The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5503

A chorus of grateful voices echoed across the Soul Convergence Altar. Cultivators surged toward the gold-robed cultivator, bowing and scraping as if salvation itself wore his embroidered sleeves. None of them sensed the invisible pit yawning beneath their feet, a pit dug with missing fragments of their own souls.

The Edison lifted one modest hand, pretending humility. Yet a needle-thin gleam of cruelty flickered behind his lashes.

Their spiritual flow will sour soon enough. When their strength withers and their minds go dull, they will feed my Soul Urn to the brim.

The thought curled his lips into a chill, private smile.

"Fools." The single word, low and blade-sharp, drifted from a shadowed corner. Jared's voice sliced through the false jubilation like steel through silk, every syllable ringing with disdain.

The word crashed over the altar—a clap of thunder on a clear day—shattering the veneer of harmony and leaving an uneasy hush in its wake.

Heads snapped around. Gratitude soured to hostility. Eyes that had glowed with devotion toward Edison now burned with anger at the man who had dared disturb their moment.

The burly, bearded brute jabbed a calloused finger toward Jared. "You again, snake! Our advancement is none of your concern. Can't stand to see others rise, can you?"

Jared ignored the outburst. He stared straight at Edison, his tone flat as a judge's gavel. "Hand over the Soul Urn."

The command carried no shout, yet it drilled straight into the cultivator's chest, twin spear-points of intent that made Edison's heart stumble.

The Edison's smile faltered. He spread his hands in feigned confusion. "Soul Urn? Dear friend, I have no idea—"

Even as he spoke he inched backward, fingers brushing the cool edge of a message talisman at his belt.

I must reach Master Drystan. Stall him—just long enough.

Only then did they realize the bitter truth: the spiritual energy that had moments ago felt so fluid now clotted within them, sluggish and mute.

An unseen cage of pressure bound their meridians, leaving them powerless—helpless offerings at the mouth of the abyss they had cheered into being.

"H-How can this be? My spiritual energy..." a lone cultivator stammered, one trembling hand drifting to the center of his brow.

The moment his fingertips brushed skin, he felt it—more than a needle-point sting, there was a hollow, echoing emptiness where his soul once anchored. The vacancy throbbed like an old wound reopened, raw and ice-cold. Terror flooded him. Regret slammed in after it, merciless and late—far, far too late.

Around him, the other cultivators finally registered the same truth. Joy from their so-called breakthrough drained from every face, leaving a chalky pallor and wide, hunted eyes.

They understood, at last, the abyss they had stepped into—yet had no idea how to claw back out.