The Sinful Young Master-Chapter 215 : A sinister being - 5

The runes on the Knashii seemed to be cracking as a line appeared on the runes. The blade stood strong, but it won't be able to hold much longer.

At the same moment, Maelruth opened her jaws and unleashed her devastating breath—not mere fire, but a concentrated stream of molten fury that glowed with the intensity of the planet's core. The superheated blast struck the creature's left flank just as Jolthar's void blade connected with its right side.

The twin attacks—one of primordial power, one of elemental fire—created a cataclysmic reaction where they met within the creature's unnatural flesh.

The resulting sound was quick and deafening, like the roar of thousands of thunder.

A blinding explosion erupted at the point of convergence, a sphere of pure destructive energy that expanded outward with a thunderclap that shook the very foundations of the county. Even the people in the city could feel the tremor reaching the city.

The light was so intense that it turned night to day for one brilliant moment, casting long shadows across the landscape for miles around.

Through the chaos, Wymar maintained his concentration with iron discipline, blood now streaming freely from his eyes and ears as he channelled power beyond mortal limits.

He understood Jolthar's strategy instantly—the combined attacks weren't meant to destroy the creature, but to destabilise it, to break its resistance to the rift's pull.

But seeing the power of the attack Jolthar just pulled, he could kill that thing. But he wasn't sure.

Myron watched with wide eyes, and he was completely astonished.

And Dagur, Yilar could only stare in disbelief.

"Hold... just a little longer," he gasped, fingers twisted into impossible configurations as he fought to keep the dimensional tear open.

The explosion's aftershock rippled through reality itself, causing the rift to flicker dangerously. For a heart-stopping moment, it seemed the portal might collapse—but then it stabilized, its hungry maw yawning wider.

When the blinding light finally faded, they could see that the creature's left side had been completely obliterated, while its right was crushed and mangled beyond recognition.

Black-coloured blood poured from countless wounds, and for the first time, the monster's regenerative abilities seemed overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the damage.

It was the effect of void energy, and the fire seemed to leave more damage.

More importantly, its stance was broken.

With half its mass destroyed and its remaining limbs shattered, the abomination could no longer resist the rift's pull.

With a sound like tearing fabric—multiplied a thousandfold—the creature began sliding inexorably toward the dimensional tear.

Its manic laughter turned to something almost like a scream as it clawed desperately at the ground, leaving deep furrows in the earth.

But it was too late.

The darkness had it now and would not relinquish its prize.

The creature's massive form began to elongate grotesquely as it was pulled into the rift, its substance stretching thinner and thinner like dark taffy. The process seemed to last an eternity—its body distorting in ways that defied natural geometry, milky eyes somehow maintaining their malevolent glare even as they were pulled apart.

Then, with a final, terrible howl that echoed across dimensions, the abomination was sucked fully into the rift. The tear in reality shuddered violently, its edges pulsing with chaotic energy, before collapsing in upon itself with an implosion that drove Jolthar, Wymar, and Maelruth to their knees.

A deafening silence fell across the battlefield.

Wymar collapsed, the last of his magical reserves utterly spent.

The runes etched into his skin had gone completely dark, some even fading entirely—a dangerous sign that he had pushed himself beyond safe limits. Blood trickled from his nose, but a ghost of a smile played across his exhausted features.

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"We... we did it," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Jolthar staggered toward him, the Voidwrath finally dissipating from around his form. He felt hollow, emptied of strength and spirit alike.

Maelruth limped to his side, scales dulled from the tremendous exertion of her fire breath, but eyes still alert and watchful.

"Is it truly destroyed?" Jolthar asked, leaning heavily on Knashii, which had returned to its normal state, though the runes still pulsed weakly along its length.

Wymar coughed, wiping blood from his lips with a trembling hand. "The rift leads to a place between dimensions—a void where nothing can survive intact. It's been torn into millions of fragments, scattered across a realm of nonexistence."

Neither man noticed the small, almost imperceptible wisp of violet energy that drifted away from the spot where the rift had closed—nor did they see it float toward the shadowed hillside where Yilar the Nynthrall stood watching, his outstretched hand beckoning it home.

The monstrous entity was indeed destroyed—for now. But a seed remained, a fragment of its essence preserved by its creator's foresight.

From his vantage point atop the lichen-covered outcropping of stones, Myron had seen everything. He remained motionless, his weathered face impassive as he watched Jolthar lying broken and bleeding on the battlefield below.

The young swordsman's silver hair was now matted with blood and dirt, his legendary composure shattered by the encounter with the abomination. His complexion didn't look good, his hand was hanging, and he seemed to have sustained several injuries; overall, he was not in a state to fight another battle.

Myron's hand clasped as his gaze locked onto the drake and Jolthar, who was now kneeling beside her. He knew with cold certainty that he could kill Jolthar right now; he was in such a weakened state that even a simple punch from Myron's battle-hardened fists could end his life.

One strike, he thought to himself, one strike to eliminate a potential young man.

That final strike Jolthar unleashed—Myron could sense it was far more intricate than it appeared, carrying a depth of power that went beyond mere force. There was a sense of doubt creeping up in his mind. Can I even defeat him?

He shook his head at even thinking of such a thing. Myron stared at the young man; he had underestimated Jolthar from the beginning.