(Hawkeye gave me permission to rewrite his previous post.)
Trying vainly to rip off a jagged piece from the unusable rifle, Hiren Dark makes one last small whimper of defiance before a spasm of pain jerks his hand, causing him to strike the shard of metal against the rest of the gun. His eyes widen as he sees the spark fly off, his gaze following it as the gas spills into the room. The powerfully harsh smell of the gas fills his nose, burning it even before the flames burst out from the spark. Instinctively curling up into a ball to protect his vital areas, the skin on his arms and legs, already little more then ash, is blown right off his limbs by the concussive force of the blast. Gasping out in pain, the fire spreads into his lungs, burning at his insides even as the liquid in his eyes comes to a quick boil. Clawing at his face with one hand, and his chest with the other, Valor Kor, A.K.A Hiren Dark, falls onto his side, his muscles no longer able to respond as the nerves are scorched into nothingness, blinded as his eyes burst from the pressure of the boiling liquids.
With a last, pitiful sigh, Hiren Dark falls to the embrace of the Grim Reaper, and with him so falls the last of the Starclan, doomed to die for several years.