The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5844

He released his spiritual sense, sweeping the plains for the three colossal peaks Linden had described—spire-like mountains set in a perfect triangle.

Dragon's power and chaotic energy seeped from his pores, warning any North Abyss scouts that a predator had entered their snow.

The trio stood shoulder to shoulder at the frozen border—towering mountains behind, uncharted death ahead.

Wind tore at cloaks and hair, but could not ruffle the certainty in their eyes.

The road to the Blood-Soul Frostpool had only just begun, and the Northern Abyss Celestial Clan's threat lay coiled a single step away.

Ten days passed in relentless flight.

At last, the world reduced to two colors—endless white below, bruised gray above—so tightly fused that horizon and sky became one.

Ancient glaciers crawled like sleeping leviathans. Blizzards lifted powdered snow into drifting curtains that blurred every outline.

The cold here could freeze common steel in a heartbeat; an average True-Immortal would fade within hours without supreme defenses.

"We have crossed into the outer ring," Clara called through the storm, encased in a shimmering sheath of sword-aura that kept the blizzard at bay. "A few thousand miles more and we're near the central patrol routes of the Northern Abyss Celestial Clan. Every step from here demands more caution."

Jared dipped lower, slowed his pace, and fanned his spiritual sense like a radar dish—each sweep finer than the last.

The ice was not dead. Far below, faint pulses of life—frost-beasts, crystalized herbs—clung to cracks in the permafrost. Occasionally, he tasted lingering traces of old cultivation auras—ghost-echoes of those who had ventured here and never walked back.

Roughly two thousand miles deeper, the outer rim of his awareness snagged on several alien signatures—knife-cold, impeccably pure, carrying a haughty aloofness.

They slid over the ice rather than flew, merging with storm and snow as though born from the blizzard itself—and they were closing fast.

Suspended above the blinding snow, Jared let the beam of light beneath his boots fade. "Someone's coming," he said, his tone as even as the falling flakes.

The Vermilion Demon Lord stiffened. Dull crimson essence rippled over his armor like slow-moving ember smoke.

Beside him, Clara tightened her grip on the sword at her hip, her young face set and winter-pale.

Moments later, three silhouettes bled out of the gale ahead, as silent as phantoms sliding through torn curtains of snow.

They wore antique war-plate the color of glacial lakes, every curve etched with layered snowflakes and labyrinthine runes.

Tall and spare, their skin carried the bloodless sheen of things kept from daylight. Handsome features were marred only by eyes colder than locked ice.

The three traded their threats as though swatting flies, never offering the smallest sliver of mercy.

That ingrained arrogance, that contempt for any life other than celestials, drew a frost of anger across Jared's eyes.

The Vermilion Demon Lord's crimson complexion faded to a sick gray; despair and rage wrestled in his stare.

Clara's fingers tightened on her hilt again, knuckles bleaching white.

"So end of discussion?" Jared's tone remained level, yet the Vermilion Demon Lord could hear the storm gathering beneath it.

The captain echoed him, a single eyebrow lifting. "Discussion?"

The captain of the Celestials—tall, silver-haired, his ice-tipped spear humming in his grip—let out a laugh so harsh it rang like shattering glass across the frozen plateau. "The will of our kind is the will of the heavens," he sneered, tracing a razor-thin arc of frost through the air. "I allowed you insects to crawl away as a mercy. Refuse that mercy, and you will—die."

That final word struck the silence like a gavel. At once, his two lieutenants moved. The captain himself vanished, reappearing above Jared's crown with a burst of snow-dust, spear descending in a straight line meant to nail the man's soul to the ice.

To the right, the warrior with a bow drew and loosed. Three arrows, forged entirely from pure, murderous cold, fanned out in a perfect triangle. One sought Jared's chest, the others streaked for the Vermilion Demon Lord and Clara. Even space seemed to crack where those bolts passed. And at ground level, the last warrior's hands blurred through sigils. Within a hundred feet, the gentle snowfall exploded into a roaring cyclone of ice blades, each shard spinning in hungry spirals that closed every route of escape.