CLEAVER OF SIN Chapter 647: Azaron Versus Zolthemir-1

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor's body lurched backward under a ludicrous, bone-jarring force, yet he swiftly reclaimed mastery with expert poise before covering much ground, his feet pounding fiercely into the dirt as he slid to a jarring halt, plowing deep gashes into the soil underfoot.

His gaze whipped ahead to Azaron's location, focus intensifying while a hint of surprise flickered in his eyes, for he'd failed to track the knee strike aimed at his chest, unable to siphon away its power.

Azaron advanced leisurely without haste, strides measured and composed, the air nearby quaking in dread as if the very atmosphere teetered on the brink of shredding, twisting, and mangling from his aura alone, reality shrinking away from his very being.

"Come, Ender," Azaron declared calmly, his tone even and free of exertion, and right then, his crimson soul-bound spear answered with a war-thirsty buzz, thrumming with a profound, sinister rumble as it materialized in his grasp.

Instantly, Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor's own armament flickered into existence in his hand—a scythe radiating grand, ominous grace. They locked eyes briefly, heavy seconds dragging in choking quiet, before the ground they occupied exploded like thin crystal as they surged forth at absurd velocities and crushing momentum, their motions surpassing all visual grasp.

In under a nanosecond, they bridged the gap, weapons howling toward each other like mutual foes mirroring their masters' loathing, and with a colossal, world-shaking eruption of might, the blades collided; for an instant, the universe froze as if reality's Laws stuttered, existence itself gasping to match the immense scale of their confrontation.

Time then crashed back ferociously, unleashing a voracious, annihilating blast from their impact point that obliterated all within a thousand kilometers effortlessly and mercilessly, as if such ruin meant nothing to them. The shockwave battered them too, but neither budged an inch; their overwhelming dominance rendered it a mere feeble ripple.

They vanished from sight once more without pause, forms blinking in frantic bursts as speeds soared boundlessly higher, momentum spiking every nanosecond without ceiling; each clash birthed an obliterating wave in their trail, each shift spanned endless expanses as distance bowed irrelevant to entities of their tier, trivial amid their apocalyptic power.

Azaron narrowed the gap anew, driving Ender straight at the Emperor's eyes with deadly accuracy, yet Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor countered at once, dodging smoothly with perfect timing while his scythe whipped upward in a fatal sweep bent on severing Azaron's head on the spot—no pause, no doubt, just the icy, polished precision of a veteran forged in endless wars.

Azaron pulled back fluidly at the sight, twirling his spear deftly to parry with its pole. Yet upon contact, a monstrous energy torrent burst from the Emperor's scythe, potent enough to vaporize hundreds of kilometers, the amplified surge engulfing Azaron wholly as the Emperor blinked away, trailing devastation.

A maelstrom of dust surged skyward, rocks, gravel, and enormous stones hurtling rearward in wild turmoil, and amid the raging haze and vapors, Azaron emerged unscathed, not a strand displaced, shrugging off the blast like it was worthless, face impassive, poise impeccable.

The abrupt power release held no shock for him; it stemmed from the Royal bloodline's gift to draw in and expel energy, one the Emperor had perfected by funneling dense force through his scythe, boosting its ruinous force to horrifying heights.

"Weak," Azaron remarked in a dull, uncaring voice, the ground under him erupting rearward as he rocketed toward the Emperor faster than before; upon reaching him, he wielded his spear like a rod, its length smashing into the Emperor's abdomen with staggering, pulverizing might.

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor stayed completely unfazed; he effortlessly absorbed the power fueling the physical assault, nullifying the blow completely, and right then, his scythe slashed anew, ripping through the air in a shadowy streak of rapid cuts as he advanced with deadly purpose to shred Azaron into mere chunks of mangled meat and wreckage.

Azaron's form flickered smoothly, his feet lightly stepping and sliding over the terrain amid every deadly assault like a graceful performer, dodging peril with ease, and the instant he slipped past the last slash, his palm thrust forward, massive plasma energy cloaking his hand as he drove it straight into the Emperor’s chest with crushing, close-range power.

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor responded without delay, avoiding the direct hit, an explosive surge of energy blasting from his legs to launch him backward at tremendous velocity since he refused to absorb Azaron’s plasma strike, but just as he put space between them, reality warped unnaturally at his side, and Azaron emerged from the rift anew, unleashing the identical palm strike with fluid repetition, battering the Emperor’s chest with unyielding force once more.

At the collision point, air and space crumbled instantly, as if unable to endure that precise moment in time and existence. Ferocious pressure winds exploded outward while a dazzling white energy blast erupted, warping everything nearby with sheer overpowering might.

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor had triggered his body's absorption power to draw in the plasma energy, yet the more he took in, the more Azaron poured endless power into him, seemingly determined to overload the Emperor past his breaking point and cause him to burst from the overwhelming surplus.

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor refused to stay put any longer; after soaking up a hefty amount, he vanished from sight in a flash, reappearing far up in the heavens, where he gestured with precise command, unleashing a catastrophic tempest of plasma might, velocity, and fury straight at Azaron, as if bent on wiping him from the world forever.

Yet as the plasma barrage neared, Azaron merely lifted his hand in cool detachment, casually deflecting the oncoming plasma energy assault aside like it was utterly trivial.

When the plasma slammed into the battlefield, chaos and ruin exploded everywhere, obliterating all in its trajectory to dust, heat soaring without end, ground liquefying into glowing magma as if morphing into lava right before their eyes, leaving the battlefield a total wasteland of annihilation.

Still, such devastation meant nothing to Azaron or Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor; the crumbling surroundings, the flowing molten ground—none of it captured their gaze. Their attention locked solely on one another, intense and unbreaking, as if the entire world beyond their brutal duel had faded into irrelevance.