The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 6042

"Looks like the trip through the Godgrave Mountains wasn’t a waste after all."

Jared handed the fragment back. "It belongs to the Ghost Clan. Keep it. It may lead you to your kin."

Luther met his gaze, gratitude flickering behind the black smoke in his eyes, and stored the fragment with solemn care.

They combed the hall again, turning loose stones and cracked altars until they found several battered Ghost Clan artifacts and a handful of ancient alloys.

Small pieces, yet rich enough to fill a cultivator’s year of trade.

With nothing left to claim, they stepped outside and pushed west, leaving the fallen temple to its silence.

The journey stayed mostly calm. Threats appeared—loose spirits, crumbling traps, hungry beasts—but none rose high enough to break their stride.

Twenty days of flight carried them past the last ridge of the Godgrave range and onto the soil of the western region.

The first sight made them frown. Heat haze blurred a horizon that held no end.

Where the northern region glittered with ice fields, and the central realm rolled with green hills, the west unspooled as barren desert and shattered redbed rock.

Yellow sand billowed; scorched earth stretched mile after mile.

A burning wind sliced across exposed skin, kicking sheets of grit into the air.

Every breath tasted of dryness and quiet violence; the local spiritual energy lay thin, edged, and wild.

Here and there stood dead poplars or spiny cacti, their shadows cast over bleached animal bones half-buried in the dunes.

"The western region… its reputation is deserved."

Luther sighed. "No wonder they call it a place of exile. Living or cultivating here costs ten times the effort."

Jared studied the blowing sand. Harsher lands forged harder lives; any beast that lasted here would demand respect.

They altered course and flew toward the Myriad Monster Mountain Range marked on Immortal Cyril’s map.

With every league the desert worsened, the sun sharper, the dunes steeper.

Sandstorms roared, pits of shifting sand opened without warning, and venomous scorpions or sand vipers struck from hiding.

At noon the sand could roast an egg; at midnight it could crack stone with frost.

Their cultivation sheltered them. Natural perils passed like buzzing flies against their protective aura.

What set their nerves on edge were the growing footprints of civilization—more precisely, of the celestials.

On the third evening they glided above a dried riverbed and spotted the first celestial outpost.

The fortress was crude but strong, walls of stacked boulders, patrolled by armored sentries. Above it, a few small airships hovered, their array lights sweeping the dunes.

Around those walls lay scattered beast-race corpses—some sun-bleached to parchment, others fresh enough to glisten.

"A celestial demon-suppression post."

Icicles shone in Jared’s eyes. "Immortal Cyril was right—celestials are crushing the beast resistance with blood."

They veered wide of the stronghold and pressed farther into the desert.

Nearer the Myriad Monster Mountains, the outposts multiplied, and so did the mutilated bodies of beasts.

Even the wind-driven sand could not wash away the faint, metallic scent of spilled blood.

A collapsed ridge cut across their line of travel.

Patches of ground had turned to cinders, and splinters of ruined talismans glittered among scattered rocks. Everywhere the land still wore the wounds of small, unseen skirmishes.

"Mr. Jared," Luther said, his voice tight, "the situation is even worse than we imagined."

Luther’s face hardened. "The celestials have dug in here. I fear the Beastfolk Resistance is barely holding on."

Jared dipped his head. "First we find the Resistance and learn the details. Rushing in blind will only give us away."

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