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."

"Ugh... Ah!"

Soul Devourer's cries sliced through the dark chamber, a note so high and ragged that stone vaults trembled, and drifting ash froze mid-air.

It was not mere flesh in torment. Each wail carried the horror of a soul being torn open, layer after layer, until consciousness itself felt flayed.

The nine reincarnation shackles writhed around him like starving vipers, siphoning his nascent demonic technique, spiritual power, shattered memories—every thread that had ever made him Soul Devourer—grinding it down and refining it into cold, obedient essence.

"Malcolm Vayne! How dare you!" The Soul Devourer bellowed, each syllable laced with desperate fury.

His eyes bulged so wide the skin around them threatened to split. Deep inside those ghost-green pupils, a last, crazed light detonated like a dying star.

Inside his ravaged frame, the final embers of his Soul-Devouring Demonic Flame flared in reckless self-immolation. Dark-red fire jetted from every pore, turning him into a staggering effigy of living flame that flailed against its shackles.

Yet amid that frenzied blaze came a new sound—a vicious hiss, like water spat onto a forge.

Runes along the reincarnation shackles blazed white-hot. Waves of pale reincarnation aura surged through the links and into his veins. Wherever that tide swept, the crimson flames sputtered, dimmed, and died.

Guided by a purpose all its own, the ghostly current reversed course, racing up his meridians and hurtling straight toward his sea of consciousness, eager now to grind the very core of his divine soul to dust.