CLEAVER OF SIN

Ryaen Silvershade lifted her head slowly, her eyes rising from her plate as she turned her gaze toward Asher. Her face remained expressionless, her gaze calm, devoid of unnecessary emotion or theatricality.

In noble society, the outcome of a duel or contest between ducal households was rarely left unspoken. When one household triumphed over another, the matter was often publicized with fanfare, wielded as a weapon to diminish the standing and image of the losing side. It was a game of reputation, of influence, and of subtle warfare that existed beyond the battlefield.

Ryaen knew this well, and for that reason she had half expected Asher to make an example of her defeat. She had, after all, lost pitifully in the eyes of the Academy. She had been unable to land even a single hit upon him, while he had emerged unscathed, his Astra reserves untouched, his composure unbroken.

Any other noble would have seized upon such an opportunity, boasting of their superiority and ensuring that the tale spread far and wide, tarnishing their rival's name.

And yet, Asher had not.

Perhaps she should not have been surprised.

He was a Wargrave, and the Wargraves, though ruthless, were not petty. They did not waste their time with trivial displays of arrogance or small-minded posturing. Their strength spoke for them; their name alone commanded respect.

Still, a faint flicker of surprise stirred within her. She had half expected, and half dismissed, the idea of him boasting. The Tenth Sun, true to his reputation, had not spoken a word of their battle.

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer before drifting away. She returned her attention to her meal, her fork moving gracefully, yet a subtle smile touched her lips, a smile that was gone almost as soon as it appeared.

"Tough time...?" Vaelra's voice cut lightly across the table, her tone playful. She raised a brow, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. "A tough time, after she lost two upper limbs while you lost none?"

The remark was provocative, hovering somewhere between jest and sting.

But before Asher could respond, Ryaen's voice rang out, calm and steady. "I apologize, Your Highness, but if you require details in particular," her gaze shifted from her plate to Vaelra, "why not simply ask?"

Her tone was polite, yet firm, her words devoid of hesitation. Though Ryaen devoted most of her life to training, cultivating, and sharpening her techniques, it did not mean she was emotionally underdeveloped or socially inept. She was no hermit lost to isolation. She could think, speak, and feel as keenly as any other noble.

"Don't misunderstand," Vaelra replied evenly, lifting her goblet with delicate fingers. Her smile softened into something almost sincere. "I am not seeking to reopen wounds or stir conflict. But this table is far too silent, and the exam remains the only subject worth speaking of. Should we sit here as if dining at a funeral?"

Ryaen stared at her without expression. After a brief moment, she sighed softly and returned to her meal, leaving the conversation where it stood.

Then, unexpectedly, another voice broke the quiet rhythm.

"Well, I and the Tenth Sun met during the exam," Darissa spoke, her tone calm and measured. She had eaten quietly for much of the evening, scarcely drawing attention to herself. Now, with her plate nearly empty, she finally chose to contribute.

Vaelra's eyes gleamed with interest. "Now that is intriguing. I assume you did not battle one another, otherwise you would not have ranked higher than Ryaen on the scoreboard." Her words were delivered with an airy smile, yet the implication was sharp, deliberate.

Darissa's lips twitched, a brief flicker of annoyance surfacing before she schooled her features into neutrality. She did not rise to the bait.

"No, we did not fight," she answered smoothly. "We already knew each other from your seventeenth birthday banquet, after all. When we met during the exam, it was within a pit swarming with Grade One and Grade Two Emovirae, with a scattering of Grade Threes as well."

The words left her lips without a tremor, though within herself she recalled the truth. The Tenth Sun had not bothered to fight her. He had simply deemed her "not interesting enough."

But she could not confess such a thing here, not in front of the others. To do so would be to reduce her own value, to proclaim her insignificance.

Instead, she draped their lack of conflict in the cloak of familiarity, citing their acquaintance at Vaelra's banquet. It was a convenient justification, one no one present could refute, for none had witnessed their encounter in the depths of the pit.

Vaelra tapped her chin, her eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "Hmm. Strange. Throughout the battle exam, none of the other candidates in the top ten crossed paths. And yet, you encountered two of them, first Darissa, and then Ryaen." Her gaze slid toward Asher, curious, probing. "Unusual, wouldn't you say?"

Asher shook his head lightly. He offered no reply, choosing instead to continue eating, his silence an answer in itself.

The table fell quiet again, the weight of unspoken thoughts hanging thick in the air. Minutes stretched on, broken only by the faint clink of silverware and the muted sounds of the feast continuing elsewhere in the hall.

At last, Asher placed down his utensils, rising smoothly to his feet. His chair slid back with a soft scrape as he pushed it away. Without hurry, he adjusted his coat, turned, and began walking toward the far end of the hall.

There was no reason to linger; his meal was finished, and he had no taste for the shallow games of noble chatter. His steps echoed softly as he approached the great double doors, which swung open automatically as he neared.

Beyond stood two figures, a man and a woman, stationed like guards. Their stances were calm, disciplined, though Asher knew better. These were no guards.

"Where to?" the woman asked, her tone even, her posture composed.

"The residential building," Asher replied, his voice low but flat.

The woman inclined her head. With a fluid motion, she raised her hand. Space itself warped at her command, twisting and folding until a shimmering portal bloomed before them. Its surface rippled like liquid glass, opening a gateway that led directly to the residential quarters Instructor Jane had shown them earlier.

Asher's brow arched ever so slightly. Almost every instructor within this Separate Dimension displayed mastery over space, some through instantaneous teleportation, others by conjuring portals such as this one. It seemed absurd to assume they all possessed a natural affinity for the spatial element, for such talent was rarer than gold, scarce even among the most gifted.

And even if such were the case, could it truly be believed that the Emperor, the Dukes, and the other great powers would allow the Star Academy to gather every spatial talent in the empire under one roof? No, the reality had to be different.

'If the Principal of the Star Academy is indeed a Goddess of Space, then perhaps she has discovered a way to bestow spatial control upon her subordinates,' Asher mused silently as he observed the swirling gateway. 'It could be through artifacts and perhaps this control functions only within the bounds of this Separate Dimension.'

He did not dwell on the matter further. It was not his concern, nor within his power to unravel. Still, the thought lingered, if his guess proved correct, then the capacity to create such artifacts endlessly was nothing short of miraculous.

Without hesitation, Asher stepped forward. The portal enveloped him in shimmering light, and in the next instant he emerged outside the residential building.

The air here was calm, serene, a welcome reprieve from the suffocating tension of the feast. Without pause, he strode toward his designated quarters, entering with measured steps.

Once inside, he shed his clothes in practiced motions and made his way into the bath. Warm water cascaded over his frame, washing away the lingering weight of battle.

Minutes later, he emerged refreshed, a towel wrapped securely around his waist, another draped over his head. The quiet of the room settled around him like a gentle cloak.