The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 164 Pretty boy

Meanwhile, Joltharʼs mind was working just as furiously. His sharp intuition told him that this was no mere chance encounter.

The strained familiarity between Cleora and Dagur was too conspicuous to ignore.

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And then there was Cleora herself.

From the moment she had heard of Chitteraʼs approach, she had been on edge. It wasnʼt just the looming threat of invasion that had unsettled her—Jolthar was certain of that now.

Sheʼs afraid of them, he realized.

The thought sat uneasily with him. Cleora, for all her cunning and composure, was not someone who rattled easily. Yet here she was, faced with Dagur and his men, and Jolthar could sense the fear behind her calm facade.

Jolthar stepped forward, his boots echoing softly against the cobblestones of the square. He sighed, a mix of weariness and resolve etched into his features.

Whatever the relationship between Cleora and Dagur might be, it wasnʼt his concern—at least not now.

What mattered was the barony, his barony. This was his place now, his sanctuary, and the place where he intended to carve his future. He couldnʼt stand idly by while invaders threatened its people.

Dagur, still perched on his massive warhorse, exuded an aura of dominance. His presence alone seemed to cast a shadow over the square. His men stood silently behind him, their cold, grey faces unreadable but their weapons ready.

The earlier grotesque warning, the envoyʼs mutilated body, made it clear that Dagur wasnʼt here for diplomacy.

He was here to send a message.

Jolthar stopped a few paces from the mounted lord, his sharp eyes meeting Dagurʼs unflinching gaze.

He spoke firmly, his voice steady despite the tension. ”My name is Jolthar,” he began, his tone measured but carrying the weight of authority.

”I donʼt know why youʼve come here with your men or why you sent that... twisted message. Frankly, I donʼt care. But this place—this barony—itʼs mine. I wonʼt stand by and let you or anyone else harm it. So Iʼll say this once: leave here quietly.”

For a moment, silence hung in the air, the tension so thick it was almost suffocating.

Then Dagur chuckled, a deep, mirthless sound that carried a hint of disdain. He leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the pommel of his saddle as he regarded Jolthar with amused contempt.

”Oh, now,” Dagur drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. ”Is this your new toy, Cleora?”

His cold eyes flicked toward her before returning to Jolthar. ”Looks tender, doesnʼt he?” Dagur looked at him like he was nothing more than a plaything, grinning as he licked his lips.

Joltharʼs face twisted in disgust, his nose scrunching as he took a step back. ”Ew, what the fuck, man?” He snapped, his revulsion genuine and unfiltered.

Dagurʼs smirk widened as if Joltharʼs reaction amused him. He straightened in the saddle, his tone turning sharp and venomous. ”You donʼt know who youʼre dealing with, boy. Cleora will drain you dry and leave you to rot once youʼve outlived your usefulness. Thatʼs the kind of snake she is.”

”How about you come with me? I will show you all kinds of pleasures there are,” Dagur mused.

”FUCK! I donʼt swing that way!” Jolthar said, ”Stop with that fucking gaze; itʼs irritating.” He felt snakes and roaches crawled up on him. Dagur chuckled, the glint in his eyes turning predatory. ”Oh, I think youʼll find it quite enjoyable once you give it a try,” he taunted.

”For fuckʼs sake, will you shut the fuck up already?” Jolthar snapped.

But Jolthar paused, his brows furrowing at Dagurʼs words about Cleora.

For a brief moment, they struck a chord. He had seen glimpses of Cleoraʼs calculating nature, her ability to manipulate situations and people to her advantage.

Was Dagurʼs claim entirely without merit?

But the thought was fleeting.

Whatever his doubts about Cleora, they didnʼt change his current reality.

Dagur and his men were a threat, and Jolthar wasnʼt about to let his barony fall to ruin because of lingering questions about Cleoraʼs motives.

Without a word, Jolthar extended his hand.

There was a faint shimmer in the air, followed by a resonant hum that seemed to vibrate through the very ground beneath their feet. A low vibration rang in the air around his palm as he stretched his fingers.

Then, out of nothingness, it appeared—a long blade of exquisite craftsmanship, the legendary Knashii.

The swordʼs gleaming surface reflected the light of the midday sun, and its intricate carvings, etched with runes that seemed to pulse faintly with a life of their own, drew audible gasps from the gathered crowd. Jolthar unsheathed it in one fluid motion, the bladeʼs edge singing as it cut through the air.

Dagurʼs amusement faltered for the first time, replaced by a flicker of surprise. His lips twisted into a grin, but this one lacked the confidence of his earlier smirks.

”Well, isnʼt this a surprise,” he muttered, his tone tinged with genuine curiosity.

From her side, Preeyonka, who had been leaning casually against a post, stood upright. This group had been silently watching them, as she didnʼt want to interfere in the matters of Chittera province. She knew about Dagur very well, so she decided to watch for now. But as soon as she saw what Jolthar did, her sharp green eyes widened in disbelief as she took in the sight of the sword.

She recognized it instantly, even from a distance.

”A Strodem!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with astonishment.

The murmurs among her mercenaries grew louder, and even Dagurʼs men exchanged uneasy glances, seeing how she was reacting.

Jolthar tightened his grip on the hilt of the Knashii, the runes along the blade glowing brighter as if responding to his determination. The runes were his latest addition; he added them recently to maintain its durability while using the Voidwrath power. The blade shone with the dark silver strands, indicating the presence of the Voidwrath.

He locked eyes with Dagur, his voice steady but laced with warning. ”This is your last chance. Leave, or face the consequences.”

The square fell silent again, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone present. Jolthar stood his ground, his sword a testament to his resolve.

Preeyonkaʼs gaze fell to her finger, where a blue-hued ring rested delicately on her hand. For a brief moment, her stoic expression melted into a sly smile.

Her lips curled upward, and her emerald-green eyes sparkled with intrigue.

”Well, well,” she murmured to herself, the smile growing broader, ”things just got even more interesting.”

Her reaction sent an involuntary chill through her squad members. Every man and woman under her command had learned to dread that particular expression. They exchanged uneasy glances, each recalling the countless instances when her amusement had led to chaos, bloodshed, or both.

None dared speak, but their collective discomfort was palpable.

Preeyonkaʼs eyes flicked back to Jolthar, standing resolutely near the fountain, his blade gleaming like liquid silver under the sunlight.

She tilted her head, scrutinizing him with newfound interest.

A strodem—the ring on her finger and on Joltharʼs finger, thatʼs what they are called.

She very well knew about such rings—artefacts bound to the offspring of deities, said to grant them power beyond mortal comprehension. They also serve the purpose of storage space.

The realization that Jolthar might be one of those chosen descendants made her heart race. Because she herself was one.

Dagur, sitting atop his powerful steed, noticed the shift in Joltharʼs aura. His sharp eyes missed nothing. Though he himself was no child of the divine, he knew enough about the Strodem and its significance to understand what was unfolding. His smirk deepened as he turned his attention back to Jolthar, then lazily glanced at Cleora.

”Youʼve outdone yourself this time, Lady Cleora,” he mocked, his voice dripping with condescension.

”A pretty strong toy? Impressive. Iʼll admit, your taste in men has improved.”

Cleoraʼs face remained composed, though her mind raced.

The sudden appearance of Joltharʼs blade had caught her off guard. She had no idea how he had summoned such a weapon, nor did she fully grasp its significance.

Yet, unlike Dagur or Preeyonka, she remained unaware of the ringʼs importance. Her confusion was masked by a veil of icy composure, though her sharp eyes studied Jolthar intently, trying to piece together this new puzzle.

Jolthar, however, stood unfazed. His grip on Knashii was steady, and his face betrayed no emotion. The faint glow of his power pulsed around the blade in rhythm with his breathing, as if the blade was alive and connected to him in ways no one else could understand.

Unlike Dagur and Preeyonka, Jolthar only used the ring for storage purposes, nothing else. It was the sole reason Qalena had given him the ring for.

Dagurʼs patience ran thin. He raised a hand, signalling the grey-skinned warriors behind him to step forward.

These were the ogre men, hulking brutes with thick, corded muscles and faces twisted into permanent sneers. Their skin carried a sickly, stone-like texture, and their eyes glimmered with malice.

”Take care of that pretty boy,” Dagur commanded, his tone as casual as if he were ordering a meal.

”Skin him alive. Letʼs put on a show for the baroness.”