The Sinful Young Master

Jolthar could only stare in awe at the sheer magnitude of Remin's power—his aura manifested as a colossal mammoth, dwarfing everything on the battlefield.

With a single downward stroke, Remin unleashed his devastating attack.

The air itself seemed to sing as the energy swords rained down upon their enemies.

In mere seconds, the battlefield was transformed into a forest of green-tinged blades, each one piercing through multiple transformed soldiers.

Despite the awesome display of power, Remin made it look effortless, as natural as breathing.

Wymar and the Grosbek Knights moved with practiced precision to eliminate any survivors, ensuring none of the transformed soldiers escaped.

Within a few minutes, not one of them was seen; they were all killed. The entire situation had changed in their favour.

Jolthar could only stare at the man, his broad figure. His single attack cleared everyone, killing them.

He stood there panting, his fatigue kicking in.

-

The setting sun painted the battlefield in hues of crimson that matched the bloodstained earth below.

Cleora, Roblan, and the remaining soldiers of the Barony fell back, gathering around as the sounds of battle continued to echo around them.

The air was thick with the screeching noises of the dying and the clash of steel against steel, creating a cacophony of chaos as the last of the transformed warriors were methodically slaughtered.

The Grosbek unit moved with lethal precision through the battlefield, their coordinated attacks striking down the remnants of their corrupted foes with mechanical efficiency.

The devastating attack Remin had unleashed moments before had eliminated the bulk of the enemy force, leaving only scattered pockets of resistance for his men to clean up.

Remin stood watchful, observing his soldiers as they completed their grim task.

His attention turned to Lady Cleora, and his stern expression softened slightly. "My lady, I apologize for not greeting you early upon my arrival," he said, his formal tone betraying his military bearing even in this moment of relative calm.

Despite her exhaustion, Cleora's face brightened with a genuine smile. Her once-pristine noble's attire was now stained with dirt and blood, but her dignity remained intact.

"Don't worry about it, General Remin. I should be the one thanking you. If not for your timely intervention, we would have all perished by now." Her voice carried the weight of someone who had stared into the abyss and lived to tell the tale.

Remin returned her smile, a rare gesture from the usually stoic commander. "I am happy that I was able to save you then."

The words were simple, but they carried the full weight of his relief at arriving in time.

And his greeting to her was only respect he had for the old man. The old and influential merchant lord, her father, and she knew it too.

In the background, the dying cries of the transformed soldiers continued to pierce the evening air, a haunting reminder of the day's horrors.

Young Jolthar stood apart from the others, his energy nearly depleted after calling upon the Blade of Void twice in succession—a feat that had drained most of his reserves.

He watched silently as the general's army methodically eliminated the remaining threats.

Drake, his faithful companion, approached him with careful steps, nudging his hand with a gentle touch.

Jolthar smiled wearily and patted the creature's head, murmuring words of praise for its service during the battle. The bond between warrior and beast had proven invaluable in the chaos of combat.

As night descended upon the battlefield, the full impact of the day's events began to settle in.

In just a few short hours, everything had changed.@@novelbin@@

The once-peaceful town had been transformed into a tableau of horror, its streets now littered with the twisted corpses of the transformed soldiers. Blood painted the cobblestones in dark patterns, and the acrid smell of death hung heavy in the air.

The gore-filled scene was almost too much to bear—bodies contorted in unnatural poses, some still showing the effects of their transformation even in death.

Remin's soldiers worked efficiently to begin clearing the bodies, preparing them for the mass cremation that would follow.

None of them wanted to risk whatever corruption had turned these men into monsters spreading further.

As they worked, hushed conversations spread among the troops about what they had witnessed—the impossible strength of their enemies, the mysterious pills that had triggered their transformation, and the terrifying implications of such power being wielded by their foes.

The night grew deeper, and torches were lit to continue the necessary but grim work.

The flames cast dancing shadows on the walls of the surrounding buildings, creating an eerie atmosphere that matched the sombre mood of the survivors.

This day would be remembered, especially for the barony soldiers.

There were about 300 plus of them, those who survived.

-

Jolthar looked around for Dagur or Ozug, but they weren't seen.

His eyes scanned the blood-soaked battlefield.

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While he was fighting, they must have fled then, he thought, disappointed that he couldn't kill them. Leaving them would only be like giving them time and a second chance to attack them again.

The weight of his sword Knashii felt heavier in his grip as exhaustion began to set in.

He looked at the dead purple man sprawled before him, studying the strange features that stirred something in his memory.

For some reason, he could tell he had seen such types of men before, though the specific encounter eluded him. The corpse gave off an unsettling aura that resonated deep within him, bringing back fragments of memories from the tribal valley.

Those strange creatures he had fought there—their essence was somehow identical to these fallen warriors, though their forms had been different.

He stood with his sword, Knashii, in his grip, the once-gleaming blade now covered in thick, dark blood.

The morning light caught the blood-red droplets as they slowly made their way down the fuller. Jolthar himself was a mess—his tunic torn at places, drenched in blood, and his face covered in that of his enemies. The metallic taste in his mouth reminded him of the ferocity of the battle he had just survived.