Pompeyo's gaze fixed upon the White Death. His eyes were cold, merciless, and full of brutality as the Origin Force of the Zanís homeworld surged into his body. His aura radiated power greater than a sun, searing and oppressive, bending the void around him with its intensity.
He regarded Altharion as if the Crown Prince were beneath him, not even worth his notice. For a moment, however, his eyes drifted toward Vlad. An inquisitive glimmer flickered there, as though weighing the younger man's worth, before his focus returned to Alexandro.
"Alexandro," Pompeyo's voice thundered across the void, deep and commanding, "are you certain you want to do this? At this moment?"
The White Death's eyes were not merely cold—they were absolute. There was no hesitation, no doubt in his soul. His reply was carved in steel.
