The assassins hidden in the shadows of nearby streets were equally stunned.
The massive light that had cleaved through Chitterea's army was no mere combat technique. Thıs text ıs hosted at novel•fire.net
It was a statement of absolute power, a display of destructive capability that defied comprehension. Hundreds of soldiers had been instantaneously obliterated, their bodies reduced to nothing more than a gruesome memory.
Jolthar stood in the centre of the carnage like an apex predator.
His posture was relaxed yet coiled, a living weapon ready to strike at a moment's notice.
The surviving soldiers of Chitterea looked at him not as a man but as a monstrosity—unpredictable, devastating, and utterly merciless.
Dagur's expression contorted with a mixture of rage and anticipation.
Ozug, unable to contain his fury, roared and charged towards Jolthar.
"Bastard! Who the hell are you?"
But Jolthar was prepared.
With a fluid motion that seemed to defy the very laws of movement, he blocked Ozug's attack.
Ozug didn't stop as he unleashed back-to-back strikes.
And Jolthar parried every strike.
His movements were precise, calculated—each parry a perfect demonstration of martial mastery.
Each collision created a clanking sound, igniting sparks and ripples.
As he defended, he let out a sharp whistle—a sound that seemed to carry a promise of something more.
Ozug's attack became increasingly frantic. "What the fuck are you doing?" he screamed, sensing something was coming.
Then, as if summoned by the very air itself, Maelruth appeared.
The drake was a magnificent creature—scales shimmering like polished obsidian, wings that could eclipse the sun, eyes that burned with an intelligence far beyond a mere beast.
It landed before Jolthar, its massive form creating a thunderous impact that shook the ground. Ozug immediately retreated, his bravado evaporating in the face of this new threat.
The soldiers of the Barony fell back, creating a wide berth around Jolthar and his drake companion.
Jolthar's smile was a dangerous thing—part triumph, part warning. "You shouldn't have run your mouth," he said to Ozug, his voice carrying across the battlefield like a cold wind.
Then, turning to the remaining soldiers of Chitterea, he delivered an ultimatum that chilled them to their core: "If any one of you value your life, run away while you can. Because I am not going to spare a single one of you if you stand with a sword before me."
Dagur and Preeyoka watched with astonishement.
Dagur couldn't believe just who this young man was.
A drake was rare—a companion to a warrior was almost unheard of. The bond between Jolthar and Maelruth was something beyond simple master and beast. It was a partnership, a symbiosis of power and loyalty. It came as soon as Jolthar called.
Jolthar reached out and patted the drake's head—a gesture of closeness that spoke volumes about their relationship.
"Bud," he said, "I need you to watch my back and kill anyone who comes at us."
Maelruth's response was immediate and definitive.
A roar erupted from its throat, a sound that was part acceptance, part challenge.
The surrounding area trembled, a testament to the drake's raw power.
Preeyoka, a mercenary who had seen countless battles across multiple lands, found herself captivated. She had originally come for Cleora.
But now, her attention was completely consumed by Jolthar and his drake. Not only was he strong, but he also had such a rare species as his companion, a truly extraordinary individual.
The battlefield had transformed.
What was moments ago a scene of imminent conflict was now a stage of absolute dominance. Jolthar and Maelruth stood as living legends, challenging anyone brave—or foolish—enough to approach them.
The story of this day would be told and retold, each telling adding layers of myth to an already extraordinary encounter.
The battlefield was a living, breathing entity of chaos and strategy.
Jolthar understood the fundamental truth of large-scale combat: one cannot fight an entire army by engaging each soldier individually. The key was devastation—strategic, overwhelming force that would break the enemy's will to fight.
Ozug's blade sliced through the air, a deadly arc intended to cleave Jolthar in two.
But Jolthar was no ordinary swordsman. His movements were liquid lightning, impossible to track with mere mortal eyes.
Each of Ozug's attacks found only empty space, the tier 8 warrior becoming increasingly frustrated as his opponent seemed to dance between the very molecules of air.
Then came the moment that would change everything.
Maelruth, the drake, had been a silent sentinel until now.
But something within the drake stirred—an ancient power that demanded release.
With a roar that shook the very foundations of the town, the drake unfurled its massive wings. The air around them superheated, charged with an intensity that made the surrounding soldiers take an involuntary step backward.
A torrent of fire erupted from the drake's maw.
The flames were not like any normal fire. They were living energy, crimson at the core and white at the edges, so intense that the very air seemed to melt.
Even Jolthar was momentarily stunned.
In all their time together, Maelruth had never displayed such raw, unbridled power. This was something different—something primal and ancient. He didn't even know that the drake could breath fire.
Chittera's soldiers stood frozen while their fellow men were being burnt alive.
Cleora, at this point, stopped being surprised and quickly turned to boot.
Cleora's voice cut through the chaos.
"Attack!" she screamed to the soldiers of the Barony. Her shock at Jolthar's capabilities was evident—a drake companion was beyond rare, beyond legendary. But this was no time for wonder.
Jolthar had created an opportunity, a momentary weakness in the enemy's defences that they needed to exploit.
At the back of the battlefield, Prince Milan and Arvant watched with a mixture of awe and disbelief.
Arvant muttered, "Who the hell is that young man?"
Jolthar was more than a warrior—he was a relentless beast. His sword moved with such precision that Ozug, a tier 8 warrior who had likely spent decades mastering combat, was being systematically pushed back.
But the assassins had their own plans. While everyone was involved in their battles, they looked at Arvant and Milan, who were standing behind, with no one around them.