The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 221: Tomb of the Beast king - 2

Hamen approached it reverently, his hand outstretched but not quite touching the swirling green aura.

He circled the pillar until he found what he sought—a small cavity in the otherwise smooth surface, just large enough to hold a manʼs closed fist.

Within it rested a bracelet, suspended in the air without support. Crafted of the same light-drinking metal as his key, the bracelet was adorned with a single cabochon stone that pulsed with emerald light in perfect rhythm with the energy surrounding the pillar.

Hamen hesitated only briefly before reaching into the cavity. His fingers closed around the bracelet, and he withdrew it from its resting place.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then the green energy surrounding the pillar surged like a tide breaking against cliffs. It roiled and churned, suddenly wild and uncontained. Hamen stumbled backward, bracelet clutched in his fist, as the emerald light coalesced into a single, blinding stream.

The stream shot upward through the ceiling—passing through solid stone as if it were mist—and disappeared.

Above, in the courtyard, Jolthar was watching from the corridors when a strange sensation prickled at the back of his neck. He looked up just as the beam of green energy burst from the ground nearby. Before he could react, the light surged toward him with purpose, wrapping around his body like a serpent of pure energy.

”What—” he managed before the light constricted, lifting him off his feet. People scattered in fear as Jolthar was dragged across the courtyard, his body suspended in the grip of the emerald beam.

Stone and wood blurred past him as he was pulled inexorably downward through the castle, through floors and ceilings that offered no more resistance than air.

The emerald light pulsed, hypnotic and ancient. Jolthar felt it before he saw it—a call that resonated not with his ears but with something deeper, something primal within his very essence. The green energy reached out like tendrils of luminescent mist, wrapping around his limbs, his torso, and his neck.

He didnʼt struggle.

Couldnʼt struggle.

Every fibre of his being told him this was meant to be.

Count Hamen watched in stunned silence as Jolthar was pulled inexorably toward the towering pillar at the centre of the ancient chamber. The pillar—black as night yet somehow translucent, with swirling patterns of emerald light coursing through it like liquid—had stood sealed in this hidden chamber beneath Castle Godeylet for centuries.

Few even knew of its existence, and fewer still understood its significance.

Joltharʼs body made contact with the obsidian surface, but instead of a collision, there was absorption. The stone seemed to liquefy, pulling the young man in as though he were sinking into a pool of ink.

Within moments, only ripples on the pillarʼs surface indicated that anything had happened at all.

”It canʼt be...” Hamen whispered, his weathered face ashen with shock. He watched Jolthar being dragged by the green-coloured energy, and right in front of him, he was sucked right into the pillar.

The implications crashed down upon him like an avalanche. The legends, the ancient texts kept secret by his family for generations—all spoke of this moment. ”The Chosen Vessel... after all these centuries...”

The Countʼs revelation was interrupted by the urgent footfalls of his lieutenant, Marren, who burst into the chamber, armoured and breathless.

”My lord! Thereʼs no time! The Chitteran forces—twenty thousand strong—have been spotted approaching further towards the county. The scouts say theyʼll reach our borders by nightfall!”

Hamen stood frozen, torn between the divine significance of what he had just witnessed and the immediate threat to his people. He couldnʼt stay here and watch the pillar. It was already over; that boy wouldnʼt survive the pillarʼs energy or the reason he was in for.

Finally, he gave one last, lingering look at the pillar, noting how the emerald patterns now pulsed with renewed vigour.

”Lead the march,” he commanded, his voice finding its strength again.

”Iʼll join you shortly.”

As Marren departed, Hamen pressed his palm against the cool surface of the pillar, feeling the immense surge of energy around the pillar.

*

Outside, the castle grounds buzzed with frantic activity.

Soldiers donned armour, blacksmiths made last-minute repairs to weapons, and civilians hastily packed provisions, preparing to seek shelter within the castle walls. Hamen had built the castle so that all the people of the city could reside inside the walls when such a time of war came upon them. The giant walls around the castle stood strong. It wasnʼt a fortress but a sanctuary for the people in times of need.

Through this chaos, Count Hamen strode with purpose, his ornate armour gleaming in the afternoon sun.

But rather than heading directly to his troops, he diverted his path toward the great pit that yawned behind the castle—a seemingly bottomless chasm that had been there since before the founding of Godeylet itself.

Pitʼs darkness was pitch black, and an eerie aura surrounded the area with strange noises.

The locals avoided it, claiming it whispered in the night.

The more superstitious said it breathed.

They werenʼt entirely wrong.

Hamen approached the edge of the pit, where stones formed a crumbling barrier. He raised his right arm, upon which rested an ornate bracelet of tarnished silver, centred with an emerald that matched the green light of the pillar.

”Arise, my beasts,” he commanded, his voice carrying an authority that seemed beyond that of a mere count.

The darkness within the pit stirred.

First, there was silence, then a sound like the rustling of countless leathery wings. And then, eyes—hundreds of them, perhaps thousands—opened within the blackness.

Eyes of crimson, amber, violet, and gold, blinking and staring up at the Count.

”The Vaemani Stone calls you to battle,” Hamen continued, the emerald on his wrist pulsing in rhythm with the distant pillar. ”Help me, once again, to make sure the monarch is at peace.”

A chorus of inhuman growls, hisses, and roars echoed from the depths.

Nohnath, his wyvern, moved toward him with slow, deliberate steps, its powerful claws pressing into the earth with a soft crunch. Its serpentine eyes gleamed with recognition as it lowered its massive, scaled head before him. Without hesitation, Hamen placed a steady hand on the creatureʼs ridged snout, feeling the warmth of its breath against his palm. Then, with practiced ease, he swung himself onto its broad back, settling into the groove between its mighty shoulder blades. The wyvern let out a low, rumbling growl, wings twitching in anticipation, ready to take flight at his command.