The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 6010

Deep night cloaks the West District as Lyza steps from darkness to the wall of a tasteful compound.

She manifests like the afterimage of a vanished candle, no crunch of gravel, only the hush of fabric.

Night-clothes absorb stray moonlight; her aura sinks to dust level as she scans every branch, every tiled ridge.

Jared’s coded glyphs said the reclusive scholar Mr. Moore sleeps inside these walls.

Her task: remove him without harm; the man bears no grudge, but he blocks Jared’s path.

The night air lay unmoving around the Rain-Listening Pavilion perimeter.

Lyza crouched atop the tiled roof of a side corridor and let her breath settle. She had no intention of barging in and setting off someone else’s alarm.

She dropped to the shadow of a cypress and moved, silent as ink, around the low courtyard walls.

Every few steps she pressed two fingers against the stone, drawing in the ripple of spiritual currents the way others test wind.

Inside, only one flicker of life answered her sweep—faint, unstable, second tier at best. No defensive array hummed beneath the floor; the silence here was ordinary, the kind broken by crickets, not by runic teeth.

From her sleeve she slid a slim bamboo tube no longer than a finger joint.

She set the reed to her lips, let one steady breath slip through, and watched a ribbon of colorless smoke wriggle toward the wooden door.

It seeped into the cracks, eager as a ghost invited home.

The mix carried no scent, yet she could almost taste the bitter herb on memory—last time it flattened three border sentries before they finished a yawn.

Anyone beneath master rank would drift off in a breath or two, slipping into a night so dark even dreams forgot them.

She waited until the glow of a single lamp dulled and went black.

Then she sprang, light on curved roof tile, palms catching the ridge before her feet ever touched the wall top. A silent roll, a measured drop, and she crossed the courtyard on cat shadows.

The main house door stood ajar; she slipped through without brushing the frame.

On the low wooden bed lay an elderly scholar, hair and beard the color of frost, cheeks sunken from years bent over scrolls.

His chest rose once, fell slow, then settled into the thick hush her powder loved. Mr. Moore would remember nothing of tonight.

Lyza knelt beside him, thumb checking his pulse for rhythm.

Satisfied, she pressed a thumb-sized charm against the mattress.

The fabric dissolved into shimmering glyphs, opening a storage satchel that swallowed man and bedding alike without a sound.

She brushed stray footprints from the floorboards, nudged the oil lamp upright, and breathed once across the latch so the faint dust resettled smooth.

When she slipped back into the courtyard, the room behind her looked untouched by night.

The sack hung light across her back as she vaulted from roof to roof, keeping to the blind angles of patrol torches.

Before the eastern watch bell rang twice, she had glided past the outer wall breach, threaded through cedar groves, and reached a limestone cliff pocked with a single narrow throat.

She set the satchel inside the cave, wove a barrier seal that muffled breath and spirit alike, and stepped back into the wind.

Only after the final rune settled did she allow her shoulders to drop.

The mission was clean; no death, no residue. Now she needed distance.

Turning north, she raced across the treetops, mind already ticking toward the hidden rendezvous where Jared’s next order would find her.

*****

Morning arrived bright and cloudless, sunlight rinsing Jade Immortal City in pale gold.

Rania kept her stride light as she crossed the stone bridge toward the Tranquil Heart Pavilion.

The new sea-green gown skimmed her ankles, its cool hue setting off the warmth in her skin. A faint breeze lifted the hem, carrying the scent of dew-heavy jasmine into her sleeves.

She had spent an extra moment on her hair, coiling it high and fastening it with a trembling pearl pin that caught every shaft of light.

The tiny motion of the ornament echoed the cautious excitement fluttering in her chest.

Minutes stretched. Quentin did not appear.

Instead, a low-rank steward shuffled in, both hands shaking around a porcelain cup he set before her.

She lowered the cup untouched. "Where is Mr. Fay? Has he not risen yet?"

"M-my… Ms. Rania," the steward's voice cracked.

Sweat beaded at his hairline. "The Grand Chamberlain left the estate last night. He said urgent business would keep him away for several days."

Before departing, he instructed us to invite a scholar versed in archaic scripture. The gentleman is waiting in the Guest Reception Annex. The Chamberlain said you may go to him directly.

"Left? For several days?" Her brows lifted.

A faint crease formed between her brows.

Quentin had agreed only yesterday to fetch Mr. Moore today; why disappear himself overnight?

And summon someone else in his place?

The move felt sloppy, not like Quentin’s usual watertight habits—more like haste showing through a crack.

Had her probing yesterday unsettled him?

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify