The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5799

Clara's temper snapped. Scarlet anger flared in her eyes. "Demon-spawn, you court death!"

With a metallic hiss, her long red sword flashed free, its blade igniting a ribbon of searing heat that leapt straight toward the leering elder.

"Clara, be careful!" a fellow swordsman cried from the rear.

Steel rang throughout the squad as every disciple drew swords and formed a tight, hastily arranged battle array.

Both side's numbers were even, yet the enemy boasted a Level Five Heavenly Immortal elder, a nearly equal boar-headed brute, and a pack of Berserk warriors who knew no fear.

"Kill them! Leave no one breathing!" the Demon Sect elder bellowed.

He and the boar-tusked giant lunged together, their murderous intent locked squarely on Clara.

Behind them, Demon Sect disciples and Melded Beastkin warriors shrieked and rushed the Mystic Sky Sword Sect disciples, eager for slaughter.

Battle exploded in a single heartbeat.

Clara soared like a fire-phoenix, every stroke of her blade shedding molten feathers that hissed through the air toward the elder's throat.

Her form was flawless—true inheritance of the sect. For a moment, she held her own against the Demon Sect elder.

Elsewhere, the boar-tusked leader fought like a living avalanche. Bone hammers whirled without pattern, powered solely by monstrous force.

He crashed into the Mystic Sky Sword Sect's formation. The ground quaked; their coordinated lights flickered. Two Level Three Heavenly Immortal disciples spat blood, reeling from the shock.

The Sword Sect's field-captain—blood on his sleeve, hair plastered to his brow—thundered, "Form the Ursa Sword Array, now! Lock him down before he rips us apart!"

A Level Four Heavenly Immortal captain pivoted, signaling new vectors. Blades shifted like migrating stars, lines of silver light knitting themselves into a hastily redrawn constellation.

Yet the beast-fused warriors slammed against the forming pattern, every strike a landslide, every roar a battering ram that made the luminous lattice tremble.

Those creatures fought as though pain were myth. Flesh tore, bones cracked, some even detonated in geysers of gore—anything to trade injury for injury. Precision-trained swordsmen, used to orderly choreography, faltered. Screams followed.

Clara caught the mounting chaos in her peripheral vision. Panic flickered across her eyes. Her next stroke came a breath too fast, a note of desperation bleeding into the rhythm.

The Demon Sect elder—smile thin as razor wire—spotted the opening instantly. His forefinger, blackened by dark rites, thrust forward. A thread of demon force hissed toward Clara's exposed ribs.

Several younger disciples cried out together, "Clara!" Their voices cracked with dread.

She jerked sideways, blade half-raised. Too slow. Midnight venom raced toward her—certain, merciless.

And then, at that very moment, time itself seemed to cinch tight.

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