Celestials… Beast-Quelling Venerable… High Venerable… The names hissed from between his teeth, each one a coal dropped onto his heart. Fire rose behind his eyes. *If this debt goes unpaid, I, Jared Chance, am no man!*
He folded his legs, spine straight, and began knitting broken meridians together. Deep in the Myriad Monster Mountain Range, a tattered column of beastfolk slipped through shadowed passes toward a hidden refuge.
At roll call, they counted again. Two divisions once thirty rows deep now came to only three hundred twenty-seven names. Bandaged limbs, torn armor, and hollow gazes told the rest.
“King Ironhide is gone… Elder Hartcrest is gone… So many brothers…” A young wolf dropped to his knees, sobs shaking his lean frame.
A Beast General barked, voice hoarse yet unyielding, “They died protecting Mr. Jared and the future of our kind! We survive for them. We carry their will until the day we strike back!”
Gaunt hands wiped tears. New light sparked in raw, reddened eyes.
“Revenge!”
“For King Ironhide!”
“For every fallen brother!”
The seed of hatred had already been pushed deep into the soil of every heart. It lay quiet, waiting for the right season to crack the earth and blaze across the land like a wildfire.
***
At the same moment, inside the Central Divine Punishment Hall, stone pillars stretched toward the high vault, and cold silver flames burned in tall braziers, pushing every shadow flat against the marble floor. The Grand Venerable stood before the jade table, the battle report from the western region unrolled beneath his gauntleted hand. A dark cloud settled over his face, as heavy as the ink on the page.
“Jared Chance… He slipped away again…” His voice cut through the hall like the snap of frost. The Grand Venerable let out a thin breath. “Still, the Beastfolk Resistance is almost wiped out; one of his arms has been hacked off.”
The words rang without heat, the verdict of a butcher tallying meat. After a moment’s silence, he flicked his sleeve. “Spread the order! Double the manhunt! Jared Chance is wounded and on the run; he will look for a place to mend himself! Tell every faction to inspect unfamiliar cultivators. Focus on those who are badly hurt and whose realm sits between the Heavenly Immortal and High Immortal stages. Also, track the exit of that teleportation array. It belongs to the Ghost Clan. Level thirteen still hides corners we have yet to pry open.”
A glint colder than steel flashed in the High Venerable’s eyes. “Jared, no matter where you crawl, I will find you. When that day comes, I will rip out your soul and refine it into crystal as tribute to the spirits of the Five Venerables!”
***
Far away, Jared had sat in silence for a full day, drawing what little chaotic force he could back into his ruined meridians. Only now did a faint warmth return to his palms. He opened his eyes. Luther still lay beside him, unmoving; the sight pinched Jared’s brows together.
Luther’s breathing was so thin it barely stirred the moss under his cheek. The clan’s trademark chill was seeping out of him in wisps, like smoke slipping from cracked ice. Jared recognized the line he stood on. Without help, the friend who had followed him through blood and fire would not last three days.
*I need something that can heal a Ghost Clan body… Medicine, a technique, anything…*
The mutter faded as his divine sense spread in every direction, combing the forest for answers. This place was the opposite of the western desert. Spiritual energy hung in the air so thick it looked like pale mist.
Ancient trees stabbed toward the clouds, their trunks wrapped in ropes of vine. Some of the trees wore patterns Jared had never seen, swirling grooves that pulsed faintly. Others dripped soft green light from their leaves, like lanterns half-hidden in fog.
He was just about to scout farther when Luther’s body jerked as if struck by lightning.
“Ah…” Luther curled into himself, a rough moan leaking between clenched teeth.
Jared shoved a stream of chaotic force into him, hoping to steady the collapse. Instead, the energy hit something foreign and bounced back, repelled by the young man’s Ghost Clan blood.
“Damn it!” The curse bit the air. He ground his teeth, caught between panic and frustration, when Luther’s eyelids finally slid open. The eyes beneath were pure black, not a speck of white in sight, deep enough to swallow light.
The aura rolling off him shifted, losing every trace of measured cold. What rose in its place was raw, brutal chaos that made Jared’s skin crawl.
“Luther? You all right?” Jared eased back half a step, every muscle ready to spring.
Luther gave no answer. He rose, joints popping, spine bending at wrong angles before snapping straight. Head tilted, he seemed to sniff the air. A flicker of crimson slid across the black depths of his eyes.
