The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5970

He let his lashes lift. The sigil faded from his brow, leaving him pale and hollowed; opening himself that wide had drained the marrow of his focus.

He drew a ragged breath that steadied on the way out.

"The gamble paid off. Ancient Energy Refiners value the fit between heart and path more than raw might. Let’s go."

Jared drew his shoulders tight and stepped through the jagged mouth of the mountain. The Vermilion Demon Lord's footfalls ghosted a pace behind him, as though the creature feared brushing Jared's sleeve.

Inside, no gems flashed, no golden idols gleamed. The passage was wide but spare, its stone walls worn glass-smooth.

Faded murals surfaced here and there—priestly silhouettes, archaic skies, clouds swallowed and breathed again.

A denser breath pressed against his skin, purer than the air outside. Every step thickened that ancient weight, as if the mountain remembered a time before men spelled power into names.

The tunnel seemed endless, yet only the slow burn of tension marked the minutes. Then the ceiling soared away and he found himself in a cavern that swallowed torchlight without effort.

At the chamber’s center lay a modest pool, water so clear he could reconstruct his pulse in its mirror. Yet threads of shifting starlight drifted under the surface, flowing like a quiet galaxy.

Suspended above that stillness, three artifacts hovered, each turning with the patience of worlds.

To the left drifted a bamboo scroll, parchment neither silk nor hide, dark ochre with age. An unfamiliar black thread bound it shut, yet a tide of vast, smokelike knowledge leaked through the weave.

Opposite, a clay jar no larger than his palm spun in silence. Its soot-gray skin showed nothing, but the sealed mouth throbbed with stormwind and the subterranean heartbeat of continents.

Between them pulsed a fist-sized orb, its hues sliding from smoke to newborn dawn. Within its depths galaxies birthed and burned in the blink of an eye.

Raw origin—his bones could taste it.

At the pool’s edge sat a skeleton robed in coarse hemp. Snow-white beard and hair clung to the bone, preserved in a posture that suggested the heavens themselves had once listened.

No breath lingered in those ribs, yet the figure remained upright, earth-steady, sky-minded. In front of the crossed legs, the stone floor carried several lines gouged so deeply the chisel marks still shone.

Jared caught his own inhale and let it hang, stepping closer with almost reverent slowness. The Demon Lord moved beside him, the monster’s crimson eyes suddenly respectful.

The carved characters were older than any academy chart—jagged pictographs whose curves implied thunder and prayer in the same stroke. The moment his gaze brushed them, meaning bloomed unasked behind his eyes.

"I, Grant, Energy Refiner, sense the shadow of my final breath. Here I set down my inheritance, waiting for whoever arrives by destiny."

"Left rests the Primal Unity Refinement Tome, the sum of my life’s study on the breath that divides chaos and gives pulse to all things."

"Right stands the Mountain-River Cauldron, holding a wisp of innate earth-and-sky essence; it can break devils, nurture veins of spirit, and teach the land’s patient virtue."

"Center lies the Chaos Source Seed, condensed from a thread of primal breath after ten thousand years beside the sea of chaos."

"It offers infinite futures and unmeasured peril; approach only with towering resolve, rare fortune, and an innate bond to chaos. Beware."

"Whoever claims this legacy, honor our craft; do not stain the name of Energy Refiners. The heavens are vast, the way without end, may you—"

The final stroke dissolved into stone dust, time having licked away the master’s closing wish.

Heat flooded Jared’s chest. A legacy of the ancient Energy Refiners—real, intact, his for the taking.

The Primal Unity Refinement Tome alone could untangle the snarl where his four powers met and kept each other bleeding.

The Mountain-River Cauldron would be a treasure by any era’s measure, yet his gaze slid past it.

The orb—chaos distilled—pulled at him like gravity made personal.

Inside his core, chaotic celestial energy stirred, the Four-Colored Origin Star whirling so fast the hues smeared together. Their hunger mirrored his own, urging him forward.

Beside him, the Demon Lord barely spared the relics another glance. The creature sniffed the air, pupils narrowing toward a shadowed fissure in the cavern wall.

There, half concealed in the crack, a translucent herb with nine tiny apertures quivered, releasing a scent that cooled the mind and polished every thought.

"Nine-Orifice Divine Soul Herb!" the Demon Lord blurted, voice cracking with raw delight.

The sound ricocheted off the vault, startling even Jared; he had never heard unfiltered joy in that grating baritone.

He almost missed it. In the hairline crack between two slabs, a tuft of silver-veined leaves glimmered like chilled moonlight—the exact Nine-Orifice Divine Soul Herb the manuals said he still lacked.

A prickle ran down his spine, equal parts disbelief and raw, hungry relief.

At Jared’s side, the usually unflappable Vermilion Demon Lord drew a sharp breath, crimson eyes widening like coals struck by wind.

The shared astonishment fluttered in the dusty air, fragile yet electric.

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