Cleaver Of Sin

Chapter 232: Compensation

Malrik stood suspended upon a radiant beam of sunlight midair, his expression shadowed by a deep frown. His father, Azeron, had just issued a command, to drop the matter entirely. By all rights, Malrik should obey. Duty and lineage demanded his submission, yet within him raged a conflicting tide. Half of his being longed to yield to filial obligation, while the other half, fueled by an deep obsession to protect his siblings, resisted with all its strength.

Azeron, however, spoke no words. He remained still, floating with his customary calm expression, his golden gaze locked upon Malrik. There was no urgency in his demeanor, no attempt to persuade. He simply watched, as though eager to see which side of his son would prevail.

Obsession or Duty. Which path would Malrik choose?

At Malrik’s side, Solaris, his sword now sheathed in its scabbard, quivered with a soft hum, its will resonating with his turbulent heart. By contrast, at Azeron’s side, the legendary spear, Ender, vibrated violently, its fierce resonance protesting Azeron’s command. Ender’s bloodthirsty nature demanded violence. It craved bloodshed, it yearned for rivers of crimson to flow. To the weapon, overlooking such a grave insult was nothing less than blasphemy.

But despite Ender’s ever-burning lust for chaos and madness, its wielder did not bend to such impulses. Azeron, unmoved, simply stood resolute, his focus fixed solely on his firstborn. His silence held weight, his composure radiating authority that even Ender’s protests could not disturb.

Still, beneath that stoic exterior, Azeron carried unspoken thoughts. If Malrik chose to disobey, if he decided to pursue this matter further, Azeron would not stand in his way. He would not interfere. Whether Cindralis or her Separate Dimension survived the consequences mattered little to him. One thing, however, was certain: he would not raise his hand against his own son for the sake of Cindralis.

But if Malrik yielded to his obsession, Azeron would be quietly disappointed. For in that choice lay a weakness, one that proved his son could be bent, manipulated, and controlled. That was something a Wargrave could not afford. So Azeron waited in silence, the tension stretching endlessly between them.

A short distance away, Cindralis hovered. Her expression, once etched with a frown, shifted back into its typical blank mask of apathy. It was as though her fate was being debated and decided in front of her, without her involvement, without her consent. She said nothing, for she understood her position. She could face Malrik in battle, perhaps, but she could never hope to face both Azeron and Malrik together. Against such odds, her words would achieve nothing. Thus, she remained silent, an observer to her own judgment.

Seconds dragged on, each heartbeat stretching into what felt like eternity. Then, at last, Malrik inhaled deeply, drawing air as though to steady his very soul. His turbulent heart calmed, emotions cooled, and the cold apathy on his face melted away. Slowly, his usual confident smile returned. His eyes opened once more, gleaming with clarity. The storm within him dispersed, leaving only serenity.

”Thank you, Father,” Malrik intoned, his voice steady.

Azeron regarded him with the same calmness, then offered a single nod.

’It seems your brilliance truly shines too brightly, Malrik,’ Azeron mused inwardly, the trace of a smile forming in his mind, though none reached his lips.

Malrik had chosen duty over obsession. In that singular moment, he had recognized the danger of his fleeting weakness. That realization was why he had offered thanks to his father. It was not that his obsession with protecting his siblings had vanished, nor that the fire of his resolve had dimmed. No, it still burned as fiercely as ever. But now, he had gained mastery over it. With this newfound clarity, the possibility of him being manipulated by that obsession diminished significantly.

Azeron’s gaze shifted toward Cindralis. His voice was calm, yet firm as steel, ”We will demand appropriate compensation for this matter.”

Azeron was never one to let opportunities slip through his grasp. Though not a typical political noble, when it came to wealth and resources, he missed nothing. Money, advantages, influence, these were the cornerstones of strengthening the Wargrave household, and Azeron would exploit every chance to secure them.

Cindralis’ black eyes met Azeron’s golden ones. She knew she could not refuse, for to do so would mean immediate battle. Should she decline, father and son alike would strike without hesitation, and even she would not withstand them both.

”The Tenth Sun will be granted unrestricted access to every facility, archive, and secret within the Star Academy until his graduation three years from now,” Cindralis replied coolly, making her offer.

For a moment, silence reigned. Azeron and Malrik exchanged glances before fixing their eyes on her, their expressions unreadable. Yet their gaze carried a weight of disbelief, as though they wondered if she truly considered them fools. Did she believe the Wargraves to be nothing more than blunt instruments of violence, ignorant of subtle schemes?

”Cindralis,” Malrik said, his smile unbroken, his tone sharp. ”You should leave this Separate Dimension of yours more often. Perhaps then you would understand how greatly Crymora has advanced.”

Azeron’s voice followed, brisk and flat. ”Do you take us for fools? If you imagine the Wargraves remain the brutes of a bygone era, you are gravely mistaken.”

Their words pierced through her shallow ruse. The truth was laid bare.

On the surface, the compensation sounded appealing. But in reality, it amounted to nothing. As the Sovereign of the Star Academy, Cindralis already held authority to grant such privileges at no personal cost. She would lose nothing by permitting free access, no coin, no resource, no sacrifice. In essence, she had offered an illusion of generosity while safeguarding her wealth.

But the Wargraves were no simpletons. Azeron, even if he were a brute, would never accept such hollow payment. To him, the Tenth Sun, Asher, must toil and struggle like every other student. Privilege was no gift to a Wargrave. They were born to overcome, to rise above, to stand at the summit through blood, sweat, and sheer might. Special treatment was an insult to their very creed.

Malrik, for his part, was far too astute to be ensnared by such cheap trickery.

Cindralis’ expression darkened, her brow furrowing as she realized her ploy had failed. The price demanded was not for her Academy, but for the Ducal House of Wargrave itself. That meant coin, resources, wealth, her wealth. Though she was incomparably rich and ruled as Sovereign of her Separate Dimension, she despised parting with what was hers.

But options dwindled quickly, and the alternatives before her were dire. She did, indeed, have choices, but none that could be called pleasant.

A sharp click of her tongue escaped her lips, a subtle sound of irritation and reluctant surrender. The reality was inescapable: she was about to bleed wealth, and she loathed the thought.

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