A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5981

"Mr. Chance, the Supreme has gone!"

The sudden voice skittered along Jared’s spine; he jerked around.

Several paces away, the man he had once called Lord of Reincarnation still knelt, forehead nearly touching the dust.

Jared's fist found the Dragonslayer Sword, and the blade sang free, aimed squarely at the kneeling figure.

"Lord of Reincarnation, what are you planning?"

"Mr. Chance, I just realized—my legs are numb." The man’s voice trembled with equal parts pain and embarrassment.

"Then… then stand up!"

Jared eased backward, letting two cautious steps open the gap.

"Thank you, Mr. Chance." The kneeling man unfolded himself slowly. "My name is Luther, not any Lord. I merely stole my clan’s Door of Reincarnation."

"I have offended you more than once. Please, accept my apology."

With a stiff ninety-degree bend at the waist, Luther held the bow as if waiting for verdict.

The sincerity in that posture cooled Jared’s nerves; he slid the Dragonslayer Sword back into its sheath.

"Tell me this—where exactly are we? And what is the Ghost Clan?"

The questions burst out before he could soften them.

With Mr. Sanders gone, Luther was the only thread left to pull.

Before Jared could form a question, Luther lowered his head in a formal bow. The gesture was crisp, almost soldierly, yet it carried a weary respect that made Jared’s palms suddenly conscious of their own emptiness.

Luther raised a gloved hand toward the shattered mountain chain squatting on the horizon.

“Mr. Chance, we stand on the edge of the North Abyss Wasteland, within level thirteen,” he said, the title ringing like a verdict.

A sigh rasped behind his words, as though every syllable had to pass through centuries of dust.

“Those ruins were once a main stronghold of our Ghost Clan."

"Level thirteen?”

The phrase hit him like the snap of an unexpected gate. He was still only in the Heavenly Immortal Realm; every manual swore the upper heavens demanded long rituals, tokens, trials.

He blinked, half expecting the scenery to shiver back into something lower, more believable. Nothing changed.

Gold-blooded Aurelian, crafty Blaine, proud Oswald—he had offered none of them a goodbye.

Vermilion Demon Lord was probably still pacing the border, waiting for word that he’d survived.

And the women who carried pieces of his heart—he hadn’t even started those farewells.

"Exactly,” Luther confirmed.

He drew in a deliberate breath, thoughts arranging behind his eyes before he let them spill.

“The celestial realm is crowded—countless races, more than stories bother to count,” he began, voice low.

“Humans, beasts, demons—everyone remembers their banners. But a few lines run older, stranger. My people belong there.”

Jared caught a flicker in the man’s pupils, as if the memories themselves weighed more than the words.

“We aren’t born from wandering ghosts,” Luther went on. “We arrive already tuned to soul, death, the turning wheel. From our first breath we can coax the border open, escort the lost, even hold a shard of the cycle’s authority.”

His tone didn’t boast; it confessed.

“Back in the oldest days the Ghost Clan kept death’s ledger for all Three Realms, with sanctuaries on every sky. Souls came to us, and we sent them onward."

Jared’s gaze drifted again toward the fractured ridges. “Then what shattered all this?”

A crooked smile peeled across Luther’s face, pain threading it into something closer to a wince.

“Glory always breeds its own ruin,” he said quietly, then shook his head. “But ours wasn’t a storm or quake. It was… hands."

The air seemed to thin while he searched for a starting point.

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