The Sinful Young Master-Chapter 167: Prince Milan

With a roar, they moved to fend off the incoming weapons, their massive arms swinging with desperate fury.

Some managed to deflect a few blades, knocking them aside with sheer brute force.

But Jolthar, though inexperienced in controlling so many at once, did not relent. His mind strained, his grip tightening as he willed the weapons to continue their relentless assault.

For the first time in the battle, his body felt the strain.

A dull ache pulsed in his skull, his breathing growing heavier.

Telekinesis, even in its Basic form, required precise focus, and manipulating this many objects simultaneously was pushing his limits. The weapons wavered slightly, his control over them not yet refined—but it was enough.

As the ogre-men focused on deflecting the airborne assault, they left themselves open.

Jolthar exhaled sharply, gathering himself.

Then—he struck.

He swung Knashii once more, and another wave of silver-white arcs erupted from the blade.

This time, there was no hesitation, no resistance left in the enemy. The arcs slashed through the ogre-men with merciless precision, carving through flesh, bone, and armour as if they were mere paper.

One by one, the remaining warriors fell. Some collapsed in halves, their bodies giving out under the sheer power of the strike. Others fell to their knees before keeling over, lifeless.

In mere moments, the battle was over.

Jolthar stood amidst the carnage, the only one left standing.

His breath came slow and steady as he lowered Knashii, the blade still humming softly with residual energy. His heart pounded in his chest, though outwardly, he betrayed no exhaustion.

Silence.

The battlefield was drenched in blood, the bodies of the ogre-men lying lifeless around him. The once-proud warriors, who had stood unyielding mere moments ago, were now nothing more than corpses strewn across the ruined square.

Jolthar exhaled. His expression remained neutral, as if he had merely swatted away insects.

The pressure in the air finally lifted.

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The once pristine square was now marred with deep gashes, bodies, and pools of crimson.

The oppressive energy lingered for a moment before dissipating, leaving behind a chilling silence.

From the sidelines, Preeyonka let out a quiet chuckle, tilting her head. Her fingers grazed the ring on her hand once more, her thoughts swirling.

What an amusing lad! She mused, her lips curling into a grin.

Cleora, still watching, didn’t speak. But the look in her eyes spoke volumes.

And Dagur…

Dagur, still atop his horse, simply stared at Jolthar.

Not with anger.

Not with fear.

But with something far more dangerous.

Interest. Excited.

The battlefield was eerily silent, save for the faint crackling of energy dissipating into the air. The silver-white arcs that Jolthar had unleashed upon his foes faded like dying embers, their devastating purpose fulfilled.

Jolthar stood at the centre, his breath slow and steady. He lifted his gaze toward the man still seated atop his warhorse—Dagur, the feared lord of Chittera.

Dagur sat motionless for a moment, his expression unreadable. His warhorse shifted uneasily beneath him, snorting as if it, too, sensed the shift in the tide.

Dagur had expected resistance from the barony’s forces, but nothing of this scale. He had anticipated a standard fight—a swift takeover, at worst, a minor skirmish—but instead, he had witnessed something unprecedented. His men, the grey-skinned ogre warriors, were formidable—renowned for their resilience and brute strength.

And yet, they had fallen like mere fodder.

His sharp eyes fixated on Jolthar, analyzing him with newfound scrutiny.

-

Jolthar stood unwavering, his presence like a storm waiting to be unleashed. His silver-white aura still pulsed around him, the aftermath of his devastating assault on the ogre men leaving the air thick with residual energy. His blade, Knashii, still hummed softly in his grip, as if it thirsted for more blood.

Dagur watched him with a slow, creeping smile, his amusement unfazed by the carnage that had just unfolded. If anything, he seemed more intrigued than before.

That was when another figure rode forward, his dark horse stopping just beside Dagur. The man was clad in thick, layered armour, his features sharp and angular, his eyes cold and calculating. Unlike the ogre men, there was an air of refined lethality about him—a warrior who had seen far too many battlefields and walked away from each one victorious. He carried himself with quiet confidence, the kind only men who had tasted death and survived could possess.

"My lord," the man spoke, his voice steady and composed. "Aren’t we wasting too much time here? Shall I go and finish him off?"

Dagur did not immediately respond.

Instead, his gaze remained fixed on Jolthar, as if studying something beyond the obvious. There was no frustration in his eyes, nor anger for the fallen men.

Only curiosity, and something deeper—calculation.

Then, without turning his head, he spoke.

"Tell me, Ozug…" Dagur’s tone was light, almost casual. "Do you think you can kill him?"

Ozug’s eyes narrowed slightly as he turned his full attention to Jolthar. The young warrior stood with the stillness of a predator, his presence exuding something unnatural. Even after slaughtering Dagur’s most formidable men, he hadn’t lost his composure. If anything, his aura had grown sharper, his body still brimming with raw power.

Ozug took his time in answering, observing Jolthar’s stance, his breathing, and the subtle flickers of silver-white energy that still danced around his form.

"While it may take some time…" Ozug finally said, his tone steady. "I am certain I can kill him."

Dagur chuckled at that, an amused sound, but there was something sinister beneath it. He finally turned to look at Ozug directly, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

"Ozug," Dagur said, his smile widening, "you will be dead before you even realize it."

Ozug’s expression did not change, but for the first time, he hesitated. His lord had just assessed this young swordsman with a regard he rarely gave even to his strongest warriors.

Sure, Jolthar was skilled. His abilities were strange, even unsettling—but he wasn’t unkillable, was he?

A brief, uneasy silence fell over the battlefield.

Behind Dagur, his army stood in disciplined silence, an imposing force of steel and bloodlust, waiting for their orders.

Jolthar remained unmoving, his sharp eyes flicking between Dagur and Ozug, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on Knashii’s hilt.

Behind him, Cleora stood watching, her expression unreadable, while Roblan stood stiffly beside her, gripping his sword. The small force of soldiers under them held firm, but there was no mistaking the tension in the air.

They were outnumbered, heavily so, and yet none dared to speak.

The moment teetered on the edge of something deadly.

*

Meanwhile, miles away—deep within the forest…

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Through the dense thickets, the sounds of pounding hooves echoed as two riders tore through the undergrowth at a breakneck pace. The horse’s muscles flexed as they galloped faster under the rider’s urging.

The forest was a blur of shifting shadows and towering trees, but neither man slowed. They rode as if hell itself was at their heels.

The first rider, a man in his late fifties, was wounded. Blood seeped through the hastily wrapped cloth around his side, staining his tunic. His face was pale, but his grip on the reins remained tight. He gritted his teeth as he urged his steed forward, pain be damned.

The second rider, younger but battle-hardened, rode beside him, his face tense with urgency. One hand gripped his reins while the other clutched a sword, its blade gleaming dully in the dim light filtering through the canopy.

"Faster!" the injured man rasped. "We must reach town before it’s too late!"

"I know," the younger rider snapped, his eyes scanning the forest warily. "But if you don’t slow down, you’ll bleed out before we get there!"

"I’d rather die than let them get to you, my prince," the older man shot back, his voice strained but determined.

The horses pressed on, galloping harder, faster.

Behind them, a group of masked men were also riding their horses, chasing after them. There were about a dozen of them, unknown origins.

The old man, even though injured, guided the young man towards the town, hoping that whoever was in the town would help them. He deduced that those men chasing them were definitely assassins, and they came to kill him and his lord.

He was already injured while trying to escape from their grasp and the whole group of soldiers were killed by them, within a few seconds. They caught them off guard while they were leaving.

The old man riding ahead, could see the traces of barony and its town.

"My prince, we have almost reached the town," he said, looking back. He could see the black clothed men still chasing them.

The young man was Prince Milan and the old man was Arvant, his most trusted subordinate and follower.

A while back when they were in the ruins of the castle, they were suddenly attacked out of nowhere and all the soldiers were killed by the time they realized what was happening.

Arvant was in no condition to fight now and he couldn’t fight them while protecting Arvant. Milan desperately hoped that someone would help them in the town as they rode faster towards the barony’s town.