The King Of Warriors (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5693

Jared let the aura of Human Immortal Realm Level Five seep from his pores—an insignificant ripple beside the Heavenly Immortal titans already trading blows.

A few blood-mad cultivators glanced his way, sensed only a low-level opponent, and sneered before charging after richer prey.

Good. The harder they fight, the better for me.

Jared sneered.

In that stolen calm, he circulated the Ninefold Pill's medicine, steadying his freshly mended core while studying the four stone lions and the formation they powered.

Sharp-eyed cultivators finally spotted him crouched there and could not resist a barb.

"Hey, kid hiding in the corner—Human Immortal Realm Level Five, and you dare wade into this mess? Courting death, aren't you?"

"Run home, little whelp! This place isn't for the likes of you!"

"Useless trash—your face alone offends me!"

Jared did not so much as lift an eyelid; the insults flew past like bees that had lost their stingers.

Most of his focus drifted inward, tracing the faint thread that bound the draconic essence on his chest to the distant tower.

In his sea of consciousness, the Vermilion Demon Lord gave a rasping laugh. "Idiots, all of them. Death is a breath away, yet they remain blind. You, boy—you are calm."

Jared answered the ancient voice without moving his lips. "Arguing with fools wastes air. Let the sandpiper and the clam bleed each other dry—then the fisherman profits. Either they cripple themselves, or... I learn how to enter."

Heat surged behind his sternum; the draconic essence burned hotter, as though an unseen corridor now linked it to the tower's heart.

The four stone lions responded, the spatial pressure they exuded softening around him—less a barrier now, almost inviting.

So the slaughter raged on for nearly an hour, a storm that bought Jared every precious second he needed.

The gorge reeked of spent power. Corpses, shattered blades, and discarded talismans littered the broken earth, while the few still breathing—regardless of banner or creed—clutched bleeding wounds and swayed on their feet.

Even those lofty cultivators of the Heavenly Immortal Realm, once considered untouchable pillars, now gasped for air, faces chalk-white after trading strike for strike until their reserves ran dry.

Above them, the protective array around the tower continued to hold, yet every fresh impact sent violent rings of light skating across its surface like ripples across a storm-tossed lake.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify