Cleaver Of Sin

Chapter 71: Middle Finger

Asher refused to let the pain cloud his focus. Virelass responded instantly, drawing what little blood remained from the slain assassins nearby. His wounds began to mend, flesh stitching itself back together in slow, painful increments.

But not all of them closed.

His own lightning had incinerated the bodies, charring them so severely that there was barely any blood left for Virelass to extract. The recovery was incomplete, insufficient.

To make matters worse, Virelass couldn’t be sent to harvest from nearby monsters. He needed her here, by his side, ready for whatever came next.

The assassins could only watch in stunned silence as the blood of their fallen comrades was drawn toward the rapier in Asher’s hand. The unnatural sight sent a ripple of unease through them, and without hesitation, they instinctively stepped back.

They didn’t understand what was happening, but they knew better than to remain too close.

Every Wargrave soul weapon was said to possess at least one formidable ability. Until now, Asher’s rapier had shown none, something they had noted and waited for.

Now that it had revealed its ability, their instincts shifted immediately into caution.

As they continued to observe, the assassins noticed something unsettling, some of the bruises Asher had sustained from crashing against trees and stones were slowly fading, the skin mending itself before their eyes.

Then it clicked.

The Tenth Sun could heal his injuries.

Yet none of them moved. They simply watched, faint smirks curling on their lips, like predators indulging in the final struggles of wounded prey.

But then, the healing came to an abrupt halt.

The rapier ceased drawing in blood.

In that instant, realization struck them like lightning, the blood supply was exhausted. And with it, the weapon’s healing ability.

Their smiles widened, not with amusement, but with cruel understanding. The Tenth Sun was no longer regenerating.

”I must admit, this was unexpected, or perhaps... exactly what one should expect from a Wargrave,” the assassin who had spoken earlier remarked, his tone calm yet laced with intrigue. ”A soul weapon with healing capabilities... how rare. But even such a ability comes with limitations, it seems.”

This assassin, clearly the leader of the group, had yet to make a single move. He remained at the edge of the battlefield, arms crossed, watching with a detached patience as the other four executed the assault.

”It appears your rapier requires a source, blood, for its healing to function. And without it...”

He paused, offering a slight shake of his head, a mockery of regret.

”...what a pity.”

Yet despite his condescension, he made no move to advance. His caution was deliberate. Controlled.

Though it was widely believed that Wargrave soul weapons possessed at least one ability, those familiar with the bloodline knew better.

As a lineage of monsters, their soul weapons bore a minimum of two, one often concealed until the moment it was truly needed.

That was why the assassin leader had remained at a distance.

He hadn’t interfered in the battle, hadn’t thrown a single strike. He was watching, waiting, for Asher to reveal the rapier’s second ability.

There was no intelligence on what that ability might be. No records, no whispers in the underworld. But his thoughts told him enough. If the first ability was a rare support-type, healing through blood, then the second was almost certainly offensive.

And he wasn’t going to be the fool who triggered it.

That was why he kept his distance, leaving Asher to the four assassins under his command. Because he understood a simple truth: cornered prey are always the most dangerous. And when it came to Wargraves, the line between prey and predator blurred dangerously fast.

His words? Nothing but bait. Designed to provoke. To draw out the second ability.

To an outsider, it might have seemed as though he was wasting precious time by standing idle, doing nothing while the battlefield hung in tense stillness. But the assassin leader knew better.

He had time. Roughly five hours remained on the clock. All he needed to do was prevent the rapier from claiming another life, thus denying it blood to fuel its healing. That was a simple enough task.

After all, this was the True Awakening, a sanctioned hunt, where assassins were granted a rare and coveted opportunity: to kill a Wargrave without fear of retribution from the family.

Right now, he held every advantage.

Even if his target somehow regenerated miraculously, Asher’s stamina was still drained. His movements were sluggish. His Astra reserves? Dwindling. At best, he was surviving. At worst, he was cornered prey waiting to fall.

The assassin leader could feel the rapier had been drawing Astra from the air after the death of the black panther, and it was definitely not for healing.

He had guessed it had something to do with Asher’s rapier second ability.

Still, he made no move. Charging headfirst into the unknown was the mark of a fool. If it came to that, if Asher forced his hand, he would simply use one of his men to test the waters.

Sacrifice was the nature of their craft. They were assassins. They held no sentiment for the lives of their own.

Asher, who had been sprawled across the ground, finally rose with a low groan, his body a canvas of injuries etched into him like a second skin. Every muscle throbbed with pain. Yet, amidst the agony, his mind remained sharp, he understood precisely what the assassin was attempting by pointing out his weapon’s flaw and maintaining a safe distance.

And the assassin had been correct. Without drawing blood, Virelass’ Crimson Pact was little more than dust, an ability rendered utterly useless. That was one of its inherent weaknesses: deny it the chance to kill, and it became nothing.

Another flaw Asher had uncovered over the past six months was even more frustrating, he had no control over the order in which his injuries were healed.

Virelass acted on her own accord, mending wounds at random. Were it up to him, he would have prioritized the gaping slash across his chest before the blood drained completely.

Asher had spent his time looking for his own weaknesses, he didn’t just train like a mad man and forgot to check for holes in his own ability and power.

’No other choice, huh?’ Asher thought grimly as he rose unsteadily to his feet, legs trembling, barely holding him upright. It was sheer will that kept him standing, nothing more.

His body screamed with exhaustion, every muscle steeped in a deep, aching burn. Waves of pain surged through him, yet his mind did not falter; he had spent the past six months learning to endure pain, to welcome it like an old companion.

Turning his back to the assassin, Asher took a staggered step forward. The assassins watched in silence, unmoving. They could tell, he was moments away from collapsing.

He slipped behind a massive tree, its broad trunk concealing him completely. There, hidden in the shade of its bark, Virelass hovered gently above him, its presence marked by a faint, sorrowful hum that whispered through the silence.

”It’s useless, Asher Wargrave. It seems this is where it ends.” The assassin leader’s voice was calm, final, as he gestured for one of the four assassins behind him to finish the job.

With steady, unhurried steps, the chosen assassin advanced, a massive axe resting against his shoulder. As he neared the tree where Asher had taken cover, the world abruptly shifted, bathed in a searing, otherworldly purple light.

Before the man could so much as blink, Virelass moved.

It surged forward in a blur of speed, a phantom of silver vengeance. In a flash, the assassin’s head was severed cleanly from his shoulders, the strike so sudden he never even realized he’d been attacked.

As for Asher, lightning surged violently across his form, shrouding him in a storm of crackling purple. In an instant, he erased the distance between himself and the assassin leader, moving faster than the eye could follow.

One moment, the leader stood composed. The next, Asher appeared before him, his body fully healed, arcs of lightning dancing across his skin, his gaze cold and resolute.

’How did h—’

The thought barely formed before Asher’s hand drove through his chest with brutal finality, piercing flesh and bone.

He had relied on distance, calculated caution, but it hadn’t saved him. He died wide-eyed and wordless.

”You talk too much,” came Asher’s hoarse voice, laced with exhaustion and quiet contempt.

The remaining three assassins froze in disbelief, horror flickering in their eyes as they processed the loss of two comrades in mere seconds. But hesitation gave way to instinct, they attacked in unison.

Asher only smiled.

He raised a single middle finger in reply, calm, mocking, and in the blink of an eye, his form vanished, streaking away in a trail of silver light.

He had activated Position Marker.

The assassins were left standing in the oppressive silence, swallowed by the crushing darkness he left behind.