A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5918

Soul Devourer's face contorted so violently it seemed his skin might split. Shame and fury gnawed at his spirit like venomous serpents, leaving his emerald eyes swimming in humiliation.

"Mr. Vayne, that young man is no ordinary opponent." The words grated from Soul Devourer's throat, each syllable torn loose by pride too wounded to stay silent.

"He wields chaotic celestial energy—the primordial power from the dawn of creation. It can give birth to all things and return them all to nothingness. On top of that, the Golden Dragon Bloodline flows within him. His body rivals the primeval Golden Dragons, and his regeneration borders on the absurd. He cultivates the Earthfire True Scripture, and that Earthfire True Flame devours demonic techniques like mine..."

With every admission, resentment thickened his voice. "The combination of these three is terrifying, and the combat power generated is enough to strike above one's rank, even against a High Immortal. I-I simply was momentarily careless and fell victim to his bizarre, chaotic sword intent..."

"Chaotic celestial energy?"

Malcolm's ash-gray pupils contracted. For one breath, the reincarnation aura swirling around him stalled, as though time hesitated. His bony fingers rubbed the sleeve of his robe, and a flicker of wary memory flashed deep within his eyes.

Despite that, the moment soon passed, and his gaze smoothed to a placid, bottomless stillness.

"A rarity indeed," he conceded, voice still parched yet tinged with unfathomable intent. "Since the dawn of creation, chaotic energy has long dispersed throughout the myriad worlds, transforming into countless laws. There are very few who can reconverge chaotic celestial energy."

His stare returned to Soul Devourer and chilled. "That said, defeat is defeat. Ten millennia ago, you perfected your Soul-Devouring Technique and forged a demonic body from a million souls. You sure seemed invincible then, huh?"

Malcolm stopped before the kneeling figure. A twig-thin finger lifted, brushing the torn edge of a tattered flesh-wing.

Where his gray, almost translucent fingertip drifted, ghostly currents of reincarnation slid into the fissures of the demon’s mangled flesh. Soul Devourer convulsed, every quake a full-body tremor born in the deepest vaults of his shredded spirit. Inside that ruined shell he felt something worse—the eerie tide was prying open the very source of his demonic cultivation, studying each layer, decoding every secret scripture that had once crowned him terror of an age.

Inside that ruined shell, he felt something worse—the eerie tide was prying open the very source of his demonic cultivation, studying each layer, decoding every secret scripture that had once crowned him terror of an age.

"And now?" Malcolm asked, letting the words hover like a descending guillotine.

Malcolm leaned in until his ash-colored eyes were a breath from the Soul Devourer's humiliated, fear-streaked emerald pupils. "After a mere ten thousand years of suppression," he whispered, each syllable dripping cold amusement, "you crawl back into daylight only to be trounced by a junior cultivator."

Straightening, he gave a slow, almost pitying shake of the head. "Oh well. So be it."

A chill clamped around Soul Devourer's heart.

Malcolm's tone held something far darker than mockery—an omen coiled in every calm syllable.

"Mr. Vayne!" Soul Devourer exclaimed as he jerked his head up. "If you help me recover from my injuries, I will yield the complete Soul-Devouring Technique. This demonic technique is the result of ten thousand years of my cultivation. It can devour divine souls to strengthen the user, and if perfected, even a High Immortal Realm Level Four cultivator could be fought on equal footing! In addition, I will march beside you for dominion over level twelve. Though I am injured, my foundation in the High Immortal Realm remains, and my understanding of the Laws of Reincarnation is far beyond that of ordinary cultivators..."

"Soul-Devouring Technique..." Malcolm tasted the words like dark wine, his withered fingertip gliding across a tattered wing as though caressing a priceless artifact.

Suddenly, he laughed—a hollow, splintering cackle—and the grin that split his lean face opened unnaturally wide, baring teeth the color of ancient bone.

"Well, I do require the assistance of a High Immortal Realm cultivator," he admitted, pale eyes flashing with wicked delight, "But not to conquer level twelve."

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