Cleaver Of Sin

Chapter 81: Above It All

A single word cleaved through the battlefield, a realm already teetering on the brink of apocalypse. It struck Asher’s ears with the force of a divine edict, as though the voice of a god had commanded mortals to obey without hesitation, without question.

The moment the word reached him, Asher felt its weight crash down upon his existence. His entire body halted, not with a gradual deceleration, but with an unnatural, absolute stillness. As if time itself had been forcibly arrested.

The crackling lightning that once danced along his form froze mid-arc. His heartbeat, his breath, his very footsteps, everything was suspended.

Even Virelass, ever eager in his grasp, fell silent. Only his thoughts remained, trapped in the echo of that word, reeling as they struggled to comprehend the sheer magnitude of what had just occurred.

Hillary moved without the slightest hesitation, no breath, no thought, only motion. His figure surged forward, rapier already aligned for a single, lethal thrust, one precise strike meant to bring finality.

Asher felt it before he saw it: a thrust so absolute it threatened to erase his very existence. In that instant, time unraveled around him. Memories bled into his vision, his former life before transmigration, the long numbers in his bank account, the woman he had once called the love of his life: Jennifer.

Even fragments of his new life flickered before his eyes, a brief, bittersweet montage flashing like a final tribute to his existence. It was as though his soul had already accepted death.

And then, Hillary’s rapier closed the last of the distance, its gleaming tip mere centimeters from Asher’s head.

In a sudden flash of silver light, Asher vanished from his position, Position Marker had been activated with nothing but a thought. His form reappeared atop the very tree he had marked earlier.

He had chosen this location with foresight. The first time he used Position Marker to teleport to this tree, he had leapt down after healing and resting, intentionally leaving the tree intact. He’d predicted that the assassins might target it if they knew its significance. Now, that decision had proven vital.

His gamble had been correct.

As his body solidified atop the tree, the unnatural stillness that had bound him dissipated. His limbs stirred, and his thoughts surged forward once again.

’So... it’s a second ability,’ Asher realized, his mind racing. Up until now, he had assumed Hillary’s gift lay solely in his flames. But this, this was something else entirely.

A command that manipulated reality itself. Only a rare few were born with more than one abilities. Emperor Zolthemir Lux Vanthelmor came to mind.

Asher exhaled slowly, knowing full well: had it not been for Virelass, the sentient blade’s unique ability to teleport both of them with a mere thought, he would already be dead.

But his relief was short-lived.

Before his thoughts could even conclude, the word came again.

”FREEZE.”

Hillary’s voice rang out once more, sharp and absolute, a decree upon the world.

And he was already there, behind Asher, his rapier mid-swing, arcing toward Asher’s neck with the force of calamity itself.

Another shock surged through Asher’s mind as his entire body froze once more. His eyes widened in disbelief, the weight of the moment crushing down on him like a thunderclap.

’How?’

The question roared through his thoughts, as fierce and relentless as his own lightning.

Then, in that fleeting instant, faster than breath, his mind rewound everything. Every step, every clash since they had both tapped into their elements. And suddenly, it all made sense.

He remembered how, amidst the whirlwind of combat, Hillary had subtly begun to steer their battle toward a specific point, the very tree Asher had marked as his teleportation anchor. At the time, Asher had thought nothing of it. In the chaos of battle, movement often seemed random, unrestrained.

But now, the pieces snapped into place with frightening clarity.

Hillary had orchestrated it from the start. He had been watching. Calculating. Studying Asher’s patterns with surgical precision. He knew, as if he had been inside Asher’s head, that the only teleportation marker was that tree.

He had anticipated everything.

Hillary knew that when he invoked Freeze, Asher’s only chance of survival would be to teleport. And so, he maneuvered the fight toward that very point.

The moment Asher vanished, Hillary would be there, already arriving, already prepared, to cast Freeze again. Cutting off every possible escape. Trapping him within an inescapable sequence.

A checkmate in motion.

All these thoughts cascaded through Asher’s mind, unfolding with brutal clarity as he stood frozen, realization crashing in just as fate prepared to strike.

’Indeed, any reincarnated or transmigrated being should know better than to underestimate an old man,’ Asher mused, his thoughts razor-sharp even as the rapier closed in on his neck like a guillotine of light.

But just as the blade was about to sever his head from his shoulders, his form vanished once more in a blur of silver.

With a thunderous swoosh, Hillary’s rapier tore through empty air where Asher’s neck had just been. The sheer force of the swing shredded the tree into ribbons, its splinters instantly igniting into flame. In the next breath, even the embers were gone, reduced to drifting ash.

Deprived of a foothold, Hillary’s figure plummeted from the sky, landing with a graceful yet abrupt descent.

For the first time, shock flashed across his expression.

His meticulously crafted plan, built on observation, calculation, and control, had failed.

’He had another teleportation point,’ Hillary thought, his mind reeling. It was a variable he had never accounted for.

His gaze snapped toward a distant point, there stood Asher, calm as moonlight, watching him with unreadable eyes.

’How many more?’ Hillary wondered, a rare flicker of doubt creeping into his thoughts.

The new location Asher had appeared was the location where he had placed his third and last teleportation mark. He had already thought ahead, just in case the second teleportation mark had become compromised.

Asher stood with composed poise, his purple eyes locking with the obsidian gaze fixed upon him. Both he and Hillary understood the unspoken truth, only two minutes remained before the True Awakening comes to an end, and within that fleeting window, Hillary had no realistic chance of killing Asher.

Hillary’s freezing ability demanded direct line of sight; the moment his eyes strayed from a target, its mobility would be instantly restored.

This inherent limitation significantly restricted the scope of its use. Should Hillary ever lose his sight, his second ability would become entirely ineffective.

Moreover, it could only be activated twice per day, an unforgiving constraint that required meticulous planning and precise execution, much like the calculated approach he had taken against Asher.

In perfect unison, they dropped into their stances, as if governed by a single mind. No words were exchanged; none were needed. Understanding flowed between them like instinct.

Neither could overpower the other, one surviving through unparalleled talent, the other through the crucible of battle-hardened experience. And so, they would decide life and death with a single, all-defining strike.

Astra surged through their veins like a chalice overflowing with divine wrath. Flames and lightning bloomed, spiraling into frenzied chaos, the elements themselves bending to their will. Their gazes locked, silent, final.

Then, with a mere thought, they vanished.

One became a streak of blinding purple. The other, a flash of furious crimson. Both channeled every drop of Astra they possessed into the clash, an ultimate gambit.

And then the world broke.

They collided with the fury of gods, like twin titans, rams driven mad with fury, locking horns beneath a collapsing sky. The battlefield exploded into a surreal tapestry of purple and crimson, their energies colliding with such force it birthed a deafening echo that shook the earth.

Concentric shockwaves tore through the forest, leveling all in their path. Dust erupted like geysers, and a mushroom-shaped cloud of smoke surged skyward, reaching as if to scrape the stars themselves.

Deep gouges and ragged sword marks carved themselves into the earth, a battlefield turned graveyard. The forest lay devastated, trenches stretching hundreds of meters in every direction, a chaotic monument to the sheer magnitude of their clash.

From the smoke. From the ash.

From the apocalypse. From the carnage.

A lone figure stood, unbent, unbroken.

Purple hair crowned his head, as if reality itself had anointed him sovereign of the storm. His upper body was bared to the world, his garments long since reduced to cinders by the inferno.

Lightning, tinted in shades of purple, danced and crackled across his frame, alive, furious, divine. His purple eyes gazed toward the horizon where the sun began its solemn ascent, casting golden light upon the ruins left in his wake.

Hillary was gone, devoured wholly by the cataclysm he could neither contain nor escape.

And now, only one remained.

One man stood above it all.

ASHER FUCKING WARGRAVE.