The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 6423

Within the ranks, familiar faces stood ready for battle, each in their proper place, every aura pushed to its limit.

Rowe carried a heavy black-iron war axe across his shoulder, its blade throwing off a fierce cold gleam. He threw his head back and laughed, baring a neat row of white teeth, his rugged features packed with the kind of boldness that did not flinch from death, waiting only for the order to charge into the front line.

The lanky cultivator idly flicked a plain folding fan in his hand. He looked loose and casual, but the light in his eyes cut colder and sharper than an unsheathed blade, and every open and close of that fan hid killing moves meant for close-range ambushes and cutting off retreat.

The middle-aged bladeswoman's ten fingers moved in a blur. Two short blades spun and flipped through her palms at high speed, their broken arcs of light thin and cold, steel glinting with every turn; in close-quarters combat, she had never once been beaten.

"Silas, the white-haired elder, stroked his graying beard with one hand.

His gaze sat deep and heavy as a black well, moving without a sound over the formations around him. While others waited for the order to march, he was already measuring the shape of the field, reading the possible turns of battle before they came, his mind tight on every moving piece."

"Only Rowan stood alone at the very rear of the ranks, leaning on his old ironwood cane.

His back had bent with time and ruin. His cultivation was gone, stripped clean from him, and there would be no blade in his hand on this battlefield."

"Even so, he had insisted on coming in person to see them off.

This was a hard fight tied to the survival of his people, and he refused to be absent from it."

"The war drums had not sounded yet, but the decision had already been made.

The road ahead was impossible to read, ringed with powerful enemies on every side, and still not one person stepped back half a pace."

"Rowan lifted his head and looked at Jared. His voice came out rough and dry, and red crept into his eyes before he could force it down. That gaze stayed on Jared, clinging hard, unable to let him leave without one last warning.

""Mr. Chance, Northern Abyss Gaol is a death ground held by the celestials' heavy forces. Two powerful adepts are stationed there, and the danger is beyond measure. You must protect yourself and bring everyone back alive and safe."""

"Jared stepped forward at an unhurried pace.

He raised his hand and gave Rowan's shoulder a light pat. The warmth in his palm was steady, and his eyes stayed gentle, but there was no looseness in them."

"A faint smile crossed his face, and when he spoke, every word landed with certainty.

""Venerable chieftain, don't worry. Everything I promised you before, I have never failed to do. Today will be no different. I will return safely, bring our people out, and keep Freevale unharmed."""

"Once the words left his mouth, Jared said nothing more.

He lifted his hand and closed his fingers around the void. In the next instant, the ancient, heavy Beast-Quelling Tower emerged from the secret realm stored within his spirit well."

"The tower was black from base to peak.

Ancient fiend-quelling sigils covered its body, each line weathered by time and carrying a pressure that seemed to have survived from the beginning of the world. Under the morning light, it hovered in silence, grave and unshaken."

"The next instant, a vast, blinding pillar of white light shot into the sky.

It linked heaven and earth in one clean surge. Then its soft radiance spread slowly outward, falling with perfect precision over every cultivator assembled at the mouth of the vale, leaving not a single one outside its reach."

"Grand Farreach, coordinate lock—the outer wasteland of Northern Abyss Gaol!"

"Jared gave the command in a low, hard voice.

Spiritual power surged through him, driving the Beast-Quelling Tower's nascence-wrought force of Space Law awake."

"The white light suddenly contracted at a terrifying speed.

More than a thousand figures were drawn into the pillar, every last one of them swallowed by its radiance. One second later, they vanished from the mouth of Freevale, leaving no trace of aura behind—only the empty flagstone ground where the army had stood."

"Rowan remained where he was, alone.

He watched the pale white pillar fade little by little and did not look away for a long time. At last, he lifted a hand and wiped the warm dampness from the corner of his eye, sending up a wordless blessing as he waited in silence for their triumphant return."

"Northern Abyss Gaol hung alone at the farthest edge of the forbidden borderland of the North.

It stood far from the lands fit for the human race and the Sylvan Kin, rooted in isolation on the dead, barren Blackfrost Wastes, cut off from the world and steeped in baleful air."

Among all the infamous prison realms beneath the heavens, each had its own brutal nature.

"In the depths of Blackstone Gaol, molten fire rolled and churned.

Flames burned flesh from bone, and the heat ran hot enough to melt gold and eat into marrow. Not a blade of grass could live there."

"Ashenbrand Gaol was split everywhere by trenches of lava.

Its fire seeped straight toward the heart. The moment a cultivator of spiritual power stepped inside, their very source began to wear down, suppressed and drained at every turn."

"Northern Abyss Gaol was the complete opposite.

It was a land of absolute yin and absolute cold. The entire prison lay buried deep beneath frozen earth that had not thawed in 10 thousand years, sealed away from sunlight, from spiritual essence, and from every trace of life in the world."

"This place had not been born as a natural danger.

It was a remnant battlefield left behind by the elder War of Gods and Fiends."

"Tens of thousands of years ago, countless powerful figures had fought here in blood-soaked slaughter.

Their spirits had been destroyed, their blood soaking through layer after layer of rock and soil until it sank a thousand yards beneath the ground."

"Even after tens of thousands of years had washed across it, the earth still held a dark, sunken red.

"The figure on the left was built like a mountain.

He stood there as if he could prop up the sky, a full 12 feet tall, broad through the shoulders, thick across the back, his body carrying a force that made flesh look inadequate."

"Every inch of muscle on him bulged in hard, knotted ridges.

The lines of his body were sharp and brutal, less like living flesh than steel poured from a furnace and hammered a thousand times over, something that would not break."

"A faint dark-gold sheen clung to the surface of his skin year-round.

It lay over him evenly, dense and flawless, without the smallest blemish."

"That was the unique mark left behind by ten thousand years of bitter cultivation in the Aurelian Deathless Body.

His flesh had pushed beyond ordinary limits. Blades and swords could scarcely cut him, water and fire could not invade him, and arcane techniques found no easy opening. Among those at his level, his bodily defense stood at the very top."

"He carried no divine arms, no edged weapon, no blade at his side.

Bare-handed and empty-fisted, he could still run unchecked across the northern region, enough to make cultivators of every kin keep their distance."

"The faces of his fists were covered in old calluses and scars, some shallow, some deep, all layered over one another.

Every scar was a medal left by battles fought across realms and blood-soaked clashes on the edge of life and death. They marked the fall of countless enemies beneath those fists."

This man was the foremost physical powerhouse under the celestials—Marshal Stone.

"He devoted himself to the Aurelian Deathless Art of the Flesh.

He did not take shortcuts through spiritual power or arcane techniques. He only tempered his body, again and again, until that path became the whole of him."

"In head-on close combat, no one in the same realm could withstand three punches from him.

Across the entire celestial garrison-seat in the Northern Marches, his physical combat strength stood above all others."

"Marshal Stone's gaze was sharp as a blade just drawn from its sheath.

It swept across the vast, lifeless Wastelands."

"Through the screaming cold wind, he locked with perfect precision onto a faint ripple of white light brightening along the distant horizon.

The corner of his mouth lifted into a cold, overbearing smile."

Then his rough, heavy voice rolled out with its own pressure. "They're here. These rebel remnants really don't know the height of the sky or the depth of the earth. They actually dared to charge into my Northern Abyss Gaol alone."