The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 6142

The two casual syllables cracked like twin slaps, landing first on Rowan's cheek and then on every Wagner clansman who heard them.

Color drained from Rowan's face. The veins at his temples jumped, and the rigid line of his jaw said he had finally grasped just how far out of his depth he was—by a hundred-fold, by a thousand-fold.

"I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" he roared, voice scraping.

He clenched his teeth and lunged again.

This time he held nothing back. Fist shadows and palm winds laced together into a killing web, every step designed to carve Jared into scraps.

The outcome did not shift an inch.

Jared never sidestepped, never raised a guard. He stood like a sea-fixing pillar planted in bedrock.

Each punch landed and vanished as though the man were a bottomless lake, waves utterly absent.

Each palm struck his chest and slipped away like a spring breeze brushing a cliff face, unable to move the stone at all.

After ten exchanges the storm of blows ended.

Rowan bent at the waist, lungs pumping, sweat pouring down the ridge of his nose. The terror shining in his eyes was thick enough to read from across the room.

His hands quivered without permission, knuckles aching as if he had been pounding raw flesh against millennia-old iron.

Jared still looked down at him, calm and detached, eyes as flat as standing water without a ripple.

"Done yet?"

He asked it softly, the gentle tone crawling under the skin like something that did not belong.

Rowan's mouth worked. No sound followed. His dried throat refused every threat he tried to form.

A shudder rolled through him from tailbone to scalp, hollowing out whatever will to fight remained.

Jared raised his hand. The movement was slow, almost considerate.

Then the hand dropped.

"Pff—"

A muffled burst echoed.

Rowan's proud head exploded like a melon smashed by a sledge.

Red and white sprayed across floor and table legs.

The headless body wobbled once, then toppled with a thud.

The Wagner Patriarch—Rowan of the True Immortal Realm Level One—was gone.

So swift, so stifled, so absurd that the word 'death' felt almost out of place.

Silence swallowed the hall.

A pin striking the floor would have rung like a bell.

Guests, Wagner disciples, and the few guards still breathing stood frozen, as though a binding spell had locked every joint.

Rowan, a True Immortal Realm Level One, had just fallen?

Cut down by a High Immortal Realm Level Three youth, as casually as someone swats a fly?

What kind of world allowed that?

Jared lowered his hand and swept his gaze over the hall, eyes unhurried and steady.

Wherever that gaze passed, heads dropped; no one dared meet it.

"Who else?"

The three calm words detonated inside every chest like hidden thunder.

No one took a step.

No one opened a mouth.

Even breathing came out in tiny, strangled wisps.

Dominic sagged in his chair, warmth flooding down his legs and pooling beneath him, yet he seemed not to notice.

He stared at his father's headless corpse and the spreading blood, mind struck blank, left only with the black tunnel of despair.

Jared moved toward him, footsteps unhurried.

Each soft impact landed on Dominic's chest like a hammer, squeezing the air from his lungs, stalling his heartbeat.

At last Jared stopped directly in front of him.

A damp shadow blanketed the space, and Dominic felt as though an icy grip had closed around his throat, squeezing until no air could pass.

"Dominic."

Jared spoke, his voice flat and even. "I already told you—there are things in this world you have no right to touch."

"And there are people you can never afford to provoke."

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify