Ten thousand kilometers beyond the Sacred Mountain, Jared and Luther drifted through the sky, their course as aimless as their thoughts. They needed the Celestial Basilica, yet neither knew where to find it. The Fourteenth Firmament dwarfed the thirteenth; without landmarks, the vastness felt endless.
“Mr. Chance, which way do we go?” Luther called, the wind tugging at his cloak. Jared scanned the rolling forests and jagged valleys below. Not a single city broke the green expanse. “We find someone who knows the roads first,” he decided. “There should be a small city or trading post nearby.”
They were just about to move when the air ahead trembled. The clash of weapons drifted from afar, braided with a woman’s furious shout and a man’s mocking laughter. A shrill plea for help tore across the valley. The scream shredded the quiet like torn silk, echoing between the cliffs.
Jared met Luther’s eyes. In the same breath they became streaks of light, racing toward the disturbance. The clamor drew them to the western rim of the gorge, where sparse trees thinned into open ground. Five celestials in bright gold armor tightened a rough circle around the woman in white. Metal edges clinked against metal as they shifted their stance, blocking every gap that might let her slip away.
Grace looked no older than her early twenties, her features soft as a spring lotus, yet sweat streaked the gentle lines. Blood striped the hem of her robe, and a deep sword gash split her left shoulder clear to bone.
She kept both hands on an emerald-green longsword. Each time the blade breathed, a phantom azure roc coiled along the edge and vanished again—proof the weapon had never belonged to an ordinary forge.
Grace’s realm stopped at High Immortal Level Four; the aura told him as much. All five opponents stood at Level Five at minimum, and the bearded brute in front carried the oppressive weight of a Level Six peak.
The brute laughed and dragged the back of his sword across a rock. “Run on, little rabbit! Why’ve you stopped?” His voice rang against the cliff walls, louder than the whistle of the wind. He licked cracked lips, eyes drifting over her with open hunger.
“Three thousand kilometers from Cloudhaven City to here, and you still dance. If headquarters didn’t want you alive, I’d have split you in half long ago.”
Grace forced her breath past the sting in her shoulder. “The Celestial Palace disgraced itself, slaughtered my parents, butchered my Moonridge Sect. I’ll chase you in death if I can’t in life!”
“Death?” The brute barked a laugh that shook his breastplate. “You think ghosts frighten us?” He jabbed a thumb toward his own chest. “Remember who wiped the Ghost Clan off the maps. Believe me, lass, we sleep fine at night.” His grin widened. “Sacred Mountain needs offerings. You’ll fill the altar nicely. Boys, grab her. Don’t break the merchandise.”
Boots scraped as all five leapt forward. Blades flashed in concert, their formation cutting off sky and ground alike. The ring closed before the fallen leaves finished stirring. Grace bit down on pain and met the first sword head-on. Her emerald blade scattered teal light in an arc, barely turning aside a strike that would have taken her hand.
Steel screeched; sparks snapped across dry grass, and still they pressed her from every angle. The next breath would finish the chase unless a miracle landed between heartbeats. Sweat blurred her vision, and swords glittered on every side. The gap to escape vanished the moment it appeared, and raw fatigue pulled at her wrists.
A streak of dull gray light split the sky like summer lightning. It slammed toward the bearded brute with a crack that made the pines sway.
“Who’s there!” He jerked up his blade, boots skidding in startled gravel. Steel met steel midway.
Clang!
The report punched the air flat. Numb shock raced through his arms, skin split at the web between thumb and index finger, and his sword spun away like rubbish. The brute staggered three full steps before planting his heels.
A single figure now stood ahead, blue robe draped loosely, sword tip aimed at the ground, gray mist curling around his frame.
Jared had arrived. The brute’s tongue stuck to his teeth. “You… W-Who are you?!” The tremor in his voice bled through bravado. “Interfering with Celestial Palace business is suicide!”
Jared answered only with a slow glance that froze blood in the brute’s veins. Nothing murderous about it, just cool dismissal, as though he were studying an ant that wandered onto his boot.
“From the Palace, are you?” Jared’s tone stayed level, almost conversational. “Good. I have a debt to settle…”
He shifted his weight once. Gray sword light stretched across empty air, neat as silk. Three throats opened in silence; the bodies toppled before their minds grasped the ending. The last two spun to flee, terror shredding their formation. They never cleared ten steps. Another flicker, and two more corpses met the grass.
Three breaths. Five Level-Five and Level-Six celestials lay still, armor cooling in the breeze. The bearded brute dropped to his knees, one palm clamped over the fountain at his neck. Horror and disbelief tangled in his gaze. Voice cracked and wheezing, he tried spitting a name. “Y-You… You’re… Ja…” Air left his lungs. He collapsed without finishing the thought.
Jared slid the sword back, then faced the woman in white. She stared, limbs frozen, as if her mind still replayed the blur that saved her. A tremor touched her lips before she managed a whisper. “You’re Jared? Jared Chance? The one who shattered the Skyreach Path, killed a Grand Venerable, and just wrecked Sacred Mountain?”
One eyebrow lifted. “You’ve heard of me?”
“The entire Fourteenth Firmament knows you.” She gave a weary laugh. “The Palace posted the highest Divine Punishment Warrant—fifty thousand bottles of celestial elixir for your head. Even hiding in the mountains, I heard.” She drew a sharp breath, then dropped to her knees and pressed her forehead to the dirt. “Benefactor, allow Grace to bow. I’ll never forget today’s rescue!”
Jared raised an open hand, stopping short of contact. “Stand… The Palace sins against everyone. I happened to pass by, that’s all.”
Grace insisted on three full kowtows before rising. The motion pulled at torn flesh, fresh pain squeezed a muffled gasp from her throat, and her balance faltered. Luther stepped forward and held out a jade pill. “Take this first. It’ll stop the bleeding.”
Jared watched Grace’s thin fingers close around the black-lacquered pill box Luther offered. She held the gray pearl of a pill between thumb and forefinger, her shoulders rigid. A single breath passed before she lifted her gaze, doubt flickering across her lashes.
Luther’s voice cut through the hush. “Ghost Clan medicine, no poison.” The words dropped like cold iron, giving Grace the answer before she could shape the question. A flash of surprise widened her eyes, yet she swallowed the reaction. Without another word she tipped her head back, set the pill on her tongue, and closed her lips.
A warm current burst beneath the torn fabric at her shoulder. Before Jared’s eyes, raw muscle knitted, and the angry gash shrank until only a faint pink seam remained. Color seeped into her cheeks like sunrise chasing night.
