The Sinful Young Master - Chapter 86

Chapter 86: You need to come with us

Slowly, he turned his head, his silver eyes locking onto Daurgien.

The towering beast straightened, his claws twitching as he appraised the newcomer. Despite his overwhelming size and monstrous appearance, there was a flicker of hesitation in Daurgien’s movements, a rare acknowledgement of the power standing before him.

The Nynthall’s lips curved into a faint smirk, a gesture devoid of warmth or humour. “You’ve been busy,” he said, his voice smooth yet laced with an undertone of condescension.

It wasn’t a question, but a statement.

Daurgien’s eyes narrowed, the predatory glint in his gaze sharpening. “And who are you again?” The beast growled, his voice a guttural snarl that reverberated across the canyon.

The tension between the two was palpable.

Jolthar, still catching his breath from his prior battle, could only watch, his mind racing.

Why was the Nynthall here?

Their prior encounter had been brief but impactful—a confrontation that left Jolthar with more questions than answers. Now, as the mysterious man stood between them and Daurgien, the situation took on an entirely new layer of complexity.

Jolthar’s hand tightened around his sword. The Nynthalls were as dangerous as they were enigmatic. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down, not with the lives of the knights and the women hanging in the balance.

–

The tension in the air grew heavier as more figures emerged from the ship.

One by one, a group of about a dozen individuals descended gracefully to the ground. Unlike the first Nynthall, these newcomers were draped in ornate robes, each embroidered with intricate patterns that seemed to shimmer faintly in the dim light. Their sophisticated appearances contrasted sharply with the rugged battlefield, and their presence exuded an aura of otherworldly command.

Jolthar’s eyes darted between the newcomers and the first figure, unease gripping his chest. The way they moved, the way they carried themselves—it all screamed power, precision, and purpose.

The lead figure turned to Jolthar, his cold, silver eyes glinting with amusement.

“We got ourselves a good harvest this time,” he remarked, his voice calm yet laced with a predatory undertone.

Jolthar’s frown turned deeper. Harvest? The word drew more questions as he wondered if this world was filled with twisted personalities.

The knights, already battered and exhausted, shifted uneasily.

Belan, Lysanrda, and the others exchanged anxious glances, their confusion palpable.

The appearance of the Nynthralls had thrown the entire situation into chaos. Why were they here? How did they find us?

These questions swirled in Jolthar’s mind, but no answers emerged.

Daurgien, standing a short distance away, was also watching the newcomers intently. His monstrous form tensed, his claws flexing unconsciously as he tried to make sense of the situation. He growled lowly, a sound filled with uncertainty. Even he, with all his brute strength and confidence, seemed unable to gauge who or what these robed figures were.

The lead Nynthall’s smirk widened as he observed their reactions, his gaze sweeping over the group like a predator sizing up prey. Then, without warning, one of the robed figures raised a hand.

Dark, crackling energy began to swirl in the air around him, coalescing into a tangible spell.

The spell shot forward—a black, writhing mass of magical energy aimed directly at Jolthar and the others. It carried an oppressive weight, a binding force designed to ensnare them all.

Jolthar reacted instantly.

With a burst of movement that belied his exhaustion, he raised his sword and slashed at the incoming spell. The blade glowed faintly, a stark contrast to the dark magic it collided with. Sparks erupted as the two forces met, and with a loud crack, the spell dissipated, its energy scattering harmlessly into the air.

The lead Nynthall chuckled softly, clearly entertained. “Impressive,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “It seems you’ve got some fight in you. But trust me, it would be better if you all came with us willingly. After all…”

He paused, his smirk widening into something more sinister. “You wouldn’t want anything to happen to the daughter of the Blue Rose, would you?”

The words hit like a thunderclap.

The group froze, their expressions shifting from confusion to shock. All eyes turned to Belan, who stood rooted in place, her face pale with disbelief.

Blue Rose was a famous organisation, and all the human lands knew about them, but even the Nynthralls were aware of her identity; it made them surprised. That the Nynthralls not only knew about her but also referred to her lineage with such confidence meant they were far from ordinary adversaries.

Jolthar’s gaze didn’t waver. Before, when he faced them in the forest, they were after a girl who shared the blood of the deities. A quick glance at Belan made him speculate if she was also a daughter of a deity? Did Nynthralls come for her?

Then he turned back to Nynthralls; his eyes remained locked on the lead Nynthall. A storm of emotions swirled within him—rage, frustration, and a growing sense of despair. If these Nynthralls knew about Belan, they weren’t mere agents. They had access to information and abilities far beyond what Jolthar had encountered before.

High-level Nynthralls.

The realisation settled like a stone in his gut. These were no ordinary magic users; their command of dark magic placed them among the elite, capable of devastating feats and unimaginable cruelty.

Jolthar tightened his grip on his sword, his knuckles whitening. The blade, though steady in his hands, felt heavier than ever. The situation was spiralling out of control, and he knew it.

The Nynthralls weren’t here by chance. They had come for a purpose, and that purpose was maybe Belan or those abominations.

The lead Nynthall took a step closer, his silver eyes gleaming. “So, what will it be, young warrior?” he asked smoothly. “Will you surrender and spare yourselves unnecessary pain, or will you continue this futile resistance? I assure you, the outcome will remain the same.”

Jolthar’s jaw tightened. He glanced back at the others—Eran, Belan, Lysanrda, and the knights. They were battered and exhausted, their breaths ragged, their weapons barely held aloft. But their eyes, though filled with fear, still held a flicker of determination.

“We’re not going anywhere with you,” Jolthar said finally, his voice steady despite the storm raging within him. He raised his sword, its edge catching the faint light of the mana stones. “If you think you can take her, you’ll have to go through me first.”

The Nynthall tilted his head, his smirk returning. “Very well,” he said, his tone almost amused. He raised a hand, and the robed figures behind him began to move, their dark magic crackling to life once more. “Let’s see how long you can last.”

The battlefield erupted once again, but this time, the air was filled with an even greater sense of despair. Jolthar braced himself, his sword at the ready.

–

The battlefield was chaos, but the sudden shift in focus was palpable.

Daurgien, who had been readying himself for another clash, suddenly found the Nynthralls turning their attention to him. They surrounded him with unsettling precision, their dark robes swirling as spells began to crackle and shimmer in the air around them.

The monstrous figure let out a guttural roar, his claws swiping furiously as he tried to fend off the coordinated assault. Bolts of shadowy energy lashed out, striking his robust body and forcing him to stagger. For the first time, Daurgien seemed less like an unstoppable beast and more like prey caught in a trap.

Jolthar watched the scene unfold, his mind racing. The Nynthralls’ sudden focus on Daurgien was unexpected, and it gave him a moment to assess. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t an act of mercy; the Nynthralls clearly had their own plans, and sparing Daurgien was unlikely to be part of them.

As he pondered their strategy, the lead figure, Yilar, began to move. His steps were deliberate and unhurried, as if the chaos around him were of no concern. His violet eyes remained locked on Jolthar, their piercing gaze filled with curiosity and a faint hint of amusement.

“Who might you be?” Yilar asked, his voice calm but carrying an edge of authority that resonated across the battlefield.

Jolthar tensed. There was something unnerving about Yilar—his presence, his tone, the way he seemed to stand apart from the violence as if he were beyond it. Jolthar didn’t respond immediately, his grip tightening on his sword as he assessed the situation.

Then, without warning, the atmosphere shifted.

A crushing, oppressive force radiated from Yilar, spreading outward like an invisible tidal wave. The air itself seemed to grow heavier, suffocating and unyielding. The knights, Belan, and the others around Jolthar crumbled to their knees under the weight of the pressure, gasping for air.

Jolthar staggered but remained upright, his body trembling as he fought against the overwhelming force. It was unlike anything he had felt before—a power so absolute, it felt as though the very fabric of reality was bending around Yilar.