And then the fire came.

Jorghan's crimson flames followed the path the wind had carved, rushing into the compromised vessels like a living thing. The fire found fuel everywhere—in power cells, in ammunition stores, in the very atmosphere that had been compressed into the ships' life support systems.

The first dropship exploded.

Not a simple detonation, but a rolling cascade of secondary explosions as system after system failed catastrophically.

The fusion reactor lost containment, adding nuclear fire to the elemental flames. The munitions bay went up, creating a fireball that rose three hundred feet into the air.

The second dropship tried to lift off, its pilot making a desperate attempt to gain altitude before the fire reached critical systems.

The engines roared, anti-gravity generators screaming as they fought to raise the damaged vessel.

The fire caught it mid-ascent.

Flames engulfed the ship's aft section, melting through armor that had already been compromised by the wind. The engines exploded, and the dropship fell—not gently, but plummeting like a stone, crashing back to the surface with an impact that created a crater and threw debris across hundreds of yards.

The third dropship never had a chance.

The combined wind and fire tore it apart before it could even attempt to flee.

The hull ruptured in a dozen places simultaneously. Internal structure collapsed. The ship folded in on itself, metal screaming as forces it was never designed to withstand crushed it like an empty can.

Within thirty seconds, all three dropships were destroyed—reduced to burning wreckage, twisted metal, and bodies scattered across the landing zone.

Jorghan stood watching the destruction, his hands still raised, the sigils slowly fading as the magic dissipated. His expression was utterly cold, devoid of satisfaction or remorse.

This wasn't victory.

This was simply a consequence.

You hurt my family. And this is what happens.

He turned and began walking back toward where Sarhita and the others waited.

Behind him, fires raged unchecked, burning hot enough to turn metal into slag, consuming every trace of Earth's military presence in the Whisperingtris Forest.

The base was gone.

The soldiers were gone.

The equipment was gone.

Only smoke and ruins remained.

[Mana Devouring Active]

[Negative Energy Absorbed]

[Converting to usable Mana...]

-

Sarhita watched Jorghan approach with eyes that mixed relief and wariness.

She'd seen what he'd done—both the close combat with the Sentinel and the long-range devastation of the dropships. The sheer scale of destruction was staggering.

Swana tried to stand straighter as Jorghan reached them, not wanting him to see weakness despite her injuries.

"Jorghan, I'm—"

"Don't," he interrupted gently, his expression softening as he looked at her. The cold fury that had driven his destruction faded, replaced by concern.

"Don't apologize. None of this was your fault."

He knelt beside her, his hands hovering over her injuries, checking damage with the careful attention of someone who understood exactly how fragile bodies could be.

"They hurt you. Tortured you. That's on them, not you."

"They're all dead," Scarlett said quietly, her voice rough from screaming during the interrogation. "Aren't they? Everyone in that base."

"Not everyone," Jorghan replied.

"About twenty escaped. Including their commander." His eyes hardened slightly.

"But yes. The rest are dead."

"Did you have to kill them?" Scarlett's voice trembled.

"Those soldiers—many of them were innocent."

Jorghan turned, every line of his face hardened with quiet conviction.

"Listen, Scarlett.

Everyone has a choice. Even when it's born of necessity, it's still a choice. They chose to come at me, to hurt my family—so they chose their fate." He looked at her without flinching.

"I don't stand and weigh who's worthy to live. I act. My mind tells me what must be done, and I follow it. If someone stands in my way, they die. That's my choice."

"Do you understand?"

Scarlett searched his eyes. She found a clarity there—rage braided with pain. What he did felt wrong to her, and the shame in her chest burned, but she said nothing. She could not argue with the cold certainty in his voice.

Sik'ra moved closer, his expression troubled. "The Nue'roka warriors who were captured—did you see Lamorg?"

Jorghan shook his head. "I found bodies wearing red elf armor in the wreckage. Several of them. If Lamorg was among the prisoners, he didn't survive."

He paused. "And his scout—Kelris—he's dead too. He told me about their plan before..."

He didn't finish the sentence.

He didn't need to.

"Good," Swana said with surprising venom.

"He deserved worse for what they tried to do."

Sik'ra and Swana looked at him, like really looked at him since the moment he came here. They took in his tall frame, pale red skin complexion and black hair falling down his shoulders; his face became more pronounced, handsome, and mature; his ears were long and pointy, and so was his body too, muscles defined with broad shoulders.

The human features were somewhere in there, but he didn't quite look like his half-human self.

He stood towering, eight feet and four inches of sculpted power, his broad frame glowing faintly with ethereal mana veins that pulsed beneath his skin like liquid fire.

Swana and Sik'ra stared, taking in his full height. His shadow swallowed them both entirely.

Sik'ra broke the silence first, whistling low.

"By the moon's left cheek… when did you start grazing on giants?"

He tilted his head up to meet Jorghan's gaze, squinting. "You're so tall I feel like I should build a staircase just to insult you properly."

Jorghan raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. "Really, a few inches taller than you and you say you need a staircase."

"Yeah," Sik'ra said, grinning.

"And now I have to do it looking at your chest instead of your face. Not fair."

Swana chuckled softly beside him, her eyes running up and down Jorghan's new form—from the sharp lines of his jaw to the corded muscles along his arms.

"You've changed," she said, her voice smooth, laced with quiet awe.

"You don't just look taller… you feel taller. Like the air bends for you."

Sik'ra snorted. "That's just his ego finally manifesting physically."

Swana ignored him and took a step closer, her head barely reaching his chest now.

"You were already dangerous, Jorghan," she murmured.

"Now you look like a damn god carved out of red stone."

Jorghan gave her a faint smirk. "That sounds like flattery."

"It's not," she said, circling him once, her eyes tracing the faint mana aura shimmering like crimson mist.

"It's observation. The clans won't take kindly to this—you standing over them like some divine judgment."

"Then they can look up," Jorghan said flatly.

Sik'ra laughed, clapping his shoulder, though his hand barely reached. "Careful, big guy, or the trees will start worshiping you next."

Swana smiled faintly at that, but her gaze never left Jorghan. "Maybe they already do."

"I didn't know the Sol'vur elves looked like this."

"Even I didn't know. I never saw my father in such form. He always looked like a human to me."

Swana said, "They lived like that for years. It must have become normal for him."

"I guess."

Sarhita helped Scarlett sit more comfortably, then looked at Jorghan with an expression that asked the question none of them wanted to voice: What happens now?

"We need to leave," Jorghan said, standing.

"That shuttle that escaped will report what happened here. Earth's military will respond, probably with overwhelming force. And the Empire..." He trailed off, sensing something in the distance. "The Empire already has forces nearby."

*

Imperial Encampment - Eastern Wilderness Border

The Imperial garrison Jorghan had spotted earlier remained untouched by the battle, positioned far enough from the IPMF base that the destruction had been distant thunder rather than an immediate threat.

But they'd seen the smoke. Heard the explosions. Watched through enhanced optics as impossible things happened at the human encampment.

Right now, a ship descended with the precision expected of Imperial military craft, its black hull reflecting no light, its approach completely silent despite its size.

It settled on the edge of the place near where Yvonne had established the temporary garrison, landing struts extending to distribute weight across the unstable ground.

The boarding ramp lowered, and they emerged.

First came the Haelves, that's what they were called, eight feet of engineered perfection, their bodies a disturbing fusion of human and elven physiology. They moved with inhuman grace, their proportions subtly wrong in ways that triggered instinctive unease in anyone who looked at them directly.

There were six of them, each clad in armor that combined Imperial technology with organic components that seemed to be grown rather than forged. Their faces were beautiful in the way that predators were beautiful—sharp features, large eyes that tracked movement with predatory focus, and expressions that suggested intelligence without empathy.

They were weapons.

Living, breathing weapons created through the Empire's experimentation with elven genetics and human biology. The result was something that possessed the physical capabilities of elves—their strength, speed, and magical affinity—while maintaining human adaptability and ruthlessness.

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