The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 236: Lurking shadows

Jolthar paused, struck by the unexpected advice from his fallen enemy. He studied Dagurʼs face, seeing beyond the battle rage and bloodlust to something more complex—perhaps even a fragment of wisdom born from a lifetime of harsh lessons.

”And who exactly?” Jolthar replied, his voice cool and measured.

Dagur groaned as he was trying to speak with him. He understood that Jolthar had more conviction than any other empire people had; his blade, he was wielding it with a purpose, he could tell. Dagur was sure that Jolthar would grow even stronger, and so he wanted to leave his last words to him.

”The empire bastards, they are not as humane as you think.”

Jolthar frowned, studying Dagurʼs face. Jolthar could tell that he was telling the truth, but he didnʼt care about those empire people or what they did.

”Donʼt worry; I decide who to side with.”

A wet, gurgling chuckle escaped Dagurʼs bloodied lips. ”Yet you fought on their side.” His eyes flickered toward Count Hamen and the county soldiers in the distance.

”I did,” Jolthar acknowledged simply, offering no justification.

Dagurʼs breathing grew more laboured, the rise and fall of his massive chest becoming irregular. Yet something seemed to ease in his expression—a tension releasing as death approached. ”Well, I think I am happy that I die at your hands.”

”A worthy runt to fight against, you were.”

Jolthar let out a dry chuckle.

His eyes, growing cloudy, found Joltharʼs with surprising focus. ”Tell Cleora that I am happy to see that she has grown up nicely.”

Jolthar was surprised and watched Dagur with a curious gaze.

”Why did you save her then?” Jolthar asked, genuinely perplexed by this unexpected connection. It was a question even Cleora didnʼt know the answer to.

A shadow of what might have been grief passed across Dagurʼs brutal features. ”It just happened so. I couldnʼt bear to look at the pain she was going through at the time. She reminded me of my sister back then, so I saved her.” Pain contorted his face—not from his wounds, but from something deeper, older, a wound to the soul rather than the body.

Curiosity and something like reluctant empathy stirred in Jolthar.

Despite the battle fury still cooling in his veins, despite everything this man had done, he found himself asking: ”What happened?”

Dagurʼs breathing had grown shallow, his skin taking on the waxy pallor of approaching death. For a moment, it seemed he had already passed beyond the point of answering.

Then his eyes focused one last time, burning with unexpected intensity.

”If you want to know about the horrors of what your empire people did,” he forced out between bloodied teeth, ”then you should go to Dreggar Point. You will know everything.”

”Remember, stay away from that shitty emperor of a pig and his family.”

Dagur wanted to warn Jolthar as he felt he was different from those empire people. Dagur could tell from his eyes; they had something that not many possessed.

With these cryptic words, the last of Dagurʼs strength ebbed away. His massive body shuddered once, then went still, his eyes fixed sightlessly on the sky above.

Jolthar remained kneeling beside his fallen enemy, the green energy beneath his skin pulsing more slowly now, matching the rhythm of his contemplative thoughts.

Jolthar watched the still body of Dagur, with thoughts running in his mind.

He thought about the words of Dagur, and why did he warn him to stay away? It seemed like Dagur had a story of his own, and he mentioned something about a place called Dreggar Point.

He didnʼt know where it was, but he would like to see it for himself in the future.

He acknowledged that Dagur was a man worthy of praise. Another piece of the puzzle he hadnʼt known he was assembling.

With a sigh that carried the weight of new understanding, Jolthar reached forward and gently closed Dagurʼs staring eyes. It was a small gesture of respect for a fallen warrior, enemy though he had been.

Across the blood-soaked meadow, the tide of battle had shifted dramatically. The beasts under Joltharʼs inadvertent command had torn through the barbarian ranks with terrible efficiency, leaving mangled bodies in their wake. The county soldiers had followed in this grisly path, their disciplined swordwork finishing what the beasts began.

But now, seeing their legendary leader fallen, the remaining barbarians faltered.

Soon, the news of Dagurʼs death spread.

Weapons lowered slightly, eyes widened in shock, formations loosened as the impossible reality sank in: Dagur the Undefeated was dead.

In that moment of collective shock and disbelief, a new force entered the fray.

From the eastern edge of the meadow came the thunder of hooves and the glint of dawn light on polished armour.

Phoenix General Iorinaʼs forces had arrived, their timing impeccable, catching the disorganized barbarians from behind.

The red-haired general herself led the charge, her curved sword describing lethal arcs through the air as she cut down several barbarians in as many seconds. Her elite unit fanned out behind her, driving into the barbarian flank like a well-honed spear.

Caught between the beasts and county soldiers to their front and Iorinaʼs fresh troops to their rear, the barbarians found themselves in an impossible position.

What had begun as a battle rapidly devolved into a slaughter.

Jolthar rose slowly to his feet, his transformed blade still dripping with Dagurʼs blood. The sounds of dying men filled the air, screams and pleas for mercy that went largely unheeded in the heat of combat.

He watched it all with a strange detachment, as if viewing the scene from a great distance.

Count Hamen approached cautiously, giving the beasts a wide berth.

The Vaemani stone, still clutched in his hand, glinted in the sunlight but remained inert to his touch. His eyes flickered between Jolthar and Dagurʼs corpse, calculation evident in every line of his aristocratic face.

—— ∗ ——

In the heavens above, Inadrys and Ivyona continued their observation, now joined by other divine figures drawn by the unexpected turns of events below.

”The boy has exceeded even my most generous estimations,” Inadrys said, his divine voice rumbling like distant thunder. ”He wields power that should have consumed him, yet makes it his servant instead.”

Ivyona moved to stand beside her husband, her eyes never leaving Joltharʼs blood-spattered form below. ”Perhaps,” she suggested, her tone unreadable, ”we should consider whether our role in this unfolding drama should be that of observers alone.”

Inadrys cast a sharp glance at his wife, suspicion flickering in his immortal eyes. ”What are you not telling me, my queen?”

Ivyona merely smiled, enigmatic as always. ”The game is only beginning, husband. Let us see what moves our young player makes next.”

Inadrys frowned as he found her new interest in this mortal concerning.

He got up and left.

—— ∗ ——

On the blood-soaked meadow, Jolthar turned away from Dagurʼs fallen form, his gaze sweeping across the battlefield to find Count Hamen watching him with a mixture of fear and calculation.

Hamen looked at his wrist; the stone was still glowing with emerald energy, but the effect it had on the beast was a lot less than it should have been. The beasts were reacting to the will of Jolthar; he understood that fact clearly as he watched how they fought.

When he used the stone to subdue them, they were controlled and submissive, but now they seem enraged and more willing to fight for Jolthar, their new master.

The aftermath of battle hung heavy in the air—the metallic scent of blood, the acrid smell of fear, and the stillness that followed violence.

Dagurʼs massive form lay sprawled on the bloodied grass, his legendary might now nothing more than cooling flesh.

Jolthar stood over him, his blade still dripping with hot blood from Dagur, still hot.

The green energy beneath his skin pulsed with a quieter rhythm than during the height of combat.

Count Hamen kept a careful distance; he was still staring at Jolthar. His calculated gaze assessed Jolthar with new understanding—and new wariness. Whatever this young man had become in the pillar was clearly beyond Hamenʼs control.

The thought of making him follow had crossed his mind, but after seeing him fight the barbarian, he had to rethink. He wasnʼt a young man who could be swayed with power or influence.

The thunder of approaching hooves drew their attention. A massive warhorse was making its way through the barbarians towards them.

General Iorina rode into the clearing, her red hair flowing behind her like a battle standard, her warhorseʼs muscles rippling with barely contained power. The warhorse, Blackdagun, kicked whoever stood in its path, simply barreling its way ahead.

A contingent of her elite soldiers followed close behind, their armour gleaming in the dying light despite the rigours of their recent battle. They formed a precise semicircle behind their commander, weapons at the ready but not overtly threatening.

Iorina reined her massive steed to a halt, her amber eyes taking in the scene with military precision—the fallen barbarian chief, the blood-soaked meadow, the beasts still fighting the barbarians, tearing them away into shreds, and most intriguingly, the young man who stood at the centre of it all.