A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 6080

"This aura… this shape…," he murmured, color draining from his cheeks.

Shock hollowed his voice. "Impossible… how could it be…?"

Jared caught the change. "You recognize it?"

A Ghost Clan powerhouse? Jared's brows knit together.

"Why would the celestials enshrine a Ghost Clan lord on their own mountain?"

"That is exactly what I cannot fathom."

Luther shook his head, bewildered. "Legend says Lord Mournwright fought three True Immortals alone and vanished in battle ages ago. Every record claims he died and his spirit returned to the Nether."

He gestured toward the blood-soaked idol. "If this is his likeness, why would the celestials try to revive him with blood and souls?"

Just then the gold-crowned overseer bellowed again, "Keep the blood flowing! The ghoul corpse nears awakening!"

Ghoul corpse. The term slammed into Luther like a hammer.

A shiver ran through him.

"I understand now…," he breathed, anger lighting his eyes. "They're not resurrecting Lord Mournwright. They want to forge him into a ghoul puppet under their command!"

"A ghoul puppet?" Jared pressed.

"A forbidden Ghost Clan ritual," Luther hissed. "You preserve the corpse's power but erase its mind, turning it into a killing tool that only the maker can direct. Even our own clan bans it, yet the celestials—"

He never finished. The entire Sacred Mountain lurched, stone groaning deep below.

The tremor did not belong to the cavern alone—it rippled through the whole mountain mass like a living heartbeat gone mad.

A deep, grinding roar rolled through the Sacred Mountain. The slope shuddered beneath Jared's boots.

Above him, boulders as wide as houses tore free and thundered downward while jagged fissures raced across the trail and split the earth open.

The pilgrims scaling the mountain screamed, panic shattering their chants.

Convinced some Sacred Paragon had shown himself, they flattened against the shaking ground and pressed their foreheads into the dust.

Jared braced, knees bent, until the trembling settled enough to stand. Beside him, Luther matched the stance.

They lifted their eyes toward the summit.

Through the ragged veil of mist, eight blood-red pillars erupted from the top of the Sacred Mountain and speared straight into the sky.

The pillars stood on the points of an unseen octagon. Currents of the same scarlet energy leapt between them, weaving a formation that draped over the whole mountain like a net.

From the very center—right where the summit lay—a brutal pull throbbed outward in waves, as if the mountain itself had turned into a giant vortex.

The blood that oozed from the slit wrists of the captives no longer trickled along the carved grooves at the statue's feet.

Invisible force caught every drop, drew it into thin crimson threads, and whisked it toward the peak.

It did not stop there. All across the Sacred Mountain, every living thing—pilgrim, celestial guard, even the hidden birds and beasts—felt blood churn inside their veins, as if a greedy hand were trying to haul it straight out.

The golden-crowned cultivator's voice shook. "All eight altars… they are all running…"

He dropped to his knees, eyes blazing with ecstasy.

"The Sacred Paragon is about to return! The Celestial Palace will command another unbeatable ghost corpse!"

Luther snapped out of his shock and nodded hard. "Understood!"

His figure blurred into dozens of overlapping silhouettes that threaded through the cavern at impossible angles.

Where a shadow passed, the iron chains piercing each desiccated shoulder snapped, and the suspended husks dropped like brittle branches.

Though those bodies were long dead, their souls still flickered nearby; saving them now might earn them a chance at a new life.

He reached the fresher captives—none had been hoisted yet—and sliced every restraint, shepherding them toward the tunnel wall.

The golden-crowned cultivator snarled, "Courting death!"

Seeing Jared carve unhindered and Luther ruin his "materials," the man's fury finally broke loose.

He yanked out a small golden bell and shook it with all his strength.

Ding-ling-ling—the chime cut through stone and smoke.

The clear peal echoed around the cavern's vaulted ceiling like icy water.

The freed cultivators went vacant, red haze pooling in their eyes. As one, they wheeled and lunged at Luther.

Luther gasped, "The Soulbinding Bell!"

His face drained; he sprang backward to gain room.

Under the bell's sway they had become the golden-crowned cultivator's puppets—mindless, reckless, and utterly determined to tear Luther apart.

Their realms were low, yet sheer numbers and their refusal to fear death tangled Luther in a crushing knot.