CLEAVER OF SIN Chapter 645: Proud

Slowly, Azaron lifted his hand in a serene gesture, but that lone, intentional motion alone terrified the Imperial Cabinet Members, the three Dukes, and the Imperial Knights into fleeing backward. They blurred into streaks, spanning dozens of kilometers in an instant, their Astra energy exploding through their Astra veins as they braced to ward off the impending strike Azaron might hurl at the Empire, primal survival urges driving them.

However, the instant their barriers rose, the feared onslaught failed to materialize. No ruin unfolded, no detonation rocked the scene—absolute void prevailed, for Azaron had simply elevated his hand at his leisure, harboring no intent to assault. Should he have genuinely aimed to hit them, the blow would have struck unseen, denying them even the barest chance to respond.

Azaron lowered his uplifted hand onto Malrik’s shoulder, his voice carrying a gentle, paternal warmth. “Though you stir up chaos and mischief wherever you go, I’m proud of you this time, Malrik,” he declared. Even as the statement escaped his mouth, no grin softened his features, no sentiment flickered across his impassive visage, yet a keen ear caught the nuanced warmth in his delivery, a whisper of commendation hidden under his stoic facade.

At his father’s praise, Malrik’s seething fury ebbed briefly, his face easing into a modest, sincere smile. In contrast to other Wargraves, he refused to mask his feelings, a quality shaped by his singular childhood and temperament that distinguished him even amid his ruthless clan.

“Yet, proud though I am of you, and knowing your fierce protectiveness for your siblings likely has you thirsting for the Emperor’s head,” Azaron pressed on with unwavering composure, “let your father deal with this issue. You’ve strained yourself enough lately,” he ended decisively, his inflection brooking zero dissent or pushback.

Not uttering another syllable or casting a look toward Malrik or the Elders, Azaron pivoted, his golden gaze fixing on the Emperor’s location. By then, countless Knights encircled the ruler, every one a Crownstar Life Ranker, their aura sufficient to repel typical dangers, but utterly trivial before Azaron.

Malrik dared not challenge Azaron. Though he burned to clash with the Emperor personally, he recognized the need to stand aside now. The Primarch’s decree silenced all rebellion, compelling obedience even from a figure like him.

Azaron strode ahead leisurely and steadily, each footstep sending faint shudders rippling through the earth. Overhead, the nebula persisted, swirling like a vibrant maelstrom of cosmic gases, radiance, and emptiness, as if biding its moment, primed to burst forth and engulf the entire world at Azaron’s merest whim.

The Crownstar Life Rankers encircling Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor drew zero regard from Azaron. In his eyes, they equated to mere unawakened commoners, their might rendered pointless by his aura. A lone effortless blow from him would annihilate them utterly, extinguishing their existences without a fight.

He halted one kilometer from the Imperial Palace, where the Emperor positioned himself. His golden eyes locked onto the Emperor’s pitch-black ones, and briefly, wordless quiet hung between them, its profundity outweighing any utterance, the atmosphere dense with strain and implicit comprehension.

Azaron broke the hush at last. “I’ve heard my family’s version of events. Now deliver yours, Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor,” he stated sharply, tonelessly, infused with a veiled menace that hammered home the dire stakes.

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor’s brow creased faintly upon catching Azaron’s address. Formerly, in their exchanges, Azaron invariably used “the Emperor” or “Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor,” honoring protocol. Yet this time, bare name alone—a stark declaration that Azaron utterly dismissed Imperial honors and rites in that instant.

Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor registered Azaron’s declaration sharply. Despite Azaron’s mention of hearing his account, Zolthemir realized rebuttals would ring hollow to all. Azaron would favor his own sons and uncle, Great Elder Morthen, over any protestations from him.

Moreover, denial would change nothing now—the harm was already inflicted. The truth, real or imagined, had spread everywhere. The secret was out, and no one would buy his protests. Dukes would heighten their guards, Cabinet Members would do likewise, and Knights would follow suit. Lying at this juncture offered zero advantage.

"Why bother asking me anything or hearing my account when you’ve already judged me, Azaron Wargrave?" Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor remarked steadily, his poise unshaken amid the heavy tension enveloping him.

"Is that so..." Azaron responded, his tone even as he held the Emperor’s gaze firmly.

Though the Emperor saw no point in refuting the claim—knowing disbelief was certain—he wasn’t idiotic enough to confess outright. A sharp line separated confessing and letting assumptions fester without the accused’s own words.

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor’s thoughts churned at breakneck pace. Dare he grasp this chance to annihilate the Wargrave clan? The timing felt flawless. True, Wargraves bore the infamous label of monster kin, yet he’d seen their Elders toying with Imperial Cabinet Members, while Malrik had toyed with the Imperial Army Commander and Vice Commander alike.

Yet the Imperial family wasn’t feeble; otherwise, Wargraves would’ve crushed them eons ago. He pondered summoning "them". As Emperor, his command held sway, and "they" would heed it. Their involvement might eradicate the Wargraves entirely. Furthermore, their storming of the capital granted the Imperial Family full pretext to retaliate wildly, even declaring Wargraves as traitors.

But what good came from naming Wargraves traitors? Who dared oppose them? Not the masses, nor the Dukes. Only "they" had the might to confront such beasts.

Nevertheless, victory wouldn’t come easily. His dark eyes flicked to the three Dukes hovering silently in the skies, watching intently. Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor harbored no illusions; should he crush the Wargraves and weaken his forces, those three would pounce to wipe out the Imperial Family. No shrewd mind would squander that opening.

And should the three Dukes hold back, rival Empires would eagerly exploit the chaos with their invasions.

An inward sigh escaped him. Far too many forces maneuvered across this grand chessboard. Removing the Wargraves risked utter devastation from the Dukes and neighboring Empires.

Looming larger still were the Sinvairas, the deadliest and most enigmatic foes. They might already lurk nearby, biding time for the ideal strike to shatter the Zarethorn Empire in one cataclysmic blow.

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor refused to let that unfold. His family’s legacy could not perish under his watch. He would not etch his name as the Zarethorn Empire’s most abysmal Emperor in the annals of history.