The Sinvaira paused, its shadowy form hovering in place as it waited for some kind of outward reaction from Azaron, anything at all. Rage. Anger. A surge of killing intent. Even the eruption of his presence would have sufficed. Yet none of that came. Azaron remained as calm as ever, his expression unmoved, his posture relaxed, as though the Sinvaira's words had meant absolutely nothing.

If there was one wish Azaron held in life, aside from the resurrection of his wife, it was to encounter a Sinvaira.

A Sinvaira had killed his father.

They had not fought him fairly. They had ganged up on him, three against one, and slain him where he stood. A Primarch of the Wargrave family had fallen, not because he was weak, but because even monsters could be overwhelmed by numbers. Azaron had wanted revenge ever since that day. Yet despite his power, his noble status, and the vast resources at his disposal, he had never been able to meet even a single Sinvaira. Every trail led to nothing. Every lead collapsed into a dead end, as though these beings existed just beyond the reach of reality itself.

And now, at long last, one stood before him.

Yet it was only a projection.

Although the projection was powerful, undeniably so, even stronger than Valentine had ever been, it made no difference to Azaron. To him, this was nothing more than a shadow. A single strike would be enough to obliterate it completely, erasing it from existence where it stood.

The Sinvairas were among the very few, if not the only beings, who truly understood how absurdly powerful the Wargraves were. After all, it had taken three Sinvairas to bring down the former Primarch. Even then, they had not emerged unscathed. Though the Primarch had died, he had carved scars into them that would never fade, leaving them half-dead and broken in his wake.

This was precisely why this particular Sinvaira had fled the moment it realized who Azaron truly was.

For all its power, it knew the truth. In a personal battle, it could not win against Azaron Wargrave. And it was not foolish enough to challenge him without its companions standing beside it.

"When will you be coming for me?" Azaron asked calmly, his golden eyes never leaving the Sinvaira's shadowy form.

The Sinvaira arched an eyebrow, momentarily confused by the question. Then, as realization dawned, its confusion melted away. "Hooo… ready to join your father, are we?" it replied, its tone mocking, laced with faint sarcasm.

"That doesn't answer my question," Azaron said immediately, his voice steady, almost eager.

The Sinvaira fell silent.

Yes, it knew the Wargraves loved battle. They lived for it. But wasn't Azaron courting death itself in the name of revenge? Even monsters had limits.

"Are you too afraid to face me?" Azaron continued, a small smirk breaking through his otherwise impassive expression as his lips curved upward. "I never knew Sinvairas were afraid of anyone."

The Sinvaira squinted.

It was afraid.

Who wouldn't be afraid of this monster called Azaron Wargrave? It was not as ignorant as Valentine, who had challenged something he never truly understood, even up to the very moment of his death.

Seeing the Sinvaira's silence, Azaron lowered himself calmly to the ground. He sat in a lotus position, his movements unhurried, deliberate. Ender, his spear, manifested across his lap, humming softly as though responding to his intent, vibrating with hunger.

"Now that it's been established you're afraid of me," Azaron said evenly, "and that you need your fellow rats to face me… I'll sit here and wait."

His gaze sharpened.

"Three of your kind killed my father. I'll be waiting for three of you." He paused briefly before adding, almost casually, "Or better yet, six of you."

His voice remained flat, but every word carried unmistakable seriousness. "You can have my head right now and right here. Why wait?"

The Sinvaira projection was rendered utterly speechless.

It didn't know how to respond to such a challenge. The Sinvairas always deliberated. They discussed, calculated, and reached consensus before choosing which enemy to eliminate. Azaron's father hadn't even been the first Wargrave to fall by their hands, and he certainly wouldn't be the last.

It couldn't simply gather two others and teleport here on a whim.

So silence stretched between them.

The Sinvaira stared at Azaron, and Azaron stared back, unmoving. The Sinvaira could tell, this was not bravado. Azaron was deadly serious.

'Has this child grown stronger than his own father?' it wondered silently, its eyes narrowing with suspicion. Stronger than someone who was already too much of a monster?

Its thoughts drifted to the First Sun, Malrik Wargrave. Stories claimed he had eclipsed even Azaron in power, but the Sinvaira knew those tales were exaggerated nonsense, fabricated by those who did not truly understand beings like the Wargraves.

Still…

It couldn't deny the truth.

Malrik was growing. Rapidly. Dangerously.

After all, he had already killed one of their kind.

'We may have to eliminate both of them at once,' the projection thought grimly. 'A coordinated attack, just as planned before. These two will become an obstruction to our goal. We cannot afford another thousand years of delay.'

Throughout it all, Azaron remained silent, waiting to see what the Sinvaira would say, or do.

The next second, the Sinvaira's lips twisted into an evil, playful smirk. "Everyone has their time, Azaron. If it isn't your time, then it isn't." It paused briefly. "But how about a trade?"

It stared at Azaron, clearly expecting a response.

There was none.

Seeing his silence, the Sinvaira continued. "I need you to kill a particular opponent. In exchange, I will give you information on…" It paused deliberately, letting the words hang. "…your wife's death."

Silence descended once more.

But this silence was different.

It became heavy. Thick. Suffocating.

Anyone foolish enough to exist within this space, outside of these two, would have gone mad beneath its weight. Azaron's eyes grew colder at the mention of his wife, but his body remained completely still.

He didn't take the bait.

He didn't ask who the target was, nor what information would be given. Questions were how one became a pawn to the Sinvaira. While Azaron was no schemer like many nobles, he was neither stupid nor naive.

The Sinvaira sensed it had drawn a reaction, however small. That was enough. It didn't push further, for now. The seed had been planted. All that remained was to let it grow.

The shadowy figure opened its mouth to speak again.

But Azaron cut it off.

"It seems you and your rat family aren't coming," he said calmly as he rose to his feet.

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