The Sinful Young Master-Chapter 139: New found ability

Jolthar opened his eyes slowly, his vision blurry as he stared at the plain ceiling above.

For a moment, he felt disoriented, his body heavy and unresponsive.

The silence around him was almost deafening, broken only by the faint rustle of movement outside the room. His mind replayed fragments of the battle: the clash with the god, the overwhelming power of the voidwrath, and the chaos that followed.

He took a deep breath and tried to sit up, but his muscles protested. It felt as though his very soul had been battered.

Still, he pushed through the pain, slowly propping himself against the headboard of the modest bed he lay on. His room was dimly lit, the only source of light a small oil lamp flickering on the wooden table nearby.

Before he could gather his thoughts, the door creaked open, and a familiar figure entered.

Ilyra, his maid, stepped in. Her face lit up with a mix of relief and concern when she saw him awake.

"Young master, you’re awake," she said softly, hurrying to his side. Her tone carried genuine worry, and her hands trembled slightly as she approached.

Jolthar studied her for a moment, noting the tiredness in her eyes. "What happened?" he asked, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.

Ilyra hesitated for a moment before responding, "The Naemarys clan has left, young master. After the battle, they retreated. I was in the front grounds when the mages rounded us up. They made us kneel there, all of us terrified we’d be killed. They didn’t harm the servants, but their presence was suffocating. We all feared for our lives."

Her words painted a grim picture.

Jolthar could almost see the scene in his mind: the defeated servants gathered like cattle, surrounded by the enemy mages, awaiting an uncertain fate.

"They left you alive?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

Ilyra nodded, a shadow passing over her face. "Yes. They didn’t kill us but kept us subdued. We were helpless, and there was nothing we could do but pray. When the Naemarys finally left, they took you to the ward. You were unconscious, gravely injured. The healers worked tirelessly to stabilize you. The patriarch himself ensured you received the best care."

Jolthar’s gaze darkened as he processed her words. "And the clan? What’s the state of the knights and the estate?"

Her expression grew somber. "Many of the knights are dead, young master. The estate is still in disarray, and the clan is recovering from the devastation. The patriarch and the lady are holding things together, but... it’s been difficult."

He lowered his head, thinking about the god who he met, his words about his power.

He finally looked up, and asked her, "How long have I been asleep?"

"You’ve been unconscious for four days straight," she replied. She had worried about him, checking on him every day.

His eyes widened in surprise.

Four days.

It felt like mere moments had passed since the battle. The realization of how much time he had lost hit him hard. He hadn’t expected his injuries were that severe, making him think about the chaos aura and voidwrath.

He had used both of the powers in the heat of the moment, and the result was what he hadn’t anticipated.

While he was lost in his thoughts, "The patriarch asked to see you as soon as you woke up," Ilyra added hesitantly, as if unsure whether he was ready for such a task.

Jolthar nodded slightly but didn’t move immediately. Instead, he said, "Before that, could you bring me some milk?"

Ilyra gave a quick bow and left the room.

As he waited, Jolthar leaned back against the headboard, his thoughts racing. The god, the chaos aura, and his newfound telekinetic power—it was all too much to process. His fingers instinctively curled, as if testing the power that had surged through him during the battle. The memory of the god’s overwhelming presence lingered, as did the revelation of his lineage and the voidwrath coursing through his veins.

Jolthar’s gaze shifted to the two swords resting on his bedside: Knashii, the elegant blade of refined craftsmanship, and Horgath, the chaos-infused weapon that seemed to hum faintly with residual energy.

Both lay silent, their lethal presence subdued, yet they emanated an unspoken power that filled the room.

He raised his hand toward Horgath, his fingers splayed as he focused his mind entirely on the blade.

It was his first attempt to use his newfound telekinetic ability with purpose.

For a few long moments, nothing happened.

The room was eerily quiet, save for the faint rustling of fabric as he steadied his breathing. His brows furrowed in concentration, his body stiff as he poured his will into the action. He could feel the voidwrath within him stirring, a quiet pulse echoing in the recesses of his mind, coaxing him to draw from its endless depths.

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Suddenly, the sword quivered.

At first, it was a faint vibration, like a living creature stirring from slumber.

Then, in a burst of energy, the sword shot off the bedside table and into his hand with a speed that startled him. He barely tightened his grip in time, the weight of the blade solid and familiar against his palm. He winced in pain because of the pain in his hand. There was a bandage wound around his arm with which he held the sword.

Jolthar stared at the sword, his lips curling into a faint smile, ignoring the pain. It wasn’t a flawless attempt—he’d hesitated, and the effort had drained more energy than he anticipated—but it was a start.

The power was raw and untamed, yet undeniably his to command.

He turned the blade over in his hand, inspecting its jagged edge and the faint dark aura that seemed to linger around it. The voidwrath had accepted him as its vessel, but there was still so much he didn’t understand about it—or himself.

This new ability was just one piece of the puzzle.

With care, he placed Horgath back onto the bed and let out a slow, steadying breath. "Not perfect," he murmured to himself, "but it’s a start."

His eyes darted to Knashii, the more tempered and elegant of the two swords. Unlike Horgath, Knashii seemed to embody balance and precision, a stark contrast to the chaotic nature of its counterpart.

Jolthar decided against testing his telekinesis on it for now. Pushing himself too far after days of recovery wasn’t wise.

When Ilyra returned, she handed him a glass of milk. "Here you go, young master."

He took it and drank slowly, the warmth of the milk soothing his parched throat and aching body. Setting the empty glass aside, he stood up, his legs shaky but steadying as he adjusted to being upright. He didn’t need to say anything; Ilyra knew her presence was no longer required.

She bowed once more and left him alone.

Bandages still clung tightly to Jolthar’s arms, the stark white strips stained faintly with traces of dried blood and salve. His wounds, some deeper than others, stubbornly resisted healing, a testament to the chaos of the recent battle.

He flexed his fingers gingerly, feeling the sting of half-mended gashes beneath the wrappings. Dressing quickly, he chose plain clothes, eschewing the formal robes or attire one might typically wear when summoned to the patriarch.

He didn’t feel the need to impress—or perhaps he simply didn’t care to.

The patriarch’s summons weighed on his mind. Though the reason wasn’t explicitly stated, Jolthar could easily guess it had to do with Horgath, the Chaosbane.

The reactions of both Caelum and Segarus during the battle had been telling. Their surprise, and even a flicker of unease, spoke volumes. The sword wasn’t just another weapon; its presence carried significance that even seasoned warriors like them couldn’t ignore.

After Ilyra left, Jolthar took a moment to compose himself.

He reached for the two swords lying on his bed.

With a wave of his hand, both Knashii and Horgath disappeared into the spatial ring he wore on his finger. Their weight was gone, yet their presence still felt like an echo in his mind.

The air outside his room was heavy, thick with the lingering remnants of conflict.

Jolthar’s eyes wandered over the estate as he stepped into the corridor.

Most of it remained intact, a small mercy given the magnitude of the destruction that had unfolded. But the hall—the heart of the estate—was another story entirely. It had been reduced to rubble, its grand structure now a heap of shattered stone and scorched wood.

Servants moved quietly through the wreckage, their faces drawn with exhaustion. Some carried debris, while others scrubbed away the dark stains of battle. It was clear that the cleanup was still in its early stages, and the losses weighed heavily on them.

Jolthar’s gaze shifted to the knights he passed along the way.

Many of them were still recovering, their movements sluggish, their bodies wrapped in bandages not unlike his own. The survivors bore expressions of grim determination, but the absence of so many comrades was a shadow that loomed over them all.

His steps took him down a long corridor, the soft padding of his boots the only sound in the otherwise silent space.

At the end of the hallway stood a large door, its dark wood carved with intricate patterns that symbolised the history and power of the Kaezhlar clan.

Jolthar paused briefly, his hand resting on the cold brass handle.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open.