A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5990

"It was them… really them…" The words cracked as they escaped him, half whisper, half growl.

His hand shook around the silk; nails bit deep enough into his palm to draw blood he barely felt.

He had braced for confirmation, yet when truth struck, it carved straight through bone—an ice pick of grief twinned with a firestorm of rage.

Mr. Morse—the scholar Jared had dragged from the shattered steps of the Celestial Stairway, the polite sage who reappeared at level twelve and pointed him toward the Ancient Energy Refiners’ Abode—had seemed untouchable.

And Sidney’s wife, barely reborn, her eyes still learning sunlight, had clung to tomorrow like a child to a lantern.

Yet here, in the reeking throat of Soulfall Slope, they had been—

"Where are their bodies? Why is there nothing left?" After scouring the perimeter, Luther straightened, confusion darkening his eyes.

Even decapitation should have left torsos, he muttered, brow furrowed.

Even if someone cleaned up, they would have missed at least a smear.

Jared forced every breath to level out, then fanned his awareness over Soulfall Slope inch by inch.

Near the foot of one pillar, a pinprick wobble in space shivered against his senses.

Thick death aura and rancid resentment lay over it like tar; without his chaotic force, he would have missed the pulse entirely.

"There’s something underneath." He shaped two fingers into a blade; swirling chaotic force answered, sharp and quiet, and he traced a single line across the base.

A wet, tearing hiss split the stillness.

The basalt shell parted, revealing a narrow throat of darkness angling down, barely wide enough for one body at a time.

From that wound gushed denser death and resentment energy, braided with a strange spatial pressure that made his skin crawl toward the cut.

A ragged opening gaped where the hillside should have been smooth.

Faint glimmers of sigil-dust still clung to the rim, proof of the concealment and sealing art he had just torn apart with raw chaotic force.

Any ordinary cultivator would have walked past without sensing a thing.

"Is that… a tunnel down, or the mouth of some pocket realm?" Luther’s whisper scraped the back of Jared’s neck.

The man’s uncertainty fluttered in the stale air like a moth looking for flame.

Jared drew one steadying breath; metallic rot filled his lungs and dared him to hesitate.

He ignored it and sprang into the dark.

Boots slapped stone a heartbeat later; Luther had jumped too.

The passage angled downward instead of dropping straight.

Its cramped walls were glass-smooth, as though some patient tide had licked every edge away for centuries.

With every step the air thickened—stale death first, then the sharper tang of resentful breath he could almost taste.

Under it, a pulse of warped space throbbed against his ribs, as if directions themselves were flexing.

Nearly three hundred feet in, the claustrophobia ripped open into cavernous breadth.

At the heart of the chamber squatted a circular pool as wide as a small courtyard.

The liquid inside was thick as clotting syrup, a dark wine that kept belching bubbles.

Each pop sprayed the stench of iron and something more feral—screaming spite that tried to crawl up his nostrils.

Above the blood, countless pinpricks of warped gray-white light drifted like tattered fireflies.

They struggled without sound, shards of souls denied any door forward, their misery radiating like cold fire.

Higher still, embedded in the stone dome, a fist-sized rhombus of the same pallid light spun slowly.

It breathed the exact law of rebirth Luther once wielded—only purer, domineering.

Recognition pricked behind Jared’s eyes.

Crystal, pool, the killing topography of Soulfall Slope—together they sang one purpose: grind every loose spirit that died here until nothing but obedient ash remained.

His gaze locked on the rim of the pool and refused to budge.

Scraps of clothing and splintered belongings lay there, hopeless flotsam on a red shore.

A broken long sword—plain, old, unmistakable—caught the dim glow.

Mr. Morse never let that blade leave his side.

Beside it rested a smooth jade hairpin still breathing the faint warmth of wood-aligned qi; it belonged to Sidney’s wife.

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