The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5855

"Maxwell Sterling..." Her slender frame swayed. Tears shimmered in her eyes, only to freeze at once and fall as tiny shards of ice.

"He's alive? Is he truly... still alive?"

"Yes. He lives, but remains confined, unable to break free."

"Impossible! Maxwell violated the Celestial Clan's strictest decree and..."

Glacern shot a glance at the woman, throat tightening. "The clan leader himself destroyed him. His very soul was meant to be dust. Kid, don't you dare spin lies to her!"

Jared lifted his chin and met the woman's glacial stare without flinching. "I have not lied. Mr. Sterling himself told me the Celestial chieftain hurled him into a sliver of the void, condemning him to eternal imprisonment. Were it not for his peerless skill and the protective arts guarding his soul, he would have perished ages ago."

The woman closed her eyes, letting the silence swell until even the torches seemed to hold their breath.

When she opened them again, the gale behind her gaze had quieted, returning to its earlier frost, though deep inside lay a tangle of emotion impossible to name.

"All of you, withdraw," the palace leader said, her tone brooking no dissent as she flicked a glance at Glacern, Montar, and at the Celestial warriors crowding the archway.

"Your Grace!" Montar cried, alarm edging his voice. "This stranger trespassed upon our sacred ground, killed our warriors—he must not be spared! And his claims could still be lies. The fate of Mr. Sterling is a Celestial taboo."

Her reply came soft yet immovable. "I said, withdraw."

The words carried a weight that pressed upon the bones, brooking no challenge.

Montar and Glacern traded looks heavy with frustration, yet neither dared defy her command. They bowed in unison. Gathering the warriors, they melted into the palace's darker corridors until only echoes remained.

In the emptied chamber, only Jared, his two traveling companions, and the enigmatic palace leader remained. Her gaze returned to Jared, no longer judging, but studying with an emotion he could not yet read.

"Your name is Jared?" she asked, the question rolling off her tongue like a stone skipped across ice.

"It is," Jared replied with a steady nod.

"You claim Maxwell still lives—what proof do you carry?" Her eyes pinned him, unblinking.

Jared considered for a moment, then said, "When Mr. Sterling taught me his sword art, he left a sliver of his lifebound sword intent within me. He instructed that I reveal it only to one I could trust."

Summoning the last threads of his fading chaotic celestial energy, Jared fed them into the Dragonslayer Sword and recalled the cadence of Maxwell's teaching.

The blade trembled. From its steel rose a hair-thin strand of argent light—so pure, so absolute, it seemed forged to sever every law and roam unchained across creation. The wisp was fragile as dew and could vanish at a breath, yet its flavor was unmistakable.

At the sight, the palace leader jolted as though struck, staggering half a step; her face drained to snow-white in an instant.

She lifted a trembling hand toward the silver filament, halting a hair's breadth away, afraid the vision might shatter if she touched it.

"It truly is him... his sword intent... Millennia have passed. I thought you were long... long..."

Tears finally broke free, yet before they could fall, they froze upon her cheeks as flawless beads of ice.

Jared let the argent thread fade back into the steel and lowered the sword, standing quietly.

Within, a single table of pure ice and several translucent chairs waited in pristine stillness. Mirror-smooth walls reflected the four arrivals as though the room itself were a sentinel taking note.

The palace leader raised one immaculate hand in a simple, unmistakable command. "Sit."

She claimed the central seat, leaving the others little choice but to settle opposite her, the faint creak of frost the only sound in the chamber.

Once their movements stilled, her gaze found Jared with surgical precision. "Begin. Tell me everything you know about Maxwell, every fragment—no omissions, no excuses."

Jared nodded, drew a measured breath, and began: how an accident in the void corridor had hurled him into Maxwell's prison, the void passage; how the ancient swordsman had granted him legacy and guidance. He kept one piece hidden—the matter of the Dragon Sect.

The palace leader listened in perfect stillness, yet her clasped hands whitened at the knuckles, and the quiver of her lashes betrayed a storm her face refused to show.

When Jared spoke of Maxwell enduring millennia of tearing space, nursing only the hope of word reaching his friends and relatives, she closed her eyes, drew several shaky breaths, and wrestled her grief back into its cage.

"Did he—did he speak of me by name?"

She opened her eyes again; a fragile expectancy shimmered there, daring the world to give her hope.

Jared sifted through the recollection, then slowly shook his head. "Mr. Sterling never spoke a name. He only asked that, if chance allowed, I find a certain celestial, tell them he still lives, and beg them not to seek vengeance—only to live well."

Jared improvised the tale as he went, having long sensed that something unspoken bound the palace leader to Maxwell.

Perhaps lovers, perhaps allies—whatever they had been, their history was anything but simple.