The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 6001

The trap he sketched was spare—only what the moment demanded—but every joint locked exactly where it would hurt an intruder most.

It cared nothing for killing. Delay, scramble, isolate—that was the edge he needed.

He siphoned the rich wood and earth breath of the grove, folding it into the lines of chaotic force until the forest itself seemed to breathe unevenly.

If anyone tripped the weave, space would turn thick and sticky; power would crawl instead of race; thoughts would echo against cotton walls.

Sound, light, even raw energy would twist on themselves, too warped to escape the boundary.

Pulling this off without stirring outside aura demanded needle-point control of chaotic force, the kind earned one mistake at a time in darker places.

Each mark had to dissolve into bark, moss, or stone until not even a focused scan would scream deception—only a mild blockage of flow.

Anyone searching would shrug at a pocket of sluggish qi, never guessing guiding hands had shaped it.

Minutes slid by, then tens of minutes. Nothing but wind and resin scented the air.

Pines whispered overhead, scattering broken sun across mottled rock.

Jared slowed his pulse until even the ants on the branch ignored him. He listened for footfall the way a drawn bow listens for release.

All attention narrowed to the pathway’s two mouths. Every rustle inside that range struck his mind sharper than speech.

Half an hour bled away.

A faint ripple touched the edge of his sense net.

They were here.

Three compressed signatures raced up the southern stretch, coy in their caution yet impossible to hide from him.

The lead aura was deep, cold, and edged—upper fifth rank among celestials—Quentin himself.

Two steps behind, twin guards in black kept pace. Their linked breath marked practiced tandem assaultants.

Both sat just a shade below their master yet moved as extensions of one blade.

The trio’s rhythm never loosened. Watchfulness clung to them like a second cloak.

Quentin’s narrow eyes swept the timbered walls. In his palm a sensing talisman pulsed, faint light glancing off blue silk.

Left and right, the guards flicked lethal stares into every knot of shadow, shielding him inside an invisible wedge.

Three hundred feet… two hundred… one hundred…

Boot soles kissed the rim of Jared’s web.

A heartbeat later the unexpected cracked open.

The trigger was not Jared—it was Quentin.

The device in Quentin’s hand flashed red. His step hitched.

"Something’s wrong—ambush!" The words rasped out even as he moved.

He hurled himself backward, body folding into retreat before the echo faded.

A whip of his sleeve sent fan-shaped ice lances screaming toward the bend, blue light scarring the air.

Each lance carried refined frost law; passing through, the very breeze crystallized to pale rime.

A quick flicker of admiration crossed Jared’s mind. Old fox—sharp instincts.

He welcomed the challenge, yet his body never slowed.

Muscles stayed loose, ready.

As Quentin sprang back and icy spikes fanned through the air, a muted gray sword-gleam burst from the pine canopy where Jared crouched.

It sliced downward, ignoring distance as if space itself bent out of its way.

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