Cleaver Of Sin

Chapter 226: True Or False

Asher opened his eyes to an entirely unfamiliar location, his senses immediately flaring as he tried to absorb every detail of his surroundings. At first glance, it seemed like a hallway stretched endlessly before him.

But, unlike ordinary halls filled with the traces of life, this one was utterly void of presence or decoration. There was no flicker of light, no echo of footsteps, no signs of human passage. It was simply... empty.

The silence was so profound that it bordered on suffocating. His every breath seemed amplified, and even the soft thrum of his heartbeat resonated within his chest like a drum. For a moment, he thought the place was a mirage or an illusion designed to disorient him. Still, he kept his composure, his body language calm, even indifferent.

He did not speak, nor did he make any unnecessary movements. Instead, his purple eyes shifted forward, settling upon the massive double doors standing tall at the far end of the hallway. These doors were unlike anything else in the desolate corridor. They exuded an aura, an otherworldly presence, that weighed heavily on the air. It was as though the doors themselves regarded him with disdain, whispering into his very soul that he was unworthy of meeting the existence hidden behind them.

Standing beside him was Berion, the Ninth Vice Principal of the Academy. His thick white beard, neatly arranged, framed a sagely face. A tranquil demeanor radiated from him, though his black eyes carried the weight of wisdom and authority.

”The Principal awaits beyond this threshold,” Berion began, his tone calm but commanding. ”Be respectful. Do not speak out of turn. And most importantly, do not allow even the faintest trace of lust to cross your mind, no matter how subtle.”

Asher’s gaze remained fixed on the door, though his mind briefly flickered at Berion’s unusual warning. The Vice Principal’s words were firm, deliberate, as if meant to be etched permanently into memory.

”Contrary to what you may think, or whatever you might believe,” Berion continued, ”your father, Duke Azeron Wargrave, will not be enough of a deterrent should she decide to end your life. If Principal Cindralis wishes it, even the name of Wargrave will not shield you.”

His eyes shifted to Asher, studying him closely.

Asher did not reply immediately. His expression betrayed nothing, though his thoughts stirred beneath the surface. To him, women were simply people. Yes, he loved women, but that love never clouded his judgment. It did not mean he walked about the world seeing every woman as an object of lust.

Yes, Cindralis was famed for her beauty, beauty so extraordinary that bards wove her name into poems and nobles whispered her descriptions as though speaking of a goddess. Yet, to Asher, it was simply a fact to acknowledge. She was beautiful, nothing more, nothing less.

Besides, even if he wanted to entertain the notion of romance with her, the sheer difference in age made the idea ridiculous. He was merely eighteen years old at the moment. Even in his past life as Ethan, before his transmigration, he had only reached twenty-three. Cindralis had lived centuries, perhaps even millennia. Their worlds were too far apart.

A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he thought of something ridiculous: ’If I had transmigrated as a powerless commoner, perhaps I might have considered her as a sugar mummy.’

The absurdity of the idea almost made him chuckle, but he suppressed it instantly. He was not one for harems or fanciful indulgences. Still, survival often demanded sacrifice. A man had to do what he must to endure in a world like Crymora, where the weak were devoured without mercy.

’Father is not enough of a deterrent... in what sense?’ Asher wondered silently.

’Does he mean Father is not strong enough to match her? Or that Cindralis simply does not care about the power and prestige of the Wargrave family?’

It was a reasonable deduction. Although the Empire feared the Wargraves and often called them madmen for their insatiable love of battle, Asher was not naive. He understood there would always be those unfazed by the Wargrave reputation. Clearly, Cindralis was one such person, an individual beyond the reach of family names or titles.

”You need not worry, Vice Principal Berion,” Asher finally said, his tone composed. ”I am not such a fool. Contrary to what you may think or believe, not all nobles are... stupid.” His purple eyes finally shifted from the door to meet Berion’s calm gaze.

For a moment, silence stretched. Then Berion sighed, shaking his head lightly.

”You may enter, then.” His voice was almost reluctant.

With that, a portal shimmered open to his right. Without sparing Asher another glance, Berion stepped through and vanished, the portal closing behind him in a ripple of fading light.

Asher exhaled slowly, his expression unchanged, a mask of indifference carved onto his face. He advanced toward the double doors, his hand lifting slightly to push them open. But before his fingers could touch the wood, the doors creaked, moving of their own accord.

They swung open wide, their heavy groan echoing through the empty hall.

Asher did not flinch. He simply waited, watching until the doors stood fully ajar before he crossed the threshold. His footsteps echoed faintly as he entered, each step measured, calm, devoid of hesitation. He carried himself with the poise of someone accustomed to facing beings far greater than himself, his gaze neutral, his demeanor unyielding.

Inside the chamber, she sat.

Cindralis.

A woman cloaked in an aura of universal calmness, as though the very concept of chaos dared not touch her. Her hair, black as the void of night, cascaded down her back like a flowing river. Her skin was flawless, untouched by blemish, as though reality itself feared to mar her beauty. Her eyes, equally black, reflected an unfathomable depth, like twin abysses waiting to devour any who dared stare too long.

And yet, what struck Asher most was not her beauty, but her surroundings. Unlike the opulent chambers one would expect of a woman of such stature, this room was startlingly modest.

The chamber whispered a single word: Simplicity.

The walls were painted in muted shades of white and blue. No gilded frames, no intricate tapestries, no ornaments of wealth adorned them. They were simply walls, bare and unembellished. There were no shelves brimming with ancient tomes or artifacts. Nothing spoke of the immense power and authority she wielded.

Only a wooden table and chair occupied the center of the room, where Cindralis sat with perfect composure. Above her hung a chandelier, its design plain and unremarkable, its presence functional rather than decorative.

Asher stopped before her, lowering his head respectfully. He bowed slightly, placing his right hand over his chest where his heart beat steadily.

”I greet the Principal,” he intoned. His tone was respectful yet controlled, not overly eager, nor coldly distant. It was balanced, measured... neutral.

Cindralis’ eyes rested on him. Then she spoke, her voice soft but powerful, carrying an authority that pressed subtly against the air.

”We finally meet... Tenth Sun, Asher Wargrave.”

Her words reverberated in his ears. The sound of her voice threatened to unravel the defenses of his mind, coaxing him to lay down any hostility or suspicion. It was as though the world itself urged him to abandon negativity, to submit willingly to her presence.

”It is an honor, Principal,” Asher replied evenly, rising from his bow. His purple eyes met her black ones, though the abyss within them seemed intent on swallowing him whole.

”I wonder...” Cindralis murmured, her tone calm, her expression unchanged. ”Are those words true... or false?”

Her face remained perfectly neutral, no smile to soften the question, no frown to sharpen it. Just a simple, apathetic curiosity.

Asher did not answer. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed but resolute, as though her words had not even reached him.