The Sinful Young Master - Chapter 211

Chapter 211: A sinister being
The soldiers scrambled back, their faces pale and weapons trembling in their hands as the air itself seemed to curdle with malice. All of them have left, leaving behind only Jolthar, his drake, and Wymar.

Jolthar stood like a monolith beside his drake, Maelruth, whose low, rumbling growls vibrated through the air.

Wymar clenched his jaw, his usual arrogance replaced by a cold sweat. The forest around them had fallen unnaturally silent—no birds, no rustling leaves, only the growing, discordant noise. It wasn’t a roar, nor a screech, but a wet, guttural sound that clawed at the mind, like the grinding of bone against sinew.

“littareik,” Wymar hissed, his voice unsteady. He flicked his fingers toward a fallen tree trunk ahead of them. Flames erupted from his palm, igniting the damp wood in a burst of unnatural fire. The blaze roared to life, casting jagged shadows across the clearing.

For a heartbeat, the light revealed nothing.

Then—’movement’.

The trees at the edge of the forest shuddered.

They both looked towards the origin of the sound; their faces showed nothing, but they could feel it. The ominous presence, an unsettling feeling creeping up in their guts.

A pine snapped like a twig, its trunk splintering as something colossal forced its way forward. The ground quaked with each step, the rhythm syncopated and wrong, as though the creature had too many limbs to coordinate.

Maelruth snarled, her wings flaring instinctively, but even she took a half-step back, her claws gouging furrows into the soil.

They could see the whole area was trembling under the weight of the creature.

Then it emerged.

Jolthar’s grip tightened on his knashii, the long blade glinting in the firelight.

Beside him, Wymar muttered a curse under his breath, his fire spell flickering as his concentration wavered. The abomination stood half-crouched, its silhouette warped and pulsating, as though its very form rejected the laws of nature.

Jolthar and Wymar, they saw it and didn’t know how to describe it. It wasn’t a creature or a beast or an animal. It was far from the reality they had known. A pure out-of-this-world entity.

Its skin was glistening, like raw blood, stretched taut over a skeletal frame that seemed both human and… other. In the firelight, they could see the skin twitching.

Four legs, jointed backwards like a stag’s, ended in hooked talons that sank into the ground beneath. The torso was a grotesque mockery of a human ribcage, ribs protruding through the flesh like jagged spikes, oozing a black, tar-like substance that hissed where it dripped. Its neck elongated unnaturally, twisting like a serpent’s, and atop it—a face? Or what might have been a face. There were no nostrils, no ears—just two lidless, milky-white eyes, too large and too round, reflecting the firelight like glass marbles. Below them, a gaping maw split horizontally, lined with rows of jagged, mismatched teeth that clicked and ground against one another. From its shoulders sprouted four arms—two humanoid, skeletal, and clawed; two more like insectoid appendages, jointed and barbed. Across its body, tumours bulged beneath the skin, throbbing as though something inside sought to burst free.

The air reeked of rot and burnt sugar, a nauseating combination that made Wymar gag.

Jolthar’s drake let out a keening whine, her tail lashing as the creature’s head swivelled toward them with a sickening crack of vertebrae.

“What in the hell is that?” Wymar spat, his fire spell flaring brighter as if to ward off the encroaching darkness.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jolthar growled, his voice steady despite the primal dread coiling in his gut. “It dies like anything else.”

The abomination’s mouth unhinged, and the noise escalated—a cacophony of wet gurgles and metallic shrieks that felt like needles drilling into their skulls.

Wymar staggered, clapping his hands over his ears, while Jolthar gritted his teeth.

They could see it was moving towards them.

That thing let out an ear-splitting cry. The sound tore through the air like a physical force, making the very surroundings quiver under its power. The sky above darkened, clouds swirling in unnatural patterns, as though the heavens themselves feared what had been awakened.

Jolthar and Wymar stood their ground, though both felt the primal urge to flee coursing through their veins. Jolthar’s drake—a fierce beast that had faced countless perils—winced and shuddered, its serpentine neck arching back in distress.

That thing was emitting vile, foul energy that spread through the area. Violet tendrils of foul energy pulsed from the monstrosity, weaving through the air like malevolent spectres.

“Easy there,” Jolthar murmured, moving to the drake and placing a calloused hand on its flank. The drake’s scales were hot beneath his touch, but he felt the creature’s racing heart begin to slow as his bond with the beast took effect.

“The vile energy disturbs her,” Jolthar said, his voice low and tense. “Whatever dark magic birthed this abomination, it’s like anathema.”

That thing moved again, each massive step sending tremors through the ground like the heartbeat of a wrathful dark god.

Standing almost thirty feet in height, it rivalled the ancient dragons of the Firefall Mountains in size. Its flesh—if one could call it that—seemed composed of shifting darkness interwoven with pulsating violet veins.

It locked its gaze on Jolthar and Wymar, and they could feel its eyes upon them—not merely seeing them but somehow reaching into their souls, as though it sought to devour not just their bodies but their very essence.

Wymar, his silver-threaded black robes billowing in the unnatural wind. He had seen his fair share of horrors, but he had never seen this level of absurdity, never in his life. It was making everything he knew until now a mere child’s play in comparison.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he said, his composure cracking.

“What in the nine hells is that bastard doing here?” Wymar cursed.

Jolthar didn’t ask Wymar who he was referring to. They had no time to chat.

Jolthar unsheathed his sword—Knashii.

The blade hummed with power, its edge gleaming with a silver-white light that cut through the gathering darkness.

“Whatever it is,” Jolthar said grimly, his voice resonating with the authority of a man who stood against all odds, “we should kill it immediately; otherwise, it’s going to kill us.”

Because that much was clear.

The sheer, suffocating killing intent pouring from the creature was unlike anything Jolthar had ever felt before. Those violet eyes radiated nothing but hunger, a deep, insatiable desire for carnage.

It wanted to kill them. And it would.

He could sense the massive killing intent radiating from those pale white eyes, staring at them with a hunger that transcended physical need. This creature was destroyed not merely to feed or defend but because annihilation was woven into its very fabric.

He could feel the strain of the foul energy spreading quickly around them, oppressing them.

Jolthar closed his eyes for a brief moment and exhaled as he called upon the Voidwrath.

The air around him darkened as he masked himself with the power of Voidwrath. The dark silver light spread around his body like a veil, shielding him from the foul energy. The runes on the long blade shone brightly in the darkness, responding to his power.

Beside him, Wymar was readying himself with his magic, intricate gestures weaving complex patterns in the air as he muttered incantations in the Old Tongue.

That thing took another thunderous step forward, the ground beneath it blackening and withering as though its mere presence poisoned the earth. It was coming to attack them.

Jolthar seized his moment, powerful legs launching him into the air with supernatural strength. Knashii left a trail of twilight energy as he arced toward the creature’s head, aiming to cleave its skull in a single, devastating strike.

The monster moved with shocking speed for its bulk.

One of its long, distorted arms—a twisted mockery of a human limb stretched to grotesque proportions—swung upward, unnaturally fast for something of its size. The appendage was more like an extension of the body, given shape, yet it struck with terrifying force.

His focus was on the head as he aimed for its head. He didn’t see the arm in time.

Jolthar barely had time to raise his sword in defence before the impact sent a shockwave through his entire body.

Then—

A deafening crash.

The world twisted, his vision blurred, and before he knew it, the sky was no longer beneath him. His body plummeted, driven downward with such force that the ground itself seemed to wince at the impact.

He slammed into the ground, dirt and debris erupting around him. A crater formed beneath his fallen form, cracks spiderwebbing outward from where he landed.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, a low growl escaped Jolthar’s lips as he pushed himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. His sword was still in his grip, but his arms felt the weight of the blow, a dull ache running through his bones.

He shook his head, clearing his vision.

Above him, the thing loomed, its milky white eyes gleaming with something akin to satisfaction.

It had expected him to strike. It had countered.

And now, it was coming again.