The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 6078

Jared's eyelids lowered a fraction. "Which Sacred Paragon, exactly?" he asked, as though the name might unlock a hidden door.

The elder shook his head. "I cannot say."

"The mountain has stood tens of thousands of years. Celestial guardians watch it, but they give no name—only that the remains are ancient and revered, likely tied to their own lineage."

Jared clasped his hands in thanks and let the elder continue on his way.

When the elder's back disappeared into the procession, Luther leaned closer, voice barely a thread.

"Mr. Chance, the energies here mesh in an ugly way—celestial essence braided with Ghost Clan chill. This isn't a normal shrine. And…" He let the warning hang.

Luther's brow furrowed deeper. "The ghost scent doesn't drift; it cycles, almost like someone laid a formation underneath."

Jared exhaled through his nose. A metallic tang rode the breeze, faint but unmistakable—blood, half-masked by pine and incense.

Neither man hurried. They matched the crowd's reverent pace, letting sandals scrape gravel while the path wound upward.

The trail coiled between towering, time-gnarled cedars.

Golden-armored celestials strode past at intervals, eyes sharp, spears sharper.

Each patrol barked orders that reduced seasoned cultivators to flinching peasants.

More than once a guard cuffed a slow walker, sneering as though the offense stained sacred ground.

An hour in, the grade sharpened.

Those at High Immortal Realm Level Three and below fought for breath, sweat dampening their prayer beads.

The mountain's silent rule forbade flight or essence reinforcement.

Without that crutch, powerful bodies felt suddenly human, thighs burning, lungs rasping.

Jared's stride stayed steady; memories of harder climbs in the mundane world left his muscles untroubled.

Higher elevations carried a creeping chill that slid beneath the skin.

With each switchback, another squad of golden armor appeared, as though the mountain's ribs were lined with jailers.

The place felt less like a shrine and more like a cage, and the thought curled into a cold smile behind Jared's calm eyes.

Beside him Luther murmured, "At this pace we'll never reach the summit today. Perhaps we should take to the air?"

The Ghost Clan envoy fixed Jared with an expectant look that underlined his proposal.

Sweat darkened Luther's collar; he had never relied on raw muscle to climb a mountain, and the novelty wore thin fast.

"Fine," Jared said, "but we keep it subtle."

His voice dropped to a whisper, repeating the caution more for himself than for Luther.

Every pilgrim accepted the no-flight rule as gospel; breaking it would spotlight them against the gray sky.

They slipped behind a crooked boulder where no sentinel watched.

Essence folded inward; figures blurred; a heartbeat later the spot held only wind-stirred dust.

A single pulse of movement carried them to mid-mountain.

Below, the main road seethed with pilgrims of every cultivation, each face shining with unquestioning devotion.

Eyes half-closed, palms pressed together, they advanced three paces, knelt, and touched foreheads to stone before rising to repeat the pattern.

Jared lifted his gaze; only frosted swirls of immortal mist answered, hiding the peak like a secret the sky refused to tell.

The fog's edges clung in geometric layers—too even, too deliberate to be natural—which confirmed someone wanted curious eyes kept out.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify