CLEAVER OF SIN Chapter 651: Favor-1

Azaron’s golden eyes clashed with the steady red gaze of Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor, a tense hush stretching between them briefly as words hung unspoken, the air heavy with controlled purpose and mutual comprehension. Yet a voice pierced the quiet—Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor’s, slicing the calm with a fragile edge.

"Father," he uttered faintly, slumping against the tree, his frame scarred by combat and weariness, breaths coming ragged, though his gaze stayed serene, as if he’d long anticipated his father’s arrival, this encounter etched in his thoughts for ages.

"And why should I stop, Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor?" Azaron inquired evenly, Ender gripped firmly in his grasp and resting against Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor’s throat, the blade unwavering and poised, "I wouldn’t mind helping you join your son, you know," he continued, his voice blunt and emotionless, yet neither Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor nor Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor mistook it for a jest; all recognized him as a man of sparse speech, where every utterance brimmed with chilling resolve and fallout.

Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor paused in silence, his stare thoughtful and unyielding, before releasing a deep sigh, "This is why I hate children and never had one until I was very old," he muttered softly, his words audible to Azaron and Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor alike, laced with tired acceptance.

True to his claim, Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor had fathered no offspring in his vigorous prime or early years; instead, he governed the Zarethorn Empire for ages without a single successor, uninterested in the hassles and duties children brought.

Only in his later years did he choose to sire a child—the present Emperor—and even then, one was enough, no further attempts made, unlike Azaron and Lily Of The Abyss, who produced ten offspring like prolific beasts rather than mortals, their bloodline swelling ridiculously fast.

"I’m not here to fight you, Primarch Azaron Wargrave," Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor declared once more, his tone steady and deliberate, "just as you are willing to go to war against the Royal Imperial family for your son, that is also how I am willing to fight for my own son, but again, I am not here to fight you, only here to reason," he explained sagely, fingering his flowing white beard, exuding the weight of endless eras.

"Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor," Azaron replied, tone as impassive as always, "the only reason I am not attacking you immediately is because of the respect I have for you; give me a reason why I should spare your son," he demanded, his words free of rage but thick with purpose.

As stated, Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor earned Azaron’s profound admiration, a figure from his younger days he’d admired greatly—which was exactly why he held back from striking instantly, curbing his instincts.

"As you know, this has not escalated into a True War between both families yet, as we have not deployed our real forces; why don’t we end this here and not make this any bigger than it has to be?" Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor proposed, harboring no wish for combat, yearning rather for the solitude of his quarters, cultivating or reclining peacefully after eons of dominion.

Yet the instant those words escaped, his sight filled with a ferocious right kick ripping space-time apart, hurtling at his skull with deadly might and immense power, warping the surrounding atmosphere.

Without pause, Azaron launched his assault; he’d sought justification, but the elder seemed set on mere discourse, and Azaron had no patience for idle chatter.

Unfazed by the oncoming strike, Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor lifted just his index finger casually, halting Azaron’s blow effortlessly, like swatting a toddler’s swing. No gale howled or burst forth, for he’d channeled his Bloodline power to siphon the strike’s force with flawless precision.

Anticipating such a block, Azaron flowed into his follow-up strike smoothly and precisely; pivoting as his right foot hit the dirt, torso rotating while his left leg whipped up from the ground, slamming his heel toward Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor’s torso with ruinous impact.

With effortless poise, Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor retreated a single step, his white robe billowing in the breeze as he evaded like a survivor of endless centuries in warfare and rule. Azaron’s kick unleashed such fury that space itself cracked and splintered upon missing its mark, distortions rippling in its aftermath.

"Sigh, you Wargraves only know how to fight; even your father was a pain in the ass sometimes," Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor remarked before vanishing from his spot, his form materializing a kilometer distant, his wise bearing utterly unshaken.

‘Seems I must resort to it, lest this lad truly presses the fight... sigh,’ Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor mused inwardly while giving his head a subtle shake, reluctance coloring his mind.

"Primarch Azaron Wargrave, you asked for a reason why you should stop," Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor resumed from his fresh vantage, his words echoing sharply over the expanse, "but I suppose I have none to give you, so I will be using the favor you owe me," he declared steadily, a subtle tension threading his voice.

His inner pain stemmed from one clear cause: reluctance to invoke the favor Azaron owed him.

Understand this—Azaron was a Primarch, a titan among titans, who had eclipsed even his father, a force so overwhelming that three Sinvairas needed to unite against him; a debt from such a warrior equaled an extra life in one’s pocket.

Though Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor hadn’t decided its ultimate purpose, the favor had acted as a shield against hidden threats, and now he sacrificed it to spare his reckless son’s life.

Indeed, the ache was profound—this favor was a prize worth slaying for, yet he had ensnared Azaron’s debt through an act as trivial to him as drawing breath.

‘Well, that settles it,’ he reflected, eyes turning to his son still slumped against a tree on the ground, ‘you’d best brace for a thrashing once we’re back,’ he determined silently, aware the boy must repay squandering so immense a boon.