A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 6092

Energy shot through the crowd on cue. Spectators straightened, chatter sharpening into eager murmurs while bodies pressed closer to the stage, hungry for genuine action after a string of flops.

Someone near Jared gasped, "That's Hector 'Ironarm' Rowe—High Immortal Realm Level Six. They say one punch from him can pulverize a hill."

A second voice answered, "The Ironarm Vagabond? The guy who runs underground matches at the black market? Now this is worth watching."

Hector strode to the first pillar, lungs filling like bellows, and slapped a dinner-plate palm against the carved surface.

Etched runes ignited one by one, a white beam creeping upward from the base of the pillar.

One notch… two… three…

The climb slowed, each fresh glimmer taking longer than the last.

The glow reached the fourth band and froze, unmoved by the brute's snarled breaths or the torrent of energy he poured in.

Laughter burst around the platform, rowdy and merciless.

"Four bands? Not even halfway!" a heckler howled.

"Better train another century before embarrassing yourself again," someone jeered.

Blood flooded Hector's face; he struck the stone in frustration, hopped down, and barged into the sea of onlookers without a backward glance.

"Next challenger!" one cyan-robed maid called, her tone clipped and official.

A youth in embroidered robes bounded onto the stage.

Silken sleeves shimmered, marking him as someone more at home with ledgers than with blades.

Pale-skinned and delicate, he twirled a folding fan with practiced flair, the picture of a romantic scholar.

A murmur rose. "That's the young owner of Rowe Trading House. What's a merchant's heir doing up there?"

Another voice countered, "Don't underestimate him—Young Master Rowe stands at High Immortal Realm Level Five. They measured a profound-grade spirit root when he was still a child."

Unhurried, the young master approached the first pillar, snapped his fan shut, and set slender fingers on the carvings.

Soft light flickered to life at his touch.

One band, two, three, four, five…

At the sixth mark the glow stuttered, wavering between six and seven before tiring there.

A thin stiffness crept into the young master's smile.

"Six and a half? Still miles away!" a spectator crowed.

"Young Master, those lily-white hands belong at a ledger, not a pillar," another laughed, and chuckles rippled outward.

He cleared his throat, bowed toward the sedan. "Young Master Rowe's learning is shallow; I dare not presume," he announced before retreating at speed.

More laughter chased him, spreading across the square like ripples in a pond.

The third hopeful was a gaunt elder, beard and hair snow-white. He claimed three centuries of reclusive cultivation as he mounted the platform.

Spectators expected marvels, yet the first pillar stopped at five bands while the second stalled at a miserable three.

"Grandpa, shouldn't you be bouncing great-grandkids instead of wooing brides?" a wit shouted.

"Maybe he believes age improves vigor!" someone cracked, drawing coarse guffaws.

The elder slipped away, shoulders drooping, and vanished back into the crowd.

The fourth, fifth, sixth—one contender after another climbed up only to shuffle down in defeat moments later.

Every fresh hopeful left the stage as quickly as he arrived, pride drained and eyes averted.

Some failed to push the first pillar past five bands; others cleared that hurdle only to have the second expose their limits.

The unluckiest tested all four pillars, totaling a mere ten bands before jeers drove him off the platform.

"Does anyone else wish to try?" the maid asked, fatigue edging her words.

A rustle of whispers answered, yet no one stepped forward.

"Chance Family set the bar absurdly high," someone muttered. "Clearing two-thirds on every pillar? That's monstrous."

"First pillar measures celestial-energy strength," another explained. "Crossing two-thirds means at least High Immortal Realm Level Seven purity."

"Second pillar gauges absolute capacity—core volume, meridian toughness—only freakish gifts make the cut."

"Third checks raw physical power; maybe a body-cultivator squeaks by," a burly spectator conceded.

Another echoed, "Young Lord Dominic himself.

What brings him here?"

A third voice laughed nervously.

"With him competing, what chance does anyone else have?"

Someone nearer the back added, "He's already High Immortal Realm Level Nine and not even one hundred twenty yet.

A born favorite of the skies!"

Dominic let the chatter roll past as though it belonged to another world, eyes forward, pace unbroken toward the stage.

Every footfall landed unhurried, almost leisurely, like a master inspecting his own garden instead of a challenger approaching a trial.

The eight maidservants instinctively dipped their heads.

Even the curtain of the Eight-Treasure Crystal Palanquin quivered, faint as a held breath.

Dominic stepped onto the platform and faced the four testing columns.

A faint, elusive smile curved his lips as he glanced over the sea of faces below.

A middle-aged cultivator muttered, "At last, someone who looks the part."

Dominic did not test immediately.

He offered the palanquin a slight nod.

"Miss Chance, Dominic presents himself today.

Forgive the intrusion."

Silence, then a cool female voice drifted from within.

"Lord Wagner's arrival honors the Chance family."

He answered with a light smile, turned, and walked toward the first column.