The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 328: Killing the child of a deity

And with that, he snapped Preeyonka’s neck with a sharp twist of his hands.

The sound was small and quiet compared to all the thunder and divine power that had filled the air, but it seemed to echo louder than anything else that had happened that night.

Preeyonka’s body went limp, her divine light finally fading as death claimed even her deivruta-born flesh.

Above them, Borehym’s roar of rage shook the very foundations of the earth. "YOU DARE! YOU DARE KILL MY CHILD!"

The deity raised his hands, and winds began to gather that could have torn the entire town apart. Storming clouds with raging winds started to form between his fingers.

But as Borehym prepared to strike, something stopped him.

Invisible chains of cosmic law wrapped around his divine form, holding him motionless in the sky. His face twisted with fury as he struggled against the restraints.

"The ancient laws," he snarled, his voice now filled with bitter frustration.

"The compact between the divine realm and the mortal world. I cannot directly harm a human being, no matter what they have done to me."

The chains of law pulled him backward, away from the mortal realm, but his voice carried clearly to Jolthar’s ears as he began to fade.

"This is not over, mortal. I will find a way around the ancient laws. I will have my revenge for my daughter’s death. Mark my words—I will see you destroyed."

And then he was gone, leaving only normal wind and normal clouds in his wake.

Jolthar stared at the clouds for a moment, wondering how powerful he was. He didn’t expect that a deity would act directly.

Those deities must cherish their children.

He sighed, shaking his head as a thought crossed his mind.

Jolthar let Preeyonka’s body fall to the ground and knelt beside it.

From her finger, he carefully removed the ring that glowed with soft blue light—the Strodem, an artifact of incredible value that could store and amplify magical power.

It was the kind of treasure that kingdoms went to war over, and now it was his.

He stood up, slipping the ring into his pocket, and turned to face the crowd that had watched everything in stunned silence.

Jolthar’s green eyes swept across the square, taking in the scene of destruction around him.

The fountain lay in ruins where Preeyonka had crashed into it.

Scorch marks from Maelruth’s fire painted black circles on the stones where piles of ash marked what had once been living men.

The very stones bore the marks of divine power and chaos energy, cracks spreading out like spiderwebs from where the two forces had clashed.

Near the broken fountain, two figures cowered on the ground.

Lord Eude had pressed himself flat against the stones, his expensive robes torn and stained with his own fear.

Beside him, the last surviving member of Gales’s mercenary band—shook like a leaf in winter wind.

Both men stared at Jolthar with the wide eyes of prey animals who had just realized they were trapped with a hunter.

Before Maelruth, small piles of gray ash stirred gently in the evening breeze.

These were all that remained of the soldiers who had threatened the innocent people of Tekkora just hours before. The drake stood watch over these remains, her yellow eyes glowing softly in the gathering dusk.

From the crowd, a figure moved forward with hesitant steps.

Cleora had watched everything unfold from the safety of the crowd, her heart a wild drumbeat of terror and amazement.

It had not been so long since Jolthar first came to the barony, and in that time she thought she had come to know him—the boy beneath the hardened shell, the goodness hidden behind the sharp tongue and the unyielding will. She had let him into her life, into her barony, because she believed in him, in the promise she saw glimmering beneath his rough edges.

But the man standing before her now felt both familiar and impossibly distant. His strength had grown beyond anything she imagined, his presence darker, heavier, almost cruel. The youth she thought she knew was buried beneath the storm he had become.

And yet, when her gaze met his, she saw it—the faintest trace of that gentle soul she had once fallen in love with. A spark in the storm, fragile but alive, reminding her that the man who now stood as both shield and shadow was still Jolthar.

"Jolthar," she called softly, and he turned toward her voice like a flower turning toward the sun.

They met in the middle of the square, stepping carefully around the cracks and burn marks that decorated the stones.

When Cleora reached him, she extended her hand, and he took it in his own.

His skin was warm despite the cold silver fire that had been dancing around his fingers just moments before.

"Why did you do that?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Why did you anger the deity? You could have let her live; you could have found another way. Now you have made an enemy of a deity himself."

It was her topmost worry right now. She was very well aware of how deities hold grudges.

Jolthar’s free hand came up to cup her cheek, his touch gentle despite the terrible power that flowed through him. His green eyes, which had been so cold and merciless during the fight, softened as he looked at her face.

"No one dares to touch the barony and leave alive," he said, his words carrying the weight of an oath sworn in blood and fire.

"Even if they were gods themselves. These people are under my protection. Anyone who harms them answers to me, regardless of what realm they come from or what power they claim to wield."

The simple conviction in his voice broke something inside Cleora’s chest.

Tears that she had been holding back throughout the long, terrible day finally began to flow down her cheeks. She threw her arms around him and pressed her face against his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him beneath the lingering traces of battle and power.

For a moment, they stood like that in the center of the destroyed square.