“Do I look like someone who gambles?” Jared asked without breaking stride. “I, Jared Chance, never move unless the result is already in my hand,” he went on, voice level yet carrying the weight of someone used to looking down from very high ground.
“If I lacked absolute certainty, I wouldn’t have promised Miss Chance revenge, and I wouldn’t be leading you into Cloudhaven City just to throw lives away.”
Luther thought for a beat, then shook his head hard. “No, sir! Since the day I met you, every play you’ve made has landed exactly where you aimed. You’ve never missed!”
The set of his shoulders loosened a fraction after the admission. He had long noticed Jared’s habit of planning several moves ahead, if the man spoke with this much surety, some unseen arrangement had to exist.
Jared laughed, an easy sound filled with granite-hard certainty. “Then we’re agreed.”
He paused, still speaking with unhurried dominance, as though House of Wagner and the Celestial Palace mattered about as much as dust on his sleeve.
“The House of Wagner is a local clan puffed up by a single True Immortal Realm Level One patriarch. They swagger because no one’s reminded them of their place… Rowan barely scraped across that threshold. His foundation wobbles; calling him a real powerhouse flatters him…”
“Most of the House of Wagner’s so-called experts hover at High Immortal Realm Level Seven or Eight. Level Nine is scarce, and none of them can stop me. As for the Celestial Palace Elders left in Cloudhaven, their top cultivator is still only High Immortal Realm Level Nine. Impressive, if you ignore context.”
Jared let the words hang, a cold gleam flashing in his eyes. “Three days ago, outside Sky Dragon Valley, I killed three High Immortal Realm Level Nine Demon Dragons in ten breaths… Those beasts are the Draconians’ natural nemesis, thick hides, brutal power, far above ordinary Level Nine cultivators… Yet not one of them lasted more than ten heartbeats.”
The statement loosened the coil of tension clinging to Luther and Grace.
With Jared around, the two of them merely needed to handle cleanup.
***
Cloudhaven City crouched beneath a drooping sky, the heavens seeming close enough to touch.
The sprawling metropolis that once gleamed with rainbow clouds and circling cranes now drowned under a lid of lead-gray gloom.
The cloud layer sagged so heavy it threatened to crush the ramparts, leaving every street steeped in a silent chill.
The battle three days ago had ended, yet its shock waves still rattled the cultivation world like distant thunder.
House of Chance, an old house that had endured a thousand years, was erased in one night, not even a watchdog left breathing.
Rumors sprouted everywhere, wild and unchecked. Some claimed the House of Chance hid a criminal wanted by the Celestial Palace and paid the price of heaven’s wrath. Others whispered that the House of Wagner engineered the disaster, borrowing the Palace’s blade to consume their rivals.
Still more insisted that Vivian Chance, the sole Chances survivor, was only waiting to be dragged back and reduced to ash.
Voices clashed in every teahouse, and unease seeped through the populace. One fact, however, rang clear, from this moment on, Cloudhaven answered to the Wagners.
Inside Earthfire Manor, vermilion walls blazed with crimson lanterns strung high and bright. Flutes and strings poured from every corridor, weaving a scene of unrestrained celebration.
The riot of color and music mocked the lifeless hush lingering over the city beyond the walls. Today was Rowan’s birthday feast.
Rowan Wagner, the House of Wagner Patriarch, True Immortal Realm Level One and the clan’s towering pillar, occupied the head seat in the grand hall. Robed in dark silk stitched with coiling serpents, he basked in waves of flattery that rolled toward him like surf.
At his side, his eldest son Dominic wore brocade finery and a practiced, courtly smile. A keen eye, though, would have noticed the flicker buried deep in those pupils, a darkness he could not smother.
The nightmare from three nights earlier looped in his mind without mercy. A lone figure had descended like a deity of ruin, indifferent eyes weighed all life as ants, and comrades Dominic once deemed untouchable were torn apart as though made of wet paper.
Every frozen image of that scene jolted Dominic awake at midnight, undergarments soaked through with icy sweat. He was the only one who managed to crawl back alive.
Dominic was alive only because his father had swallowed every shred of dignity, begged, and finally secured a Guardian Warp Sigil for him. The instant the talisman lit up, Dominic tore through space and crawled back here with the last threads of his life.
Yet no matter how far he ran, one truth pressed against his ribs: that man would never let him go. That man would come, nothing could stop it.
Rowan caught the vacant look in his son’s eyes, frowned, and lowered his voice. “Dominic, why are you drifting off? Today is your father’s birthday feast, don’t forget yourself.”
Dominic jerked upright and forced a grin uglier than a sob. “Forgive me, Father. I’ve simply been a bit worn these past few days…”
“Spineless whelp!” Rowan snorted, a sliver of contempt flashing across his gaze. “We’re only talking about a High Immortal Realm Level Three brat, aren’t we? Even if he plays a few little tricks, the moment he steps through the House of Wagner’s gate, one palm from me will smash him flat. What’s there to fear?”
Dominic’s mouth opened; his throat worked once, but the words died before reaching daylight. He couldn’t bring himself to say them.
How could he tell his father that the so-called High Immortal brat had ripped three Demon Dragons, each carrying High Immortal Realm Level Nine bloodlines to pieces with bare hands in less than ten breaths?
If he said that aloud, his father would only wave it off as nonsense. While the two whispered, a clamor rose outside the estate, rushing closer and snapping the banquet’s calm in half. Rowan’s face darkened. He flicked his sleeve. “Go see who dares create such uproar!”
A guard accepted the order and had just pivoted toward the door when there was a thunderous sound before he set foot outside.
Boom! A blast like thunder split the air. The vermilion front gate, three feet thick and etched with layer upon layer of defensive arrays, shattered like brittle paper in a single heartbeat.
Splinters and stone fragments sprayed out, and a violent wave of force rolled into the main hall in a cloud of dust. Cups hit the tiles and burst; startled guests cried out and scattered. Through the debris and swirling smoke, four figures walked in at an unhurried pace.
The leader wore a gold robe that cracked in the breeze. No visible spiritual ripples leaked from him, yet each step seemed to land with the weight of a mountain, squeezing every cultivator’s chest tight.
His face looked carved from iron, eyes deep enough to swallow light; wherever that gaze drifted, even the air felt as if it froze.
