Long after, the altar still resembled a storm-stilled sea of bowed backs. The indelible stamp of Golden Dragon dominance had branded itself onto every beast-soul present.
Doubt, disdain, and resentment were ash now, replaced by awe born of blood, and by the sweet certainty of serving an unquestioned sovereign.
At a mere flicker of Jared’s will, the pressure of the dragon’s power folded itself neatly back into his flesh. Behind him, the towering golden apparition shivered once, then unraveled into motes of light that bled into the twilight air.
He still wore that plain robe, his expression placid, yet to every soul present, he now stood on the far shore of divinity.
“All of you, stand…” The words left Jared’s lips in an unhurried baritone, gentle yet edged with an authority that brooked no argument.
Relieved, the gathered elders and disciples rose with utmost care, backs still bent, eyes lowered, unwilling to meet Jared’s gaze head-on.
Paxton, Bartram, and even Arden now stood like chastened students before a lectern, hands clasped, breaths held.
“Sir, the Golden Dragon bloodline flows in your veins, peerless, unmatched. Earlier, we were ignorant. I beg your forgiveness. Whatever command you give, the whole Myriad Beast Sect will charge through fire and death without a second thought.”
Jared’s gaze drifted across the still-scorched expanse of the Myriad Beast Altar and the beast clan cultivators standing there, faces caught between grief and fragile hope.
“Tell me,” he said slowly, “your sect guards the vast Myriad Beast Mountains and possesses deep foundations. Why, then, are you forever on the back foot against the Infinite Soul Demon Sect? Why did Rockhold Gorge burn? Why did Elder Flint fall?”
Paxton exhaled, bitterness tugging at his mouth. “Sir, it is not cowardice that chains us; it is necessity… The Infinite Soul Demon Sect squats upon the Blood-Scar Plains with forces far larger than ours…”
“Heavenly Immortal experts swarm their ranks. Their Lord, Sheldon Soulsby, is rumored to have one foot already in the Eighth Tier. Our roots sprawl across the Myriad Beast Mountains for thousands of miles. Spirit-veins, herb gardens, mines, and countless tribal outposts depend on us. Soulsby’s people strike like flesh-boring maggots—raiding, burning, stealing, always at our weakest points…”
“Gather our power, and they slip behind to ravage the rear. Divide our warriors, and they mass elite squads, crushing each pocket in turn. For years, we have raced from crisis to crisis, our resources bled away, our disciples buried. That… That is how we were cornered into constant retreat.”
Paxton’s voice trembled with strangled frustration, the admission scraping raw against his pride.
Around him, the other elders and disciples lowered their heads, anger and helplessness knotted on every brow.
Jared listened without change of expression, then offered a single, thoughtful nod, as though the tale merely confirmed what he had foreseen.
“Your foe is stronger, your territory vast, your defenses full of gaps. If the shield keeps cracking, why not change the style of battle?”
“Change… Our style?” Paxton and the elders blinked, momentarily lost.
“Exactly…” Jared’s gaze darkened as he said, “When they advance, we withdraw. When they camp, we harass. When they tire, we strike. When they flee, we pursue.”
The maxim landed like a temple bell at dawn, reverberating through Paxton’s chest. Though they had never heard strategy distilled so cleanly, the elders weighed each clause against their plight and felt an abyss of wisdom open beneath the surface.
Withdraw before a charging enemy—avoid the spear’s tip! Harass a settled enemy—deny them rest!
Strike a weary enemy—catch them unguarded! Pursue a retreating enemy—turn a victory into a conquest!
It was, in a single blinding stroke, the perfect key for a door they had never known how to open, a counter-strategy forged as though the heavens themselves had shaped it to fit their crisis.
“Sir… This… This maxim is nothing short of miraculous,” Paxton whispered, amazement flooding his usually thunderous tones.
The Sect Master clutched the map so hard his knuckles blanched, shoulders trembling with excitement. “It strikes at the enemy’s very heart. I cannot believe our dull wits never saw it before!”
