- [ A forceful standstill ]

» Back with Callian - Atop the bridge

Callian stared down at the impossibly long stretch of bridge ahead.

There was no cover beyond this point—nowhere to hide from the guards' watchful eyes, and no feasible means of distracting them.

This left him with only one real option: to utilise his armament and propel himself past them.

But even if he did that, the noise would alert them to his presence.

But even then, it would be loud—and would likely end up giving him away anyway.

Callian's psyche wrestled with shimmer-born indecision.

"Oi!"

A booming shout rose to where he stood atop the bridge's pinnacle.

"Get down from there now!"

One of the guards had spotted him. Somehow.

Callian closed his eyes—tilting his head back to face the greying sky.

He ignored the furious, animated shouts that echoed up to him.

He had been seen.

Callian raised a tired hand and laid it to rest atop his masked forehead, slowly pushing it upward to comb through the front of his dark blue hair.

He raised a tired hand and rested it upon his masked forehead, slowly sliding it upward to comb through the front of his dark blue hair.

His hood dropped—gently.

Cold, frosted air washed over his now unprotected skin.

The shimmer rampaging through his mind recoiled—nailed back into a bloodied, watchful restraint.

Callian's weary violet eyes opened—flickering down to where the pair of armed, demanding enforcers stood.

He stepped forward—off the bridge's supporting pillar.

He fell—dark coat billowing upward in the opposing wind.

It was always going to end this way.

Both enforcers yelled, baulking in alarm as they watched him plummet—presumably to his death.

Then he landed. Hard.

His heavy, metal boots slammed into the concrete slabs of the bridge, leaving a small web of cracks in the unusually tough stone.

His eyes rolled upwards—staring straight down the shaking barrel of the closest enforcer's rifle.

"Stop!" its wielder cried, thoroughly rattled. "Hands in the air—where I can see 'em!"

The man's hair was greying, his old, wrinkled face creased in fear.

His other, younger companion looked no steadier.

Callian slowly withdrew his foot from the shattered stone.

Callously, the man's attention flickered toward the broken ground.

This was not an ordinary material.

As Callian's foot hit the bridge once more—his blood ignited. Pure, intoxicating life flared beneath his skin—feeling both raw and overwhelming in its intensity.

The enforcers' shaky demands stopped abruptly—their agitated voices halting midway, mouths hanging open.

Time slowed.

Callian's burned. His flesh was on fire.

He darted forward, closing the gap and the now motionless duo in a heartbeat.

Their pupils contracted—slightly—terrified eyes struggling to register the sudden, instant change.

To them, he was but a blur.

Callian raised his armoured fingers and swiped them sideways—severing the older man's throat in one sharp motion.

He retracted his hand. The man's lifeblood hung in the air for barely a breath—before it began its sluggish descent.

Then he pivoted, his armoured shin shooting up to slam into the man's side—lifting him clear off the ground.

Callian whipped around, flashing toward the younger enforcer and severing his forefinger at its base—before he could pull the rifle's primed trigger.

He turned on the spot sharply, closing in on the younger guard. His deft fingers severed the man's forefinger at its base—halting it before he could pull the rifle's trigger.

There was no need to wake the still-sleeping city just yet.

The young man's brown eyes were set upon him now. Wide, unfocused—terrified.

Callian cut his throat in the next instant.

Another, even more powerful kick followed—cracking the man's ribs with a sharp, deliberate snap.

The sharp noise sounded impossibly slow to Callian's burning ears.

Blood thundered in Callian's temple—deafeningly loud in comparison with the quiet, slowed world around him.

As his leg dropped, time began to resume its natural pace.

The first enforcer's blood painted the paved stone in a small, splattered arc.

His aged body exploded over the bridge's side, rifle clattering loudly—abandoned behind him.

The second followed soon after, clutching his weapon just long enough for it to clip the railing and spin out of his mutilated hand.

A long moment passed.

Then two heavy splashes echoed upward from the river below.

The guard's choking cries were muffled into quiet by the filthy, bloodstained water.

But Callian heard them all the same.

He tossed the enforcer's severed finger aside, wiping his bloodied hand on the front of his coat.

He exhaled deeply—his once formless breath now coming out as a frigid, icy mist.

He exhaled. His once formless breath now clouded the air in a plume of white mist.

Then he ran—slipping past Piltover's now unguarded frontier.

The guards' final moments would be agony as the river's toxins melded with their open wounds.

Knowing this, Callian pressed onward, heading northeast.

He dashed through Piltover's waking streets, dodging the early morning patrols as he made his way to the Kiramman estate.

He arrived within a minute—clearing the tall, blackened steel fencing in a single, strengthened bound.

He landed upon white, frost-covered grass.

Callian's ears thrummed.

He could hear the layered crunching beneath his boots—as he could the voices inside the house.

He stiffened, coming to an abrupt halt beneath an open, elevated terrace.

"I just wanted to thank you, Ma'am—for believing in me, even after all this time."

What.

"I-I think I'm getting close to a breakthrough concerning the hex-crystals," the voice continued the words practically tumbling from his mouth. "All I need to do now is figure out a way to stabilise them—properly this time."

A low sigh followed his words.

"I should hope so, Jayce. Because despite my initial interest in this little project of yours—my patience is beginning to wear thin."

Callian heard the young man's heart skip a beat.

"If you're efforts don't manage to amount to something within the coming months, then as your patron—I'm going to have to ask you to abandon this endeavour and switch your attention back toward your studies at the academy."

Now it was Jayce's turn to sigh—his voice laced with bitterness.

"It's because they're expensive, isn't it?"

"Yes," the woman agreed, "these 'hex-crystals', as you've dubbed them—are expensive. Extremely so. And I'm sure you know why."

Jayce began to pace.

"Imports from Shurima aren't cheap, Jayce—especially when I am asking the traders to risk moving their lives moving something so volatile."

"But they're not volatile if properly contained," Jayce snapped, frustrated. "I don't understand how the Ferros family can get away with driving up their prices so extravagantly. Publicly—these crystals don't even have a use yet."

For a moment, silence hung in the air.

"Three months, Jayce. That's all I can do for you."

Callian didn't stick around to hear their conversation end.

Cassandra Kiramman was backing Jayce Talis.

Of course she was.

That explained why their crests had been linked on his map.

It had been she who had supplied him with the raw Brackern crystals.

He had not known that their connection ran so deep—so far back.

There was a bitter irony in that.

Jayce had abandoned his benefactor's daughter—someone he had to have known well—condemning her to face the Undercity's wrath.

And Callian could not blame him for that.

But this meant the Kirammans were untouchable.

Completely untouchable.

For now.

Hextech was a piece far too important later in the game. He couldn't risk its creation going awry—not even in the slightest.

Not with what was coming.

The Twin Cities would need the Champions his devices would one day produce.

This was a subject of far greater importance than his… vendetta.

Callian continued to brood as he made his way back toward Promenade.

In shimmer-induced desperation, he had forgotten his original purpose—his reason for travelling to Eastside.

The money.

Money he now had to go back and fetch.

A faint irritation needles at him—then quickly dissolved underneath his usual restraint.

He would give Vander two days of silent respite before making his return to initiate their second meeting.

A meeting that Zaun's current peacekeeper would hesitate to forget.

✦ ✦ ✦

» The present - Two weeks after Callian declared himself as Powder's patron

It was dusk.

Callian strolled through the upper levels of Entresol—steadily descending to its main, middle level.

He carried a small paper bag in one hand, careful to angle his sharp, armoured fingers away from its delicate surface.

Despite his earlier turmoil, his mind was clear once more. His younger self's death—and its implications—no longer bothered him.

In his original timeline, he had indeed made a return trip to his Eastside hideaway during the winter.

It had been his intention back then, ironically, to retrieve the money cached within the manor—as he had now acquired a permanent residence to stay in.

One where people would dare to steal from him no longer.

During that fateful last visitation, he had found a family of Zonai there—raiding the remains of what had been his favourite home.

Enraged—he had killed them. Killed them all.

Including their child.

Perhaps the scarring inflicted upon him by its enraged father had been a form of karma for his unwarranted actions.

He had planned never to return to the manor—and yet, he had still killed them.

Either way, originally, he had survived that fight—though not fully unscathed.

This time, though, the injury to his face had been worse. A lot worse.

Likely staggering him long enough for the creature to pin him down and get its revenge.

The Entresol marketplace finally came into view, breaking Callian from his thoughts.

And with it—The Last Drop.

Callian entered, catching the busy Vander's eye.

He gestured towards the back room subtly.

Vander nodded briefly, raising a single finger in response before turning back to the bar.

Just Powder, then.

Callian walked behind the counter and into the back room—passing through the leftmost door and heading down into the basement.

Objectively, the area was spacious—contrary to the cramped look its general clutter and oversized furniture gave it.

The boiler room, for that was what it was, had been repurposed into a living space that was fit for two—while also serving as a hangout area.

There were bunk beds for the girls, a wide table surrounded by sofas, and a solitary high-backed armchair.

Powder sat on one of the sofas—back to the door—engrossed in the work that lay before her.

Callian approached the sofa quietly, coming to a halt behind it.

"Powder," he said, greeting the girl.

The girl jumped, succinctly dropping the piece of bent sheet metal contained within her hands.

"Cal! You have to stop doing that!" she whined, spinning around. "It's not funny."

Callian didn't reply.

He took a small measure of satisfaction from dropping out of nowhere to scare the girl.

Back then, she had the same to him often enough.

He set the paper bag down on the cushion beside her.

"Pastries from Topside," he said, walking around the table and moving toward the empty armchair. "Share them with the others—or do not. It is your decision."

Powder abandoned her project hastily, her hands diving into the bag eagerly.

She glanced back up at him with starry eyes.

"Thank you so much!" she exclaimed, delighted, quickly becoming engrossed with the sweet-tasting food.

Callian let her eat, staring down at the device she had been in the midst of building.

"This is a tad more dangerous than your usual work," he remarked, recognising the grenade's unusually sharp payload.

It was a large mix of nails.

"Though still not nearly strong enough to deal any lasting damage.

"Yeah." the girl agreed, her demeanour wilting. "The propulsion system's too weak—I know. But I need something to work with. I want to be able to help the gang."

Callian sat down on the edge of the chair, leaning forward intently.

"They left you behind again," he noted, interlocking his fingers and resting them between his open legs.

Powder nodded.

"Smoke bombs are great and all—but they're not always useful. I'm not a fast enough runner for some of the gigs Vi takes on—apparently."

The girl bit into the pastry—fiercely.

Perhaps even a little selfishly.

Callian studied Powder evenly, noting her subtle, layered attitude.

Then his eyes flickered back toward the half-finished device.

"Walk me through what you have made so far," the man requested, "let us evaluate this piece you have assembled."

Callian wasn't the kind of man to offer empty praise—to lie and soften failure when it happened.

Powder was indeed not a fast runner—and would most certainly slow down the group enough to pose a risk to them all.

Her designs too, were most certainly flawed.

She knew this. So did he.

So he pushed her. Pressed her to improve. To try again and again until eventually—something worked.

And slowly. Undeniably. This persevering attitude he was cultivating within her began to bloom.

Powder's skill and confidence grew sharper by the day—bright with potential.

And, in turn, as her character finally began to shine—Zaun's future brightened with her.

✦ ✦ ✦