The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5984

The wasteland finally loosened its claws only after Jared and Luther had flown south for what felt like forever. Each mile of cracked basalt gave way to darker ice, the horizon refusing to move. Wind howled through their protective wards, salty with minerals, cold enough to peel skin from bone had the aura faltered. Jared kept half his focus on the barriers, half on Luther’s silent silhouette ahead.

By the third morning, the air itself seemed to glow. Each inhale carried threads of energy so thick they tingled against his teeth. He tasted pine and lightning, a density unimaginable back on level twelve, and the Focus Technique inside his core spun greedily, begging to drink deeper.

The closer they drew to level thirteen proper, the sharper the invisible lattice of laws pressed against his skin. It felt like walking into a cathedral whose pillars refused to tolerate the slightest misstep—magnificent, but merciless.

Strangely, the pressure only clarified his breathing. Once his meridians aligned to the new pattern, each cycle of Focus Technique surged clean and effortless, as though the realm itself applauded his rhythm.

On the third sunset a white wall rose at the horizon, first a glint, then a mountain, and finally the unmistakable silhouette of a city carved from winter itself. Jared’s pulse skipped, not from fear, but from the relief of seeing something built by hands, something that suggested beds and soup and answers.

As they closed the gap, the wall resolved into blocks of midnight ice, each slab veined with pale blue runes that pulsed like sleeping eyes. The protective formation hummed against his eardrums, an unspoken warning that anyone who tried a shortcut over the parapet would leave pieces behind.

Sentinels in ice-blue armor dotted the ramparts at measured intervals, statues until the wind shifted and he felt their collective breath. Even the least of them radiated the calm of the Heavenly Immortal Realm, a reminder that in level thirteen, gate duty was no apprenticeship.

Above the archway, three sprawling characters were carved so deep the frost smoked around them—Coldabyss City. The name alone chilled his molars, yet there was a fierce welcome in its austerity.

Luther stopped mid-air, voice low. "Mr. Chance, that's Coldabyss City." Jared nodded before his mouth decided to move, the syllables echoing in his chest like he had rehearsed them in dreams.

"The place has stood for more than ten millennia," Luther continued. "It’s the most important haven on the southern North Abyss Icefield. More than a hundred thousand cultivators call it home. City Lord Cyril is High Immortal Realm Level Five, a rogue who once unearthed an ancient inheritance. People say his strength is unfathomable, but he keeps out of the big power squabbles. That neutrality draws small sects and independents alike." Jared filed the names away, more interested in the word neutrality than the titles. A city that minded its own business could be the safest hiding place—or the easiest trap.

He adjusted his cloak, motioned, and the two of them descended toward the main gate, feet touching down with the crunch of frost like breaking glass. The guards above barely twitched, but Jared pretended not to notice; dignity was sometimes just ignoring what could kill you.

A cluster of armored sentries waited behind a waist-high barricade, their breath frosting the ironwood planks. Front and center stood a scar-faced man, muscles cabled, aura thick enough to tilt the snowflakes. Jared’s senses pegged him at High Immortal Realm Level Two—here, apparently, that qualified you to check passports.

Jared swallowed a laugh; in level twelve a cultivator like that would be giving royal decrees, yet here he was counting heads at the door.

"Hold it!" The scar-faced man barked, voice gravel dragged over metal.

He planted a gauntleted hand in Jared’s path. "New faces. Where from, and what business brings you here?" The question carried no malice, just the lazy confidence of someone who could break them before lunch.

Jared kept his palms visible. "Jared, itinerant cultivator. This is my companion, Luther. First time on the North Abyss Icefield. Looking to stay awhile, get the lay of the land."

"Wanderers, huh?" The scar-faced man tilted his head, the suspicion almost playful.

His gaze lingered on Jared’s robe seams. "City Lord’s orders: every outsider gets vetted. Got any credentials, or someone inside willing to vouch for you?"

A subtle pinch gathered between Jared’s eyebrows. Identity papers? Of course the guard would ask. They had risen straight from level twelve; no one ever issues level-thirteen tags to strangers passing through empty sky.

Beside him, Luther hurried ahead, his posture folded in apology. From his robe he produced a matte-black bone token and offered it with both hands. "Sir, we come from the depths of the North Abyss Wasteland. Our family fell from grace generations ago and has trained in seclusion. This crest is all that remains. We left the wilds only to see the wider world, maybe earn a little fortune."

The scar-faced man rolled the token between thick fingers, the hostility in his eyes easing but not leaving. He shook his head. "Without a proper jade plate of citizenship, the rule says I must hold you until the registry confirms who you are. The city’s on edge—someone stole one of the City Lord’s prized artifacts. Outsiders top the suspect list, so every new face gets searched."

Jared’s head snapped up. "What?" The word slipped out before he could swallow it. An artifact heist sounded like a flimsy excuse, a net thrown wide enough to drag anyone. Still, a guard with orders was harder to argue with than a gate made of stone.

Luther leaned closer to the guard, voice lowered almost to a purr. "Brother, help us out, will you?" A small pouch of prime crystals slid from his sleeve into the guard’s palm, the clink muffled but unmistakable. "We’re honest cultivators. Not a crooked bone between us."

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