Cleaver Of Sin

Chapter 273: Cheat

Instructor Jane’s black eyes caught Asher’s rapier tearing toward her throat at the very last second, precisely the moment she turned. For the first time since the class training session had begun, her expression shifted, however faintly, to one of mild surprise. She should have heard Asher’s footsteps the moment he took a step; she should have heard his rapier cutting through the wind the moment he initiated the attack.

But she had heard nothing, no breath, no shift in air, no hint of steel cleaving wind, as though the young man before her stood at the pinnacle of the assassination arts, a being sculpted from silence itself.

But just as quickly as the mild surprise had appeared, it vanished without a trace. Her reaction was instantaneous, born from years upon years of hardened combat. Her sabre moved on instinct alone, tearing upward with blinding speed. With a thunderous force, Asher’s rapier tip collided against the flat of Jane’s sabre, the sound; a metallic thunderclap that cracked through the air like a cannon.

The wind instantly erupted outward in a violent spiral, tearing everything backward as if reality itself recoiled from their clash. The earth beneath their feet shuddered, but it did not crumble nor sink; both combatants stood firmly, absorbing the brunt of the impact with their bodies as though such force was as insignificant as a gentle breeze.

Sparks showered between them, bursting in bright arcs of silver and white, illuminating the point in space where their weapons met. The steel of their blades screeched in protest, locked against one another, the friction creating a line of brilliant fire that danced between them like living lightning.

Asher’s purple eyes met Jane’s black ones, and in that suspended heartbeat, he smiled, calm, composed, almost serene.

Jane’s expression remained unchanged, calm and unreadable, but she understood the meaning of that smile. He was not smiling in arrogance, nor in mockery. No, he was smiling because he had forced her to cheat. He had made her instincts react. And she knew it.

She had instructed them to attack with the intention to kill, and the Tenth Sun had obeyed that command with lethal commitment. Not only had he done so, but he had chosen the perfect moment, the exact breath where her guard had lowered for a fraction of a second, to strike with precision and intent.

Jane had stated she would restrict her level to match theirs, limiting her speed, strength, and perception to the realm of her students. Yet her body, trained through countless battles and refined through bloodshed, had acted on its own, defying the very limitations she had placed upon herself. Her muscles had responded at a speed far beyond what she allowed, and her stance, her footing, none of it aligned with a restrained state.

It wasn’t just that. From the impact alone, if she had truly restricted herself to their level, she should have been thrown backward from the sheer force of their collision. Her reaction should had came at the final instant, leaving no time for proper stance adjustment. But her feet remained firmly rooted in the ground, planted so deeply into the earth that slight cracks formed beneath her soles, absorbing the force with the stability of a seasoned warrior.

Silence lingered between them, stretched taut like a drawn bowstring. Purple eyes met black ones once more, and time itself seemed to pause for the students who watched with held breath.

Normally, the training session should have ended there, and by all reasonable logic, it would have been considered the Tenth Sun’s victory. He had forced the instructor to break her own conditions, an achievement deserving acknowledgment. But Jane remained still, her sabre poised, her eyes calm.

She knew she needed to measure the true extent of Asher’s swordsmanship, to see the depth of his potential. And since Asher himself had not spoken a word about her briefly breaking the rules she had set, it could be inferred that he, too, did not wish for the session to end with just a single exchange.

Asher’s smile did not fade. He had not joined his classmates earlier when they rushed toward Instructor Jane like a wave, unified but sloppy. He had chosen to move alone, at his own pace, with his own rhythm, following his own standard of combat. There had been no command stating they had to move as one. And beyond that, he had sought something deeper: a chance to test himself in pure swordsmanship, without any external aid or borrowed momentum. He was not delusional, he knew he could not defeat Instructor Jane, but victory had never been his goal.

Understanding was.

Then, as though fate had given a silent signal, both Asher and Jane vanished from their spots, exploding into motion. The ground beneath them shattered from the release of force, clumps of earth erupting outward as dust and shattered rock burst like shrapnel.

Their movement was too sharp for the naked eye, too fluid to be tracked by mere spectators. One streak of deep purple light, the other a shimmer of obsidian black, clashed repeatedly in the air, their steel singing in violent harmony. Each collision sent shockwaves echoing through the mountain, the sound akin to drums of war pounding against the sky.

The air howled in protest, bending around the pressure of their movement. Even the mountain itself, old and unmoving, trembled faintly with each clash. To the students at the side, they were not people, they were phantoms of motion, streaks of light weaving through the wind. The human eye could not follow them; only the impact of each clash reached them, a continuous series of thunderous strikes sending waves of force that ruffled their hair and clothes as they crouched low or sat in tense silence on the shaking earth.

Asher moved with precision, a flawless rhythm of footwork and steel. His strikes were swift, methodical, and unhesitating, each one flowing into the next without pause or wasted motion. He searched constantly, probing for openings like a serpent waiting for the exact moment to strike. Each time he sensed the slightest shift in air or posture, he moved, his rapier flashing like a streak of silver lightning.

The air screamed as he cut through it, each thrust and slash chaining seamlessly into one another. From a slash to a thrust, from a thrust to a cut, from a cut to a cleave, each basic technique linked together in a deadly sequence, smooth as water yet sharp as broken glass. There was a certain elegance to his attacks, graceful, almost beautiful, yet each carried lethal intent, devoid of hesitation or mercy.

But no matter how precise or relentless his assault became, Jane’s sabre met every strike with equal finesse. She did not counter, did not press forward. She simply observed, her black eyes calm, her posture fluid. Her sabre moved like a whisper, parrying, deflecting, redirecting without resistance. She sidestepped with the minimal movement required, her blade gliding through the air with a soft ringing hum, as if she were guiding a dance rather than engaging in a spar.

Her expression remained composed, almost indifferent. But her mind was far from silent.

She had been the one assigned to escort the Tenth Sun and hundreds of other students from the Canestane Barony territory to the Separate Dimension and then to the Star Academy. She had seen him then, noticed his quiet demeanor, his distant eyes, and dismissed him. Like many, she had already judged him based on the reports that echoed throughout the Zarethorne Empire, reports that branded him a failure, a forgotten name among the proud lineage of the Wargrave.

Yet the Tenth Sun had defied every expectation.

She had read each student’s file before the class began. She knew of his performance in the Separate Dimension, his battles during the entrance exam, his cold efficiency during the chaos unleashed by the First Sun. She had taken note of his actions, but even then, a part of her had dismissed it as luck, circumstance, or desperation-born strength. But here, in this moment, watching him move, she knew it was neither luck nor circumstance.

It was talent. Real, undeniable talent. A blade yet unsharpened, but already gleaming.