Invincible Blood Sorceror

Kal'thun, beside her, nodded slowly, his expression caught between awe and terror. "That's not a warrior anymore. That's not even a high-tier combatant. That's something from an older age, something that predates modern civilization. Those wings, those crimson eyes, that sword—those aren't weapons.

Those are the apocalypse made flesh."

"He is a descendant of the Sol'vur clan. Oh my seven moons!! How could I have been so blind? The great Sol'vur isn't extinct. The heir of the most menacing clan is right before me," he let out a soft gasp, realizing the gravity of the situation.

Even Sarhita, other clan members, and all the creatures that had seen centuries of combat and magical warfare felt the primal instinct to flee.

They couldn't move; they froze in complete fear.

Everybody heard the Patriarch of the Nuwe'rok clan, and the realization of such terrifying force standing before them made them feel powerless and vulnerable.

The Sol'vur heir's presence brought a sense of impending doom that no one could ignore.

Until now, everyone thought that the clan was long gone and was erased from the history of twelve clans.

The Brownhill dunes had become a place for the descent of Jorghan.

El'ran saw the transformation, and his work on his ultimate technique faltered for the first time in seven centuries.

His polished amber eyes fixed on the transformed figure, and genuine fear—actual, undeniable fear—entered his expression. He was completely taken aback by the scene before him.

He hadn't expected the half-blood to be a descendant of the Sol'vur clan.

"Impossible," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The Berserk Lords died out millennia ago. The bloodline was extinct. The Empire made certain of it. How can you—"

Jorghan moved.

There was no warning.

No flourish.

No moment to prepare or dodge or even comprehend what was happening.

One moment he was standing in the center of his circle of molten earth, wings folded slightly back from their full span.

The next moment he was in front of El'ran, the distance of fifty yards covered in a blur of motion that the eye couldn't track. The sword was already in motion, already committed to a strike that carried the weight of his transformation, the fury of his awakened bloodline, and the absolute certainty that this conflict had reached its conclusion.

El'ran raised his blade to block, channeling every ounce of his accumulated power into the defense. Seven centuries of experience flooded through him—countless battles survived, techniques refined to perfection, knowledge of combat that encompassed styles that had died out millennia ago. He compressed all of it into this single defensive moment.

It wasn't enough.

Jorghan's sword met El'ran's blade, and the impact was like the collision of titans.

The sound it produced wasn't an ordinary noise—it was a shockwave of pure force that knocked spectators to the ground nearly a mile away.

El'ran's blade, forged from star-metal and reinforced with magic that had been layered on over centuries, shattered.

Not dented.

Not bent.

Shattered.

The sword didn't cut through—it unmade.

It reduced El'ran's weapon to its component atoms, dispersing them into glowing fragments that hung suspended for a moment before falling like luminescent rain.

The blade didn't slow.

Didn't hesitate.

Didn't lose any momentum to the encounter.

It continued through and struck El'ran's shoulder with the force of a meteor.

The armor protecting him, blessed and enchanted and reinforced by centuries of magic, failed in an instant. The sword bit deep into flesh and bone, cleaving through muscle and sinew with contemptuous ease.

Jorghan's wings flexed as he committed fully to the strike.

His crimson gaze fixed on El'ran with a calm so absolute it felt inhuman—like a butcher assessing meat before the cut.

His face remained blank, emotionless, yet his features glowed faintly under the red aura that flared around him, painting him in the likeness of a god of wrath restrained by will alone.

The blade carved downward in a diagonal slash that traveled from El'ran's shoulder, across his chest, through his abdomen, and terminated at his opposite hip.

The cut was raw and animalistic.

El'ran's body separated along the line of the wound, the two halves falling away from each other like they were parts of a puzzle being disassembled.

Blood and body parts fell from the sides.

The patriarch's eyes went wide.

Wide with shock.

Wide with the recognition that his seven hundred years of experience, his countless victories, his status as one of the most powerful beings to walk the world—all of it had meant nothing in the face of what he'd awakened.

He opened his mouth to speak, to cast some final spell, to beg for mercy, to accomplish something—anything—that might salvage this moment.

But his body was already separating, already ceasing to function as a cohesive organism.

No sound emerged from his throat except a wet gurgle of blood.

The two halves of El'ran the Unbreakable fell to the ground.

The separation was so clean, so perfect, that at first it almost seemed like he might still be alive, might still somehow find a way to fight.

But as the seconds passed, that became an impossible fantasy.

Blood—thick, dark blood that belonged to a creature of immense power—pooled beneath the two halves of his corpse, spreading across stone and glass and molten earth. The blood sizzled where it touched the superheated ground, producing wisps of steam that rose into the overheated air.

Seven hundred years of life. Seven hundred years of accumulated power and experience. Seven hundred years of battles won and enemies defeated. Seven hundred years of being one of the most formidable forces in the world.

Ended.

In a single strike.

A single moment.

A single testament to what the Berserk Lord had become.

Jorghan stood over the corpse, the massive sword held casually in one hand, dripping with blood that sizzled against the superheated ground. His crimson eyes showed no emotion.

No satisfaction. No remorse. No joy.

Nothing.

Just absolute, perfect focus.

He was a force of nature given human form, an apocalypse given temporary shape, a reminder to every creature watching that there were levels of power that transcended normal understanding.

The wings spread wider, each crystallized feather catching the light and scattering it into crimson patterns across the devastation. The circle of molten earth beneath his feet continued to expand slowly, claiming more ground with each moment that passed.

The silence that fell over the valley was absolute.

Complete.

The silence of a world pausing to comprehend what it had just witnessed.

For some reason, Jorghan's mind was blank, and all he seemed to be in a trance as he stared at the blood pooled at his feet. It was his first time transforming into the form of Berserk Lord, which he wasn't aware that he would awaken.

The continuous use of his blood magic and the primal rage had pushed him to the limits and touched the berserk.

There, he stood, his breath slowly relaxed, the red aura still buzzing around him like a fierce halo.

Then, from the eastern sky, a shape appeared.

At first it was just a shadow against the dawn light.

A disturbance in the air. Something that didn't quite belong to the desert land.

Then it resolved into form.

The creature was massive—something that made even the largest birds seem insignificant by comparison. Its body was sleek and powerful, muscular in ways that suggested perfect adaptation to the skies it inhabited. Four wings—not two, but four—beat in synchronized rhythm that created air currents powerful enough to disturb the smoke and dust still hanging in the air.

The feathers covering its body shifted through every color imaginable as it moved. Iridescent. Impossible. Beautiful in a way that transcended simple aesthetics. They seemed to catch light and transmute it into something more perfect than what had entered.

A Lycaro.

One of the legendary flight beasts.

Creatures that existed at the intersection of magic, beings that had been old when the current civilizations were still learning to walk upright. They were creatures of impossible majesty, capable of carrying even the largest elves across continental distances, traveling routes that would take ground-bound creatures months to traverse.

Astride the Lycaro sat a figure.

The brown elf was immediately recognizable, even from a distance. Her eight-foot frame was distinctive; her bearing was unmistakable to anyone who'd seen her before.

Sigora.

Even as the Lycaro descended, circling the devastated arena in long, spiraling patterns, the brown elf's attention was consumed by what lay before her.

At first, she saw the destruction.

The crater had been an arena for millennia.

The molten ground.

The shattered landscape spoke in every scarred line of power unleashed beyond mortal limits. Her mind cataloged it all in seconds—the scale of the damage, the pattern of devastation, and the implications of power that could reshape geography.

Then she saw him.

The transformed figure is standing at the center of it all.

Eight feet four inches of pale red skin and crimson eyes that burned with internal light. Wings spread like a monument to violence, crystallized feathers catching sunlight and throwing it back as crimson patterns. And in his hand, a sword that seemed to be carved from the concept of death itself.