King Ironhide stopped pacing and turned as Hartcrest entered. “Elder, you have returned. And… these two are…?” His deep voice carried cautious weight. His gaze swept over Jared and Luther, lingering on the stranger’s calm eyes. Thick brows knitted into a wary line.
Hartcrest relayed the tale in quick, low words: the passage through the death range and the slaughter of the Five Venerables. The bear king listened without a breath wasted. When the account ended, King Ironhide’s eyes widened, his black pupils sharpening.
“Did you truly kill all five?” he demanded, his voice rough as gravel. Jared answered with a single, steady nod.
The bear king threw back his head and let out a roar of laughter that shook the tent poles. Buried inside the sound lay both ancient grief and fierce delight.
“Well done!” he bellowed. “Those mangy elders crippled my father; their debt is paid. From this night, Jared, you are brother to King Ironhide. Wherever you need me—fire or flood—I will follow!”
Around them, beast soldiers thumped their chests and growled in approval; the beast race never hid their gratitude or their hatred. In that uproar, trust settled over Jared like a warm cloak; the king’s pledge sealed it for every ear inside the tent.
Jared raised a hand for silence. “King Ironhide, tell me the current state of the siege. Is there a path to break it?”
The bear king’s smile faded; his shoulders sagged beneath the unwelcome reality.
“Dire,” he admitted. “We have been trapped for three months. Stores of grain and pills are nearly gone, wounds are festering, and morale sinks by the day.” He pointed to the rough sand table in the tent’s center. “Outside lies the Heavenbound Beastlock Array… We cannot break out, and the celestials wait, wearing us thin before their final strike.”
King Ironhide clenched his massive fists. Thick black fur bristled across his shoulders, and for a breath, he only ground his fangs. “And besides…” The words jammed in his throat, half-snarl, half-sorrow, as though the next truth might shatter what remained of his composure. A tremor rippled along his wounded flank before he forced the rest out.
“They drag our captured kin to the front lines every single day,” he rasped. “They flay, burn, and break them where we can see, hoping to grind every shred of resolve we have left.”
Jared’s gaze turned to iron. The torchlight edged his eyes, making the gray colder. “Where is the Beast-Quelling Venerable, and where are the Five Beast Kings?”
Elder Hartcrest replied first, his voice low but steady. “The Beast-Quelling Venerable remains at Beast-Quelling Hall Headquarters, three thousand miles from here, holding the core of their formation.”
King Ironhide drew a rough circle on the sand table. “Each of the Five Beast Kings commands an army encircling Skyfiend Gorge,” he said. “King Redstinger and King Nightbat are the strongest, both at High Immortal Realm Level Seven… The other three stand at the peak of Level Six.”
He tapped five carved tokens into place. “Redstinger in the east, Nightbat in the west. The remaining three tighten the net from the south, the north, and the southeast.”
Jared studied the layout in silence, his fingertips hovering above the line that marked the gorge. After a breath, his hand flattened into a blade, a glint of frost in his eyes. “If they’ve split their strength, we strike one segment at a time.”
Elder Hartcrest blinked. “One at a time?” The disbelief slid out before he could restrain it.
King Ironhide let out a humorless laugh and rubbed the fresh blood seeping through his bandages. “Brother Jared, fewer than twenty thousand of us can still stand, and most carry wounds.” He shoved a larger marker beside each enemy token. “Any single army under those kings numbers over thirty thousand, fully supplied and rested. Breaking out is suicide—much less destroying them one by one.”
Jared let the concern flow past him like wind over stone. A faint curve lifted one corner of his mouth. “No legion is necessary. I alone can handle it.”
An uneasy hush spread through the tent. Canvas walls creaked in the night breeze, but no one spoke. King Ironhide’s voice dropped, as if polite doubt might offend a power he didn’t yet understand. “Brother Jared… That isn’t a jest, is it? You caught the Five Venerables by surprise, or separated, perhaps. These kings are surrounded by soldiers. How…”
Jared raised a palm, slicing the worry clean in two. “Just tell me which of those five deserves death most—who has spilled the most of our people’s blood.”
Ironhide’s claws dug trenches into the wooden edge of the table. “Redstinger,” he growled. “A traitor to the beast race. To curry favor with the celestials, he slaughtered three tribes that refused to kneel—children and elders alike. He even devised the Scorpionheart Rending Torment, a horror meant for captured warriors. I would tear his flesh myself if I could.”
“Good… We’ll start with him.” Jared turned to Luther. “Luther, stay here and help King Ironhide hold the defenses. I’ll be back soon.”
“No…” Jared waved the protest aside. “Numbers invite notice. Trust me, I know the limits.”
With a final nod to the two beast elders, his figure blurred into a ribbon of gray light. The canvas barely fluttered as he slipped through the entrance and vanished into the moonless gorge.
Elder Hartcrest and King Ironhide met each other’s eyes, unsure whether to hope or fear. Ironhide’s voice fell to a whisper. “Elder, can he truly accomplish this?”
The old stag weighed the air itself before answering. “Did you feel that force in him? Something ancient, beyond naming. My instincts recoiled, the way prey shudders before a storm it cannot escape. Perhaps a miracle is finally within reach…”
***
Far from Skyfiend Gorge, Jared skimmed eastward, every heartbeat carrying him leagues away. He folded every ripple of aura deep inside the core of his being. Chaotic force blurred his outline; a celestial patrol passed beneath his drifting shadow and never once lifted a spear.
Three thousand kilometers melted under that silent glide. A final bound brought him to a wind-sheltered canyon where torches painted the cliff walls crimson and gold. Below, the encampment spread like a hive—at least forty thousand troops. At the heart of the camp rose a pavilion too ornate to belong on a battlefield.
Scar-red scorpion banners flapped above it. Jared released a thread of perception; it locked on, unerring and cold. Inside, a middle-aged man lounged in scarlet war armor. A blood-dark scorpion tail trailed behind his throne, twitching in time with his enjoyment.
This was King Redstinger, newly ascended to High Immortal Realm Level Seven and drunk on cruelty.
“Great King, have another cup…” A young vixen forced the corners of her mouth upward, leaning in to lift a bronze goblet toward the scorpion king’s chest.
King Redstinger’s lips curled into a greasy grin as he snatched the cup. He caught the vixen’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Pretty thing, once I wipe out those fools in Skyfiend Gorge, I’ll make you my concubine. You’ll drown in riches.”
Disgust flickered across her pupils before she buried it behind lowered lashes. At that instant, an unhurried voice floated through the hot air of the tent.
“You won’t live long enough to try…”
King Redstinger’s expression went rigid. He shoved the girl aside, sprang upright, and raised his scarlet tail. The barbed stinger gleamed like frosted steel. “Who?!”
A gray silhouette stood at the flap, arrival unseen, presence undeniable. Jared. Hands clasped behind his back, he studied Redstinger with bored detachment, as if the scorpion were already a corpse.
“Guards! Guards!” Redstinger bellowed. Nothing answered. Beyond the hide walls, the night lay as mute as a graveyard.
