A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5864

The elder's brows pinched together, carving a fine line between his eyes. He weighed his words, then spoke with the care of a seasoned archivist—his voice little more than the hushed crackle of parchment. "Jadeheart Marrow... I recall seeing a fleeting reference to it buried in one of the oldest compendiums I ever handled. It is said to gather in the deepest fissures of the Infernal Lava Abyss, seeping drop by patient drop from the living veins of the planet's core. One drop takes ten millennia to form. And that single drop, legend claims, can fortify the body's root, bind the soul to its shell, and anchor the spirit against oblivion. Understand, though—these are only whispers handed down as myth. I have lived in level eleven for several thousand years, and in all that time I have never met anyone who has actually laid eyes on the thing."

Once again—the same hollow answer, echoing like a door that refused to open.

Jared masked his disappointment and forced his voice steady. "Then where, exactly, is this Infernal Lava Abyss?"

"South of here," the elder replied, lifting a finger as if tracing a distant horizon. "Deep inside the Blaze Region of level eleven—no less than a million miles away. The place is merciless. Earth-fire rages there without pause, rivers of molten stone cross the land like hungry serpents, and even those who stand firmly in the Heavenly Immortal Realm hesitate before stepping across its threshold. If you truly intend to venture there, young friend, you must prepare for every terror the abyss can conjure."

A million miles. At Jared's current top speed, even flying without pause he would need a full month just to arrive.

And that was only the travel. Surviving the Blaze Region itself would demand a plan far more intricate than anything he had sketched so far.

What Jared did not know—could not have known—was that the moment he and Vermilion had stepped through Sandrock City's gate, a silent pair of eyes had fixed on them and never once blinked.

News of their arrival had already streaked up to Malevolent Path Hall's headquarters in level twelve, riding the sect's lightning-swift channels of information.

Several streets away, inside the private loft of a three-story tea-house, a man in an unremarkable gray cloak watched the entrance of the Myriad Treasures Pavilion through a narrow window slit. In his palm glowed a dusky message token—its surface pulsing with cold, secret light.

"Target confirmed inside Sandrock City, currently asking about 'Jadeheart Marrow,'" he murmured to the token, his tone flat as winter stone. "Companion: one, a demon cultivator. Target's visible aura places him at Heavenly Immortal Realm Level One, but his composure suggests hidden depth."

A rasping voice bled from the token. "Maintain surveillance. Do not rattle the cage. The Master orders that this boy must die, but only after his movements become predictable. Also—discover why they seek the Jadeheart Marrow."

"Understood."

The watcher folded the token away and resumed his statue-still vigil. He employed no detectable spiritual sense, relying solely on keen mortal sight and an impeccable vantage—an observer carved from stone and shadow.

Jared prided himself on caution, yet fresh to level eleven, even he could not guard every blind spot. And who would imagine that within mere hours of arrival he would already sit beneath so tight a noose?

Such efficiency was common currency in Malevolent Path Hall's sprawling network—an empire of hidden shops, inns, and guild fronts embedded in every major sky-realm.

Sandrock City held one of the smallest of these towns, yet its importance as the lone supply oasis in the northern desert region of level eleven guaranteed Malevolent Path Hall agents a foothold here.

When Jared and Vermilion had paid their entrance fee, their faces and signatures of their auras were quietly etched onto a covert ledger and pulsed straight to the local node. Malevolent Path Hall had long since circulated Jared's likeness across every branch; the bounty promised for his head set greedy hearts pounding. The Sandrock overseer received the alert in less than a breath.

"Intelligence from level six adds one more thread," Shadowshade continued. "Jared appears friendly with a wanderer named Flaxseed. Years ago, we harvested souls from that man's clan. Chance swore he would settle the debt."

A low, mirthless chuckle rippled through the chamber. "The boy has no sense of scale," Malcolm rasped, scarlet eyes flaring. "I expected him to stew in lower realms for decades. Instead, he walks willingly into my domain. Very well—he spares me the trouble of hunting."

His gaze fell upon a gaunt elder whose smile was all knives and no warmth. "Elder Quill—north of level eleven is your jurisdiction. I want Jared dead. Bring me his head." Matty Quill, famed across the Halls for turning venom into art, dipped so low his robe kissed the skull-tiles. "Consider it done, Master. A first-tier brat may carry trinkets, but against true power he is dust. I will arrange everything personally. When the wind next shifts, he will already have vanished."

Malcolm raised one taloned hand. "Complacency kills. This youngster crippled multiple Heavenly Immortals while still at the Human Immortal Realm. Either he hides strength or secrets far more valuable." The mist thickened as his words slithered downward. "Finish him quickly, yet leave no trace to snare us. An ambush that looks like a robbery, a duel that appears to be revenge—whatever mask you choose, let it fit so tightly even the gods cannot peel it away." Matty's eyes gleamed with understanding. "Master, your will is law."

Malcolm flicked his wrist, scattering the fog like startled crows. "Go. Within one month I expect good news. Use the Jadeheart Marrow as bait if you must—sooner or later, a man driven by desperation will walk straight into his own grave."

"Yes, my lord." Matty's answer cracked through the chamber like a snapping twig. The next instant, his crimson-edged cloak dissolved into the lurking shadows. A faint ripple—no louder than a sigh—was all that remained before the darkness folded in on itself and swallowed him whole.

Silence slid back over the grand hall. Only the restless spit of Netherworld Ghostfire—green, hungry, eternal—kept the hush from turning absolute as it licked along black-iron braziers and scattered sparks across the marble floor.

On the obsidian throne, Malcolm lounged like a great cat at dusk. His eyes, two raw rubies burning in the gloom, drifted beyond the vaulted ceiling—beyond distance, beyond worlds. Somewhere far above, in level eleven's Sandrock City, a young figure moved through sun-blasted streets. Malcolm watched that distant silhouette with a hunger sharp enough to slice the void itself.