The Sinful Young Master

But as the blade descended, it met unexpected resistance.

The clash of metal on metal rang out, and suddenly the air was thick with an overwhelming aura of power. The grey-clad men stumbled backward, their eyes wide with shock and fear.

Standing between the fallen woman and her would-be executioners was a figure that seemed to have materialised from thin air—Jolthar, his long sword unsheathed and pointed directly at the aggressors. His eyes, usually calm and detached, now burnt with a cold fury.

The leader of the grey-clad men found his voice first. "Who... are you?" he demanded, unable to completely mask the tremor in his voice. As he watched the young man before him, there was undeniable oppressive force emtting from him that made him be wary of Jolthar.

Jolthar's response was cool and measured. "I could ask the same."

Frustration warred on the leader's face.

Finally, anger won out. "What are you watching?" he shouted at his men. "Kill him!"

As the grey-clad assailants readied their weapons, Jolthar's grip on his sword tightened. The air around him began to shimmer with that familiar golden hue, a silent warning of the devastating power he could unleash at any moment.

Behind him, the wounded woman watched in awe, clutching her child closer. She didn't know who this young warrior was or why he had intervened, but in that moment, he represented her last, desperate hope for survival.

The forest fell silent, as if holding its breath. The grey-clad men hesitated, their earlier confidence evaporating in the face of this unexpected threat.

Jolthar stood unmoved, a living barrier between innocence and malevolence. He couldn't just standby when an innocent child and woman were getting killed.

The forest clearing crackled with tension as Jolthar stood, an immovable barrier between the wounded woman with her child and the grey-clad assailants. The cold wind whipped through the trees, carrying with it a sense of impending violence. Jolthar's eyes focused on all the grey clad men surrounded. It was the first battle; ever since he started practicing, a faint smile crossed his lips, as he couldn't wait to see his results of training all these years.

The leader's command to attack hung in the air, a silent challenge that neither side seemed eager to answer first.

Jolthar's eyes narrowed, his keen senses picking up subtle shifts in the attackers' stances. They were coordinating, preparing for a synchronised assault. His grip on his sword tightened imperceptibly.

"Last chance," Jolthar said, his voice low and dangerous. "Walk away now, and you may yet live to see another sunrise."

The leader's response was a harsh, guttural laugh that seemed to emanate from somewhere deeper than his throat. "You have no idea what you're dealing with, boy. Kill him!"

In that instant, the clearing exploded into action.

Three of the grey-clad figures lunged forward simultaneously, their movements unnaturally swift and fluid. Jolthar's sword flashed in the dappled sunlight, meeting the first attacker's blade with a resounding clang. Sparks flew as he deflected the second strike, twisting his body to avoid the third.

The air around Jolthar began to shimmer with a golden hue, the first manifestation of his Voidwrath power. As he parried and countered, each movement became more fluid, more precise, as if the very fabric of space was bending to accommodate his will.

One of the attackers overextended, and Jolthar capitalised instantly. His blade sang through the air, cleaving through the grey cloak and biting deep into flesh. But instead of blood, a thick, black ichor oozed from the wound. The attacker stumbled back, its mask slipping to reveal a face that was decidedly inhuman—pale, waxy skin stretched tight over sharp, angular features, with eyes that glowed an unnatural violet.

"Nynthrals," Jolthar breathed, recognition and disgust mingling in his voice.