A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5774

Ssssshhh—

The hiss sounded like red-hot iron plunged into butter. A blistering hole yawned open where the barrier had been, edges dripping like molten glass. Every wraith caught in the torrent shrieked once, then crumbled to ash that never touched the ground.

"Move!" Jared barked.

He and the unicorn flashed forward—one streak of emerald, one of crimson—diving through the breach and landing inside the herb enclosure before the barrier's edges finished sizzling shut.

Heavy medicinal fragrance slammed into them, laced with the copper reek of lingering spirits. The gorge had been diced into countless plots, each crammed with uncanny, faintly glowing demon herbs: blossoms shaped like screaming faces, vines bleeding black sap, tufts of Wraith Grass sparkling with hoarfrost.

"Take the old ones—the richest, the ripest," Jared murmured, sending the words directly into the unicorn's mind. Then he vanished among the rows, a midnight blur.

Both hands swept outward. Chaotic energy became two invisible plows, ripping centuries-old specimens—roots, soil, everything—straight into his storage ring. He chose only the most potent, the kind that would frustrate his enemies, even though it would be of no use to him.

The unicorn had no taste for those herbs, but it adored destruction.

With each playful breath, it torched entire plots it deemed "unappetizing," leaving charred wasteland where order had stood moments before. Now and then it galloped after low-level demonic cultivators who were in charge of taking care of the herbs, driving them away in terrified, stumbling retreats.

One man looted with surgical precision, one beast rampaged with childish glee—yet their rhythm clicked, a perfect duet of profit and ruin.

A furious roar split the air. "Who dares violate our herb grounds?"

When Jared crossed the threshold of the Myriad Beast Sect once more—packs bulging with trophies and supplies—the entire sect roared to life. Cheers crashed over him in endless waves, shaking banners, stone balustrades, even the pine­-scented air itself.

Far away, inside the somber stronghold of the Infinite Soul Demon Sect, Sheldon studied a parchment crammed with losses: more than a hundred elite weapons gone, mountains of ore plundered, the priceless herb garden reduced to cinders.

With a wet, ragged cough, dark blood spattered the black marble at his feet. Rage ruptured his control. A torrent of demonic energy fountained from his pores, rattling every table and chair until they burst into chalk-fine dust.

"Jared Chance! Jared Chance! If I don't scour your soul and grind your spirit to ash, I am no man!" Sheldon thundered.

His roar rolled through the entire fortress, thick with fury, humiliation, and a sliver of fear he refused to name.