A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5963

Remembering Sidney’s precise cadence, Jared pinched the ragged Guiding Talisman between two numb fingers.

With that memory guiding his fingers, he snapped the Guiding Talisman open; pale threads of light seeped out, wriggling like earthworms desperate for soil.

Each thread found a current in the raging void and anchored, tugging him toward a path too narrow to see.

He stepped after it, jaw clenched against the sideways gravity that kept trying to tear his boots free.

News of the Ghostspring Sect swelled behind his ribs like a second heartbeat, forcing speed over caution.

Boulders of compressed air slammed into them; what could have been clever detours became straight-through collisions.

Each impact left a fresh bruise singing beneath his armor.

Half a day of that punishment sharpened into raw ache along his shoulders and the back of his throat.

When the talisman finally led them to the warped shimmer at the belt’s far edge, dried blood had glued one sleeve to his arm.

The sight still stole a breath: space folding into itself like liquid glass kneaded by invisible hands.

Jared traced the corrugated horizon, searching for shards of gray crystal sturdy enough to pin an array.

"Someone's coming, a lot of them, fast," the Vermilion Demon Lord whispered, sound cut thin by the wind.

Jared let his awareness unfurl, a silent net pouring from the crown of his head.

Ten… no, thirteen spears of presence ripped through the gale behind them, each one brighter than lightning on new snow.

Even the dimmest of those signatures burned at Heavenly Immortal peak; two at the front blazed hotter, High Immortal, second level—the kind that stepped over mountains as stepping-stones.

The flavor of their energy matched the trio they'd gutted earlier—black water threaded with corpse-salt.

Ghostspring’s vanguard, and now the rest of the swarm had found them.

He bared his teeth. Persistent, rotting ghosts.

"Let them catch up," he said, voice steady enough to surprise even himself.

The Demon Lord’s eyes narrowed; recognition flickered like flint. "You plan to use their hands."

"Two of us against that snarl of glass? Arraying our own passage would bleed us dry and still leave the odds ugly," Jared replied.

"They brought a fragment of the chart. They’ve studied the Ancient Energy Refiners’ Abode longer than we have. Let’s watch, borrow what works, and slip through after."

He swallowed his breathing, then pressed into a cracked floating monolith veined like dried mud.

Chaotic aura seeped from his palms, blending scent and light until flesh became stone shadow.

Beside him the Demon Lord faded as easily as dusk.

Not long after, thirteen silhouettes punched through the wind wall and halted at the warped rim.

The tallest carried a Whitebone Staff; parchment skin clung to his skull, and his eyes sat in hollows deep enough to drink rain.

Beside him waddled a dwarf with an oversized head; sickly green light rolled in his pupils as he toyed with a string of miniature skulls.

Jared measured them—both High Immortal, second level, pressure thick as wet wool.

Ten lean figures in black robes fanned out behind, movements clipped, disciplined.

One of the robed men bowed so low his hood brushed his knees. "Great Elder, Third Elder, the soul-lanterns of the Shadowkill Trio have darkened. Their last pulse ended here."

The withered elder—Ghostspring’s Great Elder—dragged his gaze across the gutted landscape, lingering on the ripple of warped space.

"Those three were cautious. Something far beyond their measure snatched them before they could even run. Whoever did it is already inside," he rasped.

The dwarf’s tongue slid over cracked lips. "Could be the Malevolent Path Hall. Their agents crawl all over level twelve, recruiting anything with teeth."

"No. We’ve never crossed them, and we have stayed hidden. They have no reason to strike us," the Great Elder answered.

The dwarf frowned, skull beads clacking. "Then who, in all of level twelve, can butcher the Shadowkill Trio?"

The Great Elder’s voice cracked through the wind, impatient and metallic. "Enough waiting. We go in now. Someone else might already be eyeing that abode."

One gloved hand lifted, fingers snapping for obedience. "Map."

A nervous disciple in black rushed forward, presenting a cracked strip of leather.

Even from the ledge, Jared recognized the etchings—it matched the copy tucked inside his sleeve, only older, edges worn thin as dried bark.

The Great Elder and the Third Elder bent over the parchment like surgeons over an open heart, lines of gold light bobbing across their faces as torn space writhed before them.

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