The familiar valley surfaced beneath them, green ridges folding like a cupped hand around smoky shelters. As their shadows crossed the clouds, the entire encampment erupted; the air vibrated with cheers, footsteps, and disbelief.
“It’s Jared!” a lookout barked, voice cracking like a split branch. “He’s back!” someone closer to the ground whooped, the note lifting dust.
“They’re both back!” The shout rolled through tents like night wind through canvas. Aurelian, Blaine, Oswald, and dozens more burst from temporary caverns, half-tied robes flapping. The moment Jared’s presence brushed them, they froze—pressure without motion, depth without sound. Aurelian’s eyes ballooned, voice wobbling. “Brother Jared… What… Heavenly Immortal Realm, level seven? That’s insane!”
The words hung between them, more accusation than compliment, and for a heartbeat Jared heard his own history cracking. A month ago he had gasped at the roof of level five; today he stood two rungs higher, his footing effortless. Yet nothing in his veins felt hollow; every thread of force curled together, dense, collected, almost tranquil. The allies around him shivered, as though an unseen tide kept pulling at the muscles behind their knees.
Blaine paced around him twice, clicking his tongue like a jeweler weighing gems. “Kid, what miracle pill did you swallow? We lived millennia and never seen a climb like that…”
Oswald’s sword-hand trembled, not from fear but instinct; sharpness recognizes sharper. To him, Jared stood like a masterwork blade still cased—edge hidden, promise unavoidable. His voice went low. “Your sword intent… It’s different.”
The Vermilion Demon Lord bared his pointed teeth. “You didn’t see him inside that ancient refuge,” he crowed. “If I told you what he pulled off, you’d drop dead from fright. His strength now? Heh… Try guessing.”
Jared answered the gloating with a measured smile and a respectful bow. “I stumbled on some fortune, nothing more. Seniors, how are the wounded holding up?”
Aurelian steadied himself, awe fading into duty. “Thanks to the supplies you left and Mr. Morse‘s guidance, the worst cases have pulled clear of danger. Minor wounds are nearly mended.” But his chin dipped. “Gerald and Winslow’s deaths… The blow to morale is heavy.”
At the names, a dull knife twisted behind Jared‘s sternum—grief and ice in the same motion. He let the breath burn through him, then leveled his tone. “Blood debt demands blood. I intend to close accounts with Malevolent Path Hall.”
“Now?” The question landed like a pebble in still water. Blaine’s brows knitted. “Your advance is impressive, but Malevolent Path Hall runs deep. The Door of Reincarnation is tricky as hell. Better we prepare further, yes?”
Jared lifted a hand, palm slight, and said, “No need.” The shake of his head felt calm and absolute. “Malcolm and Morven are still broken,” he added. “The Door of Reincarnation only heals so much. Right now is our best window.”
He let the silence hang, then swept his gaze across the gathered elders. “I’ll take the front. You stay behind, cover the gaps. If things go sideways, pull me out, but the first clash is mine.”
The words slipped out as gently as falling ash, yet every syllable rang with unshakeable certainty. Across from him, Aurelian and the others traded uneasy looks, the kind men share when they have already surrendered to inevitability. At last, every head bowed in a single, heavy nod.
Jared felt their eyes linger on him, searching for the seam where the old version had been stitched to the new. They would not find it. The power coiled beneath his skin no longer barked for control; it simply existed, patient and whole.
Aurelian broke the hush first. “Good… If you’re sure, we walk this road beside you. Gerald and Winslow deserve rest, and their killers deserve the flame.”
Blaine slapped a fist to his chest and barked, “Count me in!”
Oswald offered nothing but a knife-thin “I’m coming.”
Jared inhaled once, drawing the sky into his lungs, then rose—the motion slow, deliberate, as though gravity were an opinion he no longer shared. The Vermilion Demon Lord arrowed up after him, scarlet aura streaming like a banner. In quick succession, Aurelian, Blaine, Oswald, and a few dozen battle-scarred allies kicked off the rubble, falling into formation. Together they became threads of light, stretched tight toward the dark silhouette of Malevolent Path Hall.
***
Three days bled away in relentless flight until the jagged peaks ringing the cult’s territory stabbed up beneath them. The range, once draped in clammy gray mist, now pulsed with noise: crackling braziers, shouted bargains, the distant chant of half-made believers. Makeshift camps clawed at every ledge and clearing around the battlefield market.
Malevolent Path Hall seemed in no hurry to hunt the last Alliance stragglers; spectacle served them better. Every miracle they advertised drew more warm bodies. When Jared’s squad drifted over the outer camps, the noise shattered into shards of alarm and greedy curiosity.
“That’s Aurelian of the Five-Element Sect!” someone yelped.
“Blaine from Myriad Beast Valley, Oswald of the Heavenly Sword Pavilion!”
“Do they want to die walking in here?”
“Who’s the young one in front? That aura‘s monstrous…”
Jared did not slow. Each step drew him nearer the mountain heart. Where he passed, those courting the cult shrank back, lungs compressing under the silent gravity that rolled off him.
Meanwhile, Malcolm was sitting cross-legged at the blood pool’s rim, dark vapor sliding over his robes. Power flowed a little easier than yesterday, yet every breath still scraped against the wound the Divine Bow had carved in his core. Behind him, the three Reincarnation Guardians waited, skin like wet paper, eyes empty. Morven knelt beside him, face equally pallid, though the crimson light in his pupils refused to dim.
The stillness shattered when hurried footsteps echoed down the stone gallery. A black-robed elder stumbled onto the altar. “Hail Master! Ancestor! Disaster—the remnants of the Five-Element Sect, Myriad Beast Valley, and Heavenly Sword Pavilion are at the gate. Jared leads them!”
“Jared?” The name cracked from Malcolm’s throat before thought could temper it. His eyes snapped open, glittering with venomous disbelief. “He dares deliver himself? How many did he bring?”
“N-Not many, only a few dozen… But…” The elder’s voice wavered. “But Jared’s aura feels far stronger than before.”
Morven’s crimson pupils flared. “Stronger? In a single month, how powerful could he become?” He rose, cloak dragging wetly over the stone. “Empty bluster… Convenient, I was just about to repay him.”
