A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5925

Ignatius continued with his introductions, gesturing toward the younger pair. "Behind him stand his personal disciples, Leopold Hawke and Selina Moonfield. As for the rest of our guests... All of them fled here from level twelve."

Fled?

The single word echoed in Jared's mind, cold and metallic. His pupils constricted, a blade-thin glint flashing across his amber eyes.

For cultivators, the road had always been simple to name and cruel to tread. They had to defy fate, risk their lives, and constantly strive toward higher realms of existence.

Those stranded in level eleven dreamed of breaching the twelfth. Those already astride that summit whispered of a fabled thirteenth level, then of realms so distant they carried no name at all.

This hunger for ascent was an iron law, older than dynasties, etched into the marrow of every era.

Yet today, elites of level twelve had fled—battered, desperate—to seek shelter on the eleventh. The very notion cracked destiny's spine.

"Father—" Jared began, voice pitched low enough that only Ignatius could hear.

Reining in the questions boiling behind his ribs, he offered a bow in formal salute. "Ladies and gentlemen, for what purpose have you crossed the boundary to this humble hall?"

His courtesy landed like a stone in still water; several muffled, frigid snorts rippled through the great hall.

The one-armed elder in a storm-green robe jerked up his head, veins blazing scarlet across his eyes. "What brings us? Young man, are you truly ignorant, or are you putting on an act?" he scolded.

"Elio Frostgate, mind your words!" Winslow cut in, the rebuke snapping through the hush like a bowstring.

He turned to Jared, letting the edge of his tone soften. "It seems you have been secluded in cultivation, unaware of the chaos outside. I will be brief."

Drawing a breath that trembled in his chest, he delivered each word like a funeral bell. "Level Twelve is drowning in calamity. Three months ago, Malevolent Path Hall went out in full force. Under Malcolm, it unveiled a nightmare—an abomination called the Soul-Devouring Puppet. Its power rivals Top Level High Immortal Realm Level One, and it doesn't fear pain or death. With thirty thousand Soul Hunters under its command, they started from the eastern region of level twelve and launched a hunt that would sweep across the entire realm."

Jared frowned. "A hunt?" he echoed, the single word heavy as an anvil.

"To hunt the living and extract their divine souls," Winslow replied, the words tasting of rusted iron. "Any cultivator above Heavenly Immortal Realm Level Eight is prey. In just three months, the Three Great Celestial Sects in the east have vanished. Kneel or resist, it mattered not—each soul was ripped out, every corpse hammered into puppets for the hunters. Elio fled Frostgale Valley; two of its three elders died, while the rest scattered to the winds. Lyla Harpwell is from Heavensong Pavilion. Her master shattered her primordial celestial weapon to shield her disciples, perishing with three Soul Hunters. Those three armored men are the Mountguard Sect's remaining elites. When their mountain gate was breached, their sect protected three hundred children and fought their way out. Now, only the three of them remain."

A hush settled over the audience chamber, thick and suffocating.

Only the stifled sobs of a few young survivors and the soft drip of Lyla's blood striking marble dared disturb the silence.

Weight gathered in Jared's chest until each heartbeat felt like a stone sliding down a well.

Memory flared—back in the Chthonic Abyss, Soul Devourer had said, "When I reach level twelve and reclaim my strength..."

Back then, the chill along Jared's spine had seemed irrational. Now it felt like prophecy fulfilled.

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