Invincible Blood Sorceror

Chapter 97: The Berserk Lord Awakens

Jaenor did so to change his pattern and throw Elʼran into confusion, and so far, it was working.

Their clash was immediate and overwhelming.

They moved through the devastated landscape exchanging blows so fast that individual strikes became impossible to distinguish. All the watching clans could see were the flashes of red and white light, hear the thunderous impacts, and feel the shockwaves that continued to ripple outward.

”Theyʼre going to kill each other,” someone in the crowd said, voice hollow with shock.

”Or destroy the entire settlement first,” another added.

Sarhitaʼs hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. ”Come on, Jorghan. Show him. Show him what you really are.”

As if hearing her silent plea, Jorghan made his move.

Heʼd been studying Elʼranʼs pattern throughout the fight, noting how the ancient patriarch favored certain combinations, how his centuries of experience had created habits—efficient habits, but habits nonetheless. There was a microsecond gap between when Elʼran transitioned from his high-guard position to his forward thrust, a tiny window where his defenses were marginally weaker.

Jorghan had been waiting for that exact moment.

When it came, he didnʼt strike at Elʼranʼs body. Instead, he drove both his blood blades into the ground and channeled power downward, into the already-fractured terrain beneath their feet.

Blood magic erupted from below, manifesting as massive spikes that shot upward in a pattern designed not to impale Elʼran but to force him into the air, into three-dimensional space where his centuries of ground-fighting experience would be less applicable.

Elʼran reacted as predicted, launching himself skyward to avoid the spikes. But the moment he was airborne, Jorghan was already moving, already manifesting his next attack.

He created a sphere of compressed blood—similar to the energy sphere Elʼran had used earlier but fundamentally different in composition.

This wasnʼt just a projectile.

This was a prison.

He hurled it upward, and it expanded mid-flight, growing from basketball-sized to encompassing Elʼranʼs entire airborne form. The patriarch tried to cut through it with his blade, but blood was liquid, adaptive, and resistant to simple cutting.

For three full seconds, Elʼran was trapped inside the sphere, and Jorghan used those seconds to prepare his most devastating attack yet.

He pulled blood from the air, from the ground, and from every source available, consolidating it into a massive construct that took the form of a lance easily forty to fifty feet long and four feet in diameter at its base. It pulsed with such concentrated power that the air around it began to crystallize, freezing moisture into ice despite the desert heat.

”This ends now,” Jorghan said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute determination.

He hurled the lance directly at the sphere containing Elʼran.

The patriarch, trapped inside, saw it coming. His polished amber eyes widened—not with fear exactly, but with the recognition that heʼd been outmaneuvered, that for the first time in centuries someone had genuinely surprised him tactically.

He released his power in an explosive burst, shattering the blood sphere from within. Fragments of crystallized bloody energy scattered across the battlefield like deadly rain, each piece sharp enough to cut through stone.

But the lance was already there.

Elʼran brought his blade up to block, channeling every ounce of power he could muster into reinforcing his defense. When the lance struck, the collision created a beam of energy that shot straight upward, piercing the clouds, creating a pillar of light that could be seen for dozens of miles.

The shockwave from the impact was so intense that it created a secondary crater around the point of collision, vaporizing sand and stone, leaving behind smooth glass where extreme heat had fused silicon into new forms.

When the light faded, both warriors were on the ground.

Elʼran had been driven backward and down, his landing creating yet another impact crater. His armor was cracked, with several plates hanging loose or completely shattered. Blood—actual blood, not manifested sorcery—dripped from wounds across his torso and arms.

Jorghan stood perhaps thirty yards away, breathing hard, his own form showing signs of severe strain. The recoil from that attack had been immense, and maintaining the power output required for such a technique had pushed him closer to his limits than heʼd been at any point in the fight.

But he was standing.

And Elʼran was kneeling.

The old patriarch looked up, and for the first time since the duel began, there was uncertainty in his expression. Not fear—not yet—but the recognition that this fight might not end the way heʼd assumed.

”Impossible,” Elʼran breathed. ”Seven hundred years. Seven hundred years of mastery, and you—youʼre matching me. How?”

”Because I donʼt have seven hundred years of habits to overcome,” Jorghan replied, his voice rough but steady.

”Because Iʼm not fighting to preserve my reputation or prove my strength. Iʼm fighting to survive. And survival is a much stronger motivator than pride.”

Elʼranʼs expression hardened, pride and anger mixing into something dangerous. ”You think youʼve won because youʼve landed one good strike? You arrogant child. I havenʼt even begun to show you what Iʼm truly capable of.”

He rose to his feet, and as he did, his power began to spike again—higher than before, more concentrated, and more focused. His wounds were healing, not so swiftly but healing slowly.

The cracks in his armor began to glow as he channeled energy through them, turning what should have been vulnerabilities into conduits for even greater force.

From their distant observation point, Kalʼthuns expression grew grim. ”Heʼs preparing his ultimate technique. The one he used to end the Clan Wars. If Jorghan doesnʼt counter it properly, this entire valley will cease to exist.”

Sarhitaʼs liquid gold eyes went wide with horror. ”Can he survive something like that?”

”I donʼt know,” Sigora admitted.

”But weʼre about to find out.”

In the center of the devastation, Jorghan watched Elʼranʼs power continue to build, recognized the danger, and made a decision.

He still had cards to play. Abilities he hadnʼt fully revealed. Power that heʼd been holding in reserve, waiting for the moment when it would matter most.

That moment had arrived.

Jorghan looked at Elʼran, at the old patriarch gathering power for an attack that could reshape the terrain, and knew he had no choice.

The systemʼs warning echoed through his consciousness one final time:

[Critical Combat Threshold Reached]

[Recommendation: Physicality protocol required]

[Bloodborne Rage: Authorization to Exceed Safe Limits?]

[Warning: Exceeding 100% activation threshold carries a significant risk of losing conscious control]

[Authorize? Y/N]

His hands trembled as he made the decision.

Not from fear—but from some primal knowledge, some ancestral memory buried deep in his DNA, that what he was about to do would fundamentally change everything.

There would be no going back from this.

The world would see what he truly was, what his bloodline could produce.

He authorized it.

”Yes,” he whispered aloud, and the word seemed to echo across the devastation.

[Primal Rage Initiated]

[Preparing the Hostʼs body for the Primal Rage Initiation]

The authorization clicked into place like a lock releasing, and Jorghan felt something fundamental shatter inside his chest.

Not breaking—shattering.

Like glass hitting stone, like ice cracking under terrible pressure, like the final dam holding back a vast ocean.

The first sign was the pain. And it came with a whiplash of red-colored mist around Jorghan. He was enveloped in a circular, light red sphere, and the pressure around him had become so thick and oppressive that the space groaned.

Sarhita frowned, focusing her sight on Jorghan. She muttered, ”Whatʼs happening to you, Jorghan?”

It started in his bones—a deep, marrow-level agony that made every nerve ending scream. His skeletal structure began to shift, to grow, bones lengthening in ways that should have been impossible. He heard them cracking, that horrible wet-snap sound of cartilage separating and reforming, calcium deposits redistributing through his frame.

His spine arched backwards, vertebrae popping and clicking as they realigned, straightened, and became thicker and more densely packed. Each individual vertebra seemed to buzz with power, resonating at a frequency that made his teeth vibrate. The bones in his legs cracked and reformed, femurs thickening, shin bones elongating, and his entire lower body restructuring for maximum power output.

His feet cracked against the ground—not breaking, but transforming. The bones in his feet thickened, his arches reinforced, and claws—actual claws—emerged from where his nails had been. They looked like curved blades of dark red chitin, capable of tearing through anything.

His ribs separated, spreading wider, his chest expanding as his lungs grew to accommodate the massive power surge. Each breath became a gasp, then a rasp, then something deeper—a sound that no human throat should have been able to produce.

Then came the musculature.

His existing muscles began to tear as new ones grew beneath them, pushing outward, tearing through flesh like something clawing its way out of a cocoon. The pain was exquisite, absolute, and all-consuming. Blood ran freely from where the new muscle fibers were punching through skin, but it wasnʼt the deep red of human blood—it was brighter, more vibrant, almost luminescent.