Using that chaos, the golden-crowned cultivator charged Jared, conjuring a golden longsword. “Whelp, die!”
“Divine King Sword Art! Heaven’s Wrath!” he roared. A ribbon of golden swordlight cracked down like heavenly thunder, loaded with imperial might, racing for Jared’s heart. The strike carried the raw power of the Divine King Bloodline, so fierce the entire cavern shuddered on its pillars.
The golden-crowned cultivator already stood at the top of High Immortal Realm Level Seven; with that bloodline boost, the blow brushed the edge of Level Eight.
Jared did not flinch. His tone stayed flat. “Cheap flourish…”
Dragonslayer Sword leveled. Gray radiance compressed around the edge until the metal seemed carved from storm clouds. He answered with one plain, straight thrust. The point met the golden blade.
Clang! Buzz! Metal rang out in the gloom as Jared’s Dragonslayer Sword met the golden-crowned cultivator’s blade tip for tip, the two points locking in a hair-fine clash.
For half a heartbeat the entire cavern seemed to fall silent, every torch-flame frozen and the chill air suspended between the two motionless weapons. Then, with a sound like breaking glass, the golden swordlight erupted, shards of brilliance scattering as if a sun had been punched to pieces.
The weapon in the golden-crowned cultivator’s grip splintered inch by inch; the recoil slammed him backward across open space until he smashed into the rock wall and coughed a spray of blood.
“Y-You… What realm are you actually in?!” he rasped, voice wobbling between pain and disbelief. The question left his lips in sheer terror, his eyes blown wide as though he had glimpsed a monster wrapped in human skin. He had sensed only the top of High Immortal Realm Level One, yet the force behind that simple thrust felt like a comet striking stone.
Jared offered no reply. One step carried him across the dust-cloud, and Dragonslayer’s cold edge settled against the man’s throat.
“Talk. What is this Sacred Mountain really, and why are your celestials forging a corpse puppet here?” Jared’s tone cut as sharply as the sword point pressing in.
Blood drained from the cultivator’s face, yet a manic gleam still flickered. “Heh! You can’t stop what’s begun. All eight altars are awake, the array is set. Lord Mournwright will rise and you’ll all die…”
“Stubborn fool…” Jared’s mouth tightened, the single rebuke colder than the steel between them. Dragonslayer slid forward the width of a fingernail, dim silver biting into skin. “Speak, or you breathe your last right now.”
The promise of death crushed his frenzy; the cultivator’s shoulders quaked. “I’ll talk… I’ll talk! The Sacred Mountain… The whole mountain… It’s actually Lord Mournwright’s corpse, transformed into stone.”
Shock punched through the cavern.
“What?!” Jared’s voice and Luther’s from across the chamber overlapped in raw disbelief. Even amid battle, the two allies traded a glance, minds reeling at the scale of the revelation. The idea of an entire peak being a single cadaver rattled every prior assumption they carried into this fight.
The captive forced the words past blood-stained lips. “Tens of thousands of years ago, Lord Mournwright fought three True Immortals from the palace and was finally sealed here… Even dead, his power endured. The body drank the land’s essence, hardened, and over ages reshaped itself into the mountain you’re standing in… Three hundred years back, the current Hall Master devised a workaround—rouse the lingering will with a blood ritual, then chain it with celestial sorcery, turning the corpse into their puppet… Once the blood power gnaws at the old safeguards, the palace will seize total control,” he wheezed, spit red against his chin.
“The eight altars match the corpse’s vital points. When the Grand Blood Sacrifice finishes, every life within the mountain’s bounds will be drained to waken him, forging a puppet that answers only to the palace.”
Luther’s shadowy form quivered with rage. “Vile beyond words!” To enslave their revered paragon even in death was an insult no Ghost Clan heart could stomach.
Jared’s glare sharpened. “Those eight blood pillars at the summit, they’re the altars, aren’t they?”
“Yes… The array is already seventy percent complete. In one quarter hour it will lock beyond reversal…” the captive whispered, color draining fast.
“The celestials lied! This place is a slaughterhouse!” someone wailed. Screams and sobs tangled with the quake-born thunder, turning the holy slope into a living nightmare.
Deep in the cavern, the Mournwright Sovereign statue shook so violently that the air itself shivered. Chunks of gray casing sheared away, exposing an ink-black torso beneath, slick and menacing. The revealed form towered a hundred yards tall—human upper frame, serpent tail, eight murderous arms poised to strike. Even with eyelids sealed, its leaking aura bent the surrounding space like heat ripples made from pure dread.
“It’s… It’s waking…” someone muttered, voice barely a whisper above the rumble.
The golden-crowned cultivator gazed at the colossus in rapture. “The Sovereign… Is about to awake…”
Jared didn’t let the statement finish; Dragonslayer flicked, and the man crumpled lifeless to the stone. He turned back to Luther. “We split up! Wreck every ritual in this cavern, stop that body from fully waking. I’ll head for the summit and break as many altars as I can.”
Luther’s voice trembled. “But Mr. Chance, the summit will be crawling with celestial elites. Alone you…”
“I’ll manage.” Jared cut him off, gaze firm. He spared the half-awakened giant one last look. “If that thing opens its eyes, we’re all finished. Do what you must down here; I’ll handle the peak! And see if you can free the cultivators trapped under that bell’s spell,” he added, nodding toward the glazed-eyed mob.
After saying that, Jared shifted his gaze. The cultivators ringed Luther shoulder-to-shoulder, eyes washed in dull red. Steel chains still dangled from some wrists, yet they rushed him as one, blades up, movements stiff as puppets jerked by the Soulbinding Bell.
Luther planted his feet and met the charge. Through clenched teeth he forced out, “I’ll break the control. The Ghost Clan keeps a counter-art against this Soul-Control, but I need a moment.”
Jared gave a short nod. “Make it quick.” He spun away before another word could form. A gray blur replaced him, streaking for the tunnel mouth that led out of the cavern.
Celestial guards darted in from side passages. The Dragonslayer Sword lit the dark like a whip of slate lightning; each slash opened armor, and every body that barred the corridor fell before it touched stone.
The roar of pursuit never caught Jared. He threaded the winding passage like smoke, burst past the lip of the cave, and broke into the open air outside the Sacred Mountain.
