The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 220: Tomb of the Beast King - 1

Hamen leaned against a stone column, studying Jolthar with an intensity that would have made most men uncomfortable.

Hamen said, ”From the looks of it, you battled with something far more dangerous. Enough to make a tier 9 mage end up in that state.”

Jolthar turned to face him. ”Yeah, it was far more sinister than anything I have faced till now.”

”Even I could feel its foul energy from here. But I thought Wymar could take care of it. He is a strong magic user.” Hamen thought that Wymar was the one who fought and that Jolthar might have just helped him.

”Yes, he is.” Jolthar raised an eyebrow when he said that he felt that energy. He was strong enough to sense what was happening 12 miles away from the castle. It made him wonder about Hamen.

Jolthar took in a sharp breath and asked, ”Can I ask you something?

Hamen looked at Jolthar and nodded, telling him to ask.

”You oppose the empire, yet you stay affiliated with the empire as a county. If you donʼt fight for the empire or its cause, then why do you include the county as a region of the empire?”

Hamen chuckled as he replied, ”Itʼs simple. If I declared my county as an independent region, they would send armies to crush my county. Instead, I just play their game of playing county under the empire banners. And they are happy as long as I donʼt join hands with the enemies.”

Jolthar said, ”So you play their game while making your own rules.”

Hamen laughed mirthfully.

”So, why did you let me walk away when I killed your brother-in-law? You didnʼt even flinch.”

Hamen smirked slightly.

”You mistake indifference for intent. That man sealed his own fate the moment he ignored my warnings. I donʼt waste my breath repeating myself.”

Jolthar scoffed.

”Efficient way of ruling, I suppose.”

Hamen shrugged.

”What does it matter? A ruler is not measured by how human he is, but by how long his people survive.”

A brief silence settled between them.

Jolthar studied the man in front of him, searching for any sign of weakness, a crack in that cold exterior—but there was nothing. Hamen was like a fortress: impenetrable, unreadable.

Then, after a moment, Jolthar decided to cut through the pleasantries.

”I heard from the men that you came alone, despite the empire asking you to send 300 men. Why is that?” Hamen, in turn, posed a question.

The men who ran away from the battlefield came towards the city. They were now being treated in the castle.

Joltharʼs face turned amused as he replied, ”I am just like you; I donʼt like listening to the orders of the empire.”

”Oh, quite an interesting brat you are,” Hamen said.

”For a tier 6 swordsman, you sure are strong to endure a battle of that scale.” Hamen measured his strength as he observed him.

Jolthar looked down at his bandaged arm. ”Yet still not strong enough when it matters.”

”Greedy, arenʼt you?”

”Who isnʼt?”

Before Hamen could formulate a response, a sound pierced the afternoon quiet—a bell, deep and resonant, ringing in an unmistakable pattern that would send servants scattering and guards reaching for weapons.

Hamenʼs gaze turned towards the city walls.

”The warning bell.”

The courtyard erupted into activity as a guard in the watchtower continued ringing the ominous signal.

Moments later, a post rider galloped into the courtyard, his horse lathered with sweat, its sides heaving. The man practically fell from his mount, dropping to one knee before the Count.

”My lord!” the messenger gasped, his uniform bearing the dust of hard riding.

”Army approaching from the northeast! Flying no banners, but their advance scouts have already engaged our border patrol near the Ridge.”

Hamenʼs face hardened into the mask of a commander. ”Numbers?”

”At least twenty thousand, possibly more, hidden in the forest. Heavy cavalry in the vanguard. Theyʼll reach our outer settlements by nightfall if they maintain their pace.”

The Count turned to Jolthar; any trace of philosophical musing vanished. ”It seems our conversation will have to wait. The purpose for now is survival.”

He began issuing rapid orders to the gathering officers.

-

As chaos erupted throughout the courtyard—soldiers rushing to their posts, messengers darting between buildings with urgent commands—Count Hamen stood momentarily still, his eyes narrowed in thought.

Amid the preparations for the coming battle, a decision crystallised in his mind.

”Captain Marren!” he called to his second-in-command. ”Begin the evacuation of the eastern villages. Prepare our defences as we discussed in the winter council.”

The battle-scarred captain saluted. ”And you, my lord?”

”There is something I must attend to,” Hamen replied, his voice dropping.

With that, the Count turned and strode purposefully back into the castle, alone.

He moved not toward the war room or the armoury but deeper into the ancient stronghold. His boots echoed on stone stairs that wound downward, past levels few were permitted to enter. Guards posted at various checkpoints stood at attention as he passed, none questioning his destination.

Finally, Hamen reached a heavy iron door embedded in the bedrock beneath the castle.

It was at least a few ten- to twenty-foot-long, thick, and strong.

He withdrew a key from around his neck—not the ornate key of a count, but something far older, crafted of a strange, dull metal that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.

The lock yielded with a sound like distant thunder.

The chamber beyond was circular, carved from the living rock in an age when Godeylet was not yet named. No windows broke the perfect curve of the walls, yet the room was illuminated by a soft, pulsing light that emanated from its centre.

There stood the pillar—a column of obsidian-like stone etched with symbols no scholar in Hamenʼs court had ever deciphered. It rose from floor to ceiling, seemingly growing from the bedrock itself, and around it swirled a mist of emerald energy that moved with almost sentient purpose.