Cleaver Of Sin

Chapter 78: Romanticized Nonsense

In the blink of an eye, Asher and Hillary materialized at a single point in space, rapiers drawn, their rapier gleaming with lethal intent. Like twin cobras striking in perfect synchronicity, their hands shot forward, both aiming for the same point, at the same moment.

A sharp clang shattered the stillness as the tips of their rapiers collided. The very air at the point of impact shrieked in protest before erupting outward in a concussive burst.

Their garments fluttered violently from the shockwave, yet neither combatant yielded ground. Eyes locked, they stood as mirrored reflections, two minds sharing one rhythm, one intent, one moment.

Though their feet remained rooted, their arms blurred into motion, unleashing a relentless storm of thrusts. Each strike was met with another, a flawless counter, as steel kissed steel again and again in a savage ballet of speed and strength.

Within a single minute, their rapier had clashed over a thousand times. The ground beneath them had sunken under the strain, a crater forming from the sheer intensity of their duel. Earth and stone erupted outward, flung aside by the explosive force of their confrontation.

With a thunderous boom, the earth caved in further beneath them, the sudden collapse breaking their rhythm and disrupting their successive exchange. Yet even as their footing faltered, their gazes remained locked, unbending, unblinking, bound by unspoken challenge.

In the next instant, they vanished from the fractured ravine, their figures blurring into motion as they surged into the forest beyond.

No Astra. No elemental power. Just the raw, unfiltered mastery of rapier combat.

Their forms sliced through the woodland like phantom blades, each movement a testament to lethal efficiency. Trees, stones, anything unfortunate enough to obstruct their path, were annihilated in an instant, obliterated as gaping voids tore through their centers, remnants of the sheer velocity and force behind every step and strike.

Beneath the waning glow of the moon, two streaks of light carved through the air, gliding across meters as if space itself dared not hinder their path. Each pass birthed a storm of sparks, scattering like burning embers and casting the night sky in hues of molten orange.

They moved like phantoms, ghostly, untouchable, yet devastating. Blades whispered through the air, slicing reality as if cleaving through the very fabric of existence.

Every clash of their rapiers resounded like the toll of a distant bell, solemn, resonant, heralding not merely combat, but the collision of two indomitable wills. It was more than a duel. It was a reckoning.

Though Asher had heard Hillary claim he was now an assassin who still bore the heart of a knight, he refused to entertain such romanticized nonsense.

Trusting a man like Hillary, even for a moment, could mean death. Even now, despite their ongoing duel being devoid of Astra, Asher’s gaze never wavered from Hillary’s entire form, watching with ruthless stare for any sudden or hidden maneuver.

Virelass screamed in his grip, the blade vibrating with eagerness as Asher moved in perfect sync with it. He feinted, his rapier carving a serpentine path of deception through the air. Hillary adjusted to defend, but the moment he committed, Asher’s trajectory shifted with surgical accuracy.

And yet, Hillary responded, not with surprise, but as if he had foreseen it from the very beginning.

Hillary’s rapier shimmered, then vanished into a blur of motion. In the next breath, hundreds of crescent slashes materialized around him like conjured wind blades, as if the sheer force of his movements had compelled reality itself to obey.

Asher’s eyes narrowed, the purple hue in his gaze gleaming with focus. He had never witnessed this technique before, but his battle instincts were honed beyond reason. His body responded before thought could catch up. Muscles coiled. Virelass rose.

The moment the swirling cuts closed in, Asher moved, fluid and precise, mirroring the technique with uncanny accuracy. Together, he and Virelass unleashed the same devastating motion.

In an instant, a storm of cutting wind erupted from him. Hundreds of phantom blades tore through the space between them, meeting Hillary’s in a violent symphony.

Sword marks ravaged the earth. Trenches split the terrain, stretching for meters. Trees, mighty and tall, were diced into clean fragments, reduced to logs as if sliced by invisible executioners. The forest groaned under the weight of their destructive power.

But Asher didn’t remain still.

The moment he executed the technique, his Perfect Muscle Memory had already committed and refined it, flawlessly. What had taken Hillary years to master, Asher adapted within seconds.

He and Virelass moved again, their synchronization absolute, one body, one mind, one blade.

His arm blurred into motion. The air howled in protest, but it was forced to yield beneath the weight of his will.

Hundreds of razor-sharp wind slashes bled into existence once more, but this time, they carried a different purpose. No longer a mirror or a defense, they were an assault. Sharper. Faster. Ruthless.

Each cut tore through space like a predator unchained, seeking Hillary with deadly intent.

Hillary wasn’t surprised by the sight before him.

He had been watching Asher for the past five hours, ever since the True Awakening began. He had seen Asher carve through veteran assassins with ease, reducing years of honed skill to fleeting moments of futility.

He had watched him wield daggers with stolen precision, mimicking their techniques flawlessly. Even the whip, an unfamiliar weapon, had bent to Asher’s will on the first attempt, as if it had always belonged in his hand.

So no, Hillary wasn’t shocked that Asher had replicated the wind-cutting technique so perfectly. And yet, a silent thunder echoed in his chest, a sensation long buried beneath layers of experience and detachment.

When was the last time he had felt this?

When was the last time he stood against another rapier wielder, someone who could challenge him with raw talent and unrelenting instinct?

His expression remained stone. He said nothing.

Words had no place in battle, not for him.

Just action.

Without a word, Hillary shifted into stance, silent, sharp, absolute. His presence deepened, pressing down on the world like a rising tide. Then he moved.

In the blink of an eye, his form vanished into a streak of black light, erupting outward in a burst of blinding speed and overwhelming force.

His rapier clashed against the incoming wind blades, not with hesitation, but with dominance. Each arc of his blade shredded through the attacks as though they were made of paper. He cut, he cleaved, he dismantled the very air around him.

Over a century of battle-hardened instinct blazed in every motion. This was no longer mere combat, it was art formed through war.

A massive dust storm erupted, surging upward in a chaotic spiral that swallowed the battlefield whole. Amidst the swirling haze, only twin flashes, one black, one silver, could be seen, streaking through the smoke like gods of war unleashed.

And then, silence.

The lights vanished, consumed by the rising veil of dust, leaving behind only stillness and a world holding its breath.

Asher’s eyes pierced through the churning dust storm, unblinking. Though the haze clouded sight, his senses blared within his mind like sirens, warning him, guiding him. He dared not remain still.

In an instant, his body vanished in a streak of purple, retreating backward with fluid grace and sharpened instinct.

Then it came.

Hillary erupted from the heart of the dust like a sniper’s bullet, silent, deadly, unstoppable. His form was a flash of darkness, hurtling forward with singular focus. There was only one target: Asher.

Asher’s eyes tracked the descent, reading every nuance in a heartbeat. From above, Hillary’s rapier fell like a meteor, blazing, merciless, ready to tear reality into ribbons.

But Asher met it head-on.

Virelass surged forward in his grip, gleaming with intent. With a swift twist of his wrist, his blade rose to meet the descending strike. Timing and technique blended in perfect harmony as he deflected the blow with an expert parry, redirecting the killing force with surgical motion.

Steel kissed steel, and the air trembled in reverence.