A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5768

Paxton's shoulders sagged at the refusal, disappointment flickering across his face, yet he dared not press the matter.

Arden sat hollow-eyed, realizing he had angered a nightmare made flesh.

Jared seemed to recall something. He turned toward Paxton—and toward the sea of beast-folk whose faces mixed reverence and fear—and released a soft sigh.

"You place great importance on bloodline and innate dominance, don't you?"

Before anyone could answer, he closed his eyes.

A breath later, an aura wholly unlike his earlier sword intent seeped from him—ancient, boundless, regal, the very definition of command, as though a sovereign from forgotten epochs were stirring inside his chest.

It began as a thread, then erupted like a volcano, like the sea breaking every dam.

A roar ripped through the altar—primeval, draconic, echoing across time itself.

Out of Jared's back soared a colossal golden dragon, a phantom so solid its scales threw shards of light, its claws carving invisible currents as it coiled above the Myriad Beast Altar.

Its imperial gaze swept the crowd like a monarch surveying kneeling vassals; the pure, exalted dragon's power cascaded from the heavens, blanketing every inch of the arena. Under that pressure—primal, written into the marrow of life—knees buckled. A single, collective thud followed, echoing like drums of surrender.

Then another resounding thud. Knees struck stone in quick succession.

Like breakers rolling toward shore, disciples on the outermost ring—whether level one or five Heavenly Immortals—found their legs betraying them. One instant, they stood braced for battle, the next, they collapsed, foreheads scraping the cold flagstones.

Even Bartram on the platform, and the devastated Arden beside him, dropped as if their spines had been cut. Robust bodies shook uncontrollably; the tremor came not from fear alone but from a command written deep in blood and soul.

A dragon—he is of the Draconians. And not merely any, but a Golden Dragon, bloodline supreme. No wonder his strength defies measure. No surprise he scorned the seat of elder we offered. Before such royalty, we, the beast race, are but humble vassals.

"S-Sir," Paxton asked, voice reverent, faintly trembling, "may we know your true lineage?"

"My name is Jared Chance. Between me and the Infinite Soul Demon Sect lies a vendetta. If, from this day forward, the Myriad Beast Sect aids me in erasing that sect, I shall guarantee you a rightful place here on level ten."

His words, delivered as casually as drifting snow, detonated in every heart like summer thunder.

No one mocked now; no one questioned.

Only absolute submission remained—along with a blazing hunger to follow this titan toward unimaginable glory.