“I honestly don’t know,” Jared murmured at last, shaking his head while the question still echoed between them.
His uncertainty wasn’t feigned; even he could not swear whether Arthur had intervened or not. Yet the doubt gnawed at him, an invisible thread tugging at the edge of his thoughts. Rowena’s gaze softened, just a fraction, before she turned away.
“Come with me to level nine,” she said, voice low, as though the very name might summon unseen winds. With a curt gesture, she gathered her white-clad guards, pivoted on booted heels, and set off.
Jared fell in beside her, footfalls mingling with theirs as they slipped into the vast corridors of cloud and stone that led toward level nine.
Moments after they vanished, the surrounding void rippled like a pond struck by a sudden stone. From that distortion a lone silhouette stepped forth, the same shadowed figure who had first tried to waylay Jared.
He stared at Myles’ crumpled corpse, a shiver rattled down his spine. Had he followed Myles into that slaughter, he, too, would now be cooling on the ground, ignorant even of how the killing blow had landed.
“Report,” he whispered, the single word snagging in his throat. Then, like smoke, he faded back into the trembling air.
Reporting was all that remained to him, whatever predators the Nethergate Sect might unleash upon Jared were matters far above his pay grade. One thing he knew for certain, he was no longer a match for Jared.
Elsewhere, Jared walked in guarded silence at Rowena’s side, the path before them spiraling toward heights draped in storm-colored mist.
“How’s the wound?” Jared asked, genuine concern slipping through his usual bravado as he glanced at the dark stain beneath Rowena’s cloak.
Rowena flicked him a cool look, ignoring the question. “What I want to know is this: how did Myles die so cleanly?”
Jared lifted his palms in helpless surrender. “I’m telling you, I’ve got no idea.”
“Fine, keep your secrets,” Rowena muttered, rolling her eyes in theatrical exasperation.
“Suit yourself,” Jared shot back, matching her gesture with a comically exaggerated eye-roll of his own.
The exchange broke the tension, Rowena’s sudden laugh rang bright in the high air. “You’re ridiculous, you know that? Tell me, is the Vermilion Demon Lord the puppet-master behind you?”
Jared blinked, genuinely baffled. “Why on earth would you think that?”
“Because…” Rowena said, her tone settling into the measured cadence of someone revealing classified files, “The Golden Pass you carry was issued years ago by Nethergate Sect to the Vermilion Demon Lord himself…”
“Every Golden Pass is cataloged. Did you imagine we hand those things out like festival flyers and forget who receives them? We know precisely where each one lands—and yours traces straight back to him.”
Jared’s grin spread, a quiet chuckle slipping from his throat. For a beat he neither confirmed nor denied the jest, merely letting the mirth hang between them like a lantern in warm night air.
Deep inside his mind, the Vermilion Demon Lord drifted, a wisp of a soul, so tattered now that even the weakest cultivator wandering these caverns could swat him aside. Forget contending with Myles; the once-terrifying lord could scarcely stand against a novice.
“And you are?” Jared asked, tilting his head, voice gentle but probing.
The woman in black dipped a courteous nod.
“Rowena,” she answered, her tone lilting, eyes bright with curiosity.
“Rowena?” Jared blinked, laughter bubbling up again. “That’s a beautiful name.”
Rowena blinked, then broke into a smile. “Thanks.”
Their shared laughter softened the atmosphere, the tension that had clung dissolving like morning fog beneath a rising sun.
“All kidding aside,” Jared said, letting the humor fall away, “Could you tell me, truly, about the Nethergate Sect? Its history, its present standing?”
“The Nethergate Sect,” Rowena began, straightening as though reciting sacred scripture, “Stands among the oldest orders on level nine. Our roots reach back to the dawn—when the world first drew breath and every creature groped through darkness for a path to divinity…”
“We vowed to govern life and death, to shepherd the wheel of reincarnation, keeping the balance unbroken. Era after era, we forged a practice uniquely our own, layered in discipline, drenched in lore, and it has carried us through uncountable ages.”
She’s laying it on thick. Far-ancient origins, cosmic balance, give me a break…
The skepticism flickered across Jared’s thoughts like sparks from damp tinder, yet he kept his expression politely engaged.
“Kid, the Nethergate Sect really is the oldest sect on level nine,” the Vermilion Demon Lord muttered, his voice a ragged echo in Jared’s skull. “They’ve simply fallen on hard times, that’s all. Why else would I have pointed you their way? We’re partners, aren’t we?”
The rasping whisper lingered, swirling at the edge of consciousness before fading into silence once more. Jared tapped a knuckle against his chin, weighing the Demon Lord’s words.
If the sect is half as mighty as they claim, befriending them could prove priceless. Ancient relics… Forgotten techniques… Who knows what sleeps in their vaults?
The possibilities glimmered before him like moonlight striking buried treasure, and he resolved to keep listening, carefully, appreciatively.
