A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5769

Long after, the altar still resembled a storm-stilled sea of bowed backs.

The indelible stamp of golden-dragon dominance had branded itself onto every beast-soul present.

Doubt, disdain, and resentment were ash now—replaced by awe born of blood, and by the sweet certainty of serving an unquestioned sovereign.

At a mere flicker of Jared's will, the pressure of the dragon's power folded itself neatly back into his flesh. Behind him, the towering golden apparition shivered once, then unraveled into motes of light that bled into the twilight air.

He still wore that plain robe, his expression placid, yet to every soul present, he now stood on the far shore of divinity.

"All of you—stand." The words left Jared's lips in an unhurried baritone, gentle yet edged with an authority that brooked no argument.

Relieved, the gathered elders and disciples rose with utmost care, backs still bent, eyes lowered, unwilling to meet Jared's gaze head-on.

Paxton, Bartram, and even Arden now stood like chastened students before a lectern, hands clasped, breaths held.

"Sir, the Golden Dragon bloodline flows in your veins—peerless, unmatched. Earlier, we were ignorant. I beg your forgiveness. Whatever command you give, the whole Myriad Beast Sect will charge through fire and death without a second thought."

Jared's gaze drifted across the still-scorched expanse of the Myriad Beast Altar and the beast clan cultivators standing there, faces caught between grief and fragile hope.

"Tell me," he said slowly, "your sect guards the vast Myriad Beast Mountains and possesses deep foundations. Why, then, are you forever on the back foot against the Infinite Soul Demon Sect—why did Rockhold Gorge burn, why did Elder Flint fall?"

Paxton exhaled, bitterness tugging at his mouth. "Sir, it is not cowardice that chains us—it is necessity. The Infinite Soul Demon Sect squats upon the Blood-scar Plains with forces far larger than ours. Heavenly Immortal experts swarm their ranks. Their lord, Sheldon Soulsby, is rumored to have one foot already in the eighth tier. Our roots sprawl across the Myriad Beast Mountains for thousands of miles. Spirit-veins, herb gardens, mines, and countless tribal outposts depend on us. Soulsby's people strike like flesh-boring maggots—raiding, burning, stealing—always at our weakest points. Gather our power, and they slip behind to ravage the rear. Divide our warriors, and they mass elite squads, crushing each pocket in turn. For years, we have raced from crisis to crisis, our resources bled away, our disciples buried. That... that is how we were cornered into constant retreat."

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