Invincible Blood Sorceror

Chapter 8: High Sorceress Aunt

The crimson skies of dusk stretched across the devastated landscape, the aftermath of the Stillflame Invocation’s terrible power.

Where once stood the proud old grounds of the Sol’vur clan, nothing remained but a perfect glass crater, reflecting the dying light like a massive obsidian mirror. The forests surrounding the destruction smouldered with lingering embers, and the earth itself seemed to mourn the violence that had been unleashed upon it.

Far from this place, high upon a rocky outcrop overlooking the desolation, a figure materialised from the shadows.

A woman, and she was not human.

She wore clothing that marked her apart—not the ornate silks or heavy robes of the mainland courts or the tribal clothing. but something far more primal, raw, and evocative of a distant, untamed culture.

Her skirt was cut with deep slits along both sides, revealing her powerful, sculpted thighs and long, toned legs that moved with the grace of a huntress. The fabric was dark, perhaps obsidian-dyed leather or woven from some beast hide, shaped to suit agility over elegance.

Above, a simple black top hugged her form tightly, barely containing her large chest. The sag in the garment revealed just the lower curve of her breasts—a subtle tease of strength and confidence rather than seduction.

Her frame was nothing short of commanding, standing nearly eight feet tall with a posture that radiated both grace and threat.

Her skin bore a rich, earthy brown hue—sun-kissed and smooth, like polished mahogany. Sharp, pointy ears peeked through the wild strands of her hair, and a long, sinuous tail swayed behind her.

And there was something that glowed under the night light.

Tiny white specks dotted her shoulders, chest and back like stardust scattered on a canvas of dusk, glowing faintly with an almost ethereal light.

Her name was Sigora, half-sister to the fallen Berserk Lord Ser’gu, and she stood tall despite the grief weighing heavily upon her shoulders.

Her silver-streaked ebony hair danced in the wind as her emerald eyes surveyed the devastation with cold fury. She had got the urgent message from her brother, who had never contacted her in all these years. So she rushed here as quickly as possible, and she was here in time to save the boy.

In her arms, she cradled a broken form, a small boy of five summers whose body bore the markings of unimaginable trauma.

The crimson tattoos that traced Jorghan’s neck pulsed weakly, as if struggling to maintain the thread of life within his shattered frame. Blood seeped from countless wounds, wounds that would have been fatal to any ordinary child.

”Hawkin,” Sigora whispered, her voice sharp and cold, carried by the wind like a curse. There was venom in her tone, and beneath it, the simmering promise of vengeance. ”I will remember this—and so will the boy. To unleash such cruelty on a five-year-old... you’re nothing but a shameless coward.”

-

Far below, moving along the northern path away from the crater, Hawkin paused suddenly.

The Betrayer turned his head, gazing up toward the distant cliff with narrowed eyes.

For a moment, his hand moved to the hilt of his sword, an instinctive reaction born of decades of warfare and paranoia.

”My lord?” one of his lieutenants questioned.

Hawkin shook his head slowly, unable to discern anything amidst the distant shadows. ”It’s nothing,” he replied, though the unease in his voice betrayed his certainty.

With one final glance toward the cliff, Hawkin led his forces away, eight-star mages staggering with exhaustion beside him. The secret of the Sol’vur clan’s true power would die here, or so he believed.

-

Upon the cliff, Sigora watched them depart with burning hatred in her eyes.

She was holding the little boy in her hands, all wounded and covered in blood. It was a miracle that he was still alive.

She came just in time and saved the boy. It was tricky, even for her, a high sorceress, to save the boy from the circle in which they had bound him. And on top of that, she didn’t want to make her presence known.

When they had vanished from sight, she knelt, laying Jorghan gently upon a bed of moss. Her hands, marked with ancient runes of a magic, hovered over the boy’s broken body.

Oh, my poor child,” she whispered, her voice trembling with something between sorrow and fury, a haunting lullaby only the wounded soul could understand. From her outstretched palms, purple tendrils of light unfurled—soft and warm at first, then twisting like living threads of fate, weaving through the air with eerie grace.

The magic was ancient, older than names, older than war, and it pulsed with the weight of a forgotten pact.

”I will not let you die,” she murmured again, her eyes glowing faintly, as though drawing from memories buried deep in bloodlines and regret. ”Not when your father... broke every vow of pride he held and begged me to save you.”

The tendrils snaked gently around the wounded form before her, touching skin and soul alike.

The crimson tattoo on Jorghan’s neck flared briefly in response, its intricate patterns shifting like living blood beneath his skin.

Within the unconscious mind of the boy, a blood-red dot was hovering in the void.

[Host: Jorghan]

[Status: Critical]

[Mana Core: Severely Damaged]

[Seven Star Blood Deviant: Dormant]

[Ancestral Memories Integration: 23% Complete]

[Bloodborne Rage: Overextended]

Sigora’s eyes widened as she inspected the pattern on his skin and the red tattoo on his neck.

”Oh, my brother! Bless the heavens! Your son had awakened the lost blood of our clans. Such a precious child, and what have they done to my beautiful boy?” sorrow evident in her voice as tears welled up in her eyes.

With practised movements, she traced ancient symbols in the air, each one glowing with silver fire before sinking into Jorghan’s wounded flesh.

”That man believes he has erased the Sol’vur bloodline from existence,” she said, continuing her complex healing ritual.

”He does not understand what he has truly awakened.”

As the last symbol disappeared into the boy’s chest, Sigora gathered him once more into her arms. The wind around them intensified, swirling with leaves and mana particles that glowed like fireflies in the gathering darkness.

”This world has forgotten the true meaning of power,” she whispered into Jorghan’s ear as they began to fade from visibility. ”But you will remind them, child of Ser’gu. The blood remembers what the mind forgets.”

In a heartbeat, the cliff stood empty, no trace remaining of the woman or the boy who carried within him the last hope of an ancient bloodline. The only witness to their departure was the hollow wind, mourning the destruction of what had once been the proud territory of the Sol’vur clan.