Beyond the mountain range, at the ragged fringe of the Blood-scar Plains, the once-ominous coalition limped homeward. A day earlier, they had been arrogant. Now clusters of survivors skulked like strays, ripping off sect insignia and cursing the slow gift of two legs.
At the head staggered Sheldon Soulsby, skin the color of grave dust, eyes unfocused, gait that of a man centuries older than sunrise.
Jared’s indifferent stare kept spooling through his mind—the casual flick that erased a demon elder to ash, the single sweep of sword-light that turned hundreds of elite cultivators into drifting sand.
Again and again, the same fragments replayed inside Sheldon’s bruised mind. He saw Jared’s sword split the sky. He saw Mordain, once the immovable pillar of the Infinite Soul Demon Sect, vanish in a single, merciless flash.
Each recalled image felt like a shard of ice boring straight through his pride. He had lost. No, he had been utterly, humiliatingly crushed. More than seventy percent of his elite forces lay dead or scattered, and the sect’s strongest protector was nothing but drifting ash.
Their once dominant stronghold on the Blood-scar Plains was in ruins. Whether the sect could even keep its gates open beneath the hungry gaze of rival powers on Level Ten had become a terrifying unknown. Yet the blade that pierced Sheldon’s heart most deeply was Jared’s final, glacial warning.
Tell Soul Devourer to wait…
The master Sheldon had believed to be his salvation now looked more like an executioner’s summons. Jared was coming for Soul Devourer. And, judging by the nightmarish strength already displayed, the young swordsman might—might—actually be able to topple that living god.
Terror tangled with hatred, despair, and twisted, frantic hope until Sheldon’s sanity began to fray.
With a sudden, feverish jerk, he lifted his head toward the distant, smoke-ringed heart of the sect. A crazed shimmer lit his eyes.
“The lord… Yes, the lord is still there!” he rasped. “Only Soul Devourer can crush that little beast. We return at once, full speed, report everything and beg him to avenge us!”
The few surviving elders staggered into motion as Sheldon’s cracked roar lashed across the ruined plain.
***
Meanwhile, in the Mystic Sky Sword Sect, relief at still being alive mingled with the raw horror of battle‘s wake.
Tear-streaked disciples gathered the fallen, swept blood-spattered flagstones, and patched shattered walls one stone at a time. The sect had endured, but at a price that took one-third of its members—familiar smiles that would never return.
On the grand plaza before the main hall, Linden Cloudridge stood with help from two elders. Blood leaked through the seams of his robe, and each breath rattled, yet his gaze burned with gratitude as it found the man in the blue cloak ahead.
“Mr. Chance… No, I mean Sir Chance!” He pushed aside the supporting arms and bowed until his forehead touched the scarred marble. Emotion strangled his voice.
“Had your sword not descended like a heaven-sent miracle, the thousand-year foundation of our sect would have been erased today. Your grace has saved our lives and preserved our home. Mystic Sky Sword Sect and I will remember this debt for as long as our blades draw breath. We offer you our deepest bow!”
Every elder and disciple still able to stand followed, bending low in a single, thunder-silent salute that seemed to shake the mountain more than any roar.
Jared raised one hand. A gentle yet irresistible wave lifted the entire crowd upright.
“Mr. Cloudridge, there is no need for ceremony,” he said, voice mild. “Fate linked me to Clara and to your sect long ago. Offering help was simply the right thing to do.”
Linden straightened up. The excitement on his face had yet to fade, but a trace of worry crept into his eyes. “Senior… My daughter, Clara. She went with you to the Myriad Beast Sect. I wonder how she is now…”
“Ms. Cloudridge is safe,” Jared replied truthfully. “She’s recovering in the secret realm and should be mostly healed by now.”
He paused briefly before continuing, “She’s deeply concerned about her sect’s safety. She must be extremely anxious at this moment. I‘ll head back and inform them right away.”
Only then did Linden finally let out a long breath of relief. He clasped his hands repeatedly in thanks. “Thank you, sir, for looking after my daughter! This kindness cannot be repaid with words. Should you ever have need of us, the Mystic Sky Sword Sect will spare no effort!”
Jared gave a slight nod and said no more. His gaze shifted to Garth Thornscale, who lay heavily wounded and tightly restrained under the watch of the Sword Sect disciples. “This man is a traitor of the Myriad Beast Sect and one of the chief culprits. I must take him back and hand him over to Paxton.”
“Please, take him at once,” Linden said firmly. “If the Myriad Beast Sect requires assistance, the Mystic Sky Sword Sect is still capable of fighting.”
Jared did not linger. With a sweep of his sleeve, a gentle force wrapped around the barely conscious Garth.
In the next instant, Jared’s figure turned into a streak of chaotic light and shot toward the Blazefire Secret Realm, vanishing beyond the horizon in the blink of an eye.
Linden and the Mystic Sky Sword Sect’s executives stood in silence, staring in the direction Jared had departed. Awe and emotion filled their eyes.
“That man… He is truly beyond mortal measure,” an elderly, white-haired elder murmured.
“After this battle,” another elder said gravely, “the balance of Level Ten will likely be rewritten entirely…”
Linden drew a deep breath, suppressing the turbulence in his heart. “Pass down the order. Repair the grand formation at once, treat the wounded, and assess our losses.”
After a brief pause, his voice grew resolute. “And prepare a golden statue. I will have one erected for Sir Chance, so that the disciples of the Mystic Sky Sword Sect may revere him for generations to come.”
“Yes, sir!”
