The Sinful Young Master

The Barony of Tekkora stood in the aftermath of battle, the air thick with the iron scent of blood and smoke from smouldering wreckage. The smoke of bodies being burnt rose into the sky in the far reaches of the town.

Amidst the scattered remains of the skirmish, General Remin stood with his arms crossed before Arvant, his sharp gaze heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Arvant, though weary from the recent fight, was deep in contemplation.

The moment he had learned of the chaos unfolding in the capital, a gnawing suspicion had begun to form in his mind.

And now, with Prince Milan's presence here—so close to an enemy army, not to mention the assassins lurking in the shadows—it was no longer just a suspicion.

He couldn't help but think these events were all linked.

And those assassins, the way they were quite persistent in coming after Prince Milan and himself. And how they never really showed themselves to others. Not even a single trace of them was left behind.

There was only one organization capable of orchestrating something so meticulous, so flawlessly concealed.

Shishusuto.

The name alone was enough to send a chill down the spine of even the most hardened warriors. A group shrouded in mystery, its members ghostlike figures that came and went without a trace. They did not simply assassinate; they eliminated entire legacies.

No one touched Shishusuto.

No one dared.

To hire them was an act of desperation or boundless ambition, for their price was steep—paid not only in gold but often in blood and allegiance.

Remin exhaled slowly, his own mind arriving at the same grim conclusion. His years of experience had honed his instincts, and all signs pointed to one thing—this was far more than just a coincidental attack. The stakes were far greater than any of them had anticipated.

"The Shishusuto…" Arvant muttered under his breath, his expression darkening. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

Remin nodded, his expression grave. "You think so." Remin did notice the assassins moving back as soon as he entered the battlefield, and they retreated like they weren't here.

Arvant met his gaze. "I am sure you have seen them; they are so adamant on killing the prince and me."

"But they were afraid to reveal their presence; I wonder why." Though he hadn't said it out loud, the reason was standing before him.

Remin, the heavenly general of the empire.

Not even the most dangerous organisations like Shishusuto would dare bare their fangs in front of the heavenly general Remin.

A silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken implications.

"Arvant," Remin spoke at last, his voice low and measured. "Whatever path has led you here, be careful how you probe further. His Highness does not yet realize just how much danger he is truly in."

Arvant's jaw tightened as he nodded. His grip on the hilt of his sword subconsciously tightened.

Though Arvant wasn't sure about his intentions, he knew Remin wasn't the type to swear allegiance to anyone. So he could be sure that Remin was neutral.

The coming days would be filled with danger, and Remin was reminding him to protect the prince. It may also mean that he was looking forward to what the prince would do in the future.

"I know it all too well," he murmured. "Better than anyone. But no matter what, I won't let anything happen to him."

Remin turned his head slightly, his sharp eyes flicking toward where Milan stood, deep in discussion with Jolthar, Cleora, and the others. The prince was young and confident but dangerously unaware of the forces at play.

"It is not yet time," Remin said cryptically, his words carrying a weight that only seasoned warriors could understand.

His gaze returned to Arvant, his tone turning sombre. "Until then, try and keep your head intact, Arvant, and the prince's too."

Arvant's face contorted with anger, but he couldn't say anything. He knew he was no match for him, and he was in no position to say anything, too.

With that, he called out for Wymar, who had already begun overseeing the grim task of handling the aftermath—sorting the wounded, gathering the dead.

Arvant inhaled deeply, his expression unreadable as he calmed himself.

He would not let Milan die here. He would not allow this unknown enemy to have its way.

"Thank you again, General," he said, despite what Remin said, sincerity laced in his voice. "Your arrival has made the difference between our survival and our demise."

Remin merely nodded, his focus shifting once more. His gaze landed on a distant figure—Jolthar.

"Tell me," Remin said, his voice calm yet inquisitive. "That young warrior… the one who fought earlier, all by himself. Who is he?"

Arvant glanced at Jolthar, who stood with his usual air of quiet intensity, his posture unwavering despite the weariness of battle clinging to his shoulders.

"He's from the Kaezhlar Clan," Arvant answered. "we have met him during our visit to the Kaezhlar clan."

The mention of the Kaezhlar Clan made Remin's brow rise slightly, his interest piqued.

"Kaezhlar?" he mused, folding his arms. "Now that explains his swordsmanship."
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During the battle, Remin had taken notice of Jolthar's movements—swift, precise, and ruthless. It was not the technique of a mere mercenary or a wandering swordsman. It was the discipline of a trained warrior, someone honed by the strict traditions of an ancient, battle-hardened clan.

And yet, there was something else about Jolthar—something untamed, something raw. He fought not just with skill but with a darkness that lingered just beneath the surface.

A force that, if harnessed correctly, could make him a formidable asset.

Or a terrifying enemy.

Remin's lips curled slightly in a knowing smile. "He has talent," he said at last.

Arvant didn't reply, but he found himself silently agreeing.

After concluding his discussion with Arvant, General Remin gave the final order for his unit to depart. His soldiers, disciplined and efficient, swiftly prepared for departure.

The Grosbek unit and the dragon were ready to take flight.