“Paxton, the Infinite Soul Demon Sect has swaggered through Level Ten for years.” Jared’s gaze cut toward the Sect Master. “Surely they’ve collected mortal rivals—people who resent every breath they take. Which force clashes with their profits most, matches their strength, and keeps the peace only because neither side can quite crush the other?”
Paxton blinked, momentarily caught off guard, then fell into stony contemplation. At Paxton’s side, Bartram suddenly stiffened, eyes flaring like someone glimpsing dawn after a night without end.
“There is! There is!” He lumbered forward, voice tight with excitement. “The Infinite Soul Demon Sect’s arrogance has birthed enemies everywhere, yet none hates them more, or stands nearer their level, than the Mystic Sky Sword Sect!”
Jared arched an eyebrow. “Mystic Sky Sword Sect?” A faint, intrigued smile touched his mouth. The single word felt like a spark against tinder.
“Yes! Their peaks lie in the Myriad Sword Mountains,” Paxton continued, voice now quick with purpose. “The Myriad Beast Mountains, Blood-Scar Plains, and the Myriad Sword Mountains form three prongs of one great trident…”
“The Sword Sect cultivators walk a path of blazing righteousness, their techniques forged from the purest, hottest positive energy. They keep little company with us beasts, but we coexist well enough. Yet their arts counter the Demon Sect’s negative energy at every turn. Philosophy, power, even the air they breathe—everything between them breeds war.”
Bartram hurried to add details, pinning all his hopes on that sect. “Three centuries back, both sects fought over an ancient Sword Saint’s Tomb. Elders on either side fell like stars; disciples died in heaps. A truce followed, parchment-thin…”
“Since then, they’ve skirmished for every spirit-stone vein, every herb field. Every few years, blood stains the border again. Balance alone kept either from devouring the other. Mutual dread, the only peace they know.”
Mystic Sky Sword Sect, pure positive energy, perfect counter to negative energy, strength near equal, simmering hatred waiting for one push…
“Perfect…” Jared murmured, smile widening. “Absolutely perfect. They are the lever we need.”
Paxton swallowed. “Your idea, sir?”
His pulse hammered like a war-drum; brilliance and madness often marched together in Jared’s plans.
“Nothing complicated…” Jared stood, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes seemed to pierce the roof, clouds, and distance, beholding a saw-toothed range of stone blades stabbing the sky.
“Since the Infinite Soul Demon Sect sends every soldier against us, we strike the hearth they left bare. We set a blaze in their home base—bright enough, loud enough, irresistible…”
“We prod the Mystic Sky Sword Sect into that blaze, force Sheldon Soulsby to whirl around, and, if fortune smiles, let two titans tear each other apart until only wounded beasts remain.”
“Turn the Mystic Sky Sword Sect against the Infinite Soul Demon Sect?” A collective gasp rippled from the elders below.
The notion thundered through them, audacious as ever. The scheme was madness itself, like dancing on a knife’s edge while lighting matches between two sleeping giants. Every misstep promised blood.
“Exactly,” Jared said, his voice steady, threaded with a confidence that would brook no doubt. “If we sharpen the conflict enough, seed evidence so unquestionable it howls, and tighten the timetable until breath itself feels late, Master Cloudridge of the Mystic Sky Sword Sect will have no choice but to strike…”
“Remember… What looks like perfect balance often needs only one well-placed spark to turn the whole powder barrel into sunrise.”
