Lyza shook her head again. “No fixed time or place, only that a month ago their names flashed onto the Manor’s wanted rolls, tagged with ‘deserting the heavens, prying into taboos!’ The arrest was swift, quiet, no one in the streets even sensed the ripple. Rumor says they first tried to sneak near the city lord mansion. No clue why…”
“They vanished right after, and the next sighting was their execution at Soulfall Slope.” She hesitated. “The site was sealed by an isolation array, no sound escapes. Our watchers were too far; they saw the blade fall but heard nothing.”
Jared held back the heat rising in his throat and spoke low. “Then whose order was it, and whose hand did the killing?”
Lyza felt levity leave the room like breath from a wound. She straightened, vertebra by vertebra, until only formality remained. “From what we’ve learned, the order almost certainly came from Julian, the current City Lord of Jade Immortal City and master of the manor. The celestials back him, his cultivation unfathomable, at least High Immortal Realm Level Seven—and the city bends at his knee…”
“A punishment that severe could only move with his direct command, or at least his nod. As for who actually carried it out…” She slid a glance toward Panther.
The big man took the hint, stepped forward, and lowered his voice. “We asked around. The day the escort marched to Soulfall Slope and activated the Soul-Refining Grand Array, the one in charge was the manor’s Chief Steward, Quentin…”
“Julian trusts him with everything. He hovers at High Immortal Realm Level Five, swims in formations and prisons, and his malice keeps the cells quiet. The axe itself fell by two veteran executioners from the Punishment Hall, brothers Garth and Miles. Both sit at High Immortal Realm Level Four, bodies tempered for killing, and they enjoy every stroke.”
Jared repeated the names, each syllable striking the table like ice chips. “Garth… Miles…”
The temperature of his gaze dropped. “Where are they now?”
A pressure rolled off him, almost visible, as though steel had taken vapor.
Lyza’s lungs stalled, instinct begged her to recoil, but she held her ground. She summoned breath and answered, steady only by will. “The brothers lodge in the Executioners’ Quarters on the west side of the manor, alternating shifts. Tonight Miles is on duty, Garth is off. Garth drinks and gambles. When he rests, he drifts to the Drunken Immortal Tavern in the Western District, then empties his purse at the Thousand-Gold Parlor… Dusk is settling, he’s likely at the tavern now.”
Jared rose, palms coming together in a brief respectful arch. “Your help matters.”
Gratitude sounded mild beside the storm still simmering beneath his skin, yet Lyza accepted the bow and returned it. “Please, Senior, we’ve endured Jade Immortal Manor’s cruelty for too long. If your power can shake them, every common soul will owe you breath.”
The plea slipped into caution. “But Garth still carries their emblem. An attack inside the walls will summon patrols and experts in a blink. Take care.”
“I measure my steps,” Jared replied.
His attention shifted to Luther. “Stay with Ms. Lyza. Unravel everything, Julian’s routines, Quentin’s vices, any loose hinge we can rip free.”
Monkey jerked upright, as if a cold spark raced along his spine. “Senior, just say the word!”
“Lead me to the Drunken Immortal Tavern. Point out Garth.” Jared’s gaze pinned the youngster. “Do that, and more crystals will find you, along with a ticket out of this hive of trouble.”
Fear and greed wrestled behind Monkey’s eyes; greed won. “Yes! I’d know that brute if he were reduced to ash!”
Jared turned back to Lyza. “Let no one breathe of tonight. We’ll decide the next move after I return.”
He motioned for Monkey and melted into the deepening night, his outline swallowed faster than the lamplight could name it.
Only after the darkness quieted did Lyza release the breath she’d been hoarding. She glanced at Luther, voice nearly a whisper. “Senior Luther, what realm has Mr. Chance truly reached? One finger shattered the array, and my strength vanished.”
Luther’s gaze stayed on the door Jared had taken. “His cultivation sits beyond our guessing. One thing matters, Jade Immortal Manor just kicked iron.”
***
Jared stopped at the edge of the Western District. Ahead, the Drunken Immortal Tavern glowed like a brass furnace, every lantern turned to its brightest.
Inside and along the rails, merchants, rank-scented cultivators, and swaggering freelancers shoved shoulder to shoulder, their noise rising thick as frying oil.
Monkey led him across the street and into a slice of shadow opposite the tavern, then jabbed a finger toward the second-floor window where a bare-chested giant drained a jug, candlelight licking across muscles and knife-white scars.
“Senior, that’s Garth. See the scar cutting through his right brow? You can’t miss it,” Monkey whispered, voice trembling.
Jared lifted his gaze.
The man was enormous, face packed with slabs of flesh, laughing as he slapped mugs with equally brutal friends. His High Immortal Realm Level Four aura lay bare, hot and rank, wrapping every gesture in a butcher’s scent.
So this was the one who had carried Mr. Morse’s severed head like a trophy?
His own eyes stayed still as pond water, yet his breath thinned into the surrounding dark until even Monkey, inches away, could no longer feel him, only a creeping chill.
“Go back. Find Luther. What’s next has nothing to do with you,” Jared said.
Monkey nodded like a pardoned sinner and melted into the black.
Jared did not strike right away. He remained inside the narrow shadow, the way a patient cat sits beneath a birdcage, watching the second-floor revelry flicker against the windowpanes.
Minutes stretched, then more.
When the moon hung straight overhead, Garth finally rose, staggering, traded filthy jokes with his companions, and lurched downstairs alone toward a quieter alley, probably chasing cards or dice.
Jared shifted. He slid after the man like a smear of smoke, footfalls muffled beneath the tavern’s leftover racket.
The passageway narrowed and darkened; only distant door lamps dotted the black like dying coals. Garth hummed a lewd little tune, still blind to the reaper walking in his echo.
At the mid-bend, where crates and broken stools lay stacked high, the darkness ahead rippled. Jared’s arm flicked free of the gloom, his long fingers clamped Garth’s throat before the man could choke on his next note.
