CLEAVER OF SIN

As the commoners and nobles who ranked below the top ten continued to voice their complaints in their minds, their eyes drifted toward the scoreboard again. The moment their gazes landed upon it, their expressions froze instantly, as if their very thoughts had been shackled in place.

But they were not the only ones to stand in such stunned silence. Even those who proudly occupied the top ten rankings, figures who had until now exuded confidence and dignity, found themselves struck speechless. Shock painted their features openly, betraying disbelief at the scene before them.

The difference between the first-place contender and the second was nothing short of monstrous. A thirty five thousand point gap, such a disparity was beyond reason, verging on the absurd.

Their complaints had already been simmering before this revelation. After all, every one of the top ten rankers had managed to touch the forty thousand point mark, with both the second and third positions barely clawing past that line to breach the fifty thousand threshold. It was an accomplishment to be proud of, one worthy of recognition.

But the figure who sat at first place had torn an insurmountable gulf between himself and the rest. The very forty thousand point achievement they had worshipped as a symbol of their superiority was, in truth, little more than the margin that separated the figure from them.

For the scoreboard displayed a staggering total in his name, eighty seven thousand points. He was perched a mere three thousand points shy of the ninety thousand range.

Thirty five thousand points. That was the difference between the first and the second.

It was not merely impressive. It was humiliating. To those gathered here, it was nothing short of an insult.

As their collective gazes trembled toward the name beside that ludicrous score, the hall seemed to still further.

Who, they wondered, could possibly possess the strength to claim such a number as their own? But when their eyes registered the name etched into the board, their hearts shook as though the ground had been pulled from beneath them.

Asher Wargrave.

They did not freeze because the name belonged to a Wargrave. No, if it had been any other Wargrave, they could have explained it away, attributing such achievement to the monstrous physique and bloodline of that ancient and terrifying lineage. That alone would have sufficed as a rational excuse.

But the Tenth Sun? Asher? This was an entirely different matter altogether.

Everyone knew the tale. He had failed his awakening not once, but twice, managing only by the third attempt to barely secure an ability. He had been branded talentless, unworthy, incapable of reaching even the baseline expectations of his lineage.

He was the disgrace of the Wargrave family. The blemish upon their otherwise peerless history. The one mocked as the Dim Sun, the harbinger of decline for the once-mighty Wargrave bloodline.

Yes, there had been rumors that he defeated Ryan Silvershade of the Silvershade Ducal Household. But no one had cared to dwell upon it, for Ryan himself was whispered to be similarly untalented. His defeat had done little to stir belief in Asher's ability.

All of those present had succeeded in their awakenings on the very first attempt. Not one among them had faltered until the second, let alone the third.

And yet here was the one who had awakened only on his third try, standing at the pinnacle, leaving them buried beneath a gulf that could not be bridged. Even if they were given five additional hours to scavenge for points, the difference would remain insurmountable.

Of course, it was true that Asher, the Tenth Sun, had returned alive from his True Awakening.

But everyone was aware that the Wargrave family had long adjusted the difficulty of each True Awakening ceremony to match the innate strength and abilities of the participating Sun or Moon. For the Tenth Sun, untalented as he was, the challenge had doubtless been diluted to the point of survival.

That was what they had believed. That he had survived not because of any brilliance or ability, but because his trial had been watered down, an easy path compared to what his siblings had endured. He had merely clung to life.

But now, a far darker and more uncomfortable question lodged itself in their minds.

If the Tenth Sun was untalented, then what were they?

Not one among them dared to whisper of cheating. Not one of them even entertained the thought of accusing the Star Academy of favoritism. To do so would have been courting death. Such slander would be grounds for immediate execution, and besides, the Academy had no reason to help him. If anything, would it not have made more sense for the Academy to secretly favor the Royal Twins instead?

And yet the scoreboard did not lie.

The nobles within the top ten found their minds grinding furiously as they attempted to rationalize what lay before them. Their pride and reason clawed desperately for explanations, but none would come. They could not comprehend the difference. Their gazes quivered, their thoughts stumbled, and the whispered question repeated within them like a curse.

'How?'

Could there have been some mistake with the scoreboard? Was it possible the numbers were wrong?

But then, one thought struck Vaelric Lux Vanthelmor, and at that very moment, the same realization slammed into the other nobles of the top ten as well.

Ryaen Silvershade had lost to Asher Wargrave.

It was not difficult to piece together. The loss of her arms, the sharp and humiliating drop from the top ten, the desperate struggle to claw her way back only to end up at the ninth rank, it all fell neatly into place now. The truth was unavoidable.

Vaelric and his twin sister, Vaelra, turned as one. Their eyes swept the grand hall, searching for the Tenth Sun. And then they found him.

They remembered him from the Royal Birthday Celebration the previous year. But now, as they laid eyes upon him again, there was something… different.

Asher's head lifted, as though sensing the weight of their stares. His purple eyes, luminous and steady, turned to meet their twin brown gazes. For a brief heartbeat, silence reigned as those eyes met.

And then he smiled. Calm, unbothered, his lips curving faintly in acknowledgment before he dipped his chin in a nod and turned away, dismissing them with serene ease.

More and more gazes followed, settling upon him as though drawn by unseen gravity. For all seventeen years of Asher's life, he had remained unknown, hidden in the shadows of his siblings and peers. But his attendance at the Royal Party had burned his face into the memories of the noble houses.

And how could they forget? That face, handsome, refined, and disarmingly perfect, was etched now into their minds.

Those who had not recognized him before merely followed the stares of others. By the time recognition spread, Asher had already closed his eyes.

He was no lover of attention. If anything, he disliked it mildly. The press of their gazes upon him was suffocating, a reminder of an animal placed in a cage for others to gawk at. He had no desire to bask in their awe, no urge to revel in their disbelief. These were the very same people who had mocked him, who had labeled him an untalented Wargrave for nearly two decades.

'Can this be considered a form of face-slapping?' Asher mused inwardly, a trace of wry amusement threading his thoughts.

His mind wandered briefly. 'William performed well, too,' he thought. 'Finishing fourth despite dropping from second place… Still, his talent cannot be denied.'

William had copied Asher's affinities and half of his elemental control, but imitation could only carry him so far. William did not possess the vast Astra reserves Asher possessed. He lacked Asher's Perfect Astra Control, his monstrous battle instincts, and his physique.

For all the admiration and whispers, there remained only one truth: Asher Wargrave, the once-forgotten Tenth Sun, stood now far beyond their reach.