If he was going to lose everything—his position, his empire—he would at least take this bastard down with him. His mind blanked into raw instinct: kill him.
Cruxius didn't even blink.
The blade in his hand moved—not with force, but with delicate, almost lazy precision. A subtle flick, a whisper of movement.
Before Alvian's fist could even land, a thin red line bloomed across his wrist.
Alvian's eyes went wide as his arm suddenly lost strength, collapsing uselessly. Another flick—and the other hand followed.
The cords and tendons that gave strength to his fingers and wrists were severed with a surgical knife.
He collapsed onto the ground with a choked gasp, his arms falling limp, unable to even support himself properly.
"Guah—!" he tried to yell, tried to command, but Cruxius was already moving.
With smooth, practiced ease, he shrugged his suit off his shoulder, wrapping it tightly around Alvian's face.
"Mmphhh!!—"
