The green-flamed dagger flashed three inches from the back of Barnaby Holt’s neck.
The air hissed with the sickening stench of serpent venom and scorched iron. Orson’s face had contorted into a mask of rabid madness, his yellowed teeth bared as he drove his entire Jade Meridian Late cultivation into a desperate, suicidal thrust.
Along the perimeter barriers, thousands of stunned cultivators recoiled in terror.
“Look out,” an elder screamed from the iron railing.
“The Branch Master is murdering him,” another voice bellowed.
Barnaby could not turn in time. The old steward was still down on both knees, clutching the ancestral jade slip to his chest with his single arm.
Ten paces away, Sera Thorne lunged forward, Storm-Pike thrusting like a silver lightning bolt. But the distance was too great.
Kaelen Vance did not shout.
