Invincible Blood Sorceror

Chapter 123: The hurt in his eyes

His emergency ejection system activated, powered by independent capacitors that were somehow still functional. The cockpit section blew clear of the disintegrating armor, and Carrow was thrown free just as the fusion reactor lost containment entirely.

He hit the ground hard, the impact breaking his right arm instantly. The limb bent at an angle that made Sarhita, watching from the ridge, wince in sympathetic pain.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Where his left arm should have been, there was nothing. The explosion had caught it and vaporized it from the shoulder down. The wound was cauterized—mercy of extreme heat—but the arm was simply gone.

And across his face, from left temple to right jaw, a scar had been carved by flying debris. Deep enough that bone showed through in places, the wound smoking slightly from heat that had partially cauterized it as well.

Carrow lay there for a moment, shock overriding pain, staring up at the sky that had somehow become visible through the smoke and debris.

Then Lieutenant Csakan was there, appearing from where he’d taken cover during the final exchange. He had been hiding until now, watching from cover. He was a clever man and knew when to move and hide and when to come out, and most importantly, he was very loyal to Carrow, working with him since he joined the army.

He grabbed his commanding officer with desperation, hauling him upright despite Carrow’s agonized grunt.

”Sir! We need to move! The shuttles are this way!”

”The hostile—” Carrow gasped.

”Still standing, sir! Which is why we’re leaving!”

They stumbled toward where a small shuttle had been kept in reserve, away from the main landing zone. Csakan practically threw Carrow into the passenger compartment, then scrambled into the pilot’s seat.

He thought ahead and kept a shuttle ready to leave.

The engines whined as they spun up, anti-grav generators lifting the small craft off the ground. Through the viewport, Csakan caught one final glimpse of the battlefield.

Jorghan Sol’vur stood in the center of the devastation, his form backlit by fires that consumed what remained of the IPMF forward base. The particle beam had burned him—his chest was blackened, smoke rising from the wound—but he was already healing, blood essence knitting flesh back together at visible speed.

He turned to look directly at the escaping shuttle.

For a moment, Csakan thought he would pursue, would manifest some attack that would tear them from the sky.

But Jorghan simply stood there, watching, his expression unreadable.

Then he turned away, walking toward where Csakan could now see other figures emerging from the ridge—his companions and two others who must have been the prisoners they’d been holding.

The shuttle accelerated, climbing rapidly, leaving the Whisperingtris Forest behind.

In the passenger compartment, Major Carrow pressed his remaining hand against where his left arm used to be, his face twisted in pain that was as much humiliation as physical agony.

”Report,” he said through gritted teeth.

”How many made it out?”

Csakan checked his tactical display, pulling data from emergency beacons and suit transponders. His expression went carefully neutral—the face of a soldier about to deliver catastrophic news.

”Twenty-three, sir. Out of the entire deployment. Twenty-three survivors.”

Four thousand nine hundred seventy-seven dead.

An entire mechanized infantry company, 30 mecha units, specialized hunter command squads and all the advanced equipment Earth had provided for this operation.

Destroyed by a single individual in less than an hour.

Carrow leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes against pain and the knowledge of failure.

”Get us to the rendezvous point,” he said quietly.

”And send an emergency transmission to Command. Code Omega. We’ve confirmed the presence of a catastrophic-level threat. Recommend immediate escalation to maximum threat protocols.”

He paused, touching the scar on his face with his remaining hand, feeling where the flesh had been laid open.

”And tell them,” he continued, his voice carrying the weight of hard-won understanding, ”tell them that everything we thought we knew about combat superiority on this planet—it’s wrong. Technology isn’t enough. Superior firepower isn’t enough. We’re not the apex predators here.”

The shuttle climbed higher, breaking through the forest canopy, accelerating toward orbit where larger vessels waited.

Behind them, smoke rose from the ruins of humanity’s confidence.

And in the forest below, surrounded by those he’d fought to protect, Jorghan Sol’vur stood victorious—but at a cost that would ripple across both worlds, setting in motion consequences none of them could yet foresee.

The Empire would hear of this.

The Twelve Clans would hear of this.

Earth’s military command would hear of this.

And they would all respond accordingly.

-

Jorghan stood amidst the carnage, his chest still healing from the particle beam’s scorching touch. The blackened flesh knitted together, new skin forming over the wound with each passing second.

Then he saw them.

Swana, being supported by Sarhita, her body still trembling from the poison’s lingering effects despite the healing potion. The bruises on her arms and legs were from where the interrogators had worked. The way she couldn’t put weight on her injured leg without wincing.

And Scarlett.

Sweet Scarlett, who had trusted him, who had followed him into this world. Her face was a mess of bruises, one eye swollen completely shut. Blood crusted her split lip. Her hands shook as Sik’ra helped her stand.

They’d been tortured.

Hurt.

Made to suffer because of their connection to him.

Something cold and terrible settled over Jorghan’s expression.

The rage that had dimmed slightly after Carrow’s defeat ignited again, hotter than before. The tattoo on his neck blazed with crimson light, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.

[Warning: Bloodborne Rage exceeding safe parameters]

[Negative Energy Conversion: Active]

[Mana Devouring: Consuming battlefield essence]

His eyes tracked upward to where the shuttle had disappeared into the sky. It had already disappeared into the dead of the night. Nothing but smoke and fire crisp against the darkness.

And that’s when his attention was drawn to the sounds of people screaming. His enhanced senses, sharpened by the blood essence coursing through him, detected movement elsewhere in the devastated base.

The dropships.

The three massive transport vessels that had brought this force here. Their engines were already spinning up, emergency protocols activated, preparing for immediate evacuation. He could hear the whine of their power systems and feel the vibration of anti-gravity generators building charge.

They thought they could escape.

Jorghan moved.

One moment he stood in the crater where the Sentinel had fallen. The next, he was simply there—beside the dropships, having crossed half a mile in what seemed like a single step. Not teleportation, exactly, but movement so fast that the eye couldn’t track it, wind magic and enhanced physiology working in concert to produce something that looked like instantaneous displacement.

The soldiers near the loading ramps saw him materialize and froze in terror.

”Contact! The hostile is—”

Some tried to raise weapons.

Jorghan raised both hands.

Sigils appeared in the air before his palms—intricate patterns of power that drew from different wells of magic entirely, ancient symbols that belonged to magic systems older than the current age. They rotated slowly, each line precise, each angle perfect.

In his right hand, fire manifested.

But not ordinary flames.

This was something primal, elemental fury given physical form. The fire burned crimson-red, shot through with veins of deeper scarlet that pulsed like a living heartbeat. The heat was intense enough that soldiers fifty yards away felt their skin blister.

The air around it distorted, reality itself struggling to contain temperatures that existed at the edge of what matter could withstand.

In his left hand, wind gathered.

Not a gentle breeze or even storm winds, but something far more violent.

The air compressed and twisted, becoming visible as distortions that warped light passing through them. It rotated faster and faster, building pressure and force, becoming a miniature hurricane contained in a space no larger than his palm.

The sigils completed their rotation.

The elements responded to his will.

He thrust both hands forward.

’The Storm’s Fury’

The wind struck first.

It expanded from his left palm like an explosion, but instead of dispersing randomly, it maintained coherence, becoming a blade of compressed atmosphere that was invisible except for the devastation it caused.

The wind hit the nearest dropship’s hull and simply tore through it. It struck repeatedly, a thousand times in a split second, breaking through the strong metal.

Meta-carbon composite armor that could withstand direct hits from anti-vehicle weapons peeled away like paper.

The wind didn’t cut cleanly—it shredded, creating jagged tears in the metal that spread outward in branching patterns. Support struts bent and snapped. Hull plating was ripped free and sent tumbling through the air like leaves.

The dropship’s interior was exposed in seconds. Soldiers inside were caught by the wind and thrown, their bodies ragdolling through the air before slamming into bulkheads or being ejected entirely from the compromised vessel.

But the wind wasn’t finished.

It moved through the first dropship and struck the second, then the third, maintaining its devastating force despite the distance. Each massive transport vessel was torn open, their structural integrity compromised beyond any possibility of repair. Emergency systems failed. Life support collapsed. The ships listed to one side as their anti-gravity generators lost synchronization.