A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5923

Malcolm nodded in satisfaction, raised his hand, and with a flick, a palm-sized gray-white token shot from his sleeve, landing in Soul Devourer Puppet's hand.

The token was made from the special bones of the Reincarnation Realm. On the front was a twisted character for "Puppet," while the back was covered with densely packed command runes.

"This is the Puppet General Token. With it, everyone in Malevolent Path Hall—save for me—must treat your word as mine. All resources, puppets, and Soul Hunters are yours to dispatch."

Soul-Devouring Puppet clasped the token. Runes flashed in its eyes, and the bone slipped beneath the skin of its palm, leaving only a faint gray sigil.

"Go on, then."

Malcolm, cloaked in night-black silk that drank the hall's torchlight, swept his sleeve in a single, unhurried arc. The gesture bent the incense smoke and rattled bronze braziers along the red-stone walls. "Let the whole of level twelve taste the power of reincarnation..." he declared, each word landing like a war-drum.

The Soul-Devouring Puppet tipped forward in a precise, ceremonial bow, then turned on its heel and strode from the throne hall, joints clicking with clockwork certainty beneath lacquered bone.

Its gait never wavered—each footfall measured to the width of a palm, as though an invisible ruler marked the marble.

Six membranous wings tucked half-closed against its back. Dark-crimson flames licked their ragged rims, subdued yet lethal, and the mere scent of that heat drove every attendant, guard, and mindless automaton to their knees, shivering.

That was the crushing aura of a Top Level High Immortal Realm cultivator, fused with the death-chill of the Reincarnation Realm—ice so absolute it clamped around every watching soul.

Beyond the bronze doors, nine ribbons of pearlescent reincarnation aura circling the palace stirred the moment the puppet appeared. They tightened their spiral, releasing an eager, resonant hum that tremored through the stone like harp strings plucked by unseen gods.

Soul-Devouring Puppet promptly stepped onto open air as though the sky were a paved road. Its ash-colored eyes surveyed the palace complex that stretched for a thousand miles below—every roof tile fell beneath that dead light.

Slowly, it raised its right hand, palm facing the heavens, as if weighing the entire realm upon a single, silent scale.

"Soul Hunters, assemble."

The mechanical words were quiet, yet they rang with the finality of law and raced through every corridor of the Malevolent Path Hall.

A chorus of tearing wind answered—swish after swish, sharp enough to flay stone.

Black shapes erupted from the deepest vaults, the training grounds, the sealed meditation chambers, streaking upward like arrows loosed from a single monstrous bow.

For three thousand years, Malevolent Path Hall had bred Soul Hunter Corps. Now, more than thirty thousand Soul Hunters filled the sky, every one at least Heavenly Immortal Realm Level Five, with over a thousand Heavenly Immortal Realm Level Eight cultivators.

They wore matching midnight armor and carried Soul Binding Chains, Soul-Capturing Banners, and Soul-Refining Furnaces. Each of them was a specialist who hunted souls the way others hunted deer.

Obedient as a tide, the legion formed a vast black square beneath Soul-Devouring Puppet, waiting, silent, heads bowed before the cloak that breathed laws.

The ash eyes drifted across the ranks, and the Puppet spoke again, voice still without inflection.

"Our target is the whole of level twelve. Our objective is harvest all souls at Heavenly Immortal Realm Level Eight and above. Our mission begins now. Go."

No stirring speech followed—only commands as cold and simple as the blade of a guillotine.

As one, the thirty thousand Soul Hunters dropped to a single knee and roared, their reply crashing like surf against stone.

"Understood, Mr. Puppet General!"

Soul-Devouring Puppet's gray-white cloak suddenly unfurled, broadening into a curtain of light that spanned the heavens from horizon to horizon.

Wherever that light touched, spatial laws twisted, and a web of portals bloomed—doorways leading to every dominion of level twelve.

The Puppet strode into the nearest gateway without a backward glance.

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