The Sinful Young Master-Chapter 171: Relentless Beast

The assassins lurking in the surrounding streets seemed momentarily forgotten, their eyes on target eclipsed by the spectacle unfolding before them. Their head watch could also sense the increasing energy emanating from Jolthar.

Ozug had thought their overwhelming numbers would crush this lone warrior. He had seen lone fighters before—bravado-filled youths who thought themselves invincible.

But Jolthar was different.

Something in his eyes spoke of a deeper, more primal connection to combat that transcended mere martial skill. And he could sense it, the change in aura around Jolthar as he noticed the dark silver lines intensified.

When the first wave of soldiers charged, Jolthar moved like a phantom—no, something beyond a phantom. He was a living weapon, a blur of motion that defied the very laws of physical movement.

In a single instant, he reached the heart of the enemy ranks, crashing into them like a meteor.

BOOM!!!

The impact was nothing short of an explosion.

The sheer force of his charge sent bodies flying in every direction, as though struck by an invisible shockwave.

The men caught in his path were flung back, their bodies tumbling like ragdolls before landing in crumpled heaps.

The impact was beyond human comprehension. It was as if a concentrated blast of pure force had been compressed into the shape of a human fist.

Armour crumpled, bones shattered, and soldiers were thrown meters away, creating a momentary vacuum where they had once stood.

The enemy ranks halted; their disciplined formation suddenly transformed into a chaotic mass of uncertainty. They had been trained for countless battles and had faced numerous challenges, but nothing had prepared them for this moment.

Jolthar stood amidst the destruction, a calm centre in a storm of his own making.

Surrounding him, the soldiers attempted to regroup. They moved in a circular formation, trying to close in from all sides. But Jolthar gave them no quarter, no moment to breathe or strategise.

His blade became an extension of his will—fluid, merciless, precise.

Every swing cleaved through armour and flesh alike, every step a perfect balance of power and agility. The dark silver lines of energy that danced around him flared violently, leaving streaks of light in the air as they slashed through the enemies attempting to box him in.

The voidwrath inside him was no longer contained.

It roared, a sound that was more sensation than sound—a primordial cry that resonated not just through the air but through the very earth itself. The deafening roar of his power sent a ripple of invisible waves, hitting them.

Soldiers found their attacks faltering, their courage dissolving. They were no longer fighting a man but confronting a force of nature—something ancient and uncompromising.

Jolthar’s breathing remained measured, controlled.

Despite the carnage around him, he maintained a perfect balance—physical and spiritual. Energy coursed through his veins, not as an external force but as an extension of his own being.

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Then came the moment that would be remembered in legends.

With a fluid motion, Jolthar drew his sword—his long blade that seemed to absorb light, its edges shimmering with the dark, silver-coloured energy.

Knashii cried out the moment the voidwrath power entered it, like a thunder cracking. The runes on the blade glittered with dark silver lightning.

’Blade of the Forgotten Void.’ It was one of the attacks he developed, with his sword, Knashii, using the power of Voidwrath. It took him several months to perfect this technique, and now he has performed it. The ground beneath Jolthar trembled once again; under the might of Voidwrath’s power, cracks formed under his feet.

He held Knashii with both his hands; his posture balanced and steady as he swung, the sword did not simply cut through the air. It tore through the void itself.

As he finished his swing, a vertical slash of dark silver energy erupted from the blade, and as soon as it came out, time seemed to stop as the slash thrust forward in slow motion, making a distorted noise.

The sound was unlike anything heard before—part bestial roar, part cosmic scream.

The ground beneath him cracked and split, a perfect line of devastation extending over a mile. The ground was cut in half, forming a deep and long trench.

Soldiers in the path of the attack were not merely killed.

They were obliterated—their bodies disintegrating into a rain of flesh and blood, a gruesome testament to the power unleashed. Limbs were severed, torsos torn asunder. Bodies were reduced to pieces, their remains scattered like falling rain. Blood painted the earth in thick, crimson splashes. The vertical slash didn’t stop until it reached out of the town, killing anyone and destroying everything in its path. Dagur had already moved away from the battlefield, watching from a distance.

The ground looked as though a volcanic eruption had occurred, with bodies and earth fragments scattered like macabre confetti.

The slash blasted away after reaching a mile or so of distance, and the rain of blood finally stopped in the square. Experience tales at novelbuddy

The battlefield went silent.

Even the soldiers of the Barony, who had been preparing to attack from the rear, stopped in their tracks.

Arvant and Milan, still positioned on the ridge, could only stare in stunned silence.

Jolthar stood at the centre of this destruction, his sword still raised, his breath steady. He was bathed in blood, and it wasn’t his; it was the blood of his enemies.

The voidwrath within him still flared around him, saying that he wasn’t done yet.

-

The aftermath of Jolthar’s devastating attack hung in the air like a thick, suffocating mist.

Silence reigned supreme, broken only by the occasional clatter of falling debris and the distant, horrified breaths of the surviving soldiers.

That attack just now killed at least a few hundred of the Chittera’s soldiers.

Arvant, Milan, Roblan, and Cleora stood frozen, their bodies locked in a tableau of shock and disbelief.

Preeyonka, standing at the periphery, watched with eyes wide enough to consume the entire scene. Her half-elven heritage gave her a unique perspective—she had seen many battles, but nothing quite like this. Her gaze never left Jolthar, and his mysterious power was starting to make her feel uneasy.