Magsarion: “Don’t say it. I do not know you as the one who said it. You hear me? Keep quiet.”

Magsarion’s presence was overwhelming, his words not just a command but a decree that crushed any attempt at resistance. His sharp, intense gaze bore into the trembling figure before him, a cold fury simmering beneath the surface. The room seemed to darken, the very air thickening as the weight of his will pressed down on the space. In this moment, silence wasn’t just a request—it was an imposition, an ironclad law that could not be broken without dire consequences.

The trembling figure before him had barely opened their mouth when Magsarion’s voice cut through the air, slicing through the tension with the precision of a blade. His words carried an authority that left no room for disobedience, each syllable laden with the promise of swift retribution. There was something deeply unsettling about the way he spoke: calm, deliberate, but with an undercurrent of rage barely contained, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

Magsarion had no patience for those who did not understand the gravity of his words. His expression remained cold, unyielding, as he waited for the silence to settle. He wasn’t one for unnecessary conversations or idle chatter. In his world, every word had weight, every command was final. Those who failed to understand that simple truth were either fools or enemies, and Magsarion had no mercy for either.

His posture, rigid and dominant, exuded the kind of confidence that could only come from someone who had faced countless battles, both internal and external, and emerged victorious. There was no hesitation in his movements, no doubt in his commands. For Magsarion, the world was a battlefield, and silence was just another weapon in his vast arsenal. To speak without purpose was to waste energy, and Magsarion had none to spare for the trivial or the meaningless.