The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5670

Venomshade's jaws parted. A column of inky-green poison roared forth, twisting mid-air into a gigantic serpent, its translucent fangs slavering for Jared's flesh.

The vapor had not yet struck, yet its stench alone muddied minds and made stomachs churn—proof that one breath could cripple.

Jared did not step aside. He did not even glance at the Dragonslayer Sword sheathed across his back.

He simply watched the oncoming toxin as if observing a painted scroll.

"Child's play."

With a low grunt, he let loose the tide within. Spiritual energy—tempered in Heavenly Spirit Liquid—surged like floodwaters breaking a dam.

In both purity and volume, his essence already dwarfed most early Heavenly Immortals, a river turned to molten gold.

He pressed two fingers together, raised them like a blade, and sliced the air.

Rip!

A sword-light, razor-fine and pale gold, flashed into being. It parted the serpent-shaped mist as though hot steel through butter, leaving the poison beast cleft and dissolving into harmless mist.

The moment Jared's blade of light carved through the poisonous haze, the miasma lost all cohesion, unraveling into wisps that fled the air like frightened spirits.

He did not bother to watch it fade. With a casual twist of his waist, he flung his left arm backward and hammered a fist toward a stretch of empty darkness beside him—an apparently reckless blow, yet driven by an instinct honed sharper than steel.

"Holy Light Fist!"

A golden fist print roared into existence, radiant and vast, its surface swirling with characters that looked carved from living sunlight. The air trembled beneath that sacred brilliance—majestic, solemn, born to banish all evil.

Bang!

The impact ripped a silhouette out of hiding, dragging Shadowshade from the folds of the void and hurling him into the open like some captured phantom.

Terror flooded Shadowshade's narrow eyes. He had counted on darkness, on stealth, on the damp silence of shadow, yet Jared's senses were too sharp, his strength too savage—and, worst of all, the technique was blessed by holy doctrine that burned through shadow arts like the morning sun. Shadowshade crossed his twin black daggers in a frantic guard, but the fist still punched through. Blood thundered in his ears as he was blasted backward, ribs rattling, lungs aflame.

"Divine technique? What on earth are you?"

Pft! Pft!

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