Cleaver Of Sin

Chapter 190: Table

As usual, the students felt their world bend and twist, as though reality itself had been folded and reshaped around them. Their senses spun, distorted for the briefest of instants, before abruptly settling.

Then, almost with a sigh of relief, they felt whole once again. Their perception steadied, the dizziness faded, and clarity returned as though nothing had ever been disrupted.

When they opened their eyes, the environment before them had shifted once more. They now stood within a hall, not as vast nor as magnificently adorned as the one they had just left, yet still grand enough to humble the senses.

The ceiling arched elegantly, gilded with delicate patterns, and chandeliers of crystal hung suspended, scattering light into countless refracted fragments that shimmered across the walls.

Rows of extremely long tables stretched across the length of the hall, arranged side by side in impeccable symmetry. Numerous chairs accompanied each table, their polished wood glinting faintly under the glow of crystal lights.

Upon these tables lay a sight that caused most of the candidates to pause. Plates and trays were filled with an astonishing array of dishes, varied meals and exquisite cuisines prepared with the utmost care.

Every imaginable delight was present: roasted meats glazed in honeyed spices, fish shimmering with golden-brown skin, lush vegetables sautéed to perfection, colorful fruits arranged into intricate patterns, legumes rich in fragrance, and dairy products so fine they seemed reserved for royalty alone.

The air itself was saturated with rich aromas, heavy yet intoxicating. Scents of sizzling spices, sweet perfumes of fruit, and the hearty fragrance of roasted flesh blended together, forming an intoxicating cloud that tugged insistently at the senses.

The Star Academy instructor had indeed told them a feast awaited, but words had not done justice to reality. This was no ordinary banquet, it was an extravagant display of wealth and resources, proof of the Academy’s opulence.

The candidates could not help but reflect: to prepare such a lavish feast for nearly a thousand students must have cost a veritable fortune, enough platinum coins to stagger even the wealthiest merchants. But, not a single instructor seemed concerned.

This was, after all, the Star Academy. Every instructor here was practically a walking treasure vault, each one guarding secrets and riches beyond the norm.

The timing could not have been more fitting.

The battle examination had stretched on for five relentless hours without pause, without even a moment’s reprieve to breathe or rest. Muscles ached, lungs burned, and minds dulled under the ceaseless strain.

Even cultivators were not immune to fatigue, and although they were beyond the limitations of ordinary mortals, they had not yet reached the stage of the Life Rank where sustenance could be completely abandoned. Their bodies still craved fuel, energy, nutrients, and replenishment.

Thus, hunger gnawed at them, their exhaustion making the sight of food almost divine.

As the candidates took in the spectacle, varying reactions rippled through the hall. Some nobles remained unmoved, their faces carved into statues of indifference. To them, this was nothing new; from birth until now, meals of such quality had been their daily fare. It was simply another supper, another indulgence in a life of perpetual luxury.

By contrast, the expressions of the commoners and lesser noble children, those of baronial or viscount families, betrayed genuine shock. They could hardly conceal their awe at the spread before them.

Still, they struggled to maintain composure, forcing themselves into the calm dignity expected of nobles. Their hands trembled slightly, but their backs remained straight, unwilling to betray weakness before their peers.

Without any need for words, the great migration began.

Candidates drifted toward the tables, footsteps echoing across the grand floor. Some immediately lowered themselves into seats and began serving food onto their plates, unable to resist the hunger that gnawed at them. Others moved between tables, inspecting whether every table bore the same feast or whether hidden variations awaited.

Asher, too, moved forward. He did not speak, nor did he linger unnecessarily. His pace was measured, calm, betraying neither urgency nor hesitation. Selecting a particular table, he seated himself gracefully, his posture relaxed yet composed.

Though his battle earlier had not drained him heavily, his stomach still demanded attention. He had eaten only a light meal that morning before the exam, and now even his sharpened will could not completely dismiss the call of hunger.

He remembered the carefully prepared food from Lyra, his personal maid. Her meals, infused with meticulous care, were always more than enough to sustain him. Yet he understood the value of restraint.

One did not squander such resources needlessly; there might come a day when those very meals could prove invaluable. Besides, denying himself this feast would be bad. And so, he partook in the Academy’s offering like everyone else.

But Asher was not alone at his chosen table.

The royal twins, Vaelric and Vaelra, moved with unhurried elegance, their very presence commanding reverence. Though they did not seat themselves directly beside Asher, their mere choice of the same table spoke volumes.

They were not the only ones.

Caelan Stormveil, scion of the famed Stormveil Ducal Household, lowered himself into a seat with quiet composure. His hair, a vivid blood-red, matched the fierce glow of his eyes, a signature of his bloodline. The Stormveils were renowned for their mastery over blood manipulation, an art both feared and revered.

Beryon Ravencroft followed, his movement fluid and unhurried. There was serenity in his demeanor, yet authority in every step he took. His jet-black hair and eyes marked his heritage as unmistakably Ravencroft, the ducal family famed for their summoning bloodline. He needed no words; his silence drew all attention, as though his very calmness commanded the hall.

Darissa Camber arrived next, her long pink hair swaying like silk as she moved with practiced grace. Her smile was sweet, almost disarming, though it carried the polish of noble upbringing.

And then came Ryaen Silvershade. She glided forward with the grace of flowing water, her every stride measured, her poise unshakable. Without a sound, she lowered herself into her seat, embodying serenity itself.

One by one, the most prominent candidates of the examination gathered. Silence descended, thick and oppressive. It was as though the air itself bent to accommodate the weight of their collective presence. The seven figures, children of emperors, dukes, and marquis, had converged on a single table.

None else dared approach. Not even Oliver Twist nor Michael Morningstar, both ranked among the top ten, yet neither noble by birth, possessed the audacity to intrude. Their hesitation was understandable. This was no mere gathering of peers; it was a silent declaration of hierarchy.

The stillness stretched, heavy and suffocating. None of the seven spoke, and not one so much as raised an eye to acknowledge the others. To the untrained eye, it seemed disdain, as though each considered the others unworthy of recognition.

But the truth was the opposite.

They watched each other closely, not directly, but through subtle glances and sharpened senses. Each was sizing up the other, weighing strength, presence, and poise.

This was a rare moment indeed: the children of an Emperor, of Dukes, and of a Marquis, gathered together in a single space. It was not arrogance that kept them silent, but the gravity of the encounter.

None moved to touch the food. The first to act would risk appearing lesser, weaker, impatient. And so they sat, nobility and pride merging into a quiet stillness, as though the world itself paused to witness their gathering. Crymora itself seemed to hold its breath.

Minutes trickled by, the silence stretching longer and longer. Still, no one yielded.

Darissa Camber felt her stomach twist, hunger gnawing at her. She was painfully aware that of all those seated here, her status was the lowest. Compared to the children of dukes and the Emperor’s own heirs, she was but a girl caught amidst giants. Her innocence offered little shield against the weight pressing down upon her.

Her belly rumbled softly, betraying her hunger, yet her face remained composed. She masked every flicker of discomfort, maintaining the same aloof expression as the others. To falter here would be unforgivable.

And then, movement.

At last, the stillness broke.

It was Asher Wargrave who stirred first.