Jared shook his head, voice hoarse. “I’m not leaving.” “You have to!” King Ironhide bellowed, “You’re the beast race’s hope! If you live, the celestials will never sleep easy. If you live, our people still have a future!” He stared into Jared’s eyes, every line of his face pleading. “Brother, I’m begging you! Go!”
The fearless resolve inside those eyes stabbed Jared’s heart harder than any blade. He understood: King Ironhide had already traded his own life in his mind.
Luther whispered, “Mr. Jared, we should leave…” His breath rattled. “Keep the green hills, and we’ll have firewood someday.”
Far off, fresh celestial banners crested the ridge. Their leader radiated the pressure of High Immortal Realm Level Seven, a stranger drawn from some distant province. Stay any longer and every road would close forever. Jared clenched his jaw, burned King Ironhide’s face into memory, and said, “King Ironhide… Take care!”
He recalled Lucky, slung Luther’s arm over his own shoulder, and shot toward the depths of Skyfiend Gorge as a streak of gray light.
“Thinking you can flee?! Not that easy!” Beast-Quelling Venerable snorted and launched after them.
King Ironhide laughed, the sound wild and bright, then let his body swell to its full size. A bear thirty yards tall planted two hind paws in the dirt and blocked the Venerable’s path. “Old bastard! Your opponent is me!”
“Courting death!” The Venerable’s fist, wrapped in auric flame, smashed forward.
King Ironhide did not dodge. He met the blow chest-on, ribs cracking, while his massive paw slammed sideways toward the Venerable’s neck. Life for life—it worked. For the moment, he pinned the Venerable in place. Around them, surviving beast warriors ignited every reserve they had, throwing their bodies into the tide to buy Jared a few more breaths.
Jared half-dragged, half-carried Luther back into the cavern and skidded to a halt before the ruined teleport array. Luther knelt despite shaking legs and began re-threading broken sigils. Jared stood in the mouth of the cave, cutting down every pursuing soldier who dared step inside.
One stick of incense later, the array breathed to life, a pale, trembling glow outlining the stone insets. “Mr. Jared, it will barely work!” Luther said, voice tight. “It can send only two people, and I can’t tell where it will land! Move!”
Jared looked back toward the valley. Beast warriors fell one after another, crimson pooling beneath collapsed bodies. King Ironhide, drenched in his own blood, still clung to Beast-Quelling Venerable like a shadow that refused to be shaken off. Elder Hartcrest lay spent on the ground. Celestial blades rose and fell until white fur, antlers, and life were all in tatters.
Of the original twenty thousand beast soldiers, fewer than a thousand remained, and that number was dropping with every heartbeat. Pain sliced through Jared’s chest as if a real blade had lodged between his ribs. The pressure stole his breath. Blood pounded behind his ears, every beat driving the wound deeper.
Faces flashed before him: friends, comrades, strangers who had trusted his promise. Each face seemed to fall away into darkness, leaving only the moment their lives were extinguished. So many “ifs” swirled through his mind. If he had never set foot in the western region. If he had not killed the three monster kings.
“Mr. Jared, move!” Luther’s strained voice cracked across the roar of battle, urgent and raw.
Jared dragged in a harsh breath, forced the hurt down, and wrapped an arm around Luther. Together they stepped onto the dim, sigil-scarred platform. Runes kindled under his boots. In that first flare, Jared turned, seeking one last glimpse of the field they were abandoning.
King Ironhide seemed to feel the farewell. The huge bear looked back, muzzle dripping red, and split his ruined lips in a fearless grin. Then, the Beast-Quelling Venerable’s fist punched straight through the bear’s chest, spraying dark blood across shattered stone.
Light exploded from the array. In the blinding surge, Jared and Luther were wrenched out of sight.
***
When vision returned, Jared found himself kneeling on spongy moss beneath trees so tall their crowns erased the sky. Ancient trunks crowded together, branches knitting a ceiling of leaves. Warm spiritual mist rolled through the air, laced with the sour scent of rotting foliage.
Luther lay motionless beside him. The Ghost Clan youth breathed in faint, ragged sips of air. Jared brushed trembling fingers over his own ribs. Chaotic force was nearly drained, bones shifted under the touch, and organs pulsed with dull fire. He ignored it and leaned over Luther, gaze narrowing on the still rise of the other’s chest.
Life flickered low inside that body. Soul threads frayed. Any race but a ghost would already have slipped past saving. He emptied every healing pill from his ring, crushed them, and pressed the powder past Luther’s lips. Gray energy trickled from his palm, wrapping the fading aura long enough to anchor it.
Only after the last spark flowed did Jared collapse backward. Above the canopy, a ragged strip of evening showed, mocking in its calm.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” The words barely left his tongue, more breath than sound, repeating until his throat rasped. Never had helplessness bitten so hard. Strength lay somewhere ahead of him, yet tonight it felt an eternity away.
Jared thought of what might have happened if he had reached the High Immortal Realm sooner, or if he had honed every shred of power instead of dreaming. Unfortunately, the world offered no “ifs.” In that single battle, the Beastfolk Resistance was almost wiped out.
Only a few hundred even had a chance to escape. He had survived, yet the weight of those lost pressed heavier than any wound.
