Chapter 5775

Sheldon slumped upon a throne pieced together from bleached bones. In the green wobble of lamps, his figure looked carved from obsidian, yet the black mist that poured from him writhed like living tentacles. Those tendrils coiled around the throne’s armrests and hissed, eating through millennial ironwood and behemoth ribs alike until greasy droplets sizzled to the floor.

Below, elders lined up in rigid ranks, heads bowed so low their breath barely stirred. Silence froze the hall solid, as though every heart had been sealed in ancient ice.

“Blackflame Gorge-our resource hub of several centuries-stripped bare. Ten parts of our vault, gone, leaving only scraps. Wraith Herb Garden-the lifeline for refining Abyssal Soul Pill-now a scorched wasteland. Centuries of cultivation, erased! Outposts harassed, squads annihilated, disciples quaking in corners-morale plummeting past the abyss!”

His crimson eyes blazed like twin blood moons as he swept his gaze over the trembling assembly. “In mere days, we have suffered humiliation unthinkable! Do Jared Chance and the Myriad Beast Sect think we have grown weak?”

With one slap of his palm, the already-rotting armrest exploded, and the entire hall shivered as grit rained from the ceiling.

A shockwave of ebon energy pulsed outward. Elders nearest the throne staggered back, skin leached white, robes snapping like torn sails.

“No more!” The sect master surged to his feet, a towering shadow that seemed intent on devouring the chamber. “Carry my order!”