Invincible Blood Sorceror

The Lycaro touched down with surprising grace for something so massive, talons that could crush castle stones extending and retracting with precision.

Recognition hit her instantly as she knew who it was, but her mind betrayed her. She remembered another person, with a similar frame, with a similar aura. Her expression changed into a number of emotions in a couple of minutes. She was sure that she was seeing her brother. Her brother Ser'gu, her brother who died years ago.

She shook her head, unable to believe what she was seeing.

Sigora didn't wait for the creature to fully settle.

She slid from its back mid-descent, hitting the ground in a roll and coming up running.

And as she ran, as she covered the distance between herself and the transformed figure at the center of the devastation, a cascade of emotions moved through her like waves from a breaking ocean.

Joy—pure, undeniable joy—that he was alive, that he'd survived an encounter that should have ended with his death. Relief so profound it almost brought her to her knees. Recognition—her eyes tracing the features of the transformed face and seeing in them the unmistakable echoes of her brother.

But alongside that joy came something darker.

Grief.

Her brother Ser'gu was dead.

She'd lived centuries without him, watched his bloodline be hunted to near-extinction, and seen the world conspire to erase his legacy from history. And the regret of not helping gnawed at her every minute.

And she thought she lost all of her clan, all of her family.

And here stood his heir.

Here stood proof that Ser'gu's line had not been extinguished.

Here stood Jorghan, wearing the form of the Berserk Lords, and the sight of it—the sight of him transformed into something her brother's bloodline had produced—tore open wounds she'd thought had long since scarred over.

The molten ground should have burned her feet. Should have calcified her skin, incinerated the flesh from her bones.

But as she ran across it, as she approached that figure of crystallized violence and awakened power, the lava beneath her feet seemed to recognize her as exempt from its destruction.

The ground cooled in her footprints, creating a path of safe passage.

She didn't notice. Didn't care.

Her eyes were fixed on her nephew.

Jorghan stood four inches taller than her now—something that should have been impossible before. She reached up, moving with the instinctual confidence of someone who'd spent decades around powerful beings, someone who knew how to approach a predator without triggering its survival instincts.

Her hands—brown-skinned, calloused from centuries of combat, trembling slightly with the surge of emotions—cupped his face.

The pale red skin was warm beneath her touch, almost feverish, burning with the residual power of the transformation. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, and the shape of a face she recognized even transformed beyond humanity.

He was a complete elf now, a Sol'vur clan elf. His face bore extremely handsome features; his long black hair fell behind on his shoulders, each strand was like a thin rope.

Crimson eyes—glowing with light that seemed to come from some internal furnace—stared down at her with an expression that was slowly, gradually becoming recognizable as human.

As conscious. As Jorghan.

"You look just like him," Sigora said, and her voice cracked with the weight of accumulated grief and joy mixing together in ways that made it almost impossible to speak.

Tears spilled from her amber eyes, tracking down her brown cheeks in steady streams.

"Just like your father. Ser'gu. My brother. The greatest Berserk Monarch to ever walk this world."

A tear traced down her cheek, following the curve of her face before falling to the scorched earth below. Her hands were trembling, and she wasn't sure if it was from joy or grief or some combination of the two emotions that transcended simple categorization.

"He would be so proud of you," she continued, her voice thick with emotion, cracking on certain words.

"So proud to see what you've become. So proud to witness you surviving to this day, achieving this, awakening to your full power. When he was alive, he dreamed of what his heir might accomplish. And now..."

She couldn't finish the sentence.

The words were too big, too overwhelming, carrying too much weight of history and loss and hope and grief.

Jorghan's mouth opened, and when he spoke, his voice was deeper than it had been, resonant with power that made the air vibrate.

But underneath that terrible depth was something more human. Something vulnerable. Something that sounded like a being returning to consciousness after a terrible dream.

"Mother!" he said, his voice rising at the end. The sounds he produced weren't quite ordinary.

"Yes," Sigora answered, her hands still cradling his face.

She pulled him down slightly, her strength surprising for her size, though insignificant compared to what he'd become.

"Your father was Ser'gu Sol'vur, the last true Berserk Monarch before you. The strongest being to walk these lands in a thousand years. And you—you've inherited everything he was, everything he could do."

She pressed her forehead to his in a gesture of familial intimacy, her tears now falling freely, mixing with the heat radiating from his form.

Around them, the molten ground seemed to react to the gesture, cooling slightly, as if even the transformed landscape recognized the importance of this moment.

"You're not just the last sol'vur, Jorghan," she said, her voice becoming stronger, more certain. "You're the heir to a legacy that shaped the world. Your father was feared by empires, respected by dragons, and courted by gods. He was a force unto himself, a being that transcended normal categories of power and influence."

She stepped back slightly, her hands moving from his face to his shoulders, squeezing with affection and pride. Her eyes—still wet with tears—looked up at him, trying to find Jorghan beneath the crimson gaze of the Berserk Lord.

"When you were born," she continued, "your father did something unprecedented. He bound a portion of his own power into your bloodline. A gift. A legacy. A promise that even if he fell, even if the sol'vur were hunted to extinction, his heir would have the potential to become what he was. What you are now."

Around them, the assembled clans watched in stunned silence.

The pieces were clicking into place for them—the incredible power, the ancient bloodline, the abilities that had seemed impossible for someone so young.

Sarhita stood frozen with recognition. "That's not just a warrior. That's the son of Ser'gu Sol'vur, the legendary Berserk Monarch."

Kal'thun nodded slowly. "And now that power has manifested. Now the world will know that the Berserk Lord have returned. This changes everything. The balance of power, the political structures, the hidden hierarchies—all of it just shattered."

Sigora's voice continued to echo across the devastation. "Your father would have transformed exactly as you did. He would have seen the threat, assessed what was needed, and embraced the Berserk Lord without hesitation. You honored his legacy today, son. You did exactly what he would have done."

[Primal Rage dissipating]

[Berserk Lord form disengaged]

[Host mana is insufficient to hold the Berserk Form]

[Mana Devouring in effect]

[Large amount of negative energy bound]

The negative energy from El'ran was flowing towards Jorghan as his mana-devouring attribute was in effect. The primal rage had already drained most of his mana, and activating the berserk lord took almost every bit of his mana. It was the most powerful transformation and to maintain it, Jorghan would require loads of mana in the future.

Jorghan's form continued to shrink, the eight feet four inches reducing as the Berserk Lord transformation started to recede. The pale red skin was fading back to his normal complexion, the wings dissolving into mist, and the overwhelming presence diminishing to something more manageable.

But the change was incomplete.

Some of the transformation remained—his eyes still held hints of lava-like color, his skin maintained a faint reddish tint, and his presence still radiated power in ways that transcended normal physicality.

The damage had been done.

The truth had been revealed.

The world now knew.

Jorghan Sol'vur wasn't just the last survivor of a murdered clan.

He was the son of Ser'gu Sol'vur, heir to the Berserk Monarchs, bearer of a bloodline so powerful that empires had conspired to exterminate it.

And he was awake.

As Jorghan's transformation continued its reversal, his knees buckled. The energy expenditure had been absolutely immense, pushing his body to limits it had never reached before. His muscles screamed in protest, his nerves burned, and exhaustion—the kind that transcended normal tiredness and descended into the bone-deep fatigue of having pushed oneself beyond any reasonable limit—swept through him like a tide.

Sigora caught him before he hit the ground, her arms wrapping around his still-massive form with surprising gentleness. She cradled him, supporting his weight with the ease of someone accustomed to carrying warriors through battlefields. Her green eyes, still wet with tears, looked up at the assembled clans, and her expression hardened into something that promised violence to anyone who might threaten her family.

"This is Jorghan Sol'vur," she announced, her voice carrying across the devastated settlement with magical amplification.

"Son of Ser'gu. Heir to the Berserk Monarchs. Last of the Sol'vur bloodline."

She turned slightly, showing them the transformed figure cradled in her arms, his eyes beginning to close as exhaustion finally claimed him.

No one moved.

No one dared.

And in the silence that followed, a new reality settled over the assembled witnesses with the weight of absolute certainty—the Berserk Lords had returned, and the world would never be the same.