A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5926

Ignatius's brows knitted into a knot of flame. Gerald's fingers froze upon his beard. Every Earthfire Pavilion elder bore the same heavy look. Winslow's warning weighed more than stone.

If the prophecy proved true, level eleven would soon face its own apocalypse.

Ignatius cleared his throat, voice rough with hidden worry. "Jared, you have crossed blades with Malevolent Path Hall—and with the man that became the Soul-Devouring Puppet. Tell us—what is your judgment?"

Every eye circled back to Jared.

He released a slow breath that seemed to draw all tension toward his lungs before letting it drain away.

Then he stepped into the center of the hall, meeting faces etched with despair, fear, and a fragile, desperate hope. His gaze finally locked on Winslow.

"Mr. Walden, do you know why Malevolent Path Hall is ripping divine souls from living flesh in such numbers?"

Winslow shook his head. "Only that it feeds the Door of Reincarnation. He means to sacrifice them, trading their essence for power—or for some darker purpose we have yet to name."

"Door of Reincarnation..." Jared began, words hanging like a blade yet to fall.

Gerald hesitated, the flicker of dread in his eyes hardening into grim certainty. His voice rang across the hall, deliberate and loud enough that no syllable could be doubted. "That Door of Reincarnation is no holy artefact of rebirth. It is a doorway—nothing more than a tunnel into a realm of unyielding laws, a furnace where all divine souls are broken down and rebuilt into instruments of slaughter. Rebirth, eternal life—those are lies woven to bait the desperate. Soul Devourer is only the opening note of this dirge. He is not the first—and he will also not be the last."

The declaration struck the audience chamber like a hammer on an iron gong. Gasps collided with murmured oaths. Robes rustled, chairs scraped, and the vault of red-lacquered pillars seemed to tremble beneath the sudden, swelling uproar.

Among the survivors from level twelve, faces blanched as if all blood had fled. Elio—the one-armed cultivator once famed for steady courage—shook so violently that his teeth chattered. "Y-You... What did you say? The Door of Reincarnation is a lie? Then what happened to our masters, disciples, and others?"

"Their divine souls are scattered to dust. Nothing of their true essence remains," Gerald answered, each word a frost-rimmed blade despite his ember-rich tone. "Some were drained as fuel to keep that accursed purgatory turning. Others will be butchered and fashioned into new puppets for Malcolm's slaughterhouse."

Boom!

The broken lyre cradled against Lyla's chest exploded with a roar, splinters flashing like dying stars. She swayed to her feet, crimson tears carving streaks down her cheeks. "Malcolm Vayne, Malevolent Path Hall... I want them to pay for this!" she thundered, her screams ringing like tortured steel, drowning even the crackle of settling debris.

Several younger cultivators collapsed where they stood. Knees struck marble, shoulders quaked, and raw sobs poured out—grief so sharp it carved straight through the din.

They had fled with hope gripped between their teeth—hope that captured comrades were merely chained, biding time until a rescue.

Sadly, that final, fragile thread now snapped, curling away into the dark like smoke from a snuffed candle.

Jared stared at Gerald, stunned. When the old man first spoke of the Door of Reincarnation, none of this horror had been mentioned.

How many more secrets is this old geezer still hiding from me?

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