarily, rather than kicking them while they're down and launching an attack!"
Thus spoke the elders of the Temple of the Long-Standing.