Within the Wargrave estate, the family members watched in absolute silence. They watched as five assassins encircled Asher. They didn’t blink, they simply observed with calm eyes and steady breaths.
Then it began. They saw how Asher was gradually being pushed back, further and further. His mind was able to keep up with the situation, calculating every motion and strike, but his stamina did not allow his body to follow through. They watched as attacks rained in from all directions, left, right, above, from every possible angle.
Hammer. Axe. Whip. Dagger.
They watched his movements closely. They could see the fluidity, the calmness, and the efficiency in each step and swing, like he had been training in the art of battle for decades. But it wasn’t long before Asher’s chest was torn open, right in front of their eyes.
Still, none of them reacted. Many of them had suffered worse injuries in the past, had lost limbs, had endured horrors far worse than a torn chest. To them, a wound like that was barely worth mentioning.
Deep down, none of them wanted Asher to die, simply because he was their family member. Yet even if he were to perish, none of them could intervene. The law of the family forbade it.
They watched as the hammer crashed against his rapier with crushing force and weight, before a whip lashed viciously across his chest. The soft smiles that had graced their faces when Asher fought earlier had long since vanished, as if they were never there to begin with.
Their cold, neutral expressions returned. They watched as Asher ricocheted from one tree to another, as if he were a mere bouncing ball with no will of his own.
They could see his injuries now. The bruises. The torn flesh. The broken bones on his right hand that no longer looked like a hand, it resembled pulp, mangled and useless.
The glowing blue orb on the table displayed everything with chilling clarity, as though they themselves were right there in the forest beside him. They watched as the youngest Wargrave’s body tore a trench into the ground and remained there, unmoving, as though he were dead.
But with their keen, experienced eyes, they could see the subtle rise and fall of his chest. He was still breathing.
They continued to observe as Virelass drew blood from the corpses scattered across the battlefield, but his injuries barely healed. The dead simply didn’t have enough blood to fuel his recovery.
They knew, deep down, it was almost over. Asher had spent all his Astra fighting that monstrous black panther. His Astra veins were literally empty now. His weapon could no longer heal him, not without a source of blood. His stamina was completely depleted, bottomed out.
They had expected the assassins to act immediately, to deliver the final blow while Asher lay there in such a state. But they didn’t.
The Wargraves, sharp and calculating in moments like thes e, could tell what the assassins were thinking. And, truth be told, they had the same thought as the assassins. The way Asher hadn’t used any flashy ability until now made it seem as though his weapon possessed only one trick, one ability. Nothing more.
They heard the assassin leader’s monologue, but none of them reacted. None of them listened. Their minds were elsewhere. They were in the moment, consumed by the tension as a single question echoed through each of their thoughts:
’Was a Wargrave about to fall here today?’
They watched without flinching. Their emotions, chilled to the bone, refused to surface. No one dared to speak. They simply watched as one of their own, a member of the Wargrave bloodline, stood at the edge of death’s door.
’Was the youngest going to survive after barely holding out for two whole hours?’
Another question echoed in their minds. But this True Awakening was unlike any other. Their gazes shifted toward Azeron, who sat with remarkable calmness, so calm, it was as if this deadly trial were no different than an ordinary day at the park.
But Azeron could feel their gazes. He knew why they were looking at him like that. Still, he did not react. He didn’t move, and he didn’t blink.
During any Wargrave’s True Awakening, the Sun or Moon participating would have their movements tracked and fed to the assassins. This ensured that the Sun or Moon wouldn’t just hide the entire time.
However, pinpoint locations were never given. Instead, the assassins were provided with a radius. They had to search within that radius to find the participant.
This system granted the Sun or Moon some breathing room, because the Wargraves knew how brutal and unforgiving their own True Awakening trials were.
But Asher’s case was different. His exact location had been given to all assassins, no radius, no searching, no breathing space. Just a direct path to the target.
The rest of the Wargraves weren’t fools. They could tell that Asher’s position had been compromised at the exact moment Asher had realized it himself. And the responsibility of placing the marker on the Sun or Moon always fell to the Primarch.
It was through this marker that they could watch everything unfold in real-time, projected on the heads-up display before them.
They knew who was responsible.
Azeron.
The youngest had been placed in an impossible situation, no rest, no pause, just two hours of relentless fighting and movement at monstrous speeds.
Deep down, Azeron felt anguish. He had changed this little detail, this cruel alteration, to push Asher to the brink. But he wasn’t in anguish because of guilt.
No. Azeron’s pain came from seeing Asher in that broken state. And yet, he did not panic. He had no fear for Asher’s life. He and his first son had already discussed the contingency plan to save Asher.
That discussion had led to this last-minute change to the marker’s function.
They watched as Asher, somehow, rose to his feet. His legs were already trembling, threatening to give out. His entire body shook with exhaustion as he staggered forward, eventually collapsing behind the trunk of a tree.
They watched, hearts bleeding, as family tradition and ancient law bound them to their chairs like invisible, invincible chains.
The Wargraves could never fall to a human enemy without consequence, but now, it seemed even tradition had betrayed them.
Malrik was already prepared to move the moment Asher reached the point of death. He hadn’t interfered even now, just in case the youngest still had one final card to play.
They watched as the axe-wielding assassin strode confidently toward Asher, who was panting like his very life depended on each breath.
Then, their eyes widened in shock.
Asher’s injuries were healing, right before their eyes, with no blood.
They watched as Asher moved instantly with unbelievable speed, burning through the last drops of his stamina.
They watched as his rapier took care of the axe-wielding assassin, while Asher himself personally eliminated the talkative assassin leader.
Before their shock could even settle, they watched Asher raise his middle finger toward the remaining assassins, with a cheeky smile, before vanishing in a streak of silver light.
They didn’t fully understand what that middle finger meant, but their shock ran deep. The youngest Wargrave had just vanished.
Their eyes remained fixed on the heads-up display. It adjusted a moment later, repositioning itself to show Asher’s new location.
And once more, shock.
They recognized the place. And in that moment, smiles and grins spread across their previously expressionless faces.
’The youngest has a teleportation ability.’
The thought echoed in all of their minds. They didn’t know the limits of that ability, how many times he could use it, how far it could go, but in that moment, none of them cared.