The unicorn grunted, staggering back a few paces; its once-dazzling flames flickered, proof that Montar’s full-force strike had not been gentle. Even as it reset its stance, Glacern’s fabled Netherfrost Spike sliced through the flaming barricade like a rumor through silence, arrowing straight for Jared’s brow.
The unicorn roared again, hurling its body forward, but speed was not on its side. In that sliver of heart-pounding time, resolve flashed across Jared’s eyes like a blade catching sunrise.
He dropped every conventional defense, clasped his sword with both hands, and summoned to mind the ancient, storm-worn legacy Maxwell Sterling had etched into him within the Void Passage. He had never fully unraveled that scripture, yet on the knife-edge of death, partial understanding would have to be enough.
Chaotic celestial energy coursed along the technique’s hidden meridians, and a sword intent fierce beyond measure burst from his spine.
“Void Slash!” he howled. The Dragonslayer Sword carved an incomprehensible arc. There was no gleam, no clangor of released energy—only the naked will to cut, to unmake.
The stroke sought no substance, no force; it sliced at the very threads binding cause to effect. A single crystalline chime rang out. A faint, brittle snap cracked through the vaulted darkness.
The Netherfrost Spike, a shard of killing ice, halted three inches from Jared’s forehead, suspended as if the night itself had forgotten to breathe. In the same heartbeat, Jared’s sword carved through the unseen filament, an ice-law tether binding weapon to master, and sliced it clean.
Robbed of command, the spike shattered, scattering into primal frost-energy that hissed away on the wind.
“What?!” For the first time, Glacern’s composure cracked; shock flooded his eyes. “You… How did you sever my technique? What sorcery of the blade is that?!”
Montar stood dumbstruck. Never in his brutal life had he witnessed such a ghostly technique.
The moment the stroke ended, color drained from Jared’s face; he swayed, lungs heaving for air, every muscle trembling like a bowstring ready to snap.
He had forcefully activated a sword art still half-learned, then dared cleave a law forged by a Heavenly Immortal Realm Level Eight.
The backlash battered him mercilessly. Strength bled away. Even his soul screamed with a tearing ache.
The little unicorn nudged Jared’s leg, emitting a low, wounded whine. Clara dragged herself upright, staggered forward, and caught his collapsing frame. Tears streamed. “Sir!”
Even Vermilion’s eyes reddened; he planted himself before Jared, demonic essence flaring, ready to die shielding his friend.
“Hmph! An arrow already spent. Whatever trick that sword art is, you die today. Such power must never fall into outsiders’ hands.”
Glacern quickly regained his composure. Montar bared his teeth in a grin. “Come on, boy, show us the rest of your bag of tricks. I want to see how many breaths you have left!”
Together, the two closed in, their killing intent sharp enough to chill the air. Jared’s gaze flicked from the advancing predators to Clara’s wounded form, to Vermilion’s trembling back, and finally to the small fire unicorn’s desperate eyes. A wave of helplessness surged inside him.
Is this truly where I’m going to die?
Selene still needs her lifeline, Mr. Sterling is still trapped, and promises I forged with blood remain unpaid… I cannot accept this…
Jared’s eyes ignited with reckless fire. “I’ll fight to the death!”
He drew upon the spark of his own origin, ready to burn everything for one last strike.
Yet in that instant, a voice sounded. “Stop!”
The words drifted from deep within the palace, a woman’s tone clear, cool, and unworldly. Though no louder than a whisper, it rang in every ear with a quiet authority that allowed no argument.
Montar and Glacern froze mid-step, shock, confusion, and even a flicker of fear chasing across their faces. Jared, too, paused and turned toward the sound.
Atop the tallest, thousand-foot main hall, a white silhouette had appeared—when, none could say. She wore a simple snow-silk gown that fluttered gently, making her seem set apart from aurora and night alike, an existence untouched by the mortal world.
She looked no older than twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Her beauty was arresting—skin whiter than new snow, features painted with the precision of a master, yet a hush of winter sorrow draped her like a veil.
A wraithlike aura drifted around her, weaving so completely into the swirling frost that no one could say where the blizzard ended and the woman began, and still every instinct warned that her depths were bottomless.
Suspended above the marble floor, she glided forward, descending from the summit of the vaulted roof as though a staircase of pure nothingness unfolded beneath each step.
With every whisper-light footfall, a crystalline lotus of ice burst open, cradling her flawless feet before dissolving to mist.
Within the span of a few heartbeats, she drifted through the archway and came to rest between Jared and the two armored generals.
Montar and Glacern dropped to one knee, armor clinking against marble.
“Your Grace! You should not have broken the seclusion. Rabble like this is ours to finish.”
Your Grace?
A jolt shot through Jared’s chest, leaving his heart hammering in the sudden hush.
Could this composed, ice-wreathed beauty truly rule Northern Abyss Palace?
She ignored her kneeling generals. Instead, her gaze slid to Jared—more precisely to the sword in his grasp and to the lingering curl of sword intent that still shimmered around him. Her eyes were winter itself, yet the instant they brushed that intent, they quivered, hairline fractures racing across the frozen calm.
Inside those sapphire depths a storm erupted: shock, disbelief, yearning, pain, fragile hope, all colliding like waves beneath a cracking glacier.
Her voice trembled as she stared at Jared. “You… That sword art you just used… Where did it come from?”
The question blindsided Jared, and he blinked, unsure how much to reveal. But, eventually, he answered it honestly, “That technique was taught to me by a senior swordsman.”
“What is his name? Where can I find him?” Her words cut sharper, and she stepped closer, urgency bleeding through the ice of her composure.
“He calls himself Maxwell Sterling,” Jared said after a breath. “He is trapped in a peculiar fracture of the void, and I stumbled in by chance. There, he passed his sword art to me.”
He left unspoken the secrets of Dragon Sect and the fact that Maxwell had once been one of its hall masters.
