CLEAVER OF SIN

Within the grand hall where the Dukes, Marquis, and the Emperor of the Zarethorne Empire sat in solemn assembly alongside the Sovereign of the Separate Dimension, an oppressive silence descended upon them all. It was as though reality itself had decreed that whoever dared to break that silence first would instantly meet their end.

Their collective gaze remained fixed upon the massive screen before them, eyes wide with disbelief and wonder, as though the scene unfolding was so beyond comprehension that their minds struggled to accept it as real.

They stared as if they were witnessing the impossible, something that defied not only their experience but also the very laws of existence itself.

The silence was not merely the absence of sound; it was a suffocating weight that gripped every inch of the vast hall. It lingered in the air, coiled around every breath, pressed against every heartbeat, and swallowed even the faintest whisper of thought.

It was as though none of them dared to breathe in this moment, as though exhaling might shatter the fragile reality before them.

Nobles who were renowned for maintaining the mask of calm indifference, who had been raised to wear the composed smile of dignity at all times, now sat exposed. That cultivated mask had been shattered, and their true emotions, raw and unrestrained, had carved themselves across their features for all to see.

Even the exalted Goddess of Space, Cindralis, who sat at the forefront, had been struck into stillness. She, who had seen countless prodigies across centuries, who had discovered talents in forgotten corners of the Empire and invited them to her Star Academy under special scholarship, now sat utterly dumbfounded. She had seen brilliance in her lifetime, had watched heroes rise and legends fall, but this, this was different.

In that moment, even the drop of a pin would have reverberated like the thunderous beating of a war drum. Yet none within the hall dared to blink, none dared to shift their focus. Their gazes remained locked on the spectacle before them, eyes burning with disbelief and unspoken questions, minds suspended between shock and awe.

On the illuminated screen, two beings of opposite gender clashed with ferocity. Their movements were so precise, so violent, that it was as if only one gender had the right to exist in that moment. The duel was not simply combat, it was annihilation, a test of supremacy between wills that sought to erase the other entirely.

They had started on equal footing. The one with soft white hair had surpassed the purple-haired boy through sheer mastery of skill, but the purple-haired figure had kept pace not through technique, but through overwhelming speed and brute strength.

But none of this should have shocked the nobles. After all, the Wargraves had never been known for hand to hand combat. Their legacy had always rested upon their soul-bound weapons, mystical artifacts that could never be broken, sealed, or stripped away by any means known to mortals.

For a Wargrave, the weapon was more than a companion; it was an eternal bond. The only way to separate one from their weapon was through death itself.

But then, everything shifted.

The boy with the purple hair, Asher Wargrave, began to change before their very eyes. His movements grew sharper, cleaner, more fluid, evolving in real time as though perfection was rewriting itself through his body.

Every strike, every block, every step he took carried refinement beyond the last. His skills did not merely improve, they ascended, spiraling upward without end, as though he were climbing an infinite staircase only he could see.

With each parry, with each counterattack, with each motion, he refined himself.

The nobles could only stare, their awe bordering on terror. Did any among them possess such an ability? No. Had any of them ever witnessed anything even remotely comparable? Never.

When Ryaen Silvershade found gaps in his form and sought to exploit them, Asher closed them immediately. His reflexes bordered on inhuman; his instincts rewrote themselves in the very moment of failure.

He did not merely adapt, he improved, he perfected. He was not fighting Ryaen as an opponent; he was using her as a living whetstone, polishing his own art with her every attempt.

A live battle, after all, was the truest teacher. And the prodigy they called the Tenth Sun was proving that truth in a way that shook even their minds.

And then came the revelation that shattered even the fragile calm they had been clinging to.

The boy, no, the monster, was imitating her.

It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible, so faint that an even trained observer would have missed it entirely. But the figures gathered in this grand hall were not ordinary observers.

They were the pinnacle of the Empire, the highest beings of its power structure, men and women whose senses could pierce through veils unseen. Nothing escaped their perception.

And what they perceived left them shaken to their core.

Asher Wargrave was becoming a mirror of Ryaen Silvershade in real time. He copied her footwork, her rhythm, her stance, her flow, and yet, he was not merely copying. He was surpassing. He was evolving her very style into something sharper, deadlier, something beyond what Ryaen herself had achieved after thirteen years of unrelenting training.

'How?'

The question echoed in every mind.

How could such a thing be possible?

They wanted to seize Azeron Wargrave, the Duke and father of this monster, and demand answers. They wanted to rip the truth from his lips, to uncover what secret had bred such a phenomenon.

But they could not.

Their eyes could not leave the screen even for a heartbeat, for to blink was to risk missing the next impossible moment.

The truth was dawning on them, burning into their minds with the cruel light of inevitability.

With talent like this, was it truly surprising that the Tenth Sun had made such outrageous progress in just a year? Was it truly surprising that his improvement bordered on the miraculous? What Ryaen Silvershade had spent over a decade cultivating, he replicated and surpassed in mere minutes.

If Ryaen Silvershade was born to stand at the pinnacle of martial arts, then Asher Wargrave was born to look down upon the pinnacle itself, a sovereign above sovereigns.

At the side of the chamber, even Azeron Wargrave, stern Duke, father of Asher, stood in disbelief. His face betrayed what he had never once allowed others to see: astonishment.

He too had known his son was talented, yes, perhaps even outrageously so. But this, this was beyond even his imagination.

And yet, as his heart thundered like a drum of war, pride surged within him. It consumed his chest, swelled in his veins, and for the briefest of moments, a rare, soft smile crept upon his lips. His pride had reached its peak. His son was not merely talented, he was transcendent.

Too bad the other Dukes, the Emperor, and even the Goddess of Space herself could not see the Duke's expression, for none of them could afford to look away from Asher. Their gazes remained chained to the screen, their thoughts spiraling in turmoil.

Would Ryaen Silvershade, prodigy of the Silvershade bloodline, manage to overcome this storm? Or would Asher Wargrave's meteoric rise crush her beneath his ascension?

Though Asher now dominated the exchange, they all knew battle was fickle. Anything could happen on the battlefield. A single mistake, a single breath too slow, could end even the most promising of talents.

And this was only hand to hand combat. Neither had yet use the power of their bloodlines.

Neither had unleashed the full depth of their abilities.

What they had witnessed so far before now, was but the surface of an ocean whose depths remained unseen.

And so, none dared to look away. Not a soul blinked. The grand hall had become a cathedral of silence, where awe was worship, and the impossible had been enshrined.