“I will give you the incantation now,” the Demon Lord said, voice suddenly gentle. “Speak it once, and an envoy will appear to escort you the rest of the way to level nine.”
“Who exactly is this envoy?” Jared asked, curiosity sharpening the edge of his words. “One of my former lieutenants. In my current state, I cannot activate the rune myself, so you must.” With that, the Demon Lord breathed the ancient syllables straight into Jared’s mind.
Jared recited the chant. The golden runes ignited, flames of azure smoke spiraling upward until the parchment itself seemed to burn a hole through existence.
Where the smoke dispersed, a vast whirlpool of light unfurled, its rim spinning with silent thunder, its center a doorway to places mortals rarely dreamed and seldom survived.
From the vortex, a lone silhouette drifted forward, as if walking out of memory and myth alike. The newcomer saw Jared, froze, and blinked twice, astonishment rippling across half-formed features.
“Who are you, and how did that Golden Pass of the Nethergate Sect wind up in your hands?” Suspicion writhed behind the envoy’s eyes, yet duty anchored him in place.
“Name’s Jared. I require the Nethergate Sect’s assistance. You will not break the oath bound to that token, will you?” He met the envoy’s gaze without flinching.
“Never,” the envoy said, recovering his composure. “Our word is iron. I will dispatch escorts at once.”
His brow furrowed. “But tell me, at Human Immortal Realm Level Two, what business have you on level nine?”
On level nine, even the weakest cultivator stood at Level Eight of the Human Immortal Realm, Jared’s modest aura made as little sense up there as a candle in a tempest.
“I have unfinished scores with the Malevolent Path Hall,” Jared answered, letting the words fall like steel. He did not brag, did not threaten, he simply told the truth, and in that truth the envoy felt a storm beginning to stir.
“The Malevolent Path Hall?” The echo of the unknown envoy’s voice wavered, the timbre slipping from iron-clad arrogance to something that tremored at the edges of unease.
Jared cocked a brow, letting a thin smile cut across his face like the glint of a drawn blade.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice as casual as a yawn yet sharp enough to score stone. “Is the mighty Nethergate Sect suddenly frightened of a single hall of cutthroats?”
He let the question hang a heartbeat, then flicked imaginary dust from his sleeve. “If you are, leave me be. I’ll storm level nine on my own.”
Every syllable was a deliberate prod, Jared’s favorite brand of goading, slid between the ribs of an enemy so smoothly they only realized they were bleeding once the chill set in.
“Nethergate Sect fears no one,” the wavering voice snapped back, trying, and failing, to sound unimpressed. “Remain where you stand. I will dispatch our finest at once.”
The silhouette dissolved, spiraling with the vortex until both winked from existence. In their wake, the air sagged, as though the world exhaled after clenching its lungs too long.
Only then did Jared glance at the hulking Vermilion Demon Lord beside him. “Tell me, are all of Nethergate’s cultivators your lackeys? From what I sensed, that envoy’s strength nearly rivals yours.”
The demon lord’s laughter rattled like loose gravel.
“Helped them once,” he admitted, eyes gleaming with devilish mischief. “They paid me in Golden Passes, so I puffed myself up, pretended they served me. Pure bluster, nothing more.”
Jared’s sigh was long, exasperated. “You’re on the brink of annihilation and still have breath left for tall tales.”
The demon lord only shrugged, grinning wider.
While Jared waited, that wounded silhouette he fought with tore a ragged seam through space and stepped into another dimension.
Five figures awaited him there, four masked men clad in night-black garb and, at their front, a broad-shouldered swordsman in middle years. A sheathed longsword rode across the man’s back, the hilt wrapped in faded crimson silk that whispered of blood long dried.
The battered scout collapsed to his knees, forehead pressed to the ground. “Greetings, Your Majesty…”
Myles Moffat’s gaze could have frozen fire. “Report. The Grand Elder and a Heavenly Sovereign fell on level eight. Prince Percival is dead as well. Have you uncovered the hand guiding Jared Chance?”
His words cut the air colder than winter steel.
“I know nothing of any hidden patron,” the kneeling man stammered. “When I met Jared, he traveled alone, no allies, no guards.”
“Alone?” Myles’ eyes narrowed to slits. “Then how did a solitary wanderer butcher both the Grand Elder and Sovereign?”
“We fought,” the man confessed, voice shrinking. “I was outmatched, his sword is no common blade. One stroke, and I fled wounded.”
“Useless.” The title spat from Myles’ tongue like acid.
He drew a slow breath, every muscle vibrating with contained fury. “Very well. I will face Jared Chance myself.”
The man ventured, almost pleading, “Your Majesty, even Lord Ashcroft fell, if you…”
“Silence. The Sovereign’s failure is not my fate. If not for past sins I’d wear their mantle already.” With that, Myles flicked a sleeve. Space rippled, and he vanished, his retinue folding into the breach behind him.
Left alone, the kneeling scout lifted his head. Moonlight caught the cruel smile curling his lips.
