Cleaver Of Sin

Chapter 191: Too Talented For Your Understanding

Asher’s right hand moved with slow, deliberate indifference. The moment his fingers twitched and rose from the table, eyes snapped toward him, every pair of pupils narrowing in sharp alertness. It was as though invisible strings of tension pulled at their gazes, each one asking the same silent question: What was the Tenth Sun about to do?

Within Asher’s body, Astra pulsed like a gentle current, flowing smoothly through his Astra veins. A faint shimmer spread across his skin, subtle but undeniable, as energy pooled into his raised palm. The sight was enough to sharpen the atmosphere instantly, as if the hall itself braced for impact.

Seeing the Astra gather, the nobles seated at the table could not help but think: ’Is he going to attack?’

Their poise shifted imperceptibly, slight movements of shoulders, subtle changes in breath, minute adjustments of posture. These gestures were invisible to the untrained eye, but to nobles raised in the crucible of politics, etiquette, and hidden power, every movement was a declaration of readiness.

Though none drew their weapons, each child of nobility prepared themselves to respond.

And yet, the act that followed betrayed no hostility.

Asher willed his Astra to move, and it obeyed him with fluid grace. At once, various dishes and platters spread across the long table stirred.

Meat seasoned with fragrant herbs, fruits arranged like art, bread steaming from warmth, and glistening cuts of roasted fish, all lifted gently into the air, gliding as though drawn by unseen threads. The food floated across the polished surface of the table until it descended with perfect precision onto Asher’s plate.

For a moment, silence dominated the air, broken only by the faint clinks of porcelain. The assembled nobles, who had braced themselves for a strike, were left momentarily stunned. What they had anticipated as the prelude to a confrontation had instead been the simple act of serving oneself.

They had overreacted.

Without hesitation, Asher lifted his cutlery and began to eat. His movements were elegant but natural, betraying no sign of pretense or calculation. He did not care for the silent tension that lingered between those seated at the table, nor for the unspoken showdown of nobility and pride that pressed like a heavy weight upon the space.

He was hungry, and hunger cared little for politics.

A few moments later, the others followed suit. Plates were filled, dishes passed, and soon enough, even the most prideful of nobles could not resist the temptation of the banquet. Their hunger prevailed over their egos, and one by one, they served themselves, though with all the careful grace demanded of their noble upbringing.

’Hmm... it seems William won’t be joining us,’ Asher thought idly as he carved a piece of roasted venison and brought it to his lips.

William, who had secured fourth place in the battle examination, just below Asher and the imperial twins, had chosen not to approach this particular table. His absence was unsurprising.

Surrounded by heirs of dukes, a marquis, and the children of the Emperor, William, the son of a mere baron, understood his position.

The Star Academy itself did not recognize nobility or lineage; here, only strength was meant to matter. But they were not yet within the inner sanctum of the Academy.

This gathering was still held in the outer domains, where noble etiquette and hierarchy remained a tangible force. Besides, nothing had been said by the instructor to forbid the candidates from clashing with one another. Caution was, therefore, wisdom.

Those seated at the table conducted themselves with the effortless refinement of their upbringing. Their every movement, whether lifting a fork, cutting meat, or sipping from a goblet, was carried out with the fluid poise of people raised to rule. Even in something as mundane as eating, their actions reflected their birthright.

Throughout the hall, the contrast was clear. On other tables, candidates chatted freely, laughter rising and falling like waves as they eagerly discussed the examination. The thrill of combat lingered in their words, stories retold, victories recounted, and near defeats shared in nervous humor. The air brimmed with camaraderie.

But at Asher’s table, silence reigned.

Not that Asher minded.

He ate quietly, content with the rhythmic motion of cutlery against porcelain. The silence was broken only by the soft, refined sounds of forks and knives, muted by years of noble etiquette.

Until, suddenly, a voice broke through the quiet.

”So, Asher, it has been a year since we last spoke.”

The speaker was Vaelra Lux Vanthelmor, the imperial princess. Her tone was sweet, polished, and deliberate, her words accompanied by the elegant lift of her spoon toward her lips.

The other nobles at the table did not miss a beat. Their attention sharpened, each ear keenly focused, for they understood the weight behind her words. The princess and the Tenth Sun had met before.

’They are on a first-name basis,’ each thought silently.

For most, addressing a Wargrave by name was unthinkable. It had become an unspoken rule across the Empire: Wargraves were referred to only by their titles, Sun or Moon. Even the Emperor himself, though father to Vaelra, would address Asher as the Tenth Sun, for that was how the world acknowledged their lineage.

Though the Emperor could, in truth, have called Asher by his birth name without consequence, the universal practice of honoring Wargraves by title had become deeply ingrained. Names were privileges, given only to those whom a Wargrave permitted.

Asher’s gaze lifted from his plate, his head turning toward Vaelra. Her lips curved with a lingering smile, her bright eyes fixed on him as though she found amusement in their reunion.

”Indeed,” Asher replied smoothly, his voice calm and even. A faint smile touched his lips before he turned back to his plate. ”It seems you did not host an eighteenth birthday this year.”

”Birthdays are overrated,” Vaelra answered, her tone carrying an effortless grace. ”We live long lives. There is no need to celebrate them each passing year.”

”That is indeed true,” Asher agreed.

He had never been a true believer in birthdays. To him, they were frivolous occasions, and more often than not, men in particular regarded them with indifference. Parties, decorations, endless rituals of reoccurrence, none of it ever appealed to him.

After that, silence fell once more. Vaelra, content with his answer, said no more, and Asher returned his attention to his food.

It was then that another voice cut into the quiet.

”But who would have thought,” Vaelric Lux Vanthelmor, the imperial prince, spoke at last, his words carrying weight, ”that the Tenth Sun, once thought talentless, possessed such power and ability.”

Unlike his twin sister, he did not call Asher by name. He adhered to the unspoken rule, addressing him only by title.

During the royal birthday party a year ago, Vaelric and Asher had not exchanged words, not even once. Even when they had found themselves face-to-face during the conflict involving Ryan Silvershade, they had remained silent.

This was their first true exchange.

At his words, the air grew heavier. Though only a few syllables had been spoken, their weight pressed against everyone seated at the table. It was not only Vaelric who pondered such thoughts, every noble present had wondered the same.

Asher’s gaze rose once more, purple eyes meeting the prince’s with unshaken calm. His tone was composed, almost indifferent, as he spoke.

”I am not responsible for the misconceptions others hold of me, Your Highness. People often choose to believe rumors without seeking truth.”

”Indeed,” Vaelric said, his voice quieter now, his eyes sharp. ”Rumors often mislead. But it is not rumor that you failed your awakening twice before succeeding on your third attempt. That is fact. And yet, despite such a beginning, you stand here now, wielding a level of power that defies all reason, after only a single year.”

Unlike the others, who merely entertained their thoughts in silence, Vaelric pressed forward with boldness. His words carried not accusation but curiosity, though cloaked beneath the veil of imperial authority.

Asher’s lips curved faintly, his expression as steady as stone. His voice flowed like a blade drawn across silk, smooth, unhesitating, and sharp.

”I understand,” he said flatly, ”if I am too talented for your understanding, Your Highness.”