The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 173 Hopeless

They saw it as a perfect opportunity to strike.

Their leader signalled a coordinated attack.

Their target was clear: Prince Milan, vulnerable at the rear of the battlefield.

They entered the fray and charged towards Milan and Arvant.

Arvant, who noticed them, quickly turned towards them, standing before Milan.

Jolthar, with his heightened perception, saw them rounding up Milan and Arvant. Stay updated via

He looked around and stopped where Cleora was, ”Cleora!” He yelled.

Cleora, who was fighting with her men along with her son Roblan, looked towards Jolthar. She wasnʼt a warrior, but that didnʼt stop her. Her son fought alongside her, keeping one eye on her.

Jolthar pointed towards where Milan was present and shouted, ”Donʼt let him die; protect him at all costs.”

As if understanding his intentions, Cleora nodded as she looked towards Milan and Arvant.

Black-clad men have already reached them and surrounded them.

She quickly took her son and a couple of men and moved towards where Milan was present.

Then Jolthar turned towards the drake, and with a quick, precise signal to Maelruth, he commanded, pointing towards Cleora, ”Go and help her, at the back.”

The drake understood immediately.

With another earth-shattering roar, Maelruth leaped into the air, landing protectively before Arvant.

The assassins, momentarily stunned by the drakeʼs sudden appearance, hesitated.

Some recovered quickly, attempting to fight the drake, while others tried to circumvent it to reach Milan.

Arvant dismounted from his horse, his eyes locked on the approaching assassins. ”My prince,” he said to Milan, his voice steady despite the impending danger, ”leave from here. I will stop them with my life.”

”You must not die here.”

Milan didnʼt move. ”No, I canʼt leave you here. We have already lost so many of our men; I am not gonna lose you too.”

Cleora then reached them, joining Arvant in a desperate defence.

Arvant, looking at Cleora and the drake, thought that he might be able to save the prince. Thanking them for coming to his aid, he turned towards the assassins.

”Lady Cleora, I canʼt say I am more happy to see you. But I am grateful that you have stepped in despite the fight of your own.”

Cleora, shehad a few scratches, but she stood strong and said, ”It is for his highness; we should protect him. After all, we are his subjects.”

Arvant nodded, satisfied, and felt happy that she felt that way.

The drake flapped its wings, creating barriers of wind and flame, trying to hold back the assassins.

But they were numerous, skilled, and desperate.

Not all could be stopped.

What followed was a dance of survival—Cleora, Roblan, and Arvant fighting with everything they possessed, the drake providing support, and Jolthar continuing his relentless assault on Ozug and the Chitterea forces.

This was more than a battle. This was a moment that would be etched into the annals of history—a turning point where individual courage and extraordinary capability could challenge the tide of overwhelming odds.

And at the centre of it all stood Jolthar—a beacon of defiance, a storm of impossible skill and power.

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The battlefield had transformed into a hellscape of carnage and desperation.

Despite Joltharʼs earlier devastating attack that had obliterated hundreds of Chittereaʼs soldiers, the army seemed to possess an inexhaustible resolve.

They came in wave after wave, their determination fuelled by something beyond mere military discipline—it was a primal hunger for victory that refused to be quenched.

Dagur watched from the sidelines, a study in cold detachment.

While his soldiers were being systematically decimated, his focus remained entirely on Jolthar. The lone warrior had become more than an opponent—he was an obsession, a puzzle that Dagur was determined to solve.

His eyes never left Jolthar, tracking every movement, every breath, analyzing the mysterious young warriorʼs capabilities with a calculating gaze.

The Barony of Tekkoraʼs situation grew more dire with each passing moment.

What had begun as a potentially strategic engagement had devolved into a brutal fight for survival?

Their numbers had dwindled dramatically.

The fierce soldiers of Chitterea showed no mercy, their combat skills far surpassing those of the Barony troops.

They were a relentless force, driven by a bloodlust that knew no compromise. They only trembled in front of Jolthar, but they were like a fierce bunch towards the soldiers.

The only thing that gave the Chitterea soldiers pause was Jolthar himself.

His presence on the battlefield was like a living nightmare.

Wherever he moved, soldiers fell.

His long sword was a blur of destruction, his movements defying their sight.

Yet, despite his extraordinary abilities, the sheer number of enemies was overwhelming.

For every soldier he cut down, two more seemed to take their place.

At the rear of the battlefield, Baroness Cleora stood protectively near Prince Milan. Her composure remained unbroken, but her eyes betrayed the gravity of their situation. Her son Roblan fought alongside the veteran Arvant, their movements synchronized, creating a defensive perimeter around their leadership.

The drake—Maelruth—fought with them, a magnificent beast of raw power and loyalty. Its scales bore the marks of multiple strikes, dark wounds that glistened with an otherworldly resilience.

Yet the creature did not retreat.

Each wound seemed to fuel its ferocity, its roars becoming more thunderous, more defiant with every passing moment.

The assassins they faced were unlike any typical warriors. They moved like shadows, each strike precise and deadly. Their techniques suggested years of specialized training, possibly from multiple martial traditions.

Some used poison-tipped blades; others relied on complex chain weapons that could change shape mid-strike.

Roblan and Arvant found themselves constantly adapting, their standard combat techniques proving insufficient against such exotic fighting styles.

Jolthar himself was a whirlwind of combat, simultaneously fighting Ozug—a warrior of significant reputation—while repelling waves of soldiers. His sword seemed to exist in multiple places at once, parrying attacks, striking down enemies, and creating impossible angles of defence and assault. Yet even though he was being gradually surrounded, the numerical superiority of Chittereaʼs forces slowly but inexorably closed in.