Cleaver Of Sin

Chapter 658: Closet

At the Wargrave Ducal territory, with the arrival of the Primarch, the preparations that Yveric had meticulously put in place were undone almost immediately; the Knights all returned to their usual posts, the borders were opened once again, and the Dome that had once shielded both the Wargrave Ducal estate and the entirety of the Ducal territory was deactivated without hesitation, as though it had never been necessary in the first place.

What power could possibly offer greater security than the presence of the strongest man in the Empire?

The Dukes returned, and the appearance of every single Wargrave Elder brought a profound sense of calm to the commoners; after all, within the Wargrave Ducal territory, nobody feared the Wargraves, rather, they revered them, respecting them with both their minds and their hearts, seeing them not as tyrants, but as pillars of unshakable strength.

Within the Wargrave Ducal territory, Azaron sat in his office with a composed stillness; although his expression was flat, as though carved from cold, unfeeling stone, his mind was anything but calm. Beneath that unmoving exterior, he was waging an internal war, he had not taken Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor’s head, and that fact lingered within him, igniting a quiet but persistent anger that refused to be extinguished.

Although he acknowledged the favor he owed to the former Emperor, it did not alter the storm of emotions within him. On a deeper level, far beneath the surface of rational thought, he felt as though he had betrayed his wife’s dying wish; as though, in some way, he had defiled something sacred. Yet, paradoxically, he also knew that without granting that very favor, he would never have been entrusted with her final wish in the first place, leaving him trapped in a contradiction he could neither escape nor resolve.

A knock echoed through the room, cutting cleanly through his thoughts. "Come in," he stated, his eyes still closed; there was no need to ask who stood beyond the door, as he already knew it was Yveric, whom he had summoned.

Stepping in, Yveric saluted with the discipline expected of a Knight and spoke, "I greet the Primarch."

Azaron did not respond immediately, and a heavy silence settled between them. Though Yveric said nothing further, his thoughts continued to move.

’He is truly furious,’ Yveric thought to himself, acutely aware of the suffocating pressure filling the room. If someone like Asher were to step into this space at this very moment, they would have been pulverized instantly, crushed by the overwhelming force of Azaron’s presence.

And yet, despite such immense pressure, the room itself remained undisturbed. The structure did not tremble, the windows did not crack, and the furniture remained perfectly still, as though nothing unusual was occurring. Such was the absurd precision of Azaron’s control, his presence was so perfectly contained that one had to physically step into the room to even perceive it.

After a brief silence, Azaron finally spoke. "From this moment onward, your objective will be to gather every single commoner, every single Knight, and recall all Wargraves, Merchants, Adventurers, Mercenaries, and every individual who resides within our territory, even those who are merely visiting." He paused, his voice steady and devoid of emotion. "From now on, we will be examining everyone’s mind. Whether they are Great Elders or normal Elders, as long as they are human, they will be checked. Even I will be subjected to this process," he stated as he opened his eyes.

Yveric did not question the order. He did not hesitate, nor did he seek clarification. "As the Primarch orders," he replied, placing his hand firmly against his chest in acknowledgment.

Azaron gave a slight nod before retrieving three artifacts from his space ring and tossing them toward Yveric. "Ensure that everyone understands this is my direct command. Anyone who refuses may be executed on the spot if necessary," he said calmly. "You may leave."

Without another word, Yveric bowed and exited, already moving to carry out the directive with absolute efficiency.

Azaron remained seated in silence for a while longer. Eventually, the oppressive pressure in the room dissipated, though the dangerous aura surrounding him persisted, lingering like an invisible storm. Rising from his seat, his golden eyes drifted toward the commoners outside, who had begun emerging from the underground bunkers, speaking of the Wargrave family’s arrival as though they were divine beings.

Turning away, Azaron made his way toward the door. As he approached, it opened seamlessly, revealing Zarek, who had been standing outside the entire time, ever present, as he was Azaron’s right-hand man.

Ordinarily, Zarek would have spoken, perhaps offered insight or engaged in discussion, but he understood Azaron far too well. Having known him since birth, he recognized the weight of silence and respected it. Azaron was not someone who needed comfort, he was a man who had lived for over a century.

Thus, they walked without exchanging words, their footsteps echoing faintly along the corridor until they arrived at another room. Azaron paused briefly before the door, his gaze resting upon it, not out of admiration, but out of something far deeper, something only Zarek could recognize.

This time, Azaron opened the door himself and stepped inside, the door closing quietly behind him as Zarek remained outside, standing guard.

Inside the room were countless garments, clothing of various forms, all unmistakably belonging to a single individual. Elegant gowns, battle-fitted skintight suits, heels, boots, armor, each piece carried a silent story.

This was his wife’s closet. Every belonging of Lily Of The Abyss had been preserved here. Azaron had never found the strength to discard them, choosing instead to keep them as they were. Through this room, he remained connected to her, as though she had never truly left.

To one side stood a large transparent case, within which rested a rapier of exceptional beauty, one that seemed to have drunk more blood than any other blade in Crymora. It was Lily’s weapon. As Azaron passed, his fingers brushed gently against the surface, his gaze drifting across her belongings as memories surfaced endlessly within his mind.

After some time, he lowered himself to the ground, lost in quiet reflection. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he spoke, "I’m sorry, Lily... I couldn’t even honor your dying wish."

His words were so soft they nearly dissolved into silence.

"I’m sorry... I hope you can forgive me," he added, his voice carrying a weight rarely seen from a man like him.

Azaron had lived most of his life without regret. But now... he had one. Granting Emperor Cyrvexis Lux Vanthelmor that favor. He could not help but question himself, he should have offered artifacts, platinum coins, anything else in exchange. He should have insisted, regardless of Cyrvexis’ demand.

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

But despite his overwhelming strength and unmatched power, Azaron could not see the future. In the end, no matter how powerful he had become, he remained what he had always been, a mortal... a human.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE: Sighs, I hope Azaron doesn’t cry, kind of feel pity for him, he is just a chill, calm guy. Anyway, as always, thanks for reading and supporting.