The King Of Warriors (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5221

Rather than retreat, Jared and Flaxseed melted into the outer shadows of Crimson Coil Sect’s domain, staking out a narrow ledge that overlooked the sect’s crimson-tiled walls. They understood that only the master could unveil the truth of the massacre that had wiped out an entire clan years before.

Day after day the sentry lines thickened, traps hummed to life, and the mountain’s very air began to taste of iron—as though the sect sharpened itself for war.

Patience became their armor. They watched. They waited.

Then, one dawn, power rippled from the summit like thunder underwater. Serpentcoil Mountain shook.

Flaxseed’s eyes ignited. “The sect leader is out! Our moment has arrived.”

Jared nodded, though a crease cut across his brow. “He’s broken through to the advanced-phase of Divine Transformation Stage. Stronger than before. We tread lightly.”

Keeping to gullies and broken stone, they slipped past patrols, following that roaring aura toward the peak.

Atop the mountain loomed a vast red palace, its tiled roof coiled into the likeness of a colossal crimson serpent. Strange whispers rolled off the walls; the very tiles seemed to hiss. Venomous vipers coiled between runic torches, and layers of invisible wards shimmered like heat over steel—any reckless step would promise only poison or fire.

Flaxseed stared at the fortress, jaw clenched. “How do we breach that?” Every guard held a drawn blade; every glyph glowed like bottled lightning.

“We don’t break in,” Jared answered after a beat of thought. “I’ll draw the guards downslope. While they chase me, you ghost through the wards and search the master’s hall for records.”

“No way.” Flaxseed’s refusal came fast, fierce, and absolute.

Inside the inner hall, Seraphina Crimson lounged upon a jewel-throned seat, crimson robes pooling like fresh blood around her ankles. When the distant clash rattled the floor, a thin, amused smile bent her flawless lips. “Someone dares storm my Crimson Coil Sect,” she whispered, her voice a silken knife. Rising with unhurried grace, she drifted toward the doorway, eager to greet the fool who thought death negotiable.

The instant Seraphina’s shadow slid across the threshold, Flaxseed slipped in through a side archway, breath held, heart drumming like a caged sparrow. Silk hangings, gold-leaf screens, and crystal lamps dazzled the grand chamber, yet he skimmed past each treasure without a glance. His focus locked on towering bookcases, dusty scroll racks, and carved chests older than memory itself.

Near the rear wall, half-hidden behind a tapestry, he discovered a narrow emerald door veined with softly glowing runes. That must be it—the vault the ancestors spoke of.

Hands shaking, he traced the symbols, whispering the ancestral key-chants that lived only in family legend.

A breath before the final rune yielded, an icy voice kissed the back of his neck. “Looking for something?” Flaxseed whirled. Seraphina stood scarcely a yard away, eyes twin shards of winter glass, every inch of her drenched in lethal poise.