Cleaver Of Sin

Chapter 422: Fled

”There is no secret. The Bloodline is all we have,” Azaron answered truthfully, his tone calm and unwavering. Even if there was something beyond the Wargrave bloodline, something deeper, something more forbidden, he would have been a fool to utter it at this moment. The wind had ears. The earth itself possessed awareness. For all he knew, the world was listening, patiently waiting for careless words to be spoken.

”I see...” Valentine intoned slowly, the faint light within his eyes dimming even further as his thoughts spiraled inward. His mind drifted from the First Sun to the countless Suns and Moons, existences he had once targeted, beings whose lives he had attempted to erase during their True Awakenings. One memory bled into another, each failure stacking upon the last. After weighing it all, Valentine came to a single conclusion.

Azaron Wargrave was lying.

Azaron shook his head slightly as he spoke again, his expression relaxed, almost amused. ”It seems even you couldn’t force me to use my true strength... although I’ll admit, this has been fun. This battle should be enough to lift my boredom for a few days.” As the words left his mouth, a faint smile appeared at the corner of his lips. To Azaron, boredom was the greatest enemy of all, far more dreadful than death. At least now, he had found a temporary cure, even if it would only last a handful of days.

Valentine shook his head, laughter threatening to escape before dying in his throat. He faced the reality before him at last, the truth that he had given up his life merely to momentarily ease another man’s boredom. ”The Emperor and the other Dukes truly don’t understand what they are housing within this Empire,” he murmured under his breath. His legs finally gave out, and he sank to the ground, exhaustion and futility weighing heavily upon him.

His thoughts drifted back to his original plan, to kill Azaron Wargrave and claim his legacy. At the time, it had seemed feasible, even logical. Now, after experiencing the full weight of Azaron’s presence, that notion felt laughable. Throughout the battle, Valentine had stacked technique upon technique, pushing himself beyond his limits, yet Azaron had still overwhelmed him with insulting ease.

At Valentine’s words, Azaron remained entirely unreactive. Many individuals, upon realizing the scale of their power, would have sought to overthrow the Empire or dethrone the Emperor himself. But the Wargrave family was different. They were not rulers, nor did they desire to be. They were creatures of the battlefield, beings who lived for combat and nothing more.

If any Wargrave Duke wished to overthrow the Empire, they were free to attempt it. As for Azaron, such ambitions held no appeal. To him, ruling was nothing more than a tedious inconvenience.

’Although... the battle would be fun,’ he admitted inwardly as he briefly imagined clashing with the Emperor, his Knights, and perhaps even other Dukes who stood loyal to the throne. The image lingered for a moment before Azaron shook his head and dismissed it entirely. His golden eyes returned to Valentine. The battle was finished. There was no reason to remain.

”It was fun while it lasted, Valentine,” Azaron said quietly.

He lifted his hand and casually swiped a finger across space itself.

In the next instant, the space around Valentine’s neck split cleanly in two. There was no resistance, no struggle, only perfect, merciless precision. Valentine was decapitated where he sat. Blood sprayed into the air before raining down upon the ground, his severed head rolling across the earth like a discarded pebble before finally coming to rest.

Azaron stared at the corpse for a brief moment, then turned and began to walk away.

He hadn’t gone far before his steps halted.

A presence pressed down upon the world, a suffocating, overwhelming existence that dwarfed anything Valentine could have ever hoped to achieve in his lifetime, and more. Azaron’s head snapped back toward Valentine’s corpse, his eyes narrowing as he located the source.

A shadowy figure stood there.

It appeared fragile, so insubstantial that it seemed as though a gentle breeze could erase it entirely. Yet the power carried by this mere projection was unmistakable, oppressive enough to warp the air around it.

Azaron didn’t need to ask. He didn’t need confirmation.

He knew exactly what it was.

A Sinvaira.

”How pitiful...” the Sinvaira intoned, its voice echoing unnaturally as it gazed down at Valentine’s corpse. ”All that talent, wasted, dying at the hands of your fellow human.” Its gaze lingered for a moment before it continued, ”Had you agreed to my terms, your fate would have been different. This outcome would have been reversed.”

The Sinvaira paused briefly, then spoke again. ”Although you are dead, it does not mean I cannot at least avenge you.”

Its shadowy form twisted, forming something resembling a smile. Though its words suggested regret, there was not a single trace of care or affection within its tone. The next second, the Sinvaira turned to face its intended prey.

But the moment its eyes fell upon Azaron Wargrave, its entire form froze as though time itself had halted. The twisted smile vanished instantly, erased as if it had never existed. The thought of battle evaporated completely.

”Azaron... Wargrave,” it murmured in absolute shock.

And then it fled.

The projection vanished without hesitation, unwilling to remain for even a fraction of a second longer. It had come seeking a fight with a Crownstar Life Ranker, believing its projection alone would suffice. It had not anticipated facing the Primarch himself.

Even its true body would not have been enough.

Azaron did not react immediately. He simply stared at the space where the shadowy projection had been moments earlier, his expression cold and unreadable. The only reason he hadn’t attacked was simple, he had known from the start that what stood before him was merely a projection.

As Azaron turned to leave once more, the shadowy figure reappeared as though it had never departed.

The Sinvaira had returned after remembering that it was only present as a projection. Azaron could not harm it in this state. There was no reason to be afraid.

Its confidence surged back, its authoritative demeanor restored. ”Azaron Wargrave,” it declared, ”we finally meet.”

Azaron remained silent for a moment before responding. ”Where is your true body?” His voice was colder than ice, sharp and unforgiving.

The Sinvaira’s expression twisted into a wicked smile. ”We shall meet in due time. There is no need to rush.” It paused, then added softly, ”After all... even you shall fall. Just like your father did.”