“A true dragon walks the world again… The age is about to change,” the Frostdrake murmured. Then it withdrew into its cavern.
Icy mist rolled back across the entrance, erasing every trace of the encounter. Outside the array, Jared finally released the Golden Dragon Form. Radiance winked out. He stood human once more, face paper-white, knees buckling beneath the sudden hollow where limitless strength had raged only moments before.
Jared stood swaying in the lingering haze of power he had just unleashed. The forbidden technique and the draconic pressure he forced into the air had gouged his reserves nearly dry, and only the ironclad toughness of his body, fortified by chaotic celestial energy, kept him from collapsing outright.
“Jared!” Vermilion shouted, his crimson cloak snapping behind him as he hurried forward and caught the staggering man by the shoulders.
Clara arrived a heartbeat later, silvery hair plastered to her cheeks, her eyes bright with concern while she reached instinctively for Jared’s wrist to feel the faint, ragged pulse.
Lady Aurora, who had been standing at the heart of the shattered array, let her pale hand fall. The glowing sigils around the hall winked out like dying stars. From her sleeve, she drew an ice-blue pill and pressed it into Jared’s palm. “Swallow it. Your strength will return quickly.”
Jared did not hesitate. He tipped his head back, let the pill melt on his tongue, and felt its gentle yet immense medicine flow through every vein. Warmth spread like sunrise over frozen earth. Torn meridians knitted, frayed spirit threads rewoven, and the gaping emptiness inside him filled with clean, bright energy until his death-pale skin flushed with a faint, healthy red.
He clasped his hands to his chest and bowed. “My thanks, Lady Aurora…”
She brushed away his gratitude with an airy flick. Her eyes drifted to the box Jared still carried. “The Blood Lotus is yours now. Return to the palace. Rest.”
With that, she turned. Silk robes whispered across the corridor as she escorted Jared and the others back through the archways of Northern Abyss Palace.
When their hostess vanished into inner chambers, Jared, Vermilion, and Clara withdrew to a quiet annex, a place of low lamps and cedar incense, to collect themselves. Vermilion hugged the box to his chest, hands trembling so hard the lid rattled. Within lay the blood lotus, the first real shard of hope after endless darkness. For him, that single bloom was dawn breaking across a night that had nearly swallowed them.
“Jared, the debt is beyond words…” Vermilion said, then bent in a deep bow, the kind that set his crimson mantle sweeping over the stones. “If Selene is saved, it will be by your hand. I will remember this till my last breath. Whatever you ask of me, no matter the danger, I will answer.”
“No, you overstate it. Selene’s fate is bound to mine. The lotus is only the first step. We still need Jadeheart Marrow and the Nine-Orifice Divine Soul Herb. We’ll keep moving.”
Vermilion nodded gravely. “The Jadeheart Marrow lies in level eleven, the Nine-Orifice Divine Soul Herb in the Twelfth. Both are rarer than the lotus and twice as well guarded. Jared, what will you do next?”
“First, level eleven,” Jared answered without hesitation, his eyes steady as tempered steel. “Not only for Jadeheart Marrow. I have scores to settle there, wrongs I’ve carried too long.”
Jared thought of Soul Devourer, a shadow that still hung over every quiet moment. And of Malevolent Path Hall, where the spirits of Flaxseed’s kin awaited justice. At Jared’s words, Clara’s lashes flickered, a shimmer of reluctance passing through her pale eyes. She knew his road stretched far beyond the world her present strength could touch.
“Jared… Please… Be careful out there,” she whispered, the words almost lost in the hush of incense.
“Clara, you take care as well. Mystic Sky Sword Sect still needs you, and Mr. Cloudridge needs your steadiness. Cultivate hard. When I finish things in level eleven, I may yet return to level ten.”
She nodded fiercely, though light caught in her eyes like water trembling on glass. Catching the intimacy of the moment, Vermilion cleared his throat and drifted to a far corner, pretending intense study of the blood lotus.
Jared drew Clara into his arms. In the quiet glow of moon-lamps, they joined their breathing, guiding their energies in the ancient art of paired cultivation. Every pulse of shared essence felt like a promise, because neither knew when fate would let them meet again. Clara met the moment with rare boldness, answering his touch with a fervor born of looming farewell.
Dawn bled into dusk and again into dawn. At last, spent yet peaceful, Clara drifted into sleep against his shoulder, breath slow, smile soft. Jared drew the Northern Abyssal Token from his sleeve and held it at eye level, as though a single glance might reveal every secret locked inside the ancient piece of artifact.
The surface felt colder than winter water. It was neither metal nor gem, yet carried the patient weight of both. Across the front, the lone character for “Abyss” cut a bold, serpentine path, each brushstroke humming with threads of glacial law. He turned it over. On the reverse bloomed a labyrinth of interlocking snowflake sigils, an arcane recognition array waiting for the right hand to awaken it.
“With this token…” he murmured, voice low but steady, “I will at least have one safe foothold in level eleven.”
He slipped it inside his inner coat, as carefully as a priest sheathing a relic.
Half a day later, Clara sat upright again, her breath no longer ragged. Color warmed her cheeks, and the silver frost that once rimmed her lashes had fully melted away. Jared rose in one fluid motion.
“No point delaying,” he said, every word crisp with resolve. “First, we escort Clara back to Mystic Sky Sword Sect. Then we carve a tunnel through the void and climb to level eleven.”
Vermilion, the demon lord cloaked in red haze, nodded without a trace of argument. Together, the three crossed the courtyard and offered their farewells to Lady Aurora. The palace mistress kept her counsel brief. She pressed three bottles of healing pills and a device into Jared’s palm—its etched lines mapped portions of level eleven and named the exact coordinates of the Northern Abyssal Palace stronghold hidden there.
“Remember… Come back breathing,” she said, the simple command ringing louder than any oath. Her gaze lingered on him, soft yet unyielding. “Maxwell is still waiting for you.”
Jared bowed, fists crossed. “I will not forget, my lady.”
Outside the palace gates, Jared, Clara, and Vermilion lifted into the open sky. No war bands rose to block their path; Lady Aurora’s decree had cleared every checkpoint. After several quiet days, the serrated peaks of the Mystic Sky Sword Sect cut the horizon like a crown of obsidian blades.
The instant their boots met the flagstones before Mystic Sky Sword Sect, the posted disciples recognized them, saluted, and sprinted inward to announce the miraculous return. Linden hurried out. The moment he saw his daughter alive, tears spilled down the weathered lines of his face, shining like dew on old stone.
“Mr. Chance, your kindness shall be carved into the sect’s memory for all generations!”
Learning that Jared meant to press on to level eleven, the master folded at the waist—a bow so deep it brushed the mountain wind. Jared eased him upright. “There is no need, Mr. Cloudridge. Fate tied my road to yours. The Blood Lotus is secured, yet I still need the next herb. That trail leads to level eleven, so I take my leave now.”
Linden knew better than to argue. “May your journey stay clear of storms. Mystic Sky’s doors will wait open for you, always.”
Jared turned to Clara. “Cultivate well, and keep a vigilant eye on your father.”
She bit her lower lip, determination bright in her eyes. “Take care, Mr. Chance. I… I will wait until you return.”
Jared answered with a small, untroubled smile. A heartbeat later, he and Vermilion streaked upward, vanishing into the clouds like twin streaks of dawn fire. Linden watched the empty sky and breathed a long, awed sigh. “That young man was never meant for shallow waters. Level eleven will churn again the moment his shadow falls there.”
He cleared his throat, lowering his voice. “Clara, did you and Mr. Chance share… intimacy?”
“Father…” she whispered, cheeks flushing, “His dragon-gold blood essence already flows in my veins. Even so, I fear my body may never bear a child of such power.”
Linden’s brow knotted. “Why not?”
“Because that bloodline is forged from Golden Dragon Bloodline. I may not survive its weight, let alone cradle new life within me.”
He closed his eyes and released the worry on a sigh. “Then we leave it to fate and to heaven.” Linden exhaled a weary sigh, the sound thin as wind drifting over ancient tiles. He turned away from the cliff, ivory robes trailing like fading clouds, and strode back into the gloom of the corridor without another word.
