CLEAVER OF SIN Chapter 7: Library-2

The influence of the star fragment didn't spare humans alone. It spread across the natural realm, affecting beasts and flora in equal measure.

Animals stirred to life, their forms utterly transformed; sizes ballooned, might surged, and agility sharpened; talons extended, and teeth honed into lethal edges. True monsters they had become.

Such horrors ravaged urban centers with horrifying speed, claiming lives relentlessly each day. Even the freshly empowered with enigmatic gifts proved helpless before the ceaseless assault.

At the same time, vegetation experienced profound shifts. They stretched skyward, foliage richer in shade and luster; an aura of peaceful serenity emanated from them. Produce turned more luscious, and fields yielded abundantly at a startling pace, filling the granaries of thankful cultivators.

Yet more alterations lay in store.

In the realm of Crymora, folks held firm that the soul truly marked life's core, the vital spark that birthed feelings: joy, grief, rage, affection, and aspiration.

Science failed to validate it, but the belief persisted. The soul was seen as the forge and sanctuary for these sentiments, the flesh acting as their conduit, attuned in unity, since flesh and spirit bound as one.

However, the star fragment inflicted a far profounder alteration.

Its burst of force disrupted the soul's fragile equilibrium. Sentiments like fury, passion, loathing escaped their spiritual bounds; they poured into the tangible world, taking shape across Crymora.

These embodied feelings differed vastly from prior creatures or fiends. Far more feral, far more sly, they pulsed with raw cunning that amplified their dread.

Hence dawned a fresh tier of ruin, a perpetual strife. Casualties climbed to millions, territories crumbled, and societies dangled near oblivion. Mankind confronted utter doom.

Still, humans excelled at resistance, striking back with fervor. They pursued these animated passions, eradicated the fiends and savages, yielding not an inch. Crymora blazed in turmoil, the globe itself quaking on the cusp of breakdown amid the mayhem.

Yet amid Ruin sprang Renewal.

From Demise bloomed Vitality.

Time slipped away in swift haze over the years.

Crymora rose phoenix-like, society revived from embers. Those endowed with talents and strengths turned ordinary sights. Barriers rose high, factions divided, realms ascended, and sovereigns claimed thrones. Aristocrats surfaced, staking claims in this reborn era.

The conflict raged on unabated. Mutated beasts from commonplace wildlife persisted, and the soul-born entities, those tangible expressions of feeling, prowled still, shadowing the domain.

Eventually, labels arose for these occurrences. The vivified sentiments earned the title Emovira, while the force people channeled for their gifts became Astra, honoring its starry source.

Four grand realms now dominated the globe, each overseeing vast domains and brandishing unique might.

Atop the ladder of command stood the Emperor, trailed by Dukes, then Marquis, Counts, Viscounts, and at the base, Barons.

These four realms carried the titles Zarethorne, Thalvorn, Velkarin, and Vandross, governing the West, North, South, and East in turn.

’I’m in deep trouble, right?’ Ethan pondered, his thoughts swirling under the burden of the past.

The star fragment.

Life's grand shift.

Feelings made flesh.

Demise.

Slaughter.

Humanity balanced on extinction's knife-edge.

Despair flooded him, and briefly, Ethan sensed tears pricking his eyes. His old existence had seemed so straightforward, so ideal, far too serene for the harsh truths revealed in these words.

’Is the force that sent me here making me pay for the comfort of my previous days?’ Ethan reflected with a wry grin.

A momentary impulse to beseech arose, maybe to botch his initiation and sidestep this ceaseless vortex of strife.

Yet in his core, he recognized the reality. No tale he'd known featured a reborn or shifted soul dodging the clashes that always ensued. Willing or wary, the fray loomed, dragging them under no matter their will or wish.

’It’s wiser to hold strength and opt for stillness than lack it and stand passive,’ Ethan decided, climbing to his feet.

’Though I don’t plan on idling. The clan into which I arrived won’t allow it. I’ll seize all the might available and climb to this realm’s heights, ensuring I shape my fate as I desire. That’s a solid aim, wouldn’t you say?’

Determination edged his stride as Ethan eyed the bookcases for his subsequent volume. His sight fixed on a manual detailing the initiation awaiting him shortly.

After a short hesitation, he grasped it and flipped through, standing firm this round, given its slimmer build compared to the hefty chronicle he'd concluded.

’Thus, the initiation basically reveals one’s Astra channels alongside inborn skills or gifts,’ Ethan mused while gently reshelving the text. ’Seems this realm skips mana or mana hearts, unlike tales I’ve known.’

The initiation forcefully stirs latent channels in the frame, dubbed Astra channels, fittingly, as they act as vaults holding Astra.

’Time to dig into the Wargrave lineage,’ Ethan considered while venturing further into the archives.

He devoted some moments scrutinizing any script alluding to the Wargrave Ducal house.

Without realizing, a low whistle slipped out, stemming from sincere awe.

The Wargraves gained fame for their fierce, direct style; clash upfront, ponder after. Where Emovira hid, they trailed close. Whether delving monster dens or charging blood-drenched fields, the Wargraves flourished in turmoil, born and buried in war's inferno.

The Wargrave house ranked among the elite Bloodline clans in the Zarethorne Empire.

During initiation, each Wargrave descendant calls forth an arm forged from their essence, a soul weapon. Distinct from mundane tools, these arms require no constant bearing; post-wield, they merge back into the user's spirit.

Tied deeply to their bearer's life, such arms defy theft or binding, and boast absolute durability. Should a Wargrave perish in combat, their soul weapon fades with them.

Summoning such an arm heralded remarkable natural aptitude in that style of warfare.

But more awaited. Past forging a spirit-tied arm, every Wargrave also roused a sole elemental bond, an essence wedded to their arm.

Finally, their build. Though not as singular or potent as their arms or elemental forces, the Wargraves owned inherently elite frames.

Their power and quickness outstripped most peers, bolstered by immense endurance and toughness that distinguished them in fray.

’That explains why Asher skipped weapon drills entirely. No foreknowledge exists on which arm emerges. Thus, all prioritize body forging initially, delaying armament practice until post-initiation.’ Ethan thought.

He'd long deemed strange how Asher had forged eleven years of brawn and vigor sans ever gripping steel.

’Small wonder that despite a year lost in spirits, his form stays absurdly toned. What a stacked house.’ Ethan sighed inwardly.

An arm. An essence. A build. The Wargraves claimed them wholly.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Plural of Emovira is Emovirae. In case when you start seeing Emovirae you won’t flag it as a mistake.

Thanks for reading.