Cleaver Of Sin

Chapter 650: Azaron Versus Zolthemir-4

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor stood in pure, horrified silence at the scene he had just witnessed; throughout the time the Void had been opened, his mind, body, and soul had all sent desperate death alarms throughout his very existence, screaming at him to escape, to flee, to survive. He wanted to run, he wanted to dodge, but he couldn’t move, as though the Void itself had pinned him in place, locking him within an unseen grasp that he could neither resist nor comprehend.

The next moment, he felt the Void vanish as though it had never been there, as though reality had simply corrected itself, and he stared at the man responsible for such terrifying power, his eyes dazed for a brief moment before they snapped back into clarity, though the lingering fear refused to fully leave him.

"If this is all you have to offer, then I am truly disappointed, Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor," Azaron stated with an indifferent tone, as though he hadn’t just called upon a power that seemed capable of swallowing the world whole if allowed to grow unchecked.

Azaron took a single step forward, but the moment he did, Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor blurred backwards, instinctively creating distance between himself and Azaron, yet it was utterly useless, for the moment he appeared at his new location, the Primarch was already there, his fist already in motion as it thundered against the Emperor’s chest like an exploding war drum.

A booming sound erupted outward with ear-splitting force as the momentum slammed into the Emperor, his cloth armor artifact doing next to nothing to mitigate the sheer, maddening physical force behind the strike.

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor’s body tore backwards violently, his form streaking across the battlefield for kilometres as he slammed into the earth below with apocalyptic intensity. He coughed up blood, his internal organs churning violently as though they were on the verge of collapse, his teeth already torn from their gums as pain flooded his senses in waves.

His eyes snapped toward Azaron’s position, but Azaron was no longer there; instead, he was now standing beside the Emperor, his presence silent and immediate. His leg lashed out like an iron pole, slamming into the Emperor’s chest with pure, unrestrained brute force. The Emperor was sent hurtling backwards once again, his body crashing into a mountain before tearing straight through it, only to slam into another before finally coming to a temporary halt amidst ruin and debris.

In a blur, Azaron closed the distance once more, his fist driving forward toward Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor’s jaw, connecting with flawless precision. The Emperor’s head snapped upward violently, and in the next instant, he shot skyward like a rocket launched into the heavens. But before he could even reach his peak, Azaron appeared again, his fist clenched tightly as he descended, unleashing another devastating punch, this time directly to the Emperor’s forehead with crushing force.

The impact reverberated through the Emperor’s skull, his brain colliding violently against the inner walls of his cranium as his consciousness wavered dangerously on the edge of collapse. Just as his body was about to crash into the ground once more, he forced himself back into control, stabilizing his descent as he landed with a thunderous impact that shook the surrounding land.

Although he had been battered endlessly, at the end of the day, he was still a Crownstar Life Ranker; he still possessed absurd vitality and endurance, his tolerance for pain far beyond that of ordinary beings, allowing him to remain standing despite the overwhelming assault.

Azaron appeared once again like an executioner, silent and deadly; he did not speak, he did not slow, he did not hesitate. He was here to instill despair, to force his opponent to acknowledge the vast gulf between them, to make it undeniably clear that he was holding back, that he could end everything with a single Spear Technique if he so desired.

A palm strike tore forward, racing toward the Emperor’s chest with lethal precision, but in the next instant, a golden Astra energy barrier formed in response, conjured by the Emperor in a desperate attempt to defend himself. Yet it was utterly useless; Azaron’s palm tore through it effortlessly, like a sledgehammer shattering a fragile egg. And then, the moment Azaron’s palm touched the Emperor’s chest, nothing seemed to happen.

Out of sheer desperation, the Emperor had managed to catch the movement and absorb the energy behind the physical strike... yet even that changed nothing. Before he could even process what had occurred, a sharp, resounding slap echoed across the battlefield with amplified intensity as Azaron struck the Emperor’s cheek, sending him flying sideways like a broken kite cast into a storm.

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor’s body slammed into the earth, skidding violently before his back crashed against a tree, finally bringing him to a halt. His body was weak, battered, and broken, injuries littering his form; the once proud and composed Emperor was nowhere to be seen. His perfectly arranged black hair had fallen into disarray, his body now covered in dirt, sand, mud, and blood, a stark contrast to the regal image he once maintained.

The man breathed heavily, each breath strained and uneven, as he stared at Azaron, who continued walking toward him with a calm, almost indifferent expression, as though none of this held any significance.

"Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor," Azaron began once more, his voice steady and cold, "I’m sure you understand that I do not take matters concerning my children lightly. Although I am not as quick to anger as Malrik, everyone knows this to be true, yet, despite knowing this, you still chose to cross the line." He came to a stop, standing before the man who once sat upon a throne and ruled over the Empire, or what little remained of it.

Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor did not respond; he simply met Azaron’s gaze. There was a flicker of fear hidden within his eyes, a fear he desperately tried to suppress, yet Azaron saw it clearly, as though it were laid bare before him.

He had visualized countless battle scenarios in his mind, simulations where he stood against Azaron, against the man now before him, and in each one, he had emerged victorious. Yet now, reality had proven itself far removed from imagination, shattering every illusion he had once held.

"In your next life, Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor, try not to cross my path," Azaron stated with quiet finality, his soul-bound spear, Ender, materializing within his hand as he prepared to decapitate the Emperor.

Without the slightest hesitation, Azaron swung his spear, the wind splitting apart, space itself shredding under the force of the motion. Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor could not even react, could not even perceive the speed of the attack, his body frozen as death approached with absolute certainty.

But just before the spear could complete its path, a voice boomed across the battlefield.

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

An old, ancient voice echoed with commanding authority, causing Azaron to halt his attack instantly as he recognized the speaker, his expression shifting ever so slightly in acknowledgment.

His eyes snapped to the side, and there, an old man stood. He carried himself like a sage, his presence composed yet immeasurably profound. His white hair was perfectly arranged, his long beard neatly groomed and flowing, his skin wrinkled with age, bearing the marks of time itself.

Yet despite his aged appearance, the air around him spoke volumes, his power had not diminished in the slightest; it remained as vast and overwhelming as it had been in his prime, perhaps even more refined.

And as for who the man was, he was none other than the former Emperor of the Zarethorn Empire, the father of Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor.

Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE: Super gifts? Golden tickets? Another 8 Chapters typed, my fingers and brain need some ice and massage.