“Sir, do you know what became of the towers afterward? More importantly, how can they be drawn back together?” Jared’s words spilled out faster than his breath. His mind now circled a single ambition.
With the Pentacarna Tower already in his grasp, if he could secure the Beast-Subduing Tower and Immortal-Sealing Tower as well, he would stand unrivaled beneath the heavens.
“That I cannot tell you,” Zevon admitted, shaking his head. “The Beast-Subduing Tower roams the boundless universe at whim, untethered by space. No sage can predict where it will appear. As for the Immortal-Sealing Tower, or any method to fuse all three, I have heard nothing but silence.”
“Oh…” The single syllable slipped from Jared, heavy with disappointment.
Still, knowledge was a seed. He vowed to keep watch for any sign of the wandering spires.
“Mr. Chance, I have ordered my disciples to deliver every last resource the Nethergate Sect possesses,” Neville announced, bowing with measured respect.
The gesture was sincere; Neville understood that without resources, their wounded cultivators would never reclaim their former strength.
Stacks of spirit stones, jars of pills, and bundles of rare herbs soon lined the courtyard floor, yet Jared’s brow knit with faint unease.
For all its fame, Nethergate’s treasure trove felt thin; alone, he could burn through it in a handful of cultivation sessions. His appetite for power simply outpaced ordinary supply.
“Good… Restore yourselves inside the tower,” he told them, tone calm but decisive. “I need to step out for a while.”
He had no wish to fight with Sylvia and the others over scraps; better to hunt fresh riches on his own terms.
Sylvia hurried to keep pace, her silver cloak rustling over the flagstones. “Mr. Chance, where are you going?”
Jared answered with an easy shrug, the motion at odds with the fresh bandages hidden beneath his robe. “To level eight. The Celestial King is already back inside the Celestial Palace, so I want a firsthand look at the halls, and, if their vaults still overflow, I might relieve them of a little excess…”
“Should I come with you? You’re still injured,” Sylvia asked, worry softening her voice.
“I’ll be fine,” Jared said, half-laughing. “Even wounded, I can stroll through Level Eight Heaven like it’s my own back garden.”
A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Truth be told, wounds or not, few in level eight could stand against Jared once he chose to fight.
Zevon, clutching his torn cloak around a chest still slick with drying blood, managed a respectful nod. “Take care out there, Mr. Chance…”
“I will. I won’t be gone long.”
With that, Jared stepped beyond the tower and vanished into the gray daylight.
He trusted Neville completely, leaving the tower in Nethergate Sect without a second thought. Besides, Sylvia and Zevon remained on site; if Neville ever grew greedy, those two alone could put him in his place.
“Kid, you’re not really headed for level eight, are you?” the Vermilion Demon Lord asked.
Jared’s grin widened. “The palace is in ruins, why beg them for supplies? I’ll roam level nine instead. A little shakedown here, a little highway robbery there, and the right resources will come looking for me.”
“Saints preserve us. Does saying that aloud not prick your conscience?” Vermilion Demon Lord muttered, exasperation leaking through his smirk.
“Hardly… I only steal from the wicked.” Jared blurred into the wind, his form dissolving as mist caught by sunlight until even his shadow was gone.
***
Hiding himself, Jared skimmed low over the untamed ridges of level nine.
Below, forests, rivers, and crags sprawled like an unmapped tapestry. His spiritual sense unfurled beneath him, an invisible net searching every ravine for prey sufficiently well-supplied.
Pain flickered in his gut, residue from the duel with the Soul Devourer. Each time he forced his energy forward, his meridians burned as though lined with coals, yet the need for fresh resources drove him on—for himself, and for the dozens sheltering inside the tower.
Half a day later, ripples of chaotic energy and the distant clash of voices rose from a canyon ahead, tugging sharply at his attention.
He sank even lower, body lighter than a drifting leaf, sound and aura swallowed by the wind.
Within the gorge, three black-robed demonic cultivators, each perched at the very peak of the Human Immortal Realm, had cornered a young woman in a purple robe. Serrated ropes of demon light twisted from their palms, forming claws, chains, and spectral jaws that snapped at her without mercy.
Their coordination was flawless and their intent lethal; every pulse of dark light shrieked toward the woman’s heart, determined to drag her spirit into the void.
The young woman, already standing at the very peak of the Human Immortal Realm, fought like a candle in a hurricane. Her long sword gleamed as thin and blue-cold as autumn water.
With every whirl of her wrist, the blade shed sheets of light that fluttered outward and stacked into trembling layers of pale protection. Those fragile curtains were all that kept three attackers from carving her open.
