The Sinful Young Master-Chapter 166: Unrelenting beast

The remaining ogre-men, having realized their formation was useless against Jolthar, hesitated. They had fought many battles, their collective strength overwhelming most foes they had faced, yet the man standing before them—young, unassuming at first glance—was unlike any opponent they had encountered. He may look like a tier 6 swordsman, but the aura around him told them an entirely other story, one that made them not underestimate Jolthar.

His swordsmanship was precise, relentless, and unorthodox, as if guided by instincts honed beyond their understanding.

Dagur, still seated atop his powerful warhorse, narrowed his eyes, reassessing the warrior before him.

At first, he had dismissed Jolthar as an arrogant fool, a minor obstacle in his path to conquest. But now, he saw something different—something far more dangerous.

The way Jolthar moved, the way he wielded his long blade Knashii—it stirred a memory deep within Dagur, a memory of tales he had heard of a man who fought in a way that defied reason.

Preeyonka, too, had her arms crossed, her gaze locked on Jolthar with keen interest.

She had seen many warriors, many styles of combat, but something about his technique made her stomach tighten. Her lips curled into a small smile, but this time, there was a glint of something else in her eyes—wariness.

The Mad Sovereign—that was the name whispered in the deepest shadows of history. And yet, here was Jolthar, displaying a sword style that bore an uncanny resemblance.

Preeyonka, because of her elf heritage, lived a long life and heard tales of forgotten times. And she remembered a tale: one such individual belonged to the Kaezhlar clan. Old warriors who crossed paths with that mad one were either dead or left to alive only to not fight any longer.

"So he comes from the Kaezhlar clan," Preeyonka mused.

Her subordinate, Acur, furrowed his brows and quickly feared, "Wait, that child is from the Kaezhlar clan? No wonder he is strong."

"Yes, he is, and he will be more dangerous than anyone in the clan right now if he grows even stronger." Preeyonka stretched her hand, putting one over Acur as she continued, "That boy is more powerful than they think he is." She could see silver-white light around him, now dormant but waiting to plunge out of him, beast in cage.

Jolthar, unfazed by their reactions, took his stance once more.

He shifted his weight slightly, lowering his hips. This time, he held Knashii in his right hand alone, his fingers wrapping firmly around the hilt.

The very air around him seemed to still, as if the world itself recognized the shift in power.

Then, without warning, arcs of silver-white energy flickered into existence around his blade. They swirled around him, at first erratic, then gradually settling into a rhythmic motion—like spirits dancing in a controlled frenzy.

The arcs pulsed with a quiet hum, their glow intensifying as they coiled around his body, forming a near-impenetrable aura of raw, unfiltered energy.

The ogre-men instinctively stepped back, their bodies reacting before their minds could process what was happening. Their thick, calloused skin prickled with an unfamiliar sensation—fear.

They had seen magic before, but this was different. This was old power, something primal, something that did not belong to ordinary men.

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A heavy, oppressive pressure filled the square, weighing down on everyone present.

The very air felt dense, suffocating. Cleora clenched her fists, her breath hitching in her throat. She had felt strong warriors before, but Jolthar’s presence now was beyond that. It was suffocating, commanding—like a king declaring dominion over the battlefield.

Roblan moved beside her, trying to help her stand firm under the domineering pressure. He had experienced Jolthar’s battle style once, but it was still a shock to feel the intensity of his aura.

"Mother!!" Roblan held her shoulder, nodding his head.

Cleora placed her hand on her son’s, feeling assured, but her gaze returned back to where Jolthar stood. Right now, her feelings were running rampant with how Jolthar had displayed his power.

One thing was clear: she underestimated him.

The crowd around them seemed to shrink back, as if instinctively recognizing the power emanating from the imposing figure before them.

Jolthar moved.

To an untrained eye, it would have seemed like he was simply swinging his sword in empty air, his movements fluid yet seemingly aimless. But to those who truly understood battle—Preeyonka, Dagur, and even Roblan—it was anything but aimless.

His blade moved with precision, his strikes carving through the space around him as if he were cutting through something invisible. The silver-white arcs reacted, their swirling motion shifting in response to his swings.

Then, with a final movement, he slashed his sword in the direction of the ogre-men.

The arcs exploded forward.

They did not simply fly toward the enemy—they raced, streaking through the air like vengeful spirits, their presence distorting the very atmosphere around them.

The sheer force of their movement ripped through the ground, leaving deep gashes in the cobblestones as they surged toward their targets.

The ogre-men knew there was no escaping what was coming. The sheer velocity of the silver-white arcs left them with no room to dodge, no chance to reposition themselves.

It was an onslaught that defied reason—faster than any blade they had ever seen, fiercer than any spell they had encountered. Their instincts screamed at them to flee, but their warrior pride held them firm.

If death was coming, they would meet it standing.

Roaring in defiance, one of them bellowed, his deep voice reverberating through the town square, "HIT ME, YOU INHUMANE BASTARD!!"

The others echoed his cry, slamming their feet into the ground, bracing themselves like unmovable statues of war. Their muscles coiled with tension, their hands tightening around their weapons, ready to endure the incoming devastation.

They had fought countless battles, slaughtered armies, and crushed warriors who claimed to be strong.

But Jolthar was different.

From the moment their blades clashed, they knew.

On the surface, he might have looked like any other tier-six swordsman, but his aura… his presence… it was something else entirely. It wasn’t just the raw strength that unsettled them—it was the nature of his power.

It was vast, like an abyss of unreadable force, as if he were drawing from something far beyond mortal reach.

And then the silver-white arcs struck.

The moment they made contact, the square was consumed by an explosion of devastating force. A deafening boom echoed as shockwaves rippled outward, sending dust and debris flying. The silver energy expanded like a blooming flower of destruction, engulfing the ogre-men in its lethal embrace.

The ogre-men had no time to react.

The first of them, the closest to Jolthar, raised his weapon in a feeble attempt to defend himself, but the moment the silver-white arc touched him, his body convulsed.

A split second later, a deep gash opened across his chest, and blood sprayed into the air as his massive body was hurled backward, crashing into the ground with a sickening thud.

The others fared no better.

Three of them never even had a chance to react. Their bodies were sliced apart in an instant, their thick, armoured skin offering no resistance against the potency of Voidwrath power.

Limbs were severed, torsos split open, and blood sprayed in brutal arcs as their bodies collapsed into grotesque, mutilated heaps.

Each arc found its mark, carving through the ogre-men with ruthless precision. One was cleaved diagonally from shoulder to waist, his body splitting apart before he even had the chance to scream. Another had his arm severed cleanly at the shoulder before his entire torso was torn open.

Two more were struck dead, their forms crumbling beneath the sheer force of the attack. They didn’t even have time to scream, their lives extinguished before the realization of death could set in.

The ground quaked under the force of the attack.

The remaining survivors staggered, their massive frames shaking as they barely held their ground. Though their natural resilience allowed them to withstand some of the damage, deep, burning wounds marred their bodies, silver arcs of lingering energy crackling over the torn flesh.

They were still standing—but barely.

Before they could gather themselves, Jolthar moved.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he raised his hand.

A pulse of unseen force rippled outward, a sharp hum slicing through the heavy silence.

The air itself seemed to warp, and then—movement.

Weapons.

[Telekinesis Basic Level ]

Swords, axes, and spears—any weapon that had fallen to the ground in the chaos—suddenly lifted into the air, as if yanked by an invisible force. They trembled for the briefest of moments, hovering in a perfect, ominous stillness.

Then, with a flick of Jolthar’s wrist, they shot forward.

Like a swarm of steel, the weapons streaked through the air, aimed straight at the wounded ogre-men.

From where he sat atop his warhorse, Dagur’s eyes went wide. He felt his breath hitch in his throat, his mind struggling to comprehend what he was seeing.

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"Impossible!" he growled under his breath. "How is he wielding that power?! He hasn’t even reached the level of Transcendence!"

He wasn’t the only one stunned.

Cleora’s fingers clenched into fists at her sides. The sheer force Jolthar was displaying… It wasn’t normal.

Not at all.

Even Preeyonka, who had seen more than her fair share of the extraordinary, narrowed her eyes. This wasn’t just some fancy swordplay or elemental enhancement. This was something deeper. Something that shouldn’t be possible for someone of his level.

The surviving ogre-men, though initially caught off guard, quickly regained their footing.

"FUCKKK!!! NOW WHAT!!" They cursed seeing the weapons in the air.