The skirmish in the gorge altered ra''s attitude overnight. Her doubts vanished, reced by respect. She now sought Jared''s opinion first, allowing herself to act only after a small approving nod from him.


    Interrogation proved swift. Under the twin pressures of Jared''s silent presence and the Mystic Sky Sword Sect''s interrogation methods honed for war, the captured Demon Sect disciples and Melded Beastkin warriors spilled their secrets like


    cracked jars.


    "Spare us, sir!" one demon disciple stammered, sweat streaking the grime on his face. "We were ordered to sweep this sector for stragglers of the Myriad Beast Sect —especially Master Paxton and his aides... Oh, and any scouts from the Mystic Sky Sword Sect. If we spotted them, we were to fire a signal re. Elite squads would move in at once!"


    ra''s tone was ice. "How many patrols in this sector? Where are the elites stationed? Speak."


    "I... I only know our unit," the man whimpered. "Elder Rhysmanded with Captain Fangtooth at his side."


    "Master Thornscale sits at the Myriad Beast Sect headquarters with certain Infinite Soul Demon Sect leaders. Mixed squads of our ns and demon disciplesb the perimeter."


    "Rumor says they''ve ordered special sweeps of old hunting grounds and abandoned mines to the northwest and southwest-im those mines hide fugitives," another Melded Beastkin fighter muttered, clutching a splinted arm. "It''s a good hiding ce, they said."


    Jared listened without a word, filing every detail. Northwest... Southwest... Those might be the escape lines Paxton would favor.


    After the prisoners were secured and the squad had rested, Jared studied the map spread across a fallen shield. "We move southwest. Keep low, mask every trace. If Master Paxton truly fled that way, we''ll find his trail—and we avoid every patrol route we now know."


    "Understood, Mr. Chance," ra answered at once. She ordered the disciples to weave concealment spells, suppress their auras, and follow the path Jared''s fingertip had traced across the parchment night.


    For the next two days, Jared and his small party moved through the Myriad Beast Mountains like phantoms, skimming over ridges, slipping beneath thorny arches, never once rustling a single fallen leaf.


    Three sizable patrols prowled the range, yet Jared steered everyone clear of them. They passed scorched clearings, shattered trees, and the unmistakable gouges of recentbat, but Paxton''s trail remained cold.


    Each hour deepened Jared''s frown.


    The range sprawled far beyond sight, and Paxton-wounded, wary-clearly masked every footprint. Searching like this felt no different from searching for a needle in a haystack.


    Inside Jared''s chest, an unspoken clock began to tick. He could sense invisibles hunting for Paxton and the others tightening from all sides. No one knew these peaks better than the beast folk, and the Demon Sect hadced its own sorcery through the hunt. Paxton''s window for survival was shrinking by the minute.


    ra edged closer, reading the tension in Jared''s eyes. "Mr. Chance, we can''t keep searching like this. Shouldn''t we—"


    Jared lifted one hand for quiet, shoulders rigid, gaze snapping toward a grove of ancient timber to the left.


    A heartbeatter, the faintest sigh of movement stirred the ferns—so light ra might have med the wind had Jared''s spiritual sense not confirmed life.


    Two figures eased out of the shadows, their pelts and skins mottled to match bark and moss so perfectly that the forest itself seemed to peel away and stand upright.


    Beast folk-two of them.


    Both lingered in half-shifted forms, one wolf, one leopard. Fresh gashes streaked their hides, their breathing shallow, their eyes blinking with guarded exhaustion.


    At the sight of strangers-especially Jared and ra-they bristled, ws half- raised. Then the wolf''s gaze locked on Jared''s face, and raw, impossible relief red behind yellow irises.


    "M-Mr. Chance?"


    The name escaped in a quiver, his joy strangled to a hush even as it shook his frame.


    Jared recognized him: Wilder Kaze, a wolf elder who usually shadowed Paxton''s nk, a Level Four Heavenly Immortal.


    "Elder Wilder?" Jared stepped forward, voice low, urgent. "Where is Sect Master Paxton? Where is everyone else?"


    Wilder''s eyes rimmed crimson. "It


    really is you! Mr. Riftw is holed up in a hidden valley just ahead. Many of us are down; Mr Riftw is hurt worst of all. We were scouting for medicine and a clear path out."


    "Show us to him." Jared didn''t hesitate.


    Guided by Wilder, the team crept onward, threading between natural illusions and skirting a swamp that slept like ss but reeked of lethal qi beneath.


    They reached a cliff face drowned in vines and broken boulders. Behind it, a slit barely wide enough for one body pulsed with faint array-light—hasty illusions paired with a warning seal.


    Wilder shed a sequence of w-shaped signs. The mirage rippled, parted, and epted them one by one.


    They slipped inside. The valley proved narrow yet winding, a stone throat that swallowed sound and sunlight alike.


    Roughly twenty sect disciplesy within—some propped against walls, others sprawled on grass-matted stone, every chest wrapped in stained bandages. The air reeked of mingled blood and crushed herbs.


    Strangers triggered instinct. Injured beast folk lurched upright, teeth bared—until familiar eyes spotted Jared. Recognition rippled through the wounded like wind across tall wheat.


    "Mr. Chance!"


    "He''s here!"


    Deep inside the ravine, a lone


    monolith jutted like an altar from the earth. Paxton slumped against the stone Bandages,yer uponyer, wrapped his broad chest. New blood


    oozed through the linen in dark wells, and the bronze in hisplexion had drained to the brittle


    hue of old parchment.


    "Sir... You''re here... atst!" Paxton''s eyes ignited. He wed at the rock, desperate


    to stand, every muscle trembling in protest.


    In a blur, Jared appeared beside him, one palm settling firm and gentle on the


    wounded shoulder. "Don''t move."


    A thread of Jared''s spiritual sense


    swept through Paxton''s body like antern in a cavern. Tendons were frayed, organs pounded loose, meridians torn in several ces. Worst of


    shadows of demonio


    essence clung to the wounds-dark fingerprints left by a battle fought far too close to death.