The Sinful Young Master-Chapter 233: You are one annoying kid

The barbarians sensed the shift in power, even if they didn't understand it.

Several took involuntary steps backward as Jolthar approached, their weathered faces showing the first hints of doubt.

Jolthar stood with unnatural stillness as the barbarians stirred restlessly before him.

The long blade in his hand hummed softly, resonating with the green energy that coursed through his transformed body. His stance was relaxed yet perfectly balanced, betraying neither fear nor aggression—merely absolute certainty.

Behind Dagur, Yilar was still sitting on his horse, who had witnessed Jolthar's transformation from the pit and now observed with wary fascination. Unlike the others, Yilar made no move to join the impending conflict, his calculating gaze locked onto Jolthar and the beasts behind him.

He can tell the beasts were under his orders now.

Among the barbarian ranks, uncertainty spread like a contagion.

These were hardened warriors of the southern territories, men who had raided and pillaged without mercy, who had faced the Empire's soldiers and lived to boast of it—yet something in Jolthar's altered presence gave them pause.

Their rough-hewn weapons lowered imperceptibly as their confidence wavered.

Dagur, their massive chieftain, noticed the hesitation and erupted with rage. His scarred face contorted as he bellowed at his followers, spittle flying from his mouth and disappearing into his matted beard.

"What the fuck are you staring at, you fools!" His voice carried across the meadow like a physical force.

"You are scared of a kid, just one kid. This is how you show fear, you fucking lot mutts."

"He is just a kid! And I will deal with him!" He roared as he looked at his men.

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He gestured violently toward the remaining defenders of the county.

"Kill those bastards!"

The familiar voice of their leader snapped the barbarians back to their purpose. Hands tightened on axe handles and sword hilts, eyes narrowed with renewed determination. The moment of doubt passed, replaced by the battle lust that had served them well in countless raids.

Dagur stepped forward from his men, his massive frame dwarfing most of his followers. He carried an enormous axe that would have required two hands for an ordinary man to wield, yet he held it in one as if it weighed nothing. His armour—if it could be called that—consisted of haphazardly assembled pieces taken from fallen enemies, a gruesome trophy collection that told the story of his victories.

Jolthar observed the barbarian leader's approach with clinical detachment.

"Quite resilient," he remarked, his voice carrying that new resonance that seemed to reach beyond mere sound.

Dagur's face twisted into a snarl. "You sure are a pain in the ass, boy. Back at the barony, and now, you sure have become a thorn in our side."

The reference to their previous encounter flickered through Jolthar's mind.

"Well, what can I say?" Jolthar replied, a cold smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Blame your luck for having come across me."

Dagur chuckled, a sound like stones grinding together. "Don't be arrogant, kid. Some fancy colour moves won't let you win the war.

I'm gonna kill you and take your head." His confidence seemed genuine—a man who had never been defeated couldn't imagine it as a possibility.

Jolthar's smile deepened, never reaching his eyes. "Yeah, I'd like to see you try, bud."

The simple challenge hung in the air between them, and something in Jolthar's tone—not bravado, but absolute certainty—finally penetrated Dagur's confidence.

For just a moment, doubt flickered across the barbarian's face, quickly replaced by rage.

With a roar that shook the leaves on nearby trees, Dagur charged forward, his massive axe raised high.

At the same moment, he shouted commands to his men, ordering them to attack the county's defenders.

Behind Jolthar, Count Hamen frantically tried to command the beasts as he had before, raising the Vaemani stone and shouting familiar commands. The creatures—twisted abominations of nature—shifted uneasily, no longer responding to his will as they once had. The stone gleamed in the sunlight, but its power no longer recognized Hamen as its master.

Seeing the beasts' hesitation, Jolthar raised his left hand—a casual gesture that belied its significance. The green energy flowing beneath his skin intensified, extending outward in visible tendrils that reached toward the beasts. Their massive heads turned toward him as one, ancient instincts recognizing a new alpha predator in their midst.

With a thought rather than a command, Jolthar directed the beasts toward the barbarian forces. The effect was immediate and devastating. The creatures that had once served Count Hamen now bounded across the meadow with terrifying speed, their monstrous forms blurring as they closed the distance to the barbarian lines.

Hamen, recognizing the shift in power but pragmatic enough to seize the opportunity, barked orders to his own soldiers: "Follow behind the beasts! Cut down any who escape their jaws!"

The county guards, professional soldiers in the Empire's service, formed up quickly and advanced behind the charging beasts, their discipline a stark contrast to the barbarians' loosening formation.

As chaos erupted across the meadow, Jolthar and Dagur remained in their own world of combat. Dagur's massive axe whistled through the air with surprising speed for such a large weapon, aiming to cleave Jolthar from shoulder to hip in a single devastating blow.

Jolthar moved at the last possible moment—not a desperate dodge but a precise step that placed him just beyond the axe's reach. His transformed reflexes allowed him to perceive Dagur's attack as if the barbarian were moving through water rather than air.

The missed blow left Dagur momentarily extended, and Jolthar countered with frightening efficiency. His blade flashed forward in a precise thrust that should have impaled the barbarian through the heart—but Dagur had not survived this long by being slow.

With surprising agility for his size, he twisted aside, the blade scoring a deep cut along his ribs rather than delivering a fatal wound.

The first blood had been drawn, but neither combatant paused to acknowledge it. Their weapons met in a thunderous clash, steel against steel, the impact sending visible shock waves through the air around them. Green energy from Jolthar's sword spiralled outward at each contact, leaving lingering traces like ghostly calligraphy suspended in the air.

Around them, the battle had been joined in earnest.

The beasts tore into the barbarian ranks with savage efficiency, their unnatural jaws and claws rending through armour and flesh with equal ease.