Cleaver Of Sin

Chapter 230: By My Hand

The residents of the Separate Dimension turned their eyes toward the sky, or at least, what remained of it, for a colossal nebula had already formed, swallowing the sky whole and encompassing the entirety of their view. What lingered above them was not the serene canopy of stars they once knew, but a swirling ocean of light and darkness that crackled with an incomprehensible energy.

Suspended amidst this apocalyptic yet beautiful spectacle stood a man, radiating an aura so profound that many would mistake him for an angel descending from the heavens, a divine herald sent to deliver the decrees of their god. His crimson cape, billowing violently in the cosmic winds, seemed to transform into wings of fiery scarlet, while the spear that vibrated in his grasp hummed with such resonance it could be mistaken for a celestial trumpet sounding the end of days.

His golden eyes swept across the Separate Dimension as though searching for something, or someone, worthy of his gaze. Space itself bent around him, gravity faltered, the wind staggered, even the air that filled lungs seemed to bow in reverence.

He floated without movement, without effort, and yet that stillness spoke more than entire libraries of words could ever attempt. Language and vocabulary, in all their infinite constructs, paled in comparison to the simple truth of his existence.

Malrik’s eyes shifted slowly toward the man who had just arrived.

His father. Azeron. The Primarch of the Wargrave bloodline, the indomitable Duke of the Wargrave household. Though Malrik’s face had long since settled into a mask of cold indifference, there was the faintest flicker of something else in his gaze now, surprise, perhaps even a sliver of acknowledgment. For he had not expected his father to step into this battlefield, let alone to tear through dimensions themselves to do so.

Cindralis, who had moments earlier held herself with the unshakable serenity of an eternal sovereign, felt her composure unravel into something fragile. Her calm face shifted into a frown, her aura wavered, and for the first time in ages, unease touched her expression.

If she had entertained even the faintest notion that she could contend with Malrik alone, that fragile hope was annihilated in an instant. Azeron was not merely another opponent, he was a catastrophe incarnate, a force of nature, a storm that neither blade nor spell could restrain. Facing Malrik alone had been dangerous but not impossible; facing Azeron alone was suicide. Facing them both together, father and son, united in blood and purpose, was utter annihilation. She could not hope to triumph.

A short while earlier, she had wondered how Malrik had slipped undetected into her Separate Dimension, breaching the very boundaries she had meticulously woven with her mastery of space. Now Azeron had surpassed even that feat, but in a far more brutal manner. He had not slipped quietly through her walls, he had shattered them. The outer layer of her carefully crafted realm had crumbled beneath his approach as though it were fragile glass beneath a titan’s fist. And he had done it without effort, without strain, without so much as a change in breath.

Cindralis had suspected he was capable of such acts. She had always known Azeron was not like the others, that his power far exceeded that of emperors and nobles who believed themselves untouchable. When she delivered admission letters to the chosen of Star Academy, commoners, nobles, and scions of influence alike, she always did so invisibly. None had ever detected her, not powerhouses, not dukes, not even even the emperor. Her spatial mastery allowed her to slip letters into the most guarded chambers without leaving a trace.

But never with Azeron. Against him, such subtlety was meaningless. And so, whenever one of his children was to be admitted, she had never dared approach. The letter was always delivered through Zarek, for she could not breach Azeron’s domain without him noticing.

Now her suspicions had crystallized into truth. She had felt the destruction of her Separate Dimension’s outer walls, yet she had been powerless to prevent it. Malrik’s presence had pinned her down, forcing her attention, making it impossible to divert her focus without consequence. One distraction, one miscalculation, and he would have cut her down without hesitation.

And now Azeron appeared, not as a roaring storm but with a terrifying calm. He floated gently, effortlessly, as though he were the center of all things. His lips parted, and his voice, deep and resonant, swept across the realm like judgment itself.

”What is happening here, Malrik? Cindralis?” he asked, his tone neither angered nor soft, but carrying the authority of inevitability.

Only moments earlier, he had been elsewhere, sharing a rare moment with his son. Then, without warning, Malrik had vanished, departing with such haste that even Azeron had raised a brow. He had not known where Malrik had gone, but that had not mattered. Every Wargrave bore the mark, a sigil that allowed them to track one another across vast distances. It had led him here, to this place, to this confrontation. And rather than ask permission, he had destroyed the barriers that stood in his path, striding into the battlefield as though it were nothing more than an open hall.

Silence stretched between them, tense and fragile. Neither Malrik nor Cindralis spoke at first. Then, without warning, Malrik’s form vanished from where he stood, reappearing at his father’s side as naturally as light crosses space. He stood calmly upon a ray of sunlight suspended in midair, as if it were solid earth beneath his boots.

”She attacked the Youngest,” Malrik said at last, his tone even, his voice like steel drawn against stone. He offered no further explanation, nor did he need to. To him, that was truth enough, reason enough.

As much as he desired to strike down Cindralis himself, to end her existence for daring to threaten his blood, Malrik was bound by chains older than his rage. The chain of command. Azeron, his father, stood at the peak, the Primarch of their bloodline, Malrik could not defy him, not even for the obsession that bound him to his siblings. Duty had been drilled into his bones, forged into him as surely as his own blood.

Azeron’s golden gaze turned to Cindralis. Slowly, his hand lifted, and in it materialized Ender, the spear of legend, its blade gleaming like a shard of the sun itself. Its point leveled against her heart.

”I will be needing an explanation,” Azeron declared, his voice resonant, unyielding. ”Or this Separate Dimension will fall by my hand.”

The air itself seemed to constrict at those words. Oxygen became poison, suffocating the lungs of all who drew breath. The atmosphere thickened into chains, binding every soul present.

Cindralis’ face darkened further. She knew, beyond pride or denial, that she could not stand against them. No matter how strong she had become, she could not oppose both Azeron and Malrik. Even if she somehow emerged victorious, it would be a hollow victory, for she would lose everything she had built.

Her voice, calm but edged with resignation, broke the silence. ”I offered him the chance to become my disciple,” she explained, her expression smoothing once more into a mask of neutrality. ”And when he refused, I merely... applied a bit of pressure.”

Azeron’s reply was immediate, his words like thunder clothed in reason. ”You should know this by now. The Wargraves do not accept masters. We bow to no one. We serve no one.”

Cindralis did not respond. She already knew this truth. She had known it from the beginning, and yet she had acted anyway.

Her plan had been flawless, or so she had thought. She had recognized the immense potential within Asher.

She had sought to claim it, to claim him, binding him to her as her disciple, since no Wargrave on her level of strength was within the Separate Dimension to stop her, she decided to act.

But.

She could never have predicted that Asher possessed a means to summon the First Sun. She could never have expected the situation to escalate so violently. It was meant to be simple, quiet, hidden. Now, it was chaos incarnate.

Her pride demanded resistance. It demanded that she fight, that she stand tall before them. But even pride had limits. For even if she triumphed against them, what then?

The Emperor, Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor, would not let such an opportunity slip by. If she were weakened, if her foundation was shaken, he would descend like a vulture upon a corpse. Injuries at their level were not trifles; they were weaknesses carved into their names. Even the strongest healers could not mend such wounds easily.

And worse, accepting healing from one of equal strength meant surrendering one’s defenses, laying bare one’s body and soul. To do so was to invite betrayal, for who could say what a healer might plant, steal, or alter in that fleeting moment?

This was Crymora, the world where wolves devoured wolves, where the strong tore the weak apart, and where hesitation was death.