“The guard is too tight. Forcing a way in is impossible,” Luther said, brow furrowed. After a long study, Jared pointed at a nondescript peak on the gorge’s left flank. “There… The array thins, and the patrol leaves a three-breath window. We slip through during that gap.”
Luther narrowed his eyes and studied the ridgeline again. The glyphs that hovered over that particular peak glimmered only faintly, every pulse several shades duller than the wards spread across the rest of the cordon. Below, the torch-bearing patrol circled at a lazier pace, leaving a longer gap between passes.
“Sharp eyes, Mr. Jared!” Luther’s voice carried honest admiration as he inclined his head toward Jared. They sank behind a fallen boulder and waited. Daylight bled away by slow degrees until the mountains faded into silhouettes, and the last line of celestials finished their sunset round without noticing the two silent figures.
A moonless sky stretched overhead. Wind hissed through the rocks, stripping every loose grain of sand. It was the kind of night when shadows swallowed sound—perfect for slipping through a siege line.
Another patrol came up the slope, lanterns rocking. The moment the troopers wheeled around and began their downhill march, Jared uncoiled.
“Move.” The single word left his throat in a low hiss. His body blurred into a thin streak of gray that hugged the ground and shot toward the weakened node. Luther’s cloak fluttered once and he darted after him, footfalls lighter than dust.
Three breaths; that was all the window allowed. Heartbeats hammered out the count.
One… Two… Before the wards could flare back to full strength, both men slipped through the lattice of light. The glow surged behind them a heartbeat later, none the wiser for their passage.
The instant they crossed the boundary, the air itself seemed to change weight. Skyfiend Gorge pressed in on them with a living tension. Outside lay slaughter and silence; inside, the valley throbbed with raw desperation, as though every stone remembered a last stand that had yet to finish.
Makeshift tents clustered against the cliffs. Crude barricades of shattered carts and fallen trees marked firing lines. Everywhere, wounded beastfolk groaned, cursed, or wept over comrades who would not wake. The smell hit next—a cloying mixture of crushed herbs, burnt salve, and fresh blood that clung to the back of the throat.
Exhausted soldiers in tattered armor sagged against boulders. Their eyes, rimmed red, held the dull glaze of creatures who had seen too much and expected little more. Now and then a Beast General strode past, voice raised in forced encouragement. The words bounced off the camp walls and fell flat before reaching the men’s ears.
Two unfamiliar figures appearing out of nowhere shattered the fragile lull. Armor rattled. Voices climbed.
“Who goes there?!”
“Enemy raid!”
“Guard the general!”
Roughly thirty beastfolk surged in, forming a loose ring. Some still bled through fresh bandages, yet every spear point found its mark on Jared and Luther.
Jared lifted an open hand. “Easy… We serve no celestial…” His tone stayed even, almost gentle. He spread his palm, and a wisp of chaotic gray rolled out, ancient as a forgotten dawn. The closest soldiers froze, instincts screaming even if their minds lacked the words.
“Names and purpose!” one of them barked, uncertainty sharpening the demand.
A single-eyed wolf Beast General pushed forward, hackles visibly rising. His remaining eye never left Jared’s face.
“We came to aid you,” Jared said. “Take us to your commander.”
The wolf bared his teeth in something between a laugh and a snarl. “Two strangers claim they’re saviors? More likely spies. Seize them!”
Weapons jerked higher as the ring tightened. But a frail voice, worn thin by years, rang out across the clash of steel. “Hold!”
The soldiers parted. An elderly stag spirit leaned on a twisted cane, a snowy beard spilling over a chest wrapped in stained bandages. Though his transformation remained incomplete and antlers still crowned his brow, his gaze was clear and measuring—far steadier than his trembling limbs.
“Elder Hartcrest,” the wolf general muttered, bowing low.
Hartcrest studied both men, but his attention lingered on Jared. Wonder flickered behind the old eyes. “Such a primal current… Eight thousand years have shown me much, yet never power this ancient…”
Jared noted the appraisal without comment; the stag’s perception exceeded most. “I am Jared Chance… And this is Luther. We crossed the Godgrave Mountains to find the Beastfolk Resistance and join the fight against the celestials.”
“Crossed the Godgrave Mountains?” Hartcrest’s eyes flashed. “High Immortal Realm Level Five and above meet certain death there. You two emerged alive; that speaks volumes. But how do two warriors oppose tens of thousands, and a Beast-Quelling Venerable besides?”
Jared’s lips tilted in a faint smile. “Numbers mean little. I alone have already slain the Five Venerables of the Divine Punishment Hall.”
The statement left the cavernous camp hanging in a breathless hush. Even the torches seemed to crackle more quietly, sparks drifting into the night air without a sound. Every member of the beast race stared wide-eyed at Jared, disbelief flashing across muzzles, horns, and scaled brows alike. A fox-eared scout even forgot to breathe until his chest jerked for air.
“The Five Venerables of the Divine Punishment Hall…” someone whispered. In the eastern region, those five stood at the peak of power—each one a High Immortal Realm Level Seven monster the celestials called their governors.
“All five… Felled by a single blade?”
Elder Hartcrest’s antlered head lifted, the cane in his grip rattling. “W-What did you just say?” His voice quivered like brittle bark.
Jared met those stunned eyes without haste. “Glacier, Redflame, Greenwood, Terrabold, and Celestial Metal,” he said, naming them one by one. “All fell beneath my hand. Now the whole level thirteen has my name on every warrant,” he added, as though discussing the weather.
Jared lifted his hand. A gray streak of swordlight spun above his palm, radiating quiet annihilation; the air in front of it warped like fabric held to flame. Every beast soldier felt his soul flinch away. Elder Hartcrest stared at that light until moisture fled his throat. At last, he drew in a shaky breath, bent both knees, and lowered himself onto the stone.
“Eldon Hartcrest pays homage to our benefactor!”
Confusion flickered across the ranks, but respect for the old stag ran deep. One after another, wounded warriors and weary scouts dropped to their knees, weapons laid flat.
Jared’s brows drew together. “Elder, why this courtesy?” he asked, stepping forward to lift the old man.
Tears tracked down the furrowed lines of Hartcrest’s cheeks. “Benefactor may not know,” he said, voice rough with years. “Those Five Venerables bathed their hands in our race’s blood. For centuries they ripped souls from our kin, refining crystals from the pain. Your blade has avenged an ocean of blood; let this old one bow.”
With that, he pressed his forehead hard against the earth. Realization swept the kneeling ranks like wind racing through grass. Backs straightened, eyes blazed.
“Our savior stands among us!” someone shouted.
“He cut down the Five Venerables! Our vengeance is real!”
The crowd bent low in a reverent tide. “Benefactor, accept our bow!” they cried in ragged unison.
Jared hurried to haul Eldon Hartcrest upright. “Rise, all of you. My quarrel with the celestials is older than tonight; those kills were simply a debt I already owed. What matters now is breaking this siege and saving the comrades still trapped.”
Eldon Hartcrest wiped his eyes and nodded with solemn care. “Please follow… I will bring you to King Ironhide, our acting commander.”
Guided by the stag elder, Jared and Luther threaded through narrow lanes toward the gorge’s heart. The largest pavilion loomed ahead, its hide walls stitched with iron plates. Inside, a black-furred giant nearly twelve feet tall paced like a caged storm.
His back carried a pelt of coarse hair, and arms thick as pillars bulged with force; his aura surged at the peak of High Immortal Realm Level Six.
The breath he drew rumbled like rolling stones. Fresh bandages soaked through along a slash that ran from left shoulder to right belly, the fabric blooming scarlet anew. This was King Ironhide, leader of the Beastfolk Resistance.
