The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5965

"What cursed art is this? Fall back!"

The Great Elder’s voice squeaked at the edges, already losing substance.

He clawed at the air, flooding himself with power, yet the drag answered laws beyond sheer force.

Third Elder’s charm snapped first. Jared heard nine sharp pops—each skull bead cracking open. The gray spirits caged inside wailed once before the invisible funnel drank them down and spun their shrieks into raw, hungry power.

"No—my treasure!" Third Elder’s voice cracked, slicing through the roar.

Third Elder folded around the empty chain, ribs heaving as though the loss had torn something inside him that even blood could not reach.

"Still worried about trinkets when your pulse is minutes from stopping?" The taunt rolled across the chamber, oily and amused.

A rasping laugh followed, and Jared’s neck prickled—the Vermilion Demon Lord had slipped behind them without stirring a single mote of dust.

Dark talons ballooned to the width of millstones, nails curving like sickles that scraped sparks from the air as they scythed toward the elders’ unguarded spines.

Suction still yanked at their chests from the front; death now streaked in from the rear. Boxed in, the Great Elder and his junior looked suddenly very small.

"Then we go together!" Spittle flew as the Great Elder bared his teeth.

Instead of resisting the pull, he poured every drop—essence, blood, even shards of soul—into the Whitebone Staff and hurled it at Jared like a comet of spite.

Once free, the staff mushroomed to a hundred-foot giant, awful white flames blooming along its length and radiating an ache that promised to unmake everything it touched.

Jared tasted iron; a relic nurtured for uncounted years by a High Immortal Realm Level Two cultivator was about to detonate at kissing distance, enough force to peel mountains.

"Careful!" The Demon Lord’s bravado slipped, the word cracking like old timber.

Yet Jared felt no rush of alarm, only a stillness that collected behind his breastbone like held breath.

"Still." The single word left his lips soft as dust settling.

A low hum answered, deeper than stone under ocean.

Power rippled outward from him; the world thickened, syrup-slow, every heartbeat stretched into a thousand.

The blazing titan of bone, the green sparks, the lunging Demon Lord, even the panic carved into both elders’ faces—all of it crawled like insects pinned in amber.

Only Jared moved freely.

He lifted his left hand, a single finger glowing with flecks of star-colored dusk, and touched a spot halfway down the staff’s spine.

He had felt the lattice there, thin as old ice.

Crack.

The tiny sound rang absurdly loud inside the slowed moment.

The flames snuffed, the bloated staff shrank, dulled, and dropped with a hollow thunk—nothing more than a dusty bone rod deprived of every flicker of will.

Time snapped back to its ordinary drumbeat.

The Great Elder stared at the inert stick; whatever light had kept him upright guttered and went out.

A ribbon of black blood, laced with shredded organs, burst from the man's mouth.

The sound hit Jared before the smell; he felt the life beneath his fingertips sag, as though the body had given up in a single exhale.

Two wet pops followed, sharp and obscene, echoing between the bamboo trunks like nails against glass.

Beside him, the Vermilion Demon Lord drove his claws clean through both elders’ spines.

The talons burst from their chests, each hand cradling a heart still fluttering like a trapped bird.

A shredded whisper escaped their throats, more breath than word, and died.

The Great Elder lowered his gaze to the hole yawning through his robes.

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