A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5951

"Then… we go together! Kill him completely!" Morven rasped, voice serrated from rage and loss.

Masks stripped away, Malcolm and Morven hurled themselves at Jared, unleashing every hidden reserve they still possessed.

The move smelled of finality; no feint, no mercy—only a single, perfect checkmate speeding toward a dying opponent.

"Protect Jared!" Aurelian’s command burst out, raw enough to shred his throat.

The name tore from him so violently that the very air warped around the phonemes. Urgency twisted his voice into something feral.

At once, Elders from all five branches of the Five-Element Sect leapt forward, forming a battered wall of bodies between Jared and the approaching titans.

"Disciples of Metal Branch, hear me—Celestial Metal Sword Array, Myriad Swords Return!" Ferrum thundered.

His beard and hair stood on end as he flung out his life-bound treasure, the Celestial Metal Sword.

The golden blade split once, then again, doubling and redoubling until the sky glittered with innumerable reflections, each locking into an airtight formation rushing for Morven.

Every phantom sword carried an edge so acute it seemed to peel sound itself, carving faint scars in the atmosphere.

The technique devoured a century of cultivation each time it was cast, yet Ferrum did not hesitate; consequence could wait, survival could not.

Woodric’s voice cut through the clangor: “Azurewood Cage—Everlasting Rebirth!”

Ferrum watched the elder’s fingers weave faster than thought, his palms spilling emerald light that stung Ferrum’s eyes.

Bar-thick vines punched out of the cracked earth, every barb tipped with a slick, poisonous gleam that made Ferrum’s stomach clench.

He could almost feel the pulse inside the vines—Woodric was feeding them his own lifespan.

Every whip of green cost the old man another heartbeat, and Ferrum hated how clearly he knew it.

Aquilus, Pyre, and Terran surged forward beside him, each gathering the power of their branch until the air trembled like a drumskin.

From Aquilus’s sleeves burst nine serpentine torrents, scaled in liquid sapphire, their roars hammering at Ferrum’s ribs.

Pyre let himself burn away; what remained was a walking pyre so bright the surrounding air caught fire in his footsteps.

Terran sank into the ground; an instant later a colossus of rock rose, a hundred-yard silhouette that blocked out the sun.

Five elders at the pinnacle of the Heavenly Immortal Realm stood shoulder to shoulder.

Their combined fury should have sent any ordinary High Immortal retreating into the clouds—Ferrum believed that a moment ago.

But belief buckled when he lifted his gaze to Morven and Malcolm.

The two stood as the highest devils of level twelve; legends whispered that heaven itself blinked when they moved.

Morven’s voice cracked like thunder: “Move.”

He did not even spare Ferrum’s sword sea a glance; a lazy flick of his wrist said all the contempt words could not.

A tide of Ninefold Nether Demonic Aura unfurled, a hundred yards wide, blacker than midnight ink, roaring straight at them.

The wave met his thousand sword phantoms.

Steel illusions shattered like brittle parchment.

The real blade—his Celestial Metal Sword—caught the black tide, drank it, and went dim.

A single crack ran down the spine, then another, until the hilt sagged in his grip.

It snapped with a dry, mocking click.

Blood exploded from his lips before the sound even registered.

The backlash of a broken life-bound weapon tore through his channels, hurling him backward.

Rock faces rushed up like a closing door.

Impact stole sound, sight, breath.

For an instant he wasn’t sure if the mountain or his ribs shattered louder.

Through the red fog of pain, Ferrum felt rather than saw Malcolm’s answer—a brutality stripped of even theatrics.

The devil did not lift a hand; an impatient snort was the only courtesy he spared Woodric’s vines.

Gray-white blades of reincarnation aura spun around him, a quiet mill that minced the impossible vines to powder in a breath.

Across the field, Woodric staggered; his hair drained from black to ash, skin folding into sudden centuries.

Each snapped vine stole another year from the man.

Aquilus’s, Pyre’s, Terran’s assaults collapsed almost as quickly.

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