The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 161 Declaration

Jolthar sat in the heart of the bustling town, his usual spot just outside the bakery that Nora had built with such passion.

Mira, as always, had clambered into his lap the moment he arrived, chattering away with her innocent exuberance. Her presence was a comforting distraction, but Joltharʼs mind was far from at ease.

He glanced around at the townsfolk, their faces painted with a mixture of curiosity and unease as the latest rumours swept through the streets. Your next journey awaits at

Whispers of invaders, burnt villages, and the strange happenings in the outlying areas spread like wildfire. The merchants who came into the town brought the rumours from the west.

The barony, nestled at the centre of its lands, was surrounded by varied terrain that added to its strategic importance. To the north lay the expansive Meadow Plains, an area of fertile land and gentle hills. To the south, the mines remained a source of growing wealth but also potential vulnerability. East and west were flanked by the dense Alariden Woods, which acted as natural barriers but also hid countless unknowns.

The barony itself was small in population compared to the larger cities of the empire, but its prosperity had drawn attention.

Once a modest settlement, it had swelled to house nearly 5,000 people as miners, merchants, and artisans migrated to partake in its burgeoning wealth.

Despite this growth, the baronyʼs military presence was modest. With only 500 soldiers, including infantry and cavalry, it was far from prepared for a full-scale invasion.

Yet Jolthar noticed that Cleora had moved quickly to rally her forces, assembling them with an efficiency that suggested she had anticipated trouble long before the rumours reached the townsfolk. He watched her soldiers train in the distance, their movements sharp and purposeful. Cleora was no fool; she understood the precarious position the barony was in. But why had she sent an envoy instead of going herself to meet the lords of Chittera?

Miraʼs voice pulled Jolthar from his thoughts momentarily as she rambled about a kitten she had seen earlier. He smiled faintly, his hand gently patting her head, but his mind drifted again. The decision to send an envoy gnawed at him.

It made sense, politically, for Cleora to go herself. As the baroness, her presence could have conveyed respect and authority, possibly diffusing tensions.

Chitteraʼs lords, despite being outside the empireʼs direct rule, were still figures of power and pride.

To send an envoy instead of going personally could be seen as a slight. Was it a matter of fear? Or was Cleora playing a deeper game?

Joltharʼs instincts told him there was more to this. He had heard enough about Chittera to know that their lords, though few in number, were warriors of formidable skill and lineage. Their ogre ancestry was no mere legend; it was evident in their strength and ferocity.

If Cleora had miscalculated, it could provoke them further. Yet, if her decision was deliberate, what was she hoping to achieve by staying behind? Was she preparing for the worst, knowing that diplomacy was unlikely to succeed?

He shifted slightly in his seat, causing Mira to giggle as she adjusted herself on his lap.

Joltharʼs eyes scanned the town square, observing the subtle shifts in the crowdʼs energy. People who had once moved freely were now more cautious, their steps hurried, their voices hushed. The baronyʼs recent prosperity had brought with it both opportunity and danger, and now the looming threat of Chittera cast a shadow over its people.

As Mira continued to talk, Joltharʼs mind turned to the envoy. The old man Cleora had sent was a trusted figure, loyal and experienced. Yet Jolthar couldnʼt shake the feeling that something was wrong.

The journey to Chitteraʼs camp was dangerous, not just because of the lords themselves but also because of the strange reports coming from the surrounding villages. Burnt-out homes, bloodstained ground with no bodies—these were not the acts of mere raiders.

Something darker was at play.

Joltharʼs gaze flickered toward the horizon, where the road leading south disappeared into the distance.

If the envoy had succeeded, they should have heard word by now. But the silence was deafening, and Jolthar knew that silence often meant trouble.

Was it possible the envoy had never even reached Chitteraʼs camp?

He tightened his grip on Mira slightly, earning a playful pout from the girl as she squirmed in protest. Jolthar smiled down at her, his expression softening for a moment before hardening once more.

If Cleora wasnʼt going to act, perhaps it was time for Jolthar to take matters into his own hands. He needed answers—and fast.

The ruckus in the town shattered Joltharʼs train of thought. His sharp eyes immediately darted toward the commotion, and his heart sank as he saw people parting like a tide, murmurs of horror rippling through the crowd.

Down the pathway, a horse trotted forward, and the sight on its back was enough to make even Jolthar, who had seen his fair share of brutality, feel a chill creep down his spine.

Quickly, Jolthar scooped Mira off his lap, his voice firm yet calm. ”Stay inside,” he instructed as he carried her into the bakery. Her mother looked at him with wide eyes, sensing the gravity of the situation, and he said sharply, ”Donʼt come out. Lock the door.”

With that, he stepped back outside, his expression darkening.

The horse approached, and the closer it got, the more grotesque the scene became. The body of the envoy was mutilated in a way that defied comprehension. His legs and arms had been severed and tied to a stick placed horizontally across his torso, creating a macabre, dangling spectacle. His head, impaled on a spike, was mounted grotesquely atop his own chest.

The precision of the cuts was unsettling, too clean to have been the work of a savage beast. This was no mindless act—it was a calculated display of cruelty. The lifeless eyes of the severed head stared blankly ahead, a silent testament to the envoyʼs suffering.

The townsfolk recoiled in terror, gasping and whispering among themselves as they huddled at a safe distance.

Mothers shielded their childrenʼs eyes, and even the men who were accustomed to hardship and bloodshed stood pale and stunned. The horse, unfazed by its grim cargo, continued toward the centre of the town.

Jolthar stepped forward, his face an unreadable mask, and stopped the horse in its tracks.

Behind him, the soldiers stationed in the town approached hesitantly, their hands on the hilts of their swords. The sight had shaken even these hardened men, and their reluctance was palpable.

Jolthar took a deep breath and examined the gruesome spectacle. His sharp eyes took in every detail—the precision of the cuts, the methodical way the body had been displayed. It was clear that whoever had done this was skilled, not just in the art of killing but in making a statement.

”Humans truly know no bounds,” Jolthar muttered under his breath, his voice low but carrying the weight of his thoughts. He sighed deeply, the weight of the situation settling heavily on his shoulders.

This wasnʼt just a killing; it was a message, one delivered with cruel precision. And the message was clear: ”Stay out of Chitteraʼs way—or face unimaginable horror.”

Jolthar turned to the soldiers and barked a command, his tone cutting through their hesitation like a blade. ”Bring Cleora here immediately,” he ordered.

”And as swift as possible.”

While waiting, he stood silently beside the horse, his expression grim.

The crowd stayed at a distance, murmuring nervously among themselves. Jolthar could feel their fear, their uncertainty. This was no longer a mere rumour or distant threat—it was here, on their doorstep, and it was terrifyingly real.

Minutes later, Cleora arrived, flanked by her son Roblan and Nora. Her face, usually composed, betrayed a brief flinch when her eyes landed on the mutilated body.

Roblan and Nora, however, were visibly shaken, their faces pale as they struggled to comprehend the horror before them. Roblan looked like he might be sick, and Nora clutched his arm tightly for support, her eyes wide with shock.

Cleora, to her credit, recovered quickly. Jolthar watched her carefully, his keen eyes noting the way she straightened her shoulders and composed herself.

Despite the gruesome scene, she did not crumble.

Instead, she began issuing orders with a steady voice, her authority slicing through the tension like a knife.

”Get this… abomination off the horse,” she instructed, her tone firm.

”Bring it to the square. We need to examine it further. And find out if anyone saw where the horse came from.”

She turned to Roblan and Nora, her voice softening slightly. ”Go back to the mansion. Thereʼs no need for you to be here.”

Roblan hesitated, clearly torn between obeying his mother and staying by her side, but a sharp look from Cleora sent him and Nora retreating toward the mansion.

As the soldiers moved to carry out her orders, Cleora glanced at Jolthar, who was still watching her intently. ”Theyʼre making a statement,” she said quietly, her voice low enough that only he could hear.

”Theyʼre daring us to respond.”

Jolthar nodded, his eyes narrowing. ”A statement, yes,” he agreed.

Cleoraʼs lips pressed into a thin line. ”Then weʼll need to prepare,” she said firmly. ”If this is what theyʼre capable of, we canʼt afford to hesitate.”

Jolthar said nothing, but his mind raced. The mutilated envoy was a clear sign that diplomacy was no longer an option. Chittera had drawn first blood, and the barony would have to respond—decisively and swiftly. But how? With only a modest force at their disposal and the full might of Chittera looming, the odds were stacked against them.

As the soldiers worked to remove the envoyʼs remains from the horse, Jolthar and Cleora exchanged a grim look. The time for plans and strategies was over.

War was no longer a distant possibility—it was here, knocking on their door.