CLEAVER OF SIN Chapter 658: Closet

In the Wargrave Ducal lands, the Primarch's arrival swiftly dismantled the elaborate preparations Yveric had so carefully arranged; Knights swiftly resumed their standard positions, borders reopened without delay, and the Dome that had protected both the Wargrave Ducal estate and the full extent of the territory powered down instantly, as if it had never been required at all.

What force could grant superior protection compared to the very presence of the Empire's most powerful figure?

The Dukes came back, and the sight of every Wargrave Elder instilled a deep tranquility among the common folk; indeed, in the Wargrave Ducal territory, no one dreaded the Wargraves—instead, they honored them profoundly, with utmost respect from both mind and soul, regarding them not as despots but as unbreakable bastions of power.

Inside the Wargrave Ducal territory, Azaron occupied his office with serene composure; his face stayed impassive, like ice-cold marble, yet his thoughts churned in turmoil. Hidden under that rigid facade, a fierce inner battle raged—he hadn't claimed Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor’s head, and that reality fueled a smoldering, unrelenting rage deep within him.

He recognized the debt he owed the late Emperor, but it failed to quell the emotional tempest inside. On a profound level, buried far below logic, he sensed he'd violated his wife's last desire; as if he'd somehow tarnished something holy. Strangely, he also realized that without honoring that debt, her final plea would never have been shared with him, locking him in an inescapable paradox he couldn't unravel.

A sharp knock pierced the room, slicing through his reflections. "Come in," he commanded, eyes shut tight; no need to inquire who waited outside, for he knew it was Yveric, the one he'd called for.

Yveric entered and offered a crisp salute befitting a Knight, then declared, "I greet the Primarch."

Azaron held his silence at first, letting a weighty quiet hang between them. Yveric stayed mute, but his mind raced on.

’He is truly furious,’ Yveric mused inwardly, sensing the choking tension saturating the air. If someone like Asher entered now, they'd be instantly demolished, smashed under the crushing weight of Azaron’s aura.

Even so, amid that colossal force, the room stood utterly unaffected. Walls didn't shake, panes stayed intact, and furnishings remained motionless, as if all was normal. That was Azaron’s staggering mastery—his power so flawlessly restrained that only those inside could detect it.

After the short hush, Azaron at last addressed him. "Starting now, your mission is to assemble every commoner, every Knight, and summon back all Wargraves, Merchants, Adventurers, Mercenaries, plus anyone dwelling in our domain, even mere travelers." He paused, tone even and emotionless. "We shall inspect the minds of all from this point. Be they Great Elders or ordinary ones, every human gets checked. I'll undergo it too," he added, opening his eyes.

Yveric accepted the command without query, pause, or need for details. "As the Primarch orders," he affirmed, pressing fist to chest in salute.

Azaron nodded faintly, then pulled three artifacts from his space ring and flung them to Yveric. "Make certain all know this stems from my personal decree. Execute refusers on sight if required," he instructed coolly. "You may leave."

Yveric bowed wordlessly and departed, poised to execute the orders with flawless speed.

Azaron lingered in his chair amid the quiet for a time. Gradually, the room's stifling force faded, though his perilous vibe clung on, like a hidden tempest. He stood, golden gaze shifting to the commoners emerging from bunkers below, chattering about the Wargrave clan's return as if they were gods.

Azaron turned from the scene and headed for the exit. It swung open smoothly as he neared, unveiling Zarek, who'd waited outside faithfully, ever the Primarch's trusted aide.

Normally, Zarek might have spoken up, perhaps sharing wisdom or starting a conversation, but he knew Azaron all too intimately. Having been acquainted with him from birth, he sensed the heavy burden of that silence and chose to honor it. Azaron wasn't one who sought consolation; he was a man who had endured for more than a century.

So, they proceeded wordlessly, their steps softly echoing through the hallway until they reached another chamber. Azaron halted for a moment at the doorway, his eyes fixed upon it—not from mere appreciation, but from a much profounder emotion, one that only Zarek could truly discern.

On this occasion, Azaron swung the door open himself and entered, the panel shutting softly behind him while Zarek stood watch outside.

The room brimmed with innumerable outfits, attire in all sorts of styles, each clearly owned by one person alone. Graceful dresses, sleek combat suits tailored for battle, high heels, rugged boots, sturdy armor—every garment held its own unspoken tale.

It was his wife's wardrobe. All of Lily Of The Abyss's possessions remained preserved in this space. Azaron had never mustered the will to dispose of them, preferring to leave everything just as it was. Through this chamber, his link to her endured, as if she had never truly departed.

Against one wall loomed a vast clear case, cradling a rapier of breathtaking elegance, a blade that appeared to have feasted on more blood than any other in Crymora. It had been Lily’s weapon. As Azaron walked by, his fingers lightly grazed the glass, his gaze sweeping over her items while recollections surged ceaselessly in his thoughts.

After a while, he sank down onto the floor, immersed in silent contemplation. Then, in a murmur scarcely louder than a breath, he said, "I’m sorry, Lily... I couldn’t even honor your dying wish."

His utterance was so faint it almost faded into nothingness.

"I’m sorry... I hope you can forgive me," he murmured further, his tone laden with a gravity seldom witnessed in a man of his caliber.

Azaron had traversed most of his life free from remorse. But now... one gnawed at him. Bestowing that favor upon Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor. He couldn't cease his self-doubt; he should have tendered artifacts, heaps of platinum coins, any other barter instead. He ought to have stood firm, heedless of Cyrvexis’ stipulation.

If only he had known... if only... he... had... known.

Yet, despite his colossal power and unrivaled might, Azaron remained unable to glimpse the future. In the end, no matter his ascension in strength, he stayed what he had always been—a mortal... a human.

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