A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5998

First light pried at the horizon, a weak blade of silver cutting through the spiritual haze above Jade Immortal City. It did nothing for the knot twisting in Quentin’s gut; the whole manor felt braced for bad news.

Inside the Executioners’ Quarters duty room the air was worse, as if frost had been packed into the walls and told never to melt.

Four enforcers stood below him, faces leached of color, sweat shining on their lowered brows. None dared draw a full breath.

He rested behind the broad slab of obsidian that served as his desk, the stone cold enough to bleed through his sleeves.

The ink-green brocade of his robe rasped when he shifted, the cloud-stitching catching at his forearms.

A tight ache rode the muscles around his eyes—he did not need a mirror to know the look would slice.

Quentin, Grand Chamberlain of Internal Affairs, let the silence steep one breath longer.

"Over one night, two living men vanish right beneath your eyelids—care to explain?"

His tone stayed level, almost mild; the words still made the four men shiver as though he had slammed a blade into the table.

"R-revered Grand Chamberlain," the lead enforcer began, his voice trembling.

"We kept to routine. At the midnight hand-off the logs were clean, Miles was on duty and never left the quarters. Garth—he had the day off—went to the Drunken Immortal Tavern as usual and has yet to return. At roll call this dawn, neither could be found. We searched the quarters, the tavern, the Thousand-Gold Parlor, every haunt they favor—nothing. We questioned their colleagues; no one heard so much as a creak last night…" Quentin cut the report short, letting one fingertip drum the obsidian—sharp, metronomic.

"What about the warding formation around the quarters? Any sign of breach?"

"The formation ran normally, no record of a trigger," came the answer.

"We inspected Miles’s quarters and every corner inside and out. No marks of struggle, no lingering aura, nothing. Everything is… unnervingly intact."

A second enforcer swallowed and added, his disbelief plain, "It’s normal in a way that feels wrong, Grand Chamberlain."

Quentin mouthed the words—normal in a way that feels wrong—letting them roll across his tongue as his eyes narrowed, the chill in them sharpening.

"Two High Immortal Level Four body cultivators," he said, voice silk around steel.

"Miles on duty inside a warded compound—yet they vanish without a ripple? Not even dust out of place?"

He rose and paced to the lattice window.

Dawn spilled pale gold across the courtyard, but his stare only deepened, tunneling past the light.

He had plucked the Garth-Miles brothers from gutter brawls, shaped them into fists for chores no ledger would admit—like the Soulfall Slope matter weeks ago.

For both fists to vanish now, leaving neither blood nor corpse, screamed design.

Without turning from the window he asked,

"Lately, has anyone been sniffing around the city for things they should leave buried?"

The men traded looks.

Finally one ventured, "Grand Chamberlain, a few days back… rumors said someone paid heavily at the Knowledge Pavilion in the Western District, asking about Soulfall Slope."

"Specifically about the man and woman involved," he continued, shrinking under Quentin’s silence.

"But the pavilion’s old keeper guards his clients; we couldn’t learn who asked."

Quentin’s gaze snapped to the enforcers, voice low but serrated. "Soulfall Slope… that pair..."

He pivoted slowly, the lamplight sliding over his cheekbones as a brief shadow flickered behind his eyes.

"What else?" The words sounded almost bored, but the hush that followed hurt the air.

The youngest enforcer swallowed so hard Quentin heard it. "And… and…" He forced the next pieces out in a rasp.

"Yesterday afternoon, one of Punishment Hall’s outer lookouts sent word. Fresh faces were circling the Drunken Immortal Tavern, asking after Garth."

"We thought it was a routine grudge, maybe debt collection, so we… dismissed it."

The report barely landed before a sound like ice shattering cracked across the duty room.

Quentin’s palm hammered the obsidian tabletop; a corner splintered, powdered stone dusting his boots.

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