CLEAVER OF SIN Chapter 8: Bloodline

Ethan let out a soft breath while placing a heavy tome back on the shelf. His destiny loomed clear and merciless: slay or fall. In this realm, in this lineage, no compromise existed.

With a shake of his head in muted acceptance, he picked up his leisurely pace along the rows, his glance skimming over the covers of endless volumes. Even with his sharp mind, books had rarely sparked his interest. He had no plans to visit the library once this day ended.

’After the Awakening, people gained the ability to pull Astra from the atmosphere into their Astra veins. It’s basically cultivation,’ Ethan pondered, closing yet another book with a touch of irritation.

’However, no cultivation guides exist here. Folks absorb Astra at varying speeds, some quicker, others more effectively, yet without any fixed method. No set skills. No categories such as mage or healer; powers emerge unpredictably at the Awakening,’ he contemplated, his steps resounding faintly as he moved further down the row.

’In this world, all are inherently robust, as Astra subtly bolsters the physique from the start, boosting power, velocity, endurance, resilience, all heightened naturally. The Astra veins serve as channels, perpetually strengthening the form. It’s like every person is born a Superman.’ Ethan reflected while strolling.

Time passed without notice, until Ethan halted at last. His eyes fixed on Lyra, positioned nearby, her aura calm yet evident.

"Looks like you didn’t even attempt to peruse a single page; you simply trailed me," Ethan remarked, shaking his head with a sigh.

"I’ve lived for ages, Young Master," Lyra responded steadily, advancing until she was exactly two steps behind him. "Enough ages to have gone through more books than I’d ever want to recall."

’Of course,’ Ethan thought as he started walking again. ’The mightier the individual, the extended their lifespan tends to be. Pity there’s no route to immortality via cultivation; I might have pondered it. Still, I’ve heard that for immortals, tedium turns into their worst foe. Perhaps endless existence isn’t the boon it seems.’

His mind wandered from topic to topic, a subtle whirlwind of contemplation.

Ethan reached the very table where he’d last spotted the Great Elder.

"Done with your reading?" the Great Elder inquired, looking up from his volume. "I have to admit, this marks your initial trip to the library, and you lingered for seven hours. That could set a fresh benchmark."

’Asher truly embodies the ’all muscle, no smarts’ archetype,’ Ethan considered inwardly. ’Not his doing, though; just observe the kin he hails from.’

With a courteous grin, Ethan answered, "My Awakening approaches. I thought it prudent to absorb some historical insights beforehand."

The Great Elder nodded deliberately, then refocused on the tome in his grasp, a quiet cue that their exchange was over.

Catching the implication, Ethan pivoted and exited the library, carrying the burden of insights and resolved queries in his wake.

From his library explorations spanning hours, Ethan learned that the Wargrave clan followed a strict power structure. At its pinnacle sat the Primarch, the family leader—his sire.

Beneath him ranked the Elders, consisting of the Primarch’s kin, rendering them Ethan’s uncles and aunts. Over them towered the Great Elders, the direct uncles and aunts of the Primarch and Elders alike—Ethan’s great-uncles and great-aunts.

Within the Wargrave clan, solely the Primarch could sire offspring. Should any Elder or Great Elder produce a progeny, both parent and child would meet swift death. Ethan viewed this as harsh, though he grasped its purpose.

The edict aimed to curb infighting, guaranteeing no Elder or Great Elder would scheme to elevate their heir as next Primarch. In the Wargrave domain, authority passed not via aspiration but through lineage and protocol.

Even the women in the clan were barred from unions, be it inside or beyond the blood ties. Unless one was the Primarch, procreation was off-limits, no exceptions.

The Wargrave lineage was designed to stay pristine, unrivaled, and firmly governed.

The bloodline of the Wargrave endures and perishes with the Wargrave.

’Yet what if the reigning Primarch proved barren?’ Ethan couldn’t resist musing. Would they oust him? Would the whole framework crumble from its inflexibility?

He’d uncovered tales of resistance: three Wargrave members who’d covertly conceived heirs. Their uprising proved fleeting. All were uncovered and put to death, child included.

No pity. No reprieves.

’Into what sort of clan did I get reborn?’ Ethan pondered, his path meandering through the corridors.

Relying on Asher’s recollections, Ethan headed to the training area. Upon arrival, the crisp clash of blades rang out, a ceaseless melody of accuracy and force.

Sentries darted across the expanse in blurs, their velocity surpassing his visual tracking. Spotting them was an overstatement; he caught mere echoes, spectral trails that flickered and faded instantly.

The tempo of their clashes, the harmony of iron on iron, alone betrayed their actions.

Glints erupted under the sun, fleeting bursts of splendor as swords met repeatedly. Though he’d shown up, none interrupted. They stayed wholly immersed in their drills, gliding over the terrain like specters in a muted battle.

Ethan’s gaze sparkled with subdued wonder, twinkling like far-off celestial bodies as he observed the spectacle. He’d viewed such spectacles in films and anime innumerable times, but beholding it firsthand, in vivid, unaltered truth, transformed the encounter.

Across the training space, a sentry poised steadily on one finger, the blazing sun unrelenting as droplets of perspiration trailed down his sculpted build.

For thirty solid minutes, Ethan stood immobile, spellbound. He scarcely blinked, fully engrossed in the ongoing ballet of might, prowess, and rigor ahead.

Eventually, the dueling sentries ceased. Their sights turned to Ethan, who lingered as if petrified, a slight drool mark by his mouth. Jolted, Ethan erased it hastily as their firm stares yanked him to the present.

They neared together, inclining in deference as they intoned collectively, "Good afternoon, Tenth Sun."

Ethan regarded them quietly for an instant before dipping his head in reply. "Fine effort," he stated briefly, then spun and departed.

Whereas certain maids had shot scornful looks at Asher when unobserved, the sentries displayed no such contempt.

Their devotion cut deeper; their existences bound to the clan’s prestige and heritage.

Ethan looped around the structure multiple times, steering clear of the other Suns and Moons in the Wargrave clan. He wished to avoid them all prior to his Awakening.

As the sun sank past the skyline, stretching elongated shades over the grounds, Ethan at last headed back to his quarters, his day wrapped up.

Lyra didn’t delay. She showed up soon, bearing supper. She’d skipped lunch, aware Ethan had devoted the day to either devouring texts or roaming the grounds.

By nine in the evening, Ethan perched on his bed’s rim, stare locked on the pane where the moon dangled near, its silvery beam spilling a soft radiance into the space.

’While I’ve grown to accept this fresh existence, should I drift off tonight without returning to my prior world, I’ll wholly adopt Asher. Starting now, I’ll transform into him.’ he mused in silence.

Bearing that determination, Ethan reclined at last and drew the plush, snowy coverlet over himself, yielding to the calming pull of slumber.