He turned the question back across the snow. “And you, Luther… Where will your feet carry you now?”
Luther’s shoulders sagged. The greenish fire in his eyes dulled as he muttered, “The Door of Reincarnation is gone. My clan may already be dead. I have nowhere left to return.”
Jared watched the once proud ghost sink into silence, the ragged cloak hanging like wet ash. Memory supplied flashes of towers carved from bone, banquet halls lit by soul-lanterns—an empire now ground down to wandering survivors. Pity, thin but unexpected, rose alongside his breath.
After a pause long enough for wind to slip between them, Jared said, “If nowhere feels safe, walk with me. I just arrived on Level Thirteen and could use someone who knows the edges.”
Luther’s head jerked up, eyes widening like twin moons. “Mr. Chance… You… You don’t blame me?”
“One debt at a time.” Jared kept his tone even. “What you did on Level Twelve hurt people, yes, but the motive was survival, not cruelty. The Door is gone, and Mr. Sanders has already marked you. Live clean from here on, and I’ll give you space at my side.”
A wet sheen slid across Luther’s eyes. He dropped to his knees so fast dust puffed around his boots. “Your mercy, Mr. Chance, I will never forget! Let me serve, let me repay your grace!”
“Stand up.” Jared caught the ghost’s elbow, the shadow-cold skin like glass under his fingers. “First we find shelter,” he added, guiding Luther to his feet.
Luther brushed gravel from his knees. “South thirty thousand kilometers lies Coldabyss City, largest haven on the southern edge of the North Abyss Icefield. Its City Lord is a High Immortal, unaffiliated and mostly fair. We could start there.”
Jared inclined his head. “All right…”
The moment felt like the hinge of a new book, Level Thirteen opening beneath his boots, untitled chapters waiting. Inside his storage ring, mountains of ore, spirit herbs, and the Primal Unity Refinement Tome pressed against the tiny pocket of space like treasure impatient for daylight. With that, he could bargain, study, and survive.
Faces drifted across his mind: Mr. Vermilion’s amused eyes, Metalhart’s stern nod, the quiet patience of the valley lord, the solitary swordsman’s distant smile. An inward whisper followed—an apology for slipping away and a promise to return once strength and footing were his.
Resolve settled behind his ribs like cooling steel. Without another heartbeat of hesitation, he kicked off the frost-crusted ground. His figure blurred into a streak of gray light that carved a silent path through the winter air. The wind bit and howled, tugging at his sleeves, but ahead stretched uncharted skies, tougher foes, and a stage wide enough for every ambition.
Far behind, somewhere beyond the veil of realms, a tremor brushed the edge of his awareness, as though a towering gate had sighed and folded into nothing. He glanced over a shoulder at the empty sky, felt only the quieter pulse of the world, and kept flying.
***
Benches scraped. Aurelian, Blaine, and the others surged upright as if a cord had yanked them. Blood drained from their faces; the air tasted suddenly of metal. Three nights of brittle campfires drifted through Vermilion’s memory. They had waited on the cliff for Jared to step out, for the doorway to so much as flicker. Nothing had answered but wind.
Now the doorway itself had winked out, as though some unseen mouth had swallowed it clean.
Blaine’s voice split the hush. “Where’s Jared? Why didn’t he come out?!”
Aurelian’s complexion went waxy. His spirit sense lashed across the altar and the surrounding sky. Nothing. No lingering echo of Jared, no whisper of the Door. A thought, dark and cold, uncurled inside every chest.
Could it be…
“No! Impossible!” someone barked, half plea, half snarl.
Vermilion’s throat vibrated with a low growl; scarlet light burned behind his eyes. “That kid’s tougher than stone. An ancient cultivator’s tomb couldn’t hold him, so one doorway sure as hell can‘t…”
The boast withered on his tongue. The doorway was gone. Jared was gone. Every omen felt wrong.
Another dawn bled over the ridge, then another, then another. They risked the altar itself, stepping into the cold circle where the gateway had hovered. The stone answered with silence. The fourth sunrise delivered what none dared name: Jared had vanished with the Door, his fate unreadable.
Grief hardened into a raw, collective roar among the alliance ranks. Their chance at revenge had just bloomed, but the young leader who lit that fire had been snuffed mid-stride.
“Jared is the hero of Level Twelve!” a voice proclaimed, hoarse yet fierce.
Aurelian swallowed his grief and faced the crowd. “From this day, Level Twelve enters a new era. We will honor Jared’s will, restore order, and guard this realm! Station a permanent watch around Reincarnation Peak. The moment any sign of Jared appears, report at once!”
Orders rippled outward. Squads moved to claim the territory Malevolent Path Hall left behind, maps and banners changing hands. The turmoil birthed by the Door slowly thinned, as though its vanishing had corked the sky itself. Yet certain faces would never forget the young figure who, cornered, had led them back, sliced down a High Immortal, and walked alone into the unknown.
Vermilion remained outside the peak, nights stacking like stones. Each dawn he pictured Jared strolling up with that infuriating grin and saying, “Senior, kept you waiting…”
Every dusk erased the image. At last, the ember of hope guttered out. Before the empty altar, he dropped to his knees and knocked his forehead against the stone three solemn times.
“Kid, you pulled me back from the brink… I owe you. Rest easy. Your family, your friends, I’ll keep an eye on them… If you really died in there, I’ll bring your bones home, even if I have to split this damned Reincarnation Realm wide open.”
The promise tasted like iron on his tongue, sharp and irrevocable, yet the weight of it steadied his shaking hands more than any healing elixir could. He clenched the tattered cloak at his shoulders, feeling the dried blood crack along the seams. A heartbeat later his body shattered into a streak of crimson, shooting toward Level Nine, the sky behind him tearing like wet paper.
Somewhere beyond those frozen tiers, the woman who had waited centuries still clung to life. Once she breathed free, he would circle back and honor every word he’d spoken.
