A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5820

Back at Myriad Sword Mountains, the gates of Mystic Sky Sword Sect lay in ruins.

Once a sanctuary brimming with sacred sword energy, the mountain cradle now lay drowned in carnage—a grim purgatory where every stone carried the taste of iron and ash.

Clouds black as split ink rolled across the heavens, blotting out every last hint of daylight. From beyond the peaks came the roar of beasts—raw, primeval, a sound so huge it seemed to tear the very sky in half.

A luminous curtain—the last vestige of the Big Dipper Demon-Suppressing Array—flickered beneath the assault of endless demonic aura and brute force. It had thinned to the frailty of a moth's wing, sputtering on the verge of collapse with a brittle, wrenching creak that made hearts seize.

Each of the seven sword peaks now glimmered dully. Jagged cracks scored their faces, as though one more tremor would shatter them into rubble.

Inside and outside the gate, corpses lay strewn like fallen timber. Rivers of blood carved steaming channels through broken stone.

Torn uniforms of Mystic Sky Sword Sect disciples mixed with charred bones of Demon Sect warriors and the hulking carcasses of Melded Beastkin fighters—one indistinguishable heap of death.

The air reeked of iron, burnt flesh, and something colder—the hush that followed the extinction of souls. Surviving swordsmen, bandaged and blood-soaked, still gripped their blades and held their stations with unblinking resolve.

Yet deep in their eyes crept a fatigue—an unavoidable, rising tide of despair they could no longer hide.

The defense formation that guarded their sect had reached its absolute limit.

Linden stood upon the wobbling summit, his Mystic Sky Sword no longer dazzling but spider-webbed with hairline cracks. He looked bloodless, his robe across the chest soaked dark, and his breathing ragged. He was nearing his limit.

Even so, he held his back straight, the immovable spine of a mountain, and fixed his gaze beyond the array on two figures cloaked in murderous majesty—Sheldon Soulsby and Garth Thornscale.

"Hahaha! Linden, must you keep flailing like a cornered beast?" Sheldon shouted as he hovered in mid-air, demonic mist writhing around him.

The cheek Jared once slapped still twitched with venomous glee.

"Tell me—how many more strikes can that battered defense formation endure?" he taunted, voice oozing relish. "When it breaks, I will rip out your soul, burn your sect's ten-thousand-year legacy to ash, and hunt down that b*stard Jared Chance until nothing remains but dust!"

Beside him, Garth loomed like a walking volcano, dark-red scales glinting under the dim sky. He swung a flame-wreathed war axe and bellowed in a voice like a cracked bell, "Lackeys of Paxton and Jared, today your blood shall pave the rise of the Melded Beastkin Sacred Sect. Kill them all—leave none breathing!"

His roar shook the peaks, the frenzy of a beast gone mad.

Within the failing array, disciples heard the challenge. Grief flared in their eyes, but not a single step wavered.

They understood perfectly: there would be no retreat—only death in battle.

Linden drew a ragged breath, swallowed the copper tang rising in his throat, and—voice broken yet unyielding—commanded, "Disciples of Mystic Sky Sword Sect, heed me! Activate the Seven-Star Doomblade with me. We will give our all and perish with our foes!"

"Perish with our foes!" the remaining swordsmen roared together, a tragic tide that seemed to pierce the heavens.

They poured the last of their sword essence into the array's foundation; some even burned their blood essence to buy one final burst of power.

The seven peaks convulsed. Stone split apart as ancient, razor-keen sword intent—long buried in the bedrock—was hauled to the surface like dragons unchained, racing toward each summit.

Boom!

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