The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5950

Oswald felt the air catch in his chest; heat rose through the cold as he drew breath past blood-flecked teeth.

"Heavenly Sword Pavilion disciples, heed me. Nine Heavens Sword Array—slay the fiends, purge the wicked! If the swords live, we live; if the swords die, we die!"

The shout left his throat like shattered ice, yet beneath the chill he felt magma pushing upward, hungry for daylight.

For years discipline had been his skin; now rage peeled it away, and the world narrowed to red mist and moving targets.

The battered iron sword in his grip no longer remembered its original color; layer after layer of enemy blood had dried to a dull garnet crust.

Fine cracks webbed the blade—souvenirs from his last clash with Morven—but when he tested the edge it still whispered of death.

A wall of voices surged behind him, nine hundred throats fused into one resolve.

"If the swords live, we live! If the swords die, we die!"

Order dissolved into lethal flexibility; trios and quints peeled away, each forging a pocket-sized Demon-Slaying Sword Array meant to cut like surgical steel.

Every flash of metal produced a bloom of scarlet, brief and obscene against the storm-gray sky.

Heavenly Sword Pavilion had always prized offense, but with death already accepted the cultivators fought as though the next heartbeat was theft.

A single thrust often ended with steel buried between brows; a downward arc sent heads spinning free—clean, unquestioning finality.

Across the shattered plain another roar rose, rough with desperation.

"Five-Element Sect disciples, seal the heavens, crush all sorcery! Today—we fight until none remain!"

Oswald recognized Aurelian’s normally silken tone; now it scraped like stone on stone, every syllable soaked in resolve.

The sect master bit through his own tongue; three spurts of vital blood splattered the nexus stone that anchored their barrier.

Light erupted—five hues braided together, searing Oswald’s retinas even through blinking tears.

The once-flickering dome steadied, then ballooned outward, swallowing more of the Malevolent Path Hall ranks in prismatic walls.

Inside that cage, elemental law thickened until every breath tasted of metal, sap, brine, smoke, and loam all at once.

Blades, spears, and chains of pure alloy corkscrewed through the air, converging on foes like a grinding whirlwind.

Emerald vines erupted, lashing ankles and wrists, their thorns sweating a numbness that crawled toward the heart.

A tidal wall slammed forward; beneath the churn waited countless ice lances poised to skewer anything dragged under.

Overhead, towers of flame blossomed, each petal veined with runic sparks that detonated on contact.

Ground buckled and subsided, forming pits that swallowed legions while jagged ridges rose like instant tombstones.

With the three great sects now weaving carnage beside Jared’s reality-rending strike, the battle’s tide snapped the other way.

He watched the coalition’s front line falter, their eyes wide, blades trembling—fear had replaced every promise they had marched in with.

The ancient opportunists who had pledged loyalty scattered first, vanishing behind smoke and spatial tears, loyalty dissolving faster than their dreams of eternal life.

Jared felt the soil beneath the ruins pulse, as if hollow.

The realization landed with a cold thud—Witherbone Demon must have laced the ground with those disgusting Bone-Burrowing Passages long before today.

A brittle crack tore the air; half of Witherbone Demon’s skeleton burst into pale shrapnel.

The shards drilled downward faster than worms fleeing daylight, leaving only a sour aftersmell where his torso had been.

A wet suction snap yanked Jared’s gaze aside.

Great Elder Bloodsea clamped a disciple in each fist; their faces collapsed as crimson threads spiraled from skin to his greedy lungs.

Satiated, he blurred into a razor line of red and shot beyond the horizon.

Terror spread like spilled oil.

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