He was driven to his knees, his massive axes clattering to the stone.
His squadmates collapsed around him, groaning in breathless agony, pinned to the earth by an invisible, insurmountable weight.
Zechuan walked forward.
His footsteps were completely silent.
His face was a mask of cold, melancholic, utterly terrifying indifference.
It was the exact face of the Tragic Prince the entire sect believed him to be.
He stopped in front of the kneeling, gasping brute.
"You know nothing of the dark," Zechuan whispered, his dark eyes looking down at the man with absolute, chilling apathy. "And you have spoken out of turn in the presence of my Martial Uncle. You are unworthy of the tokens you carry."
He didn't touch them, just twitched his fingers.
The heavy leather pouches containing the Crimson Blade squad's gathered Sovereign Tokens were violently ripped from their belts by the invisible vacuum, flying through the air to land neatly at Zechuan's boots.
