Stones exploded upward. Jared burst out of the seemingly empty rubble without a sound to warn them. He raised one finger. No chanting, no glowing array—only a thread of gray light so dense it swallowed the sun. It ripped toward the carriage’s heart faster than thunder.
Its mark: the envoy seated within! Every scrap of Jared’s spirit, blood, and chaotic force poured into that single thrust, the very essence of annihilation. Compared with the jab he had slipped inside the treasury, this strike carried several times the weight.
“Ambush!” Clive’s shout cracked the carriage walls. Gooseflesh crawled across his skin; raw survival instinct screamed at him. He hurled every shred of divine power outward. Layers of shimmering defenses erupted inside the cabin as he flung himself backward, hoping to smash through the rear panel.
Still, too slow. The gray finger-light tunneled through shield after shield and landed squarely between Clive‘s brows.
Pfft! A soft sound, more sigh than blast. Clive’s backward lunge froze mid-air. His eyes bulged, disbelief drowning the last flicker of will. From the gray dot at his forehead, decay rippled outward. Flesh, bone, and the hidden soul crumbled like dry sand drifting on the wind. He never even touched the emergency communication charm pinned inside his robe.
One strike: an envoy at the sixth grade of the upper-celestial realm was dead.
“The envoy!” one guard shrieked. Panic flared, yet training held. Silver-armored guards locked into formation and hurled torrents of light, talismans, and steel at the lone attacker.
Jared did not spare them a glance. In the blink of an eye, he appeared beside the slowly falling corpse and pressed a palm to its crown. Soulsearch Technique: an ocean of splintered memories slammed into him—celestial cultivation arts, maps of the eastern region, corridors inside Divine Punishment Hall, half-formed truths about soul crystals.
He skimmed for the urgent pieces, sheathing his own spirit in chaotic force so any planted curse slid off harmlessly. That same force spread outward as an invisible tide. Every incoming spell hit the field, dimmed, and unraveled into silence before it could touch him.
Seeing this, a guard’s throat rattled. “He… A monster!”
Across the shattered formation, Jared caught the widening whites of the silver-armored celestial guards’ eyes. Helmets tilted, throats bobbing, a few shields dipped as though their elbows had turned to water. Terror crawled across their faces, stark and raw, brighter than the swirling canyon dust. Their bolts of light sputtered against the gray aura and died like sparks sinking into deep water.
Shoulders stiffened, mouths hung open; the unspoken question glazed every pair of eyes: why didn’t a single strike bite?
Inside Jared’s mind, the last shard of Clive’s memories slid into place—routes, passwords, hidden dread. A chill steadied behind his breastbone, clean and metallic. He raised his gaze. The silver helmets reflected the dim whirlwinds, yet he met the eyes beneath them, one after another, letting them feel how briefly they still existed.
Loose ends bred disasters. The thought settled with the weight of law: leave no roots.
Jared pushed off invisible footing, his body liquefied into a streak of ashen light. It wove through the tight battle array, faster than their halberds could tilt, faster than panic could form. Where the ray brushed metal, silver dulled, pitted, and then vanished. Where it kissed flesh, armor, or spell light, everything unraveled into silent motes the canyon wind carried away.
No screams broke free. Steel crashed only once before losing its voice. The hunt felt more like culling lanternflies than soldiers—swift, mute, already decided.
Barely ten breaths later, the canyon hushed again. Swirling black winds resumed their lonely whistle around scattered piles of gray dust. Jared hovered above the debris, cloak slack in the updraft. Between his fingers rested several storage rings and the envoy’s key tokens, still warm from their owner.
He shut his eyes. Light and shadow rippled across his frame, joints cracked softly, bones sliding into unfamiliar alignments. Within three slow breaths, another Clive stood in place, flawless to the last embroidered thread.
Moon-white starry robe draped over the proud, hawkish face. Power hummed at the sixth upper-immortal tier, and even the wounded sullenness that belonged to the celestials lingered in those now-golden eyes. He rolled his neck; the borrowed tendons stretched with an oddly familiar sting, as though greeting an old cloak.
Routes, meeting codes, the Divine Punishment Hall’s protocols, even chilling hints about where the soul crystals ended up—all of it now sketched itself across his thoughts in bright, ordered strokes. An hour ago, he had meant to ride this face straight into the Hall and dig from the source. The fresh memories, however, bent that goal sharply aside.
Four resident elders watched every gate, wards overlapped like spider silk—a single misstep would ice his name across their notice boards. Worse, the celestials verified each envoy through a branded divine imprint, not mere looks or tokens. He could fake aura and authority, but forging that core spark would take research he did not yet own.
So the Hall can wait for now…
Jared’s inner voice cooled. A thin, icy smile curved his lips. This stolen skin could still earn plenty elsewhere. He flicked through Clive’s itinerary: Profound Ice Valley, Sunfire Sect, Greenwood Gate—ripe orchards awaiting harvest. Memory replayed ledger columns: annual tribute tallies taller than men, crates of spirit stones, herbs, ores, and the blue-lit soul crystals loaded under watchful eyes.
The numbers alone could push his cultivation three steps; the soul crystals promised something darker, and useful. Resources, he mused, were like lungs: more was always better.
“Plenty to gather…” he murmured, pupils flickering with sharp light. He had only just arrived at level thirteen; promise alone would not win future wars. Fuel mattered. Jade Immortal Manor could not bankroll everything without drawing eyes. Wrapped in an envoy’s robes, however, he could walk in daylight and take what he pleased.
The visits would weigh each sect’s loyalty, maybe shake loose rebels like Julian, or unearth deeper celestial secrets. Decision settled, Jared wasted no more heartbeats. The ornate Jade Phoenix carriage waited, the three beast-birds pawing the air, jade feathers gleaming.
He gestured; gray motes crawled over the fallen guards, knitting sinew and steel into obedient husks. Moments later, dozens of blank faces lined up beneath the carriage, wordless and perfectly still.
Jared lounged onto the cushioned couch, exactly the way Clive had, and murmured into the air, “Head for Profound Ice Valley!”
The carriage wheeled about, the puppet guards rose in formation, banners snapping, spectacle intact as they climbed into the raging winds. Thus began a tour draped in celestial authority, its true cargo greed and inquiry.
