The Sinful Young Master - Chapter 87

Chapter 87: Arrival of the Serpent Dragon

“Impressive,” Yilar mused, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he watched Jolthar struggle.

“You’re still standing. Perhaps you’re not as insignificant as you seem.”

Jolthar didn’t waste time with words. He closed his eyes for a split second, focusing inward, summoning the power that had become both his blessing and curse: the Voidwrath.

A faint, dark aura began to emanate from him, growing stronger with each passing moment. The oppressive pressure surrounding him began to wane, pushed back by the raw, unbridled force of his void-infused power.

Jolthar’s eyes snapped open, now glowing faintly with a cold, otherworldly light.

Yilar’s smirk widened. “Oh? You’ve got a spark of something interesting. This might actually be enjoyable.”

Jolthar didn’t give him a chance to say more.

With a burst of speed, he launched himself toward Yilar, his sword raised high. The blade glowed with the void’s energy, leaving a faint trail of darkness in its wake. Jolthar swung the sword in a wide arc, aiming directly for Yilar’s head.

Yilar moved almost lazily, tilting his head just enough for the blade to miss by a hair’s breadth.

The ground beneath them cracked and splintered as the force of Jolthar’s attack struck, but Yilar remained unfazed.

“Good,” Yilar said, his tone calm. “But not good enough.”

With a flick of his wrist, Yilar sent a pulse of energy toward Jolthar. The wave of force struck like a hammer, sending Jolthar skidding backwards across the battlefield. He dug his heels into the ground, using his sword to steady himself as he came to a halt.

Jolthar gritted his teeth, his breathing heavy. He knew this wasn’t going to be a straightforward fight. Yilar was on a different level—his movements, his power, everything about him spoke of a foe far beyond anything Jolthar had faced before.

But Jolthar also knew he couldn’t back down. The others were counting on him to buy time, to find a way to survive this impossible situation. He tightened his grip on his sword and prepared to strike again.

“Ah, the resilience of youth,” Yilar said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “It’s almost admirable. But let’s see how long you can keep it up.”

The knights and the others struggled to recover from the oppressive force, their bodies still weakened. Daurgien roared in defiance, fighting against the Nynthralls that surrounded him, but even his monstrous strength seemed to be faltering under their relentless assault.

Eran and Lysandra were too focused on Yilar, as they could tell that he wasn’t ordinary, and they wanted to step in, but knowing Jolthar, he would definitely not like it. But they were ready to jump in if the situation gets worse.

Belan’s opinion of Jolthar was starting to shift from hatred to something she didn’t know yet. The way he fought and never backed down even when the odds were against him. It sounded so foolish, but she was starting to like his stupid resilience.

Jolthar knew time was running out. The odds were stacked against them, and every second felt like an eternity.

The air seemed to freeze as Yilar stood before Jolthar, his calm demeanour radiating an unsettling confidence. Before Jolthar could fully process his next move, Yilar vanished from his line of sight.

It was not teleportation, but sheer speed—inhuman and terrifying. One moment, Yilar stood at a distance, observing Jolthar with his piercing gaze, and the next, he was directly in front of him, arm cocked back, aiming a punch at Jolthar’s face.

Jolthar’s reflexes kicked in. But even his well-trained instincts barely kept up. He managed to tilt his head just enough to avoid the full force of the blow, but Yilar’s fist still grazed his cheek. The impact was devastating.

The force sent a shockwave rippling through the air as Jolthar was hurled backward, his boots skidding against the sand before losing traction entirely. He tumbled across the ground, a trail of dust and debris marking his path. Finally, after being thrown several meters, he came to a halt, sprawled on the sand.

Yilar remained where he had struck, his posture relaxed, a faint smile playing on his lips. His knuckles hung loosely by his side as if the punch had been nothing more than a casual gesture.

The others, witnessing the exchange, were frozen in place. They had barely registered Yilar’s movement. It had been too fast, too sudden. His motion was a blur even to the keenest eyes. Their silence betrayed their disbelief as they instinctively stepped back, creating a small barrier between themselves and Yilar.

Jolthar groaned, pushing himself onto his elbows. His cheek burned where the punch had grazed him, and a thin trickle of blood dripped from the corner of his lips. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, gritting his teeth as he struggled to his feet.

His sword lay a short distance from where he had fallen, the once-gleaming blade now dulled by the dust it had collected. Jolthar bent down and gripped the hilt tightly, the weight of the weapon grounding him as he straightened.

Blood dripped from a small gash on his temple, staining his already battered armour. His breath came in shallow bursts, his body aching from exhaustion. Yet, his eyes remained locked on Yilar.

Jolthar tightened his grip on the sword, adjusting his stance. Yilar was unlike any opponent he had faced before. His speed and power were leagues above what Jolthar had anticipated, and he could sense that Yilar wasn’t even exerting his full strength.

“This one’s beyond anything I’ve seen…” Jolthar thought grimly.

His thoughts churned as he assessed the situation. The odds were grim. Even if everyone present joined forces, there was no guarantee they could defeat Yilar. His power wasn’t just overwhelming—it was absolute.

Yilar, still smiling faintly, took a step closer. His movements were unnervingly casual as if he didn’t see Jolthar as a threat worth taking seriously.

Others, who had been too stunned to act, exchanged nervous glances. The oppressive aura surrounding Yilar seemed to sap their courage, rendering them motionless as the tension in the air grew unbearable.

Then, cutting through the silence, a sound echoed in the distance. It was faint at first—a distant cry carried on the wind.

Yilar’s smile faltered slightly, his head tilting as he turned to listen. Jolthar also froze, his ears straining to catch the sound.

The cry grew louder, a resonant, melodic call that sent shivers down their spines. It wasn’t the cry of a bird or beast—it was something otherworldly, something ancient.

Other Nynthralls who were still trying to contain Duargien and the creatures stopped and turned to the source of the sound. The creatures also stopped making strange noises as their heads turned in a single direction. It was as if they could sense what was coming.

Yilar’s gaze shifted to the horizon, his expression becoming unreadable. A moment later, his lips curled again, and a deep frown appeared on his face as he couldn’t understand what it was.

Jolthar followed Yilar’s gaze, squinting into the distance. At first, he saw nothing but the shimmering heat waves of the desert. But then, a shape emerged—an ethereal silhouette cutting through the sky.

It was a dragon and not just any dragon; it was a serpent ice dragon, a one of a type of mythical beast.

The creature’s silver scales gleamed like molten light, its long, slender body weaving through the air with effortless grace. Four immense, translucent wings beat rhythmically, each one shimmering as if woven from the threads of the heavens themselves. Its serpentine neck was impossibly long, arcing with regal poise as it soared closer.

Its presence was nothing short of divine. The very air seemed to hum with its approach, charged with a raw, primal energy that made the hairs on Jolthar’s arms stand on end.

Yilar’s confident demeanour was starting to fade out as he could tell who it belonged to. He was certain about the one who was approaching—the legendary Serpent Ice Dragon.

Jolthar tightened his grip on his sword. He didn’t know whether the dragon’s arrival would tip the scales in their favour or introduce a new threat entirely. But as the massive, heavenly beast loomed closer, its cry echoing across the battlefield, he felt the tide of the encounter begin to shift.

Behind him, Lysandra’s lips stretched into a slow, knowing smile. Her gaze locked on the dragon with an expression hinting at familiarity or even control. Whatever was about to unfold, it was clear she had expected this moment.

Jolthar’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched the dragon’s descent. Its wings cast vast shadows over the ground, its silvery form growing larger and more imposing with every passing second.

The morning sun brought the dragon’s arrival into sharp relief, illuminating its scales in a dazzling display of iridescence. Atop the dragon, there was someone riding it. As soon as the dragon descended before them, the figure jumped down from the top of the dragon and landed with a graceful thud, a confident smile on their face.