The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5725

This was no blunt shattering. Their defenses were being denied the right to exist, their foundations peeled away molecule by molecule until nothing remained to remember them.

"W-What power is this?" the sect master gasped.

He felt the bond between his spirit and the array torn apart, strand after strand. The gulf in power was so absolute that tremors of dread clawed straight into his soul.

In barely three heartbeats, the sect defense formation, strong enough to withstand a Heavenly Immortal Level Five assault, popped like a soap bubble in sunlight—silent, total, leaving not even dust to mark its passing.

The backlash hit every disciple linked to the formation at once. Blood fountained from hundreds of mouths, and the collective breath of the sect turned ragged and weak.

Now naked of protection, they stood helpless beneath the undisguised, murderous dragon's power radiating from hundreds of true Draconians circling overhead.

A thunderous roar—ancient, primal—rolled across the mountains.

Coall seized the opening, his bellow shaking loose snow from the peaks. The midnight-scaled colossus folded his wings and dove, the air itself screaming around his descending bulk.

His mountain-sized body crashed into the ornate gate tower that had proclaimed the sect's glory for ten thousand years.

Stone exploded. Dust boiled upward. What had been a monument to Myriad Arts Sect now sifted through Coall's talons as powder.

"Kill." The single icy syllable fell from Jared's lips like a verdict already signed in blood.

The Draconian army moved at once. They poured through the shattered gateway like a tidal flood, each scaled warrior a cog in a vast, merciless war engine that swallowed the courtyard whole.

Fire Dragons exhaled sheets of living flame that turned pavilions into roaring pyres. Lightning Dragons called spears of skyfire that shredded meditation chambers.

Wind Dragons spun vortices so sharp they sliced apart every desperate formation thrown in their path. Ice Dragons breathed winter itself, flash-freezing entire plazas into glittering graveyards where breath crystallized before it could leave a mouth.

The disciples fought, charms glowing, treasures arcing like comets, yet against draconic strength, hide, and innate sorcery, their arts looked like children's paper in a hurricane.

The gulf in individual might, compounded by the dragons' overwhelming intent to slaughter, meant the contest was never a battle at all—only the unfolding of an inevitable culling.

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