A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5794

A scouting elder—one of the few still on his feet—bowed low. "Our threads converge on the Infinite Soul Demon Sect, Master. They dangled obscene profits, threw in demonic pills and cursed weapons, and seduced Garth. The masked fighters who stormed our gates were their embedded agents."

"The Infinite Soul Demon Sect—Sheldon Soulsby!" Paxton's fist locked tight. Knuckles split, leaking blood that dripped to the moss below. "Until that debt is paid," he growled, "I, Paxton, will not rest!"

A dazed elder whispered, "Sir, what do we do now?"

The question floated over the shattered clan like smoke. Without their stronghold, they were seeds torn from soil, unsure where or whether to land.

Paxton inhaled once, twice, forcing the tremor out of his lungs. "Listen. The Myriad Beast Sect is battered, not buried. As long as hearts beat, we rebuild."

His gaze sharpened. "That begins with finding Mr. Chance."

Gavin and Yvette straightened, sparks returning to eyes dulled by grief. "Find him—yes! Mr. Chance is way smarter and stronger than we are. With him, we'll take back what is ours."

Paxton nodded. "Last we knew, he headed for the Mystic Sky Sword Sect. We make contact, fast."

He faced his two most trusted disciples. "Gavin, Yvette—you each lead a swift unit. Gavin, swing toward the Sword Sect. Yvette, shadow our ruined grounds for clues. Safety first. If you spot Mr. Chance—or anything you cannot tame—pull back immediately. No heroic deaths."

"Understood, sir!" the pair replied, conviction ringing where despair had lingered moments earlier.

Paxton turned to the survivors. "The rest of you, build a temporary camp here. Mend bones, refine qi, gather every stray disciple you can find. Keep eyes on the Melded Beastkin and the Infinite Soul Demon fiends. The Myriad Beast Mountains are our hunting ground. As long as we breathe beneath these peaks, opportunity lives."

Meanwhile, at the Myriad Beast Sect's ruined main grounds What had once been sacred stone now lay beneath the boots of a new master.

Garth lounged on the sect master's throne—Paxton's throne—his hulking frame nearly splitting the carved armrests. Ill-fitting or not, he bared a mouthful of jagged teeth in a smile that stank of conquest.

The grand audience chamber—once a place of solemn oaths—now throbbed with raw ambition. Below the platform, chiefs of the Melded Beastkin tribes pressed shoulder to shoulder with fair-weather defectors and several cloaked envoys of the Infinite Soul Demon Sect.

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