Invincible Blood Sorceror

Chapter 43: Sik’ra’s life hungs on thin thread

Jorghan didn’t give him time to finish the thought.

He pressed his advantage, his fists becoming pistons of destruction as he hammered at the Vice Lord’s defenses. Each strike sent ripples of force radiating outward, clearing debris and scattering lesser combatants like leaves in a hurricane.

The space around them was cleared of any soldiers or elves, no one stayed in their attack range. And the mana flashes that appeared around their clash were like a whip, snapping like a blast.

The two fighters spun apart, both breathing hard.

Radulff’s pristine uniform was torn and bloodied, while Jorghan sported a split lip and bruised ribs from the few strikes that had gotten through his defense.

Jorghan was thinking that he should have asked Sigora to unseal his mana, but thinking it over again, it wouldn’t have been possible with all the chaos.

”Fascinating,” Radulff murmured, wiping blood from his mouth.

”You’re not casting spells at all, are you? This is pure physical enhancement—but at a level that should be impossible without active mana circulation.”

Jorghan’s response was to charge again, but this time Radulff was ready.

”Not much of a talker, are you, kid?”

”Quit yapping, you grown asswipe.”

The Vice Lord’s hands erupted in blazing energy as he caught Jorghan’s punch, their opposed forces creating a sphere of crackling power between them.

For a moment they stood locked together, muscles straining against muscles, will against will.

”What did those elves teach you, disrespect, pathetic?” Radulff said as he shook his head.

The air around them superheated, and the surface beneath their feet began to crack and melt.

Then Jorghan shifted his weight and drove his feet upward with savage precision.

The strike caught Radulff’s right leg just below the kneecap.

There was a wet, grinding sound as cartilage tore and bone shifted, followed by the vice lord’s agonized scream.

Radulff collapsed, clutching his ruined leg, magical energy flickering wildly around him as his concentration shattered.

”You little bastard—”

But his curse was cut off by another sound that made Jorghan’s blood turn to ice.

”AHHHHH!”

Sik’ra’s cry of pain cut through the battlefield like a blade through silk.

Jorghan spun, his enhanced vision immediately finding the source—his cousin was on his knees, a human soldier’s energy blade protruding from his back, the weapon’s crackling tip emerging from his chest in a spray of crimson.

”NO!” The word tore from Jorghan’s throat like the roar of a wounded dragon.

In that moment of distraction, Radulff struck.

Despite his shattered knee, the vice lord managed to channel his remaining power into a devastating kick that caught Jorghan in the side of his abdomen.

The impact lifted the boy from his feet and sent him crashing into a cluster of crystal formations thirty feet away.

Stone and metal exploded around him as Jorghan’s body carved a trench through the ancient formations. Pain erupted through his torso—ribs cracking, organs shifting, breath driven from his lungs in an agonized wheeze.

But even as agony consumed him, Jorghan was moving.

He spat blood as he wiped his mouth.

He clawed his way out of the rubble, blood streaming from a dozen cuts, his left arm hanging at an unnatural angle. Every step sent fresh waves of torture through his battered frame, but nothing mattered except reaching Sik’ra.

Swana had abandoned her fight with Yvonne the moment she heard her brother’s scream.

The human commander stood panting and bleeding from numerous wounds, but she made no move to pursue as Swana sprinted toward where Sik’ra had fallen.

The master archer lay in a spreading pool of his own blood, his bow fallen from nerveless fingers, his breathing shallow and rapid.

The energy blade had been withdrawn, but the damage was catastrophic—Jorghan could see the light already beginning to fade from his cousin’s eyes.

”Sik’ra...” Jorghan whispered, dropping to his knees beside the fallen elf despite the fresh waves of pain the movement caused.

”Hold on, we’ll get you to the healers, we’ll—”

”Jorghan...” Sik’ra’s voice was barely audible, blood frothing at the corners of his mouth.

”The... the elves, our people... get them out...”

Swana reached them a heartbeat later, her face white with shock and grief.

She knelt on Sik’ra’s other side, her hands hovering over the wound as she desperately tried to channel healing magic.

But they all knew it was too late—the blade had pierced his heart.

[WARNING: HOST EMOTIONAL STATE CRITICAL]

[BLOODBORNE RAGE: 89% ACTIVATION]

[CARNAGE REQUIEM: SYNCHRONIZATION IMMINENT]

The tattoo on Jorghan’s neck blazed like a brand, and in the depths of his consciousness, the blood-red dot had become a sun of consuming fire.

-

Across the battlefield, Sigora fought with the desperate grace of a mother protecting her young. Her brown hair whipped around her as she moved between attacking soldiers, her hands weaving protective barriers and striking with lethal precision.

The humans came at her in waves—dozens of them, their energy weapons crackling with destructive power.

But she was an eight-foot-tall elven warrior in her prime, her brown skin gleaming with sweat and blood as she carved through their ranks like a scythe through wheat.

She was too focused on the immediate threat to see her son dying fifty yards away.

On the far side of the center, Korreth found himself locked in deadly combat with Commander Bartrem.

The human officer was skilled beyond measure, his bladeworkprecise and calculated, but Korreth was a fortress of muscle and rage—nine feet of seasoned warrior with centuries of battle experience carved into every scar on his brown skin.

”You fight well for a dog of the Empire,” Korreth snarled, his enchanted blade meeting Bartrem’s in a shower of sparks that lit both their faces with flickering shadows.

Bartrem’s response was a cold smile.

”And you die well for an obsolete relic.”

The commander’s eyes flicked past Korreth to where the twin sons fought with admirable skill, holding their own against a squad of human soldiers. No matter how he attacked, he couldn’t penetrate Korreth’s defenses, and he was like a wall for him. He was protecting those twins, as he never moved far away from them.

Par’shan, the raging tempest warrior and Korreth’s most trusted lieutenant, was carving his way through enemy ranks to reach them, his twin axes leaving trails of lightning in their wake.

Bartrem saw an opportunity.

”Kill those two whelps,” he commanded his reserves, pointing toward the twins.

”NOW!”

Fresh soldiers broke away from the main assault, converging on Korreth’s sons with lethal intent. The war chief’s eyes widened in panic as he saw the trap closing around his children.

”NO!” Korreth roared, trying to break away from Bartrem’s relentless assault.

But the human commander pressed his attack with renewed fury, keeping the massive elf pinned in place through sheer skill and determination.

The twins found themselves surrounded, back-to-back, their young faces set with grim determination. They were strong—stronger than most warriors twice their age—but they were still learning, still growing into their power.