Inside the tower, years had slipped by like silent water, unnoticed except for the extra weight in Jared’s bones and the deeper hush in the surrounding chaotic aura.
A breath later, his eyes snapped open—the gesture so sudden that the stillness cracked as though someone had struck a gong in a monastery just before dawn. Soundless thunder rolled from inside his body, not through air but through the weave of energy itself, rattling the bronze ribs of the Pentacarna Tower.
The chaotic aura that hung inside the tower skittered away from him, coiling against the walls in restless waves, as though the building had suddenly remembered that it could drown.
Light gathered in his pupils, wet and star-deep, and for an instant four muted colors—ash, prism, molten gold, and pale gold—flickered across the black like sparks that knew too many secrets. The ragged hole that once gaped in his chest had sealed without a scar; his skin lay smooth and luminous, as if glazed porcelain had borrowed the warmth of living flesh. On the back of his right hand, the intertwined sigils of the five elements and earth-fire showed sharper lines, no longer inked but seemingly baked into bone before he was born.
In his core, the Origin Star spun broader and heavier, one-third larger than when he first staggered into the tower. Its four colors braided into a newborn dawn that promised both creation and extinction. The force leaking from that star already dwarfed the ceiling of a typical Top Level Heavenly Immortal Realm Level Five expert.
His cultivation remained pinned at that visible peak, yet the fusion of the four forces, tempered by a death-and-rebirth crucible, had bent his combat strength into something unmeasured. Even the backlash from drawing the Divine Bow had faded; the right arm that once trembled now felt eager, almost insulted by the earlier weakness.
“Time’s up,” he murmured, the words landing softly but carrying the inevitability of a closing gate.
His body blurred, and the next heartbeat placed him outside the Pentacarna Tower’s stone threshold. At the cavern mouth, the Vermilion Demon Lord, who had been guarding since Jared entered, felt the shift first and snapped his gaze toward the tower. Sensing the quiet storm coiled beneath Jared’s restrained aura, the demon lord’s eyes flared bright.
“You are whole again? No… Stronger!” he blurted, disbelief and relief tangling together.
Jared inclined his head, offered no details, and walked with the Vermilion Demon Lord toward the stone pavilion that anchored the valley’s center. Aurelian, Blaine, Oswald, and the remaining allies hurried over. The moment they saw the light in Jared’s posture, exhaustion peeled from their faces like winter snow under an early sun.
Aurelian stopped closest. “Jared, how are you feeling?” His voice rushed out, the question shivering on the edge of fear and hope.
“No serious damage remains,” Jared said. The plain statement felt like an iron nail hammered straight through the group’s collective dread. He let his gaze move across them. Even after a month of rest, hollows still bruised most eyes, and each aura leaked fatigue; few had clawed back half their strength.
“Seniors, comrades, there is one thing…” The syllables dropped slow and deliberate, like stones disturbing still water. Conversation stilled, every gaze fixed on him, waiting for the stone to hit bottom. “I intend to pay Malevolent Path Hall a visit,” Jared said, the calm in his tone somehow louder than any battle cry.
The first shout—sharp and disbelieving—ricocheted through the pavilion and rattled beneath Jared’s ribs before he could answer. A second voice slammed in right after, rough with panic. “You can’t!” it barked, as though the single command could nail Jared’s boots to the flagstones.
Then someone else—maybe Aurelian, maybe Blaine—shouted over them, “Jared, have you lost your mind?!” The question felt less like concern than a fist demanding he retreat. The whole stone pavilion erupted: boots scraping, blades clacking, wounded throats forcing argument. The chaos washed over Jared in hot, sour waves.
Aurelian pushed to his feet, blood still crusted at his temple. “Malevolent Path Hall is locked down, Jared,” he warned, his voice wobbling yet loud. “Morven and Malcolm may be hurt, but their foundations remain, and the Door of Reincarnation guards them.”
Blaine shook his head so hard the silver strands in his beard flashed. “Kid, we hate them as much as you do, but revenge isn’t a sprint. Heal, regroup, then strike smart.”
Oswald’s newly scavenged iron sword trembled in his fist. The usually aloof swordsman growled, “If you’re going, I’m going.”
Jared lifted a palm, the gesture cutting through the clamor more cleanly than any shout. “Everyone’s wounded, and Malevolent Path Hall knows it,” he said, meeting each anxious gaze until they wavered. “That makes now the one moment they won’t expect us to move. I’m not marching in for a final fight,” he continued, his voice cooling into steel. “I’ll scout, and if an opening appears…”
The chill in his eyes promised decapitation and chaos bought in blood. Jared’s attention slid to the towering figure cloaked in roiling crimson haze. “Senior, hold the line here,” he said. “When I return, we hunt for the Nine-Orifice Divine Soul Herb together. Your wish will be honored.”
The Vermilion Demon Lord opened his mouth, the brimstone in his breath mixing with unspoken worry. But Jared’s resolve burned too bright to argue, and at last the old demon only nodded hard. “Come back alive!”
More voices chased him, but Jared was already pivoting toward the gorge mouth, determination carrying him faster than any plea could snag. A breath hung half-drawn; something in the air shifted, tingling with unreadable intent. A low metallic hum pierced the hush, as though the sky dragged a blade across unseen stone.
Above the valley, the masking labyrinth of mist and rock convulsed, ribbons of light tearing open like ripped canvas. Through the wound poured two titanic auras—overwhelming, yet curiously absent of malice, forcing their way inside as if the heavens had granted them passage.
The alarm erupted from every throat at once: “Enemy attack?” Terror and training tangled as blades snapped up. Aurelian’s spell-force flared, Blaine’s half-mauled war-beast materialized with a pained roar, Oswald’s sword light speared skyward, and the Demon Lord’s shadows bloomed—every soul braced for slaughter.
Jared’s heart lurched, but he steadied his breathing, eyes narrowing toward the tearing sky. The rent in space folded outward, and two figures strolled through as casually as late guests slipping into a feast.
The man in plain grey robes led, his scholarly features soft, yet his gaze held oceans and centuries that made Jared feel newly born. Beside him floated a woman in an unadorned gown, her beauty unmarred except for the fragile pallor of long illness; the way she looked at the grey-robed man was dawn learning to smile again.
Their mere presence pressed against bone and spirit alike—power of the High Immortal Realm, and not its threshold but its towering middle floors. Strangest of all, the grey-robed man felt deeper still than Gerald at his peak, as though the sea itself had taken human shape and chosen politeness.
Jared blinked. For a breath the courtyard, the smoke, and the raw edges of his nerves froze. Then delight cracked through his chest, hot and unbelievable. He slashed his hand through the air toward his men. “Hold it! Stand down. He’s with us!”
