The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5947

"What… what kind of sorcery is that?" The question ripped from Morven; the night-black whirl of his pupils shuddered with naked fear.

"Chaotic celestial energy—" Malcolm's voice cracked, "—it can smother reincarnation aura this completely?" Ash color crawled across his face, draining every hint of defiance.

Jared closed his fingers; the pearl winked out of sight beneath his sleeve. When he lifted his head, the two remaining Ghost Kings found themselves under the full, unblinking weight of his stare.

A tremor ran through their spectral armor. Without meaning to, both retreated a single step, as if the gravel between them and Jared had turned molten.

“Cowards!” Morven roared, the word cracking like a whip. He lunged, intent on finishing what his subordinates could not.

"Morven, your quarrel is with me." Oswald's sword slid between them again, its edge humming the promise of injury.

Jared had already turned away, attention drifting toward the battlefield’s far rim.

There, the Witherbone Demon and the Great Elder Bloodsea hammered the Five-Element Barrier, each strike scattering cracks like frantic lightning. The weave of elements wobbled, minutes from collapse.

"Let's finish this." Jared's breath left him in a low promise.

He drew a long breath; deep inside, the spinning Origin Star accelerated until it was nothing but a silver blur.

Chaotic celestial energy, five-element power, Golden Dragon blood, even the searing Earthfire True Flame—every current braided into one unstoppable torrent.

His hands rose, wrists steady, fingers weaving a seal so intricate even the air seemed to hesitate, waiting to understand the pattern.

Within that lattice flickered the birth of worlds—mountains rising, seas drying, civilizations blinking out and in again—an entire cycle playing behind his knuckles.

"Chaos… Genesis."

The words crashed outward. Skies, soil, even sound itself bent, battlefield laws rewritten on the spot.

This was no tidy permission like those granted by the Lord of Reincarnation; it was a deeper intrusion, a ripping up and re-coding of existence.

From Jared’s center, a hundred-mile circle ignited. Reincarnation aura, Ninefold Nether Demonic Aura, soul mist, and death chill unraveled, threads falling away into nothing.

In their place, five-element power, sword intent, even beast-soul strength flared brighter, sharpening every allied blade and claw.

"Impossible!" Malcolm’s scream carried raw panic. "You’re only in the Heavenly Immortal Realm—how can you twist reality like this?"

"The Heavenly Immortal label is a distraction," Jared said, voice steady but edged with fatigue. "Real strength comes from understanding the Dao itself."

"You, Morven, all of you kneeling to the Door of Reincarnation—your so-called Dao is counterfeit, a palace raised on theft and lies."

"Today," Jared said, letting each syllable fall like a warning drum, "I'll let you all see… what the true Way really is!"

The battlefield noise slipped into the background of his hearing; inside his chest, only a single, steady note of purpose remained.

Jared slammed his palms together, fingers folding into the pattern that lived in his bones.

Power surged up his arms, hot, granular, as though the very grains of reality were grinding against his skin.

The clap of his seal detonated throughout the sky, a shattering roar that made even the clouds blanch.

Daylight lurched, draining into bruised purples and sick greens, as if the horizon itself had forgotten how to breathe.

The instant his knuckles kissed, a second concussion punched outward, bigger than sound—something ancient enough to bruise the marrow of space.

It was not a blast, he realized, but a chord—heavy, newborn, the kind that might have rung across the first morning when nothing yet had a name.

The note carried a will too old for language, and every creature within reach felt it press against the wet underside of their souls.

Space around him shrugged, then twisted, as though the battlefield were clay on an invisible potter’s wheel spinning out of control.

Hills bent; banners warped; a hundred-mile ring sagged toward him, ready to be remade.

Rifts veined the air—jagged, black, innumerable.

From each wound bled a thick, pewter mist, the raw, first-draft substance of creation itself.

It smelled of metal and rain that has never touched ground.

Unlike the pale reincarnation aura Jared had battled before, this current sank with the weight of molten lead.

It moved slowly, viscous as fresh pitch, yet its passage growled like a river in flood.

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