The Sinful Young Master-Chapter 165: Ogres

The ogre-men moved forward, their heavy steps causing the ground to tremble slightly.

The leader of the group, a particularly grotesque figure with jagged teeth and a horn protruding from his forehead, grinned menacingly. His voice was guttural and mocking.

"I’m gonna eat you, pretty boy," he growled, his grin widening as he hefted a massive cleaver that looked more like a slab of sharpened steel.

Jolthar didn’t flinch.

He stepped forward, his expression calm, almost serene. He held Knashii loosely at his side, the blade’s edge reflecting the light like a mirror. The runes along the blade began to glow brighter, their hum growing louder as Jolthar approached the advancing ogre-man.

The brute broke into a lumbering run, his heavy feet pounding against the cobblestones. His cleaver gleamed ominously as he raised it high above his head, aiming to cleave Jolthar in two with a single strike.

But Jolthar moved with unsettling grace.

As the ogre-man closed in, Jolthar shifted his stance ever so slightly, his body turning fluidly as if he were part of the wind. His sword arm rose and fell in one smooth, effortless motion, the blade slicing through the air with a faint, resonant whoosh.

For a moment, everything seemed to freeze.

The ogre-man’s grin remained plastered on his face as he continued his charge.

But then, with a sickening thud, his upper torso separated cleanly from his lower half. His cleaver clattered uselessly to the ground as his top half crumpled in a heap, while his legs, driven by inertia, took a few more steps before collapsing awkwardly.

Gasps erupted from the crowd.

Even Dagur’s men, who had seen their fair share of brutality, seemed taken aback by the sheer precision of Jolthar’s strike. The cut was so clean it looked almost unreal, as if the ogre-man had been carved apart by a divine hand rather than a mortal weapon.

Preeyonka’s smile returned, wider and more dangerous than ever. She leaned slightly toward one of her lieutenants and murmured, "Well, well, the pretty boy’s got bite."

Her lieutenant, pale and visibly shaken, nodded silently.

Dagur’s smirk faltered. His eyes narrowed as he watched Jolthar return to his neutral stance, his blade still glowing faintly as if hungry for more blood.

The Voidwrath suddenly flared along with his aura, shooting up like a blaze, making everyone shift under his aura. Everyone faltered as they saw and felt his aura spread around the square.

"Interesting," Dagur muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Jolthar turned to face the remaining ogre-men, his voice calm but firm.

"Anyone else?"

The square fell silent again, the tension now palpable.

Even the bravest of Dagur’s warriors hesitated, their confidence shaken by the effortless demise of their comrade.

Preeyonka’s squad, too, watched in silence, their earlier cockiness replaced by cautious respect.

For the first time, it was clear to everyone present: Jolthar was no ordinary man.

But the grey-coloured men didn’t stop; they started running towards him, roaring at the top of their lungs.

The moment the nine grey-skinned ogre men roared and charged at Jolthar, the tension in the square heightened dramatically. Their guttural cries echoed like thunder, and their combined rage created an almost primal wave of terror that washed over everyone watching. It was truly a bestial-like shaking of every one of the barony soldiers to the core. Roblan stumbled backwards from his position. He was just behind Cleora, with the soldiers at his back; they were too shaken by the roar of those men.

Cleora gasped, her hand instinctively raised, but she hesitated, her sharp mind assessing the situation. Her soldiers, meanwhile, stood frozen, unsure of whether to engage or wait for her command.

Jolthar’s expression remained calm, his focus razor-sharp. His eyes took in all the nine coming at him as he breathed out heavily.

As the ogre men bore down on him from all directions, he shifted his stance. His feet slid apart, planting themselves firmly on the cracked cobblestones. His hips lowered, and his knees bent slightly, his centre of gravity shifting into perfect alignment.

His body language spoke volumes—he wasn’t bracing himself for defence; he was preparing to attack.

Then, with a sudden burst of motion, Jolthar launched forward.

The ground beneath his feet cracked and splintered as he propelled himself into the air, his movement almost imperceptibly fast.

To the untrained eye, it might have seemed as though he moved sluggishly, but to those with keen perception—like Dagur and Preeyonka—it was clear that every step, every swing, and every shift of his body was deliberate and precise, calculated to maximize efficiency and minimize waste.

The first ogre-man swung his massive club toward Jolthar with all his might.

The weapon cut through the air with a deafening whoosh, its force enough to crush a normal man’s bones to dust.

But Jolthar’s sword, Knashii, met it mid-swing with a metallic clang, and the ground beneath them shuddered from the impact. Jolthar winced slightly as the blow rattled his arm.

Strong. Stronger than I expected, he thought to himself. At a glance they all seemed to possess the strength of tier 7 warriors; all of them were. It was like they were fighting like one, even with distinctive weapons.

The other eight ogre-men wasted no time.

They surged forward in a coordinated onslaught, their attacks coming from every angle—axes, clubs, and massive fists all converging on Jolthar in a deadly storm of strikes.

They were over six feet tall, with muscles rippling under their ashen-grey skin. Their sheer physicality made them a terrifying sight.

But Jolthar wasn’t cowed.

Pivoting sharply, he twisted his body to dodge a downward axe strike, the blade grazing his shoulder by mere inches.

His counterattack was swift—a diagonal slash aimed at the ogre-man’s exposed ribs.

Yet the brute managed to twist away at the last second, his thick skin deflecting the blow enough to avoid a fatal wound.

Jolthar’s eyes narrowed.

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The ogre men moved like a well-trained pack.

Each time Jolthar attempted to exploit an opening, another stepped in to cover the gap.

Their attacks came in rapid succession, leaving him no time to focus on any one of them.

The flurry of strikes formed an almost seamless circle of chaos around Jolthar, with clubs and axes descending like a deadly rainstorm.

The sound of metal clashing against metal and the dull thud of weapons striking the ground filled the air, a relentless cacophony that echoed across the square.

To the onlookers, it seemed as though Jolthar was trapped in an impenetrable storm of violence. Cleora’s nails dug into her palms as she watched, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and awe.

Preeyonka, standing with her arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. "He’s fast," she muttered, almost to herself. "Too fast for them to land a solid hit. But... he’s not landing any decisive blows either."

Jolthar’s defence was nothing short of miraculous.

His blade moved like lightning, parrying and deflecting every incoming attack with a speed that left his foes—and the spectators—staggered.

Each block was accompanied by a loud clang, the sparks flying from his sword lighting up the area like miniature fireworks. His footwork was equally impressive, his movements fluid and unpredictable. He weaved in and out of the ogre men’s reach, his precise dodges leaving them swinging at empty air.

Still, his opponents’ sheer number and coordination made it difficult for him to gain the upper hand.

Whenever he tried to focus on one ogre-man, another would step in, forcing him to divide his attention.

It was a battle of attrition, a deadly dance where one misstep could spell his doom.

Minutes passed, the fight intensifying with each passing moment.

The square seemed to vibrate with the relentless rhythm of the battle, the sound of clashing metal reverberating like a drumbeat.

Jolthar’s breathing grew heavier, sweat glistening on his brow, but his focus never wavered. He knew that one slip, one lapse in concentration, would be all it took for the ogre men to overwhelm him.

He gritted his teeth, his grip on Knashii tightening.

This won’t work. I need to break their formation.

His mind raced as he scanned the chaotic battlefield, searching for an opening. His eyes flicked to the ground, where the cobblestones were cracked and uneven from the force of the ogre-men’s blows.

An idea began to form.

Feigning a stumble, Jolthar allowed himself to appear momentarily vulnerable.

One of the ogre men, emboldened by the perceived weakness, lunged forward with a triumphant roar, his axe aimed straight at Jolthar’s exposed side.

But Jolthar was ready.

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He sidestepped at the last possible second, his blade arcing upward in a blindingly fast strike. The ogre-man’s roar turned into a gurgle as Knashii carved through his neck, his massive body crumpling to the ground with a heavy thud.

The circle wavered.

For the first time, the ogre-men hesitated, their formation faltering as they processed the loss of one of their own.

Jolthar seized the moment, his blade flashing as he pressed the attack. The ogre men dispersed, breaking their formation and pulling out their attacks.

Preeyonka’s smile returned, more dangerous than ever.

"Interesting," she murmured, her voice dripping with amusement. "Very interesting."