The Sinful Young Master - Chapter 85

Chapter 85: Newcomer

Daurgien’s grotesque form towered over Jolthar, an amalgamation of power and monstrosity. His crude body was encased in scales that shimmered with a dark, unnatural hue, like onyx wet with fresh oil. Every movement was calculated, every step deliberate, as if the beast before him knew the terror he instilled. The claws at the ends of his robust, muscular arms gleamed under the faint light, wickedly curved and glinting like honed blades. The air around them felt suffocating, thick with the oppressive aura of Daurgien’s presence.

Jolthar’s expression was unwavering, but his body betrayed his fatigue. His chest rose and fell heavily as he steadied himself. His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the hilt of his void-forged sword, its faint hum resonating in his ears.

Each clash between Daurgien’s claws and Jolthar’s blade had sent shocks reverberating up his arms. The creature’s sheer brute strength was staggering, forcing Jolthar to rely on skill, speed, and precision to survive.

Daurgien lunged, his movements unnervingly quick for his size.

Jolthar ducked under the strike, the razor-sharp claws slicing through the air just inches from his head. He spun on his heel, narrowly evading another swing. The ground beneath them cracked with the force of Daurgien’s attacks, dust and debris swirling around them.

Jolthar countered with a wide slash of his sword, void energy trailing behind the blade like an ethereal comet. The strike hit Daurgien’s claw dead-on, sparks erupting from the clash. Despite the ferocity of Jolthar’s attack, the claws remained unscathed, a testament to Daurgien’s monstrous resilience.

But Jolthar couldn’t avoid every strike.

As he twisted to dodge a follow-up swing, Daurgien’s other hand swiped in a brutal arc. A sharp, searing pain shot through Jolthar’s arm as the claw tore through his sleeve, leaving a deep gash.

Blood dripped freely from the wound, staining the ground at his feet.

Hissing through clenched teeth, Jolthar leaped back, putting distance between himself and the creature. He clutched his injured arm, his fingers slick with warm blood. His breathing was laboured, his body aching from the relentless fight.

Daurgien straightened, his massive frame silhouetted against the rubble-strewn battlefield.

A smirk crept across his twisted face, his slit-like eyes glinting with a sickening glee. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his claw to his face, the crimson droplets of Jolthar’s blood glistening on its edge.

With a flick of his tongue, Daurgien licked the blood clean, savouring it like fine wine.

His eyes fluttered closed, and he let out a guttural sigh of pleasure.

“Wonderful…” he murmured, his voice a deep, resonant growl that sent chills down the spines of those nearby.

“So ecstatically wonderful. You, boy, are indeed a child blessed by the heavens. Such purity, such strength—it flows through your veins.”

Jolthar’s jaw clenched his expression hardening.

Despite the pain coursing through his arm, he raised his sword, its void-light shimmering with renewed intensity. “Shut your ugly mouth,” he spat, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

Daurgien’s smirk widened, his grotesque features twisting into an expression of mockery.

He took a deliberate step forward, his claws flexing in anticipation. But just as he prepared to lunge, something shifted in his demeanour.

The smug grin vanished, replaced by a deep scowl. His head snapped to the side, his predatory gaze fixed on the horizon.

Jolthar noticed the change immediately. His sharp senses picked up on the faint hum that had begun to fill the air. Turning his head, he squinted into the distance, his keen eyes catching movement against the darkened sky.

It was faint at first, a mere speck on the horizon.

But as it drew closer, its silhouette became unmistakable—a ship, sleek and mystical, cutting through the air with an elegance that defied its size. Its hull was forged from a dark, metallic material, adorned with glowing runes that pulsed rhythmically like a heartbeat.

The knights behind Jolthar, battered and bloodied from the relentless battle, turned their attention to the approaching ship.

Eran, his sword still gripped tightly in his hand, murmured, “Reinforcements?” His voice carried a mixture of hope and scepticism.

Belan, ever cautious, kept her sword at the ready. “Let’s not assume anything,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she assessed the vessel. She couldn’t see any sign or crest present on the ship.

Daurgien’s frown deepened, his claws twitching with restrained aggression. “More interruptions,” he growled, his voice dripping with disdain. “How tiresome.”

The hum of the ship grew louder as it neared, the runes along its hull glowing brighter.

Jolthar’s heart raced, a mix of anticipation and urgency flooding his senses. If reinforcements had finally arrived, they might stand a chance against the monstrous horde that continued to emerge from the rubble.

But there was no guarantee.

“Stay alert!” Jolthar barked, his voice firm and commanding. He glanced over his shoulder at the others, his expression a blend of determination and exhaustion. “We don’t know who—or what—is on that ship. Be ready for anything.”

The knights nodded, their fatigue momentarily forgotten as they readied their weapons. Even in their battered state, they stood tall, their resolve unshaken. Kaezhlar knights were men of passion and dedication towards the clan and its mission. Even in the face of such monstrosity, they never backed down, standing with their swords in hand.

Daurgien’s gaze flicked back to Jolthar, his lips curling into a sneer. “It seems your luck hasn’t run out just yet, boy,” he said, his tone mocking. “But luck won’t save you. Not from me.”

He was thinking that ship may have been his reinforcements, coming here to help Jolthar.

Jolthar didn’t respond. His focus remained on the ship, his grip on his sword tightening as the tension in the air thickened.

Jolthar’s eyes narrowed his instincts on high alert. Whoever these newcomers were, they had chosen a perilous moment to arrive. And whether they were friend or foe, they are yet to decide.

–

The ship descended with a hum that resonated across the canyon and the desert beyond, its sleek design illuminated by faint. The vessel, medium in size yet exuding an aura of power and authority, hovered gracefully as its speed slowed to a near halt.

The wooden poles atop the ship holding big white sails whipped against the night wind, and there were silhouettes atop the deck watching them below. It was a large ship, probably floating with the use of mana stones as the source of power for its magical machinations.

Every pair of eyes on the field turned toward it, tension thickening in the air. The creatures, the knights, even Daurgien himself paused, their instincts urging caution in the presence of this enigmatic arrival.

As the ship finally came to a stop, a faint hiss escaped its sides, vents releasing streams of shimmering vapour.

Then, without warning, a figure emerged from the shadowy edge of the deck.

Jolthar’s breath caught in his throat as his gaze locked onto the man standing at the precipice.

The figure was of medium build, his frame deceptively unassuming, but his posture radiated an unshakeable confidence. His silhouette, framed by the glow of the moonlight, exuded a presence that was impossible to ignore.

As the light shifted, the details of his features became clear. His skin was pale, almost ashen, contrasting sharply with the dark, flowing cloak he wore. His hair, raven-black and slicked back, framed a face marked by sharp, angular cheekbones and a piercing gaze that seemed to cut through the very air. His eyes, a cold, violet, glimmered with an unsettling intensity, as if he could see straight into the souls of those who dared to meet his gaze.

Jolthar’s heart sank.

He knew this man.

A Nynthall.

The realisation hit him like a blow to the chest. Memories of a confrontation from mere days ago resurfaced in his mind—his little skirmish with them in the forest.

Jolthar clenched his fists around the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. He could already feel the oppressive aura radiating from the single Nynthrall atop the deck. He seems completely different from others he faced.

The Nynthall’s expression remained impassive as he surveyed the battlefield, his eyes lingering briefly on Jolthar before shifting to Daurgien. Then, with a calmness that defied the chaos surrounding him, the man stepped off the edge of the ship.

The moment his boots left the deck, the tension in the air spiked.

Gasps rippled through the knights, and even Daurgien’s monstrous gaze followed the descending figure with a mix of curiosity and caution.

The Nynthall plummeted toward the ground with the weight of a falling star.

Yet, just as his feet were about to touch the earth, a sudden pulse of mana surged around him, softening the impact.

Even so, the ground trembled violently beneath him, cracks spiderwebbing outward from the point of his landing. Dust and debris billowed into the air, veiling him for a fleeting moment.

When the dust settled, the man stood there, completely unscathed. Not a single hair out of place, not even a wrinkle in his cloak. He exuded an aura of absolute control, as though the laws of nature themselves bent to his will.