Ripping through layer after layer of reality, Jared finally broke into level eight. The passage had been torturously slow and brutally costly, yet every mile had tempered his spirit and flesh like molten ore in a celestial forge.
At the Celestial Guard Corps’ royal stronghold, Onneas saw him arrive and hurried forward, worry etched across her features.
“Ms. Dusko, what happened? Was it truly so urgent that you had to chase me all the way to level five?” Jared swung back toward Onneas, concern already clouding his eyes.
“Jared, the Celestial King might be in serious danger.”
“What? The Celestial King is in trouble? How do you know?” He drew his brows tight, his pulse hammering in his ears.
“The Celestial King left for level nine half a year ago, taking Jaehaerys and Brennan with him. Every three months, he sends a voice-transmission jade to me. Yet six months have slipped past, and I still hear nothing, not a flicker from the Celestial King, not a breath from either hall lord.”
A chill premonition slid down Jared’s spine, whatever had happened up there was nothing ordinary.
“Don’t panic. I’m headed for level nine anyway, I’ll find out what’s happened to him. But once I’m there, how am I supposed to reach the Celestial King?”
“All we ever used was the communication device,” Onneas admitted. “He never told me his exact whereabouts.”
Jared exhaled, frustration clipping his breath. Level nine spanned realms upon realms, finding one man there would be harder than looking for a needle in a haystack.
“Here… This is the Seeker Token. The instant you come within a thousand miles of the Celestial King, it will stir.” She produced a slim bronze token, scarcely larger than a thumb, and pressed it into his palm.
“I leave at once. Hold the Celestial King Palace safe until I return.”
Rescue or no rescue, Jared had to ascend. The palace now flew his banner, abandonment was not an option. Besides, the Vermilion Demon Lord needed his body reformed, and level nine offered the only hope of forging one.
“Jared, level nine seethes with peril, please, take care of yourself.”
He caught the worry flickering in her eyes, and Lyra’s words drifted unbidden through his mind. “Ms. Dusko, are you, perhaps, interested in me?”
Onneas blinked, startled, a delicate flush crept across her cheeks. The man she once overlooked without a thought had somehow set her heart blooming like early spring.
“If you can bring the Celestial King safely back to level eight,” she murmured, barely louder than a humming gnat, “I will dual-cultivate with you, let you taste every joy we can summon together.”
Her whisper, soft as silk, still struck Jared’s ears with perfect clarity.
“Then prepare yourself.”
Jared finished the sentence, then snapped the Dragonslayer Sword through the air. The blade never touched stone or flesh, yet the sky itself tore like damp canvas, a black seam yawning wide where the edge had passed.
Onneas watched in horror. Jared was ignoring the established void passage to level nine, instead he meant to cut his own road through raw spacetime, gambling with chaotic void currents no mortal body had any right to brave.
“Jared, have you lost your mind?” The Vermilion Demon Lord’s voice boomed from the depths of Jared’s sea of consciousness, equal parts outrage and stunned admiration. “Tearing open spacetime just to reach level nine, are you trying to kill yourself, boy?”
“It may be slower, but I’ll treat every mile as training.” Jared flashed a wolfish grin, as though rending reality were little more than a morning exercise.
The Vermilion Demon Lord sighed, a weary, wind-worn sound.
“Incorrigible prodigy,” he muttered, then brightened. “Very well. Once we stand upon my old territory in level nine, I should at least present you with a proper gift of greeting.”
A gift?
Jared’s eyebrows lifted.
The Demon Lord exists now as a single lingering wisp of soul, what treasure could such a remnant possibly bestow?
Instead of answering, the Vermilion Demon Lord settled cross-legged in the center of Jared’s consciousness field, silent as a stone idol awaiting the turn of an age.
Moments later, a lone spark glimmered in the ruptured corridor ahead, one pinpoint of starlight swelling against the darkness, as though called by the old fiend’s unspoken will.
The spark blossomed. Within its glow, unfurled a scroll woven of liquid gold, each rune on its surface pulsing with the heartbeat of ancient oaths.
