The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5571

Isabel leapt to her feet, braids whipping behind her. "Ms. Dusko, you're incredible! Finish that fiend!" she cried, voice echoing against the marbled pillars.

Percival's strength waned; his breathing grew ragged. At last, Esorin could bear the spectacle no longer.

He flashed skyward, ready to intervene—only for a thunder-rich voice to roll from the horizon. "People from the Malevolent Path Hall, how dare you run rampant within my Celestial Palace!"

In that fraught instant, a vast presence awakened deep inside the palace. The air vibrated with a sovereign might that pressed on every soul present.

The power surged outward like a relentless tide, irresistible, enormous—each wave a silent decree demanding obedience.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Faces tilted toward the palace's inner darkness, eyes wide with a mingling of awe and dread.

"Th-that aura—tell me I'm wrong, but... could that be the Quartet Celestial Guards of the Celestial King Palace?"

The color drained from Enaricus' face. A nameless dread crawled up his spine, pricking every nerve with icy needles.

He had come armed with schemes and swagger, convinced that no hidden power remained beneath those ancient eaves. Now the plan he had rehearsed so carefully began to crumble, pebble by pebble, inside his mind.

After all, the Quartet Celestial Guards were only legends. No one alive had ever laid eyes on them—until this moment.

Esorin knit his brows. "So the palace still hides strength like that," he murmured, and the reverence in his weathered gaze unsettled even him. For a man accustomed to steering calamities, the situation suddenly felt far more tangled than anything he had bargained for.

Onneas felt her heart kick against her ribs; realization flashed through her like white lightning.

Only the Quartet Celestial Guards could unleash a presence so vast, so terrible, that the very air seemed to warp beneath it.

Since time immemorial, those four had been the palace's living bulwark, their fathomless power woven into every brick and banner. Today, the clamor raised by Enaricus and his allies had finally roused them from their centuries of silence.

A hush rippled outward as a single figure emerged from the palace's inner darkness, each step measured, inevitable.

He wore gilded armor polished to a mirror, the plates catching stray sunlight and hurling it back in blinding shards. His face—firm, middle-aged, and carved with unyielding authority—radiated a sanctity that brooked no defiance.

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