Alex's grip around the back of Sylen's neck didn't loosen—it tightened.
Like a vice forged from ice and finality.
Sylen remained frozen in time, body limp under the crushing pressure of the Chronos Field. His limbs might as well have belonged to a corpse. His muscles refused even the simplest twitch. His lungs screamed for breath, but the air refused to move.
He could see.
He could think.
But he could not move.
Alex leaned in closer, his voice low, almost tender. Not mocking. Not cruel. But coldly honest.
"You fought well," he murmured, breath ghosting against Sylen's ear. "But it wasn't enough."
The words landed like a verdict, not a taunt—an executioner's final courtesy before the blade fell.
Then, it began.
