The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5586

Percival snapped, "Who do you think you are, belittling the Malevolent Path Hall?"

Swish!

Percival's tirade ended mid-word; his head spun into the sky, a crimson geyser erupting from the stump of his neck.

The gathered cultivators froze mid-breath, their faces draining of color in unison, as though some unseen hand had wrenched the air itself from the plaza.

Not a soul had noticed Maxwell move. His arms stayed tucked inside his cloak, his boots rooted to the flagstones, yet Percival's head now tumbled across the marble—severed clean, crown still perched absurdly atop it.

"Prince Percival!"

Esorin stared helplessly, mouth sagging open.

The rest of the Malevolent Path Hall's retinue could only gape, eyes ricocheting between the fallen head and the man who had apparently killed without lifting a finger, their minds scrambling for logic that simply was not there.

"How dare you butcher the heir of our hall?"

Esorin's voice thundered, yet his feet edged backward, instinctively measuring escape routes. The murderous calm clinging to Maxwell's shoulders warned him that caution, not rage, would decide whether he saw another sunrise.

"He's only the beginning. Not one of you is walking out of here alive."

Before the final syllable faded, Maxwell's sword flashed from its sheath—a streak of argent moonlight too swift for mortal sight. A single crystalline hiss sliced the air, razor-sharp and impossibly soft.

Instantly, tens of thousands of Demonic Cultivators—fighters Esorin had rallied only moments earlier—saw their heads lifted from their shoulders in perfect unison, as though snatched upward by invisible strings.

Scarlet fountains erupted where bodies remained, painting towering columns of blood that rained back upon the square like a grotesque thunderstorm.

Enaricus and his surviving men stood paralyzed, stupefied to discover they alone still possessed functioning necks amid the suddenly silent sea of corpses.

Jared felt his pulse hammer against his ribs. He had witnessed formidable swordplay before, but annihilating tens of thousands with a solitary stroke belonged to a realm of power he had never even imagined.

A dark thrill curled through him despite himself; he could almost taste Maxwell's savage delight—the intoxicating euphoria of displaying overwhelming dominance with effortless grace.

Esorin pivoted, staring at the endless carpet of bodies stretching behind him. Carrion steam rose in wavering veils, and his own hands began to tremble uncontrollably.

Raw strength alone rarely unnerved him, yet the butcher's lust radiating from Maxwell felt bottomless, predatory, eager to exterminate every spark of life it touched.

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