A Man Like None Other (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 5251

“That is already the rock-bottom figure,” the attendant replied, her smile never wavering. “The Hall guards its secrets savagely, and we shoulder immense risk retrieving them. The price is fair.”

Jared's brow tightened. Damian had given him exactly one million celestial gems, a fortune that still felt painfully finite—and there was no guarantee these words were genuine.

“If the intel proves false?” he asked.

“Whispers Tower trades in trust,” she said firmly. “Should the information fail you, we refund every gem.”

Jared thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. I'll buy.” He drew the heavy pouch from his storage satchel and placed the one million gems into her waiting hands.

Lyra stepped quickly in front of Jared, halting him. Her silver gaze swept toward the attendant. “Just a moment. We belong to the Sword Sect. Surely that earns us a courtesy discount?”

“The figure of one million celestial gems still rang inside her skull like a war drum. Ordinary cultivators lived and breathed by those stones; there were no secret vaults, no hidden patrons, only that auric gravel that fueled every sunrise meditation. Hand such a fortune to the Sword Sect, and the strength of every novice on the mountain would surge overnight.

So, Lyra tried to bargain. Anything to soften the blow.”

The attendant—chin angled high, pride stitched into every graceful line of her posture—barely spared Lyra a glance. “Apologies. Not even the city lord himself receives a markdown.”

Lyra's fingers curled, knuckles whitening. Her next breath came out in a tight hiss as indignation flared behind her eyes.

Before sharp words could fly, Jared laid a calming hand on her shoulder. “Let's finish the tally, Lyra.” His tone, low and steady, smothered the sparks before they leaped to flame.

After counting the gems, the attendant passed Jared a narrow slip of paper. “The Malevolent Path Hall keeps its branch in Darkwind Gorge, west of the city. Guards patrol day and night. Proceed carefully.”

Flaxseed's brows shot up. “We pay one million for that?”

To him, real intelligence should come from some vaulted chamber buried beneath Whispers Tower—senior archivists poring over dusty scrolls while candles guttered. Instead, they received a scrap of ink-stained parchment.

The attendant rolled her eyes so hard the motion nearly turned full circle. “What else do you want—me warming your bed? You asked for information. I delivered.”

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