CLEAVER OF SIN Chapter 650: Azaron Versus Zolthemir-4

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor remained frozen in utter, terrified stillness amid the nightmare he'd beheld; while the Void yawned wide, frantic death warnings surged through his mind, body, and soul, howling for him to bolt, evade, endure. He ached to sprint away, to swerve aside, yet immobility seized him, as if the Void's invisible clutches had nailed him down, defying all resistance or grasp of understanding.

Suddenly, the Void evaporated like it had never existed, reality snapping back into seamless order, and he gaped at the figure behind that dread power, eyes glazing briefly before sharpening anew, though traces of fear clung relentlessly.

"If this is all you have to offer, then I am truly disappointed, Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor," Azaron declared in a flat voice, as if he hadn't just unleashed a force that could engulf the entire world if permitted to expand without bounds.

Azaron advanced one step, but instantly Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor flickered backward, driven by instinct to widen the gap from Azaron, only for it to prove completely futile—the Primarch stood waiting at his landing spot, fist already surging forth to crash into the Emperor’s chest like a detonating war drum.

An explosive roar burst out with deafening power as the force hammered the Emperor, his fabric armor relic offering scant defense against the insane raw might of the blow.

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor’s frame ripped backward in a savage arc, hurtling kilometers across the battlefield before smashing into the ground with cataclysmic fury. Blood spewed from his mouth, organs twisting in agony near rupture, teeth ripped from gums as torment crashed over him in relentless surges.

His gaze whipped toward Azaron’s spot, but the Primarch had vanished; now he loomed right beside the Emperor, arrival swift and soundless. His leg whipped out like a steel beam, pounding the Emperor’s chest with savage, unchecked power. Once more the Emperor flew back wildly, body plowing through a mountain, piercing another, before halting briefly amid shattered wreckage.

In a flash, Azaron bridged the gap again, fist slamming toward Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor’s jaw with perfect accuracy. The Emperor’s head jerked skyward brutally, launching him upward like a missile piercing the skies. Yet before peaking, Azaron materialized overhead, fist balled as he plunged down, delivering a skull-shattering strike straight to the forehead.

The collision thundered through the Emperor’s head, brain slamming against cranial walls in violent chaos as awareness teetered on oblivion’s brink. As his form hurtled toward the earth again, he wrested back control, steadying his fall to land with a quake that rattled the terrain.

Though relentlessly pummeled, he remained a Crownstar Life Ranker at heart; his monstrous vitality and stamina endured, pain threshold eclipsing mortals, keeping him upright amid the brutal onslaught.

Azaron materialized once more like a merciless headsman, quiet and lethal; no words escaped him, no pause, no mercy. His goal was to sow utter hopelessness, compel recognition of their chasmic divide, prove beyond doubt his restraint—that a lone Spear Technique could finish it all if he wished.

A palm thrust hurtled toward the Emperor’s chest with deadly aim, but instantly a golden Astra energy shield erupted, summoned in frantic defense. It proved worthless; Azaron’s hand shredded through like a maul pulverizing a brittle shell. Then, as his palm met the Emperor’s chest, stillness followed.

In wild desperation, the Emperor had tracked the strike and absorbed its force... but it altered naught. Before comprehension dawned, a crisp, magnified slap rang out across the field as Azaron’s hand cracked the Emperor’s face, hurling him sideways like a tattered rag in a gale.

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor’s form crashed into the ground, sliding wildly until his back collided with a tree, halting his momentum at last. Weak, bruised, and shattered, his body bore wounds everywhere; the formerly majestic and serene Emperor had utterly vanished. His impeccably styled black hair hung in wild tangles, his figure smeared with soil, grit, muck, and gore—a complete departure from his prior imperial splendor.

The man gasped for air, each inhalation ragged and irregular, while he glared at Azaron, who advanced steadily with a serene, nearly detached look, as if the chaos meant nothing at all.

"Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor," Azaron resumed, his tone firm and icy, "I’m sure you realize I don’t treat issues involving my children with leniency. Though I’m not as prone to rage as Malrik, and everyone knows that fact, you still decided to overstep despite it." He paused right in front of the fallen ruler who had once commanded the Empire—or its shattered remnants—from his throne.

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor offered no reply; he merely locked eyes with Azaron. A spark of terror lurked in his gaze, one he fought hard to conceal, but Azaron perceived it plainly, exposed like an open wound.

He had imagined endless combat visions in his thoughts, scenarios pitting him against Azaron—the very figure now looming—and in every one, triumph had been his. But harsh reality had dashed those fantasies far away, crumbling all his prior delusions.

"In your next life, Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor, avoid my path," Azaron declared with somber resolve, his soul-bound spear named Ender appearing in his grasp as he readied the killing stroke to behead the Emperor.

With zero pause, Azaron unleashed the spear swing, air tearing asunder while space ripped from the sheer power. Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor couldn’t react or even sense the strike’s velocity, his form paralyzed as inevitable doom closed in.

Yet right as the spear neared its deadly arc’s end, a thunderous voice rang out over the battlefield.

"That will be enough, and as far as you go, Primarch Azaron Wargrave."

An elderly, timeless voice resounded with iron command, forcing Azaron to freeze his assault immediately upon identifying the source, his face subtly altering in recognition.

His gaze whipped sideways, revealing an ancient figure standing there. He exuded the aura of a wise sage, his demeanor tranquil yet endlessly deep. White hair styled flawlessly, a long beard trimmed and cascading elegantly, skin etched with the lines of countless years.

Even with his venerable look, the atmosphere surrounding him screamed dominance; his strength showed no signs of fading—in fact, it loomed as immense and crushing as ever, maybe even sharper now.

And the identity of this man? None other than the ex-Emperor of the Zarethorn Empire, father to Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor.

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