“Enter…” The single word slid beyond the bronze doors. The doors parted. Lester stepped beneath the vaulted ceiling, the flames in the wall sconces bowing as though greeting their sovereign.

Drystan crooked a finger. Lester tossed the gleaming short blade through the gloom. Drystan caught it,  stared at the short blade, not wanting to let it go.

“Very well, I will aid you. Yet Jared keeps capable fighters close. You would be wise to gather more allies before the strike,” Drystan said.

“My thanks, Mr. Hexford. I will find more help at once.” Lester bowed so low his hair brushed the ground. Drystan answered with a single approving hum, then waved his hand.

Moments later, three cultivators wearing crimson armor showed up. The leader’s face was expressionless, his aura already pressing at the threshold of the ninth level of the Earthly Immortal Realm, no weaker than Ararat himself.

“Enaricus has sent these celestial Blood Guards to serve you,” Drystan declared. “With their help, Jared Chance will not escape death.”

Lester’s chest swelled. Three warriors at his side meant the specter of Ararat no longer haunted his plans. With such power behind him, the mere thought of confronting Ararat stirred excitement rather than dread.