A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5724

When Jared's legions darkened the skies above their valley, the sect defense formation ignited from peak to peak. Countless disciples stood upon the walls, faces taut, spell-sigils swirling like constellations around their clenched fists.

At their head strode the white-haired sect master—a man whose cultivation teetered at the pinnacle of Heavenly Immortal Level Three. Behind him, the elder council fanned out like a living phalanx.

"Jared Chance!"

The old master clasped his hands, voice steady yet edged with iron. "Your deeds have reached even our quiet halls. That statue embodies our lineage and the very luck of our gates. We cannot surrender it. Should you press the matter, every soul beneath this roof will fight until neither jade nor bone remains intact."

A roar answered him—thousands of disciples in flawless unison. Magecraft speared upward, weaving their defiance into a single, unbroken banner of will. Ancient they were, proud, and here they would make their stand.

Jared regarded the tableau—ranks set, shields humming, hearts ablaze—with an expression as calm as moonlit glass. He lifted one palm. From it drifted the Bloodsoul Orb, now swirling with crimson so dense it looked molten.

Within, the Vermilion Demon Lord's soulfire had swollen to a knife-edge threshold. All it lacked was one final draught— the pure, founder-forged soul energy sealed inside that alabaster statue—to trigger the rebirth of an ancient body waiting to claw its way back into the world.

In order to rebuild the physical body for the Vermilion Demon Lord, Jared saw no path but this—every turn of fate had already herded him toward the iron gates of the Myriad Arts Sect, and there was no doorway left behind him for retreat.

Cold purpose settled over him like nightfall, blotting out any lingering doubt.

"I have said it once," Jared's voice rang out, clear enough to rattle the cliffs. "Those who ride my current will flourish. Those who stand against me—perish. Myriad Arts Sect, will you flourish, or will you perish?"

At the final echo of his challenge, hundreds of Draconians advanced in perfect unison. The dragon's power they carried rolled forward in a colossal tide—an ocean turned to living pressure—that slammed into the sect defense formation shielding the mountain like a midnight wave battering a lighthouse.

Overhead, thunder stitched the sky while black clouds knotted together, as though the end of days had chosen this very valley for its doorway.

In front of the sect gate, the air itself turned to glass; every breath felt like inhaling shards of ice.

Jared's decree—flourish or die—cracked through every disciple's chest like celestial thunder, leaving behind the chill of a blade pressed to the spine.

Wave after wave of draconic might pounded the shimmering barrier. Runes flared, colors bled, and the dome quivered with a tortured hum, as though the array were a drum skin stretched too tight and about to tear.

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