Jared sighed inwardly. Showboating always came with a bill, and the bill had arrived on schedule. “Very well…” he said at last, forcing a half-helpless smile. “It seems I must impose on you for a few days, Master Cloudridge.”
Linden’s laughter rang across the scarred battlefield. “Excellent! I knew you were a man who sees the larger picture.”
The tension that had coiled in his shoulders slipped away. Curiosity and guarded respect still churned behind the old swordsman’s smile. A fiend who had shaken Level Nine a millennium ago was stirring again; he needed every scrap of information Jared could provide.
“Tend the wounded, gather the fallen blades, and form up for the march home,” Linden commanded.
Then he offered Jared a sweeping gesture toward the sky. “This way, my friend…”
Jared glanced once toward the distant peaks where the Myriad Beast Sect waited.
A faint ripple of unease stirred in his chest, but he pressed it down, stepped beside Linden, and together they streaked off as twin arcs of light toward the Myriad Sword Mountains.
***
Meanwhile, on the road that cut across the Blood-Scar Plains toward the Infinite Soul Demon Sect headquarters, the defeated demon army marched beneath a crushing hush.
They had charged out like conquering wolves and now limped back like beaten strays. Worst of all, their Lord, Sheldon Soulsby, had been slapped clear across the field by a Level Seven Human Immortal upstart.
The shame hung over every soldier like a thundercloud, thick and suffocating.
Sheldon had swallowed a healing pill; the swelling had faded, yet the vivid imprint of five fingers still ghosted his cheek—a mark that burned fiercer than any wound.
He glided across the night sky without a word. The hatred simmering behind his crimson eyes felt so thick it might drip to the ground.
A hush of dread clung to the elders who followed, their breaths shallow inside the crushing aura that rolled from their Sect Master. No one dared speak. The silence felt like razor wire stretched across the wind.
One of Sheldon’s trusted elders finally swallowed his fear and edged closer.
“Mr. Soulsby,” he ventured, voice husky with caution, “our setback is the work of that conniving Jared Chance. He sowed discord and turned the Mystic Sky Sword Sect against us. Unless we repay this insult, how can we be respected on Level Ten?”
Sheldon’s flight halted in a violent stop. He pivoted, eyes glowing like live embers, and bored his stare into the trembling elder until the man nearly tumbled from the air.
“Revenge? And with what? My strength has not recovered, and we lost nearly one-third of our elite forces. The Mystic Sky Sword Sect is wounded as well, yet with that uncanny Jared Chance guarding them, attacking the Myriad Beast Sect right now would be nothing short of marching into a cage…”
The elder licked dry lips, a sly glint flashing in his eyes. “Sir, Jared Chance played the game of division. Why should we not return the favor, with interest?”
“Oh?” Sheldon’s gaze tightened, the promise of cruelty flickering beneath his lids. “Explain…”
“From what I have learned,” the elder began, leaning in as though unveiling contraband, “the Myriad Beast Sect is far from united. Pure-blood beast clans hold power, yet a portion of their disciples are born from human or demon unions. Those hybrids are called the Melded Beastkin.”
Sheldon’s brow creased. “Melded Beastkin?”
“Exactly… By the world’s laws, they inherit brutal strength and fragments of both parents’ gifts, but their minds rarely develop fully. Many become impulsive, obsessive. Pure-blood clans treat them as mules, heavy labor, endless scorn. Their resentment has festered for years.”
A dangerous glimmer returned to Sheldon’s eyes. “You mean…”
“We slip into the mountains, find those hybrids with influence, and promise them riches beyond imagining,” the elder whispered, excitement rising with every word. “If they overthrow Paxton and his pure-blood subordinates, our sect will recognize their rule, forge an alliance, even repair their flawed minds if they wish.”
