Refusing to be outdone, Flaxseed whisked a cluster of glowing talismans from his sleeve. Incantations hissed between his teeth. He snapped his wrist, and the charms burst into streaks of gold that tore across the air toward the unconscious captives.
The streaks struck flesh and detonated in halos of clean light, shredding every trace of black magic clinging to the prisoners’ spirits.
“Thank you, honored sir! You have saved our lives!” the newly awakened cultivators cried, dropping to their knees in frantic gratitude.
Flaxseed waved them off with exaggerated nonchalance. “Spare the thanks, run, in a minute, this place becomes a battlefield, and my friend’s wrath is something you don’t want splashing on you!”
They needed no second warning, scrambling from the main hall like deer sensing a wildfire at their backs.
A heavy cadence of footsteps rolled out from the rear chamber, measured and ominous, as though death itself had decided to walk the room.
From the shadows emerged a man draped in a gold-edged robe. His face was lean, eyes venomous, every inch the hidden serpent now baring its fangs.
He was Drystan Hexford, master of the Sixth Hall!
“So, Jared Chance, you actually made it,” Drystan hissed, voice echoing through the chamber. “Two intruders dare storm my hall and disrupt my ceremony?”
The words reverberated off stone and rune alike, carrying a sovereign menace that threatened to crush the air itself.
Drystan’s heart kicked against his ribs, a frantic drum he could not allow the others to hear. His face, however, remained a marble mask—cold, stern, and desperate to hide the tremor gathering behind his eyes.
Jared looked at Drystan the way a hawk studies a rodent already trapped beneath its claws.
“Look at you,” Jared said, voice low enough to frost the air. “Pretending to be fearless when you’re terrified. Drop the act and kneel before me, and I might let you die quickly.”
“You fools think you can kill me?” Drystan sneered, the veins at his temples pulsing. “I answer to the Celestial Palace itself. Cormac Kingsley, lord of the Fifth Hall, is on his way. It’s your graves that are being dug, not mine.”
“The Celestial Palace?” Flaxseed snorted, waving a dismissive hand. “Before Jared, even your so-called Celestial King isn’t qualified to polish his boots. Believe me, Drystan, you have no idea how small you look from where we stand!”
“Easy there, Flaxseed,” Jared coughed, shooting him a sideways glance. “Let’s not oversell it.”
Jared knew he was not yet ready to challenge the entire Celestial Palace, let alone the Celestial King. After all, Onneas had genuinely aided him once.
“I’m only rattling his cage,” Flaxseed chuckled, displaying teeth as sharp as broken glass. “Can’t you see that he is two breaths from wetting himself?”
“Enough!” Drystan roared, the words tasting of bile. “Insult me again and I’ll show you what fear truly is!”
He cracked open his core, releasing a tide of aura that swept forward like a midnight wave.
Air folded and hissed, compressed into sizzling ribbons that raced toward Jared and Flaxseed.
Flaxseed’s grin vanished. He summoned a pale shell of celestial mist around himself, but the oncoming pressure etched hairline fractures across the fragile shield.
Jared did not budge an inch, eyes flat and glacial.
“Not bad,” he murmured, voice colder than the hall’s marble floor. “Shame you wasted it on the wrong opponent. In my eyes, you’re nothing but trash.”
His own aura erupted, an invisible mountain dropping from the heavens. The ornate tiles beneath their feet groaned as gravity itself seemed to double, all of it aimed squarely at Drystan.
Drystan gasped as an irresistible weight pressed upon him. His knees buckled, joints popping while he fought to keep his spine from snapping.
