The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 6531

The forces of Glacier and Clarendon were still camped where they had been.

Their tents were orderly and spotless.

Their disciples stood in gleaming armor, their weapons sharp, their spiritual power full.

From dawn until now, they had not fired a single arrow or swung a single blade.

They had only stood there and watched Pole Star Hall's army get ground down, piece by piece, until it was nearly destroyed.

And now, as Starwick came stumbling out of the Shrouded Wood with the wreckage of his army behind him, Glacier and Clarendon both smiled.

Glacier drove the Glacier Chariot forward to meet him.

His ice-blue robe streamed in the wind, and concern hung on his face like a cheap disguise.

"Hall Master of Pole Star Hall, are you all right? Why are you out so soon? We were just about to step in and help."

The mockery in his voice wasn't even hidden.

He sounded like a cat toying with a wounded mouse.

Starwick slowly lifted his head and fixed those blood-red eyes on Glacier.

His fists clenched until they cracked.

His nails bit into his palms. Not rage.

Humiliation.

"Glacier."

His voice scraped out like sandpaper on iron. "You still have the nerve to say that? I was up there fighting for my life. Pole Star Hall lost 1,200 disciples. And you two didn't loose one arrow, didn't lift one blade—you just stood there and watched. Now you're telling me you were about to help?"

Clarendon drifted down from the floating dais, white robes spotless, his smile warm as spring.

It was the kind of gentle smile that belonged on an old neighbor trying to break up a quarrel.

"Hall Master of Pole Star Hall, that's not fair. We agreed from the beginning that you would take the lead. If you couldn't break through, how is that our fault? Why blame us for not stepping in?"

"Besides, we were judging the situation. Look—when you withdrew, Beastmoor Ridge didn't pursue you, did they? That only proves they're running on fumes too. If we strike now, we'll get twice the result for half the effort."

Starwick nearly coughed up blood.

His chest heaved violently.

The strain tore his wounds open again, and golden blood spilled down from his chest, staining the sand underfoot a dark, muted gold.

"Judging the situation? Twice the result for half the effort?" His voice had gone ragged and broken. "Glacier. Clarendon. Just wait. The humiliation of today—I will make you pay for it one day..."

"One day?"

Glacier smiled, and there was no warmth in it at all.

"Hall Master of Pole Star Hall, you'd better go back and heal first. Looking like this, whether you'll even live to see that 'one day' is hard to say."

"The backlash from burning blood essence isn't so easy to endure."

He paused, and when he spoke again, the sarcasm turned even uglier. "Don't worry. We'll handle Beastmoor Ridge for you."

Starwick said nothing.

He gave them one last look.

There was enough hatred in it to flay them alive where they stood, but in the end he didn't move. He couldn't. Not here. Not now. He could not afford to turn on Deepvault Cloister and Saintspire Court in this place.

Pole Star Hall had only 800 broken survivors left.

His own cultivation had fallen to Golden Immortal Level Two, while those two forces together still had 1,300 elites.

No matter how unwilling he was, all he could do was swallow it.

He turned away and led what remained of Pole Star Hall toward the depths of the wasteland.

His back was bent.

His steps dragged.

Behind him, golden blood traced a winding line across the gray sand of the wasteland, stark enough to hurt the eyes.

The 800 survivors followed behind him in silence.

No one spoke. There were only uneven footsteps and the broken, scattered sound of coughing.

Every so often, someone collapsed and never got back up.

Their companions only quickened their pace in silence, not daring to look back.

Glacier watched the remnants of Pole Star Hall disappear into the far edge of the wasteland, and the smile left his face.

Then he turned and met Clarendon's eyes.

"Now," Venerable Glacier said, his voice cold as age-old black ice, "it's our turn."

Venerable Clarendon nodded.

The smile still lingered at the corner of his mouth, but all its warmth was gone. What remained was the smile of a hunter who had finally sighted prey.

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