Jorghan looked like what he was—death made physical, violence given perfect form.

Settlement Observation Point

Thel'endra's eyes widened, her carefully maintained skepticism cracking for the first time.

"That's... that's not possible," she whispered.

"What did he…just do? What is that form?"

"He's been practicing," Sarhita said, unable to keep the pride from her voice despite the terror of the situation.

"Control," Katisana breathed.

"Complete control of the transformation. The Berserk Lords of legend could do this—shape themselves at will and maintain coherence even in a full rage state. We thought that knowledge was lost."

"It was," Sigora said quietly.

"Jorghan is rediscovering it. Learning what his ancestors knew."

Korreth stared at his nephew, seeing for the first time what had always been lurking beneath the cocky exterior.

"He's not just powerful. He's evolving. Growing into something..."

"Something the Empire should fear," Vel'sara finished.

The Bloodhounds were moving now, spreading out on Jorghan's silent command.

Four of them loped off in different directions, circling the settlements, taking up defensive positions that would intercept any flanking attempts by Imperial forces. They moved with impossible speed, crossing ground so quickly they seemed to teleport.

Only Gorva remained beside Jorghan.

The massive creature turned its head to look at its master, and something that might have been a smile crossed its monstrous features—all teeth and malice and anticipation.

Jorghan looked back and grinned in return, an expression that was equally inhuman on his transformed face.

They understood each other perfectly in that moment.

No words needed, just shared intention.

Complete massacre.

No mercy, no restraint, no prisoners.

The Empire wanted to hunt elves?

Fine.

Let them learn what it meant to be hunted by something that made their Haelves look tame.

-

Right then, Jorghan rose into the air.

Not through blood wings this time—those were inefficient for sustained flight.

Instead, he simply moved upward, wind magic and blood essence working in concert to defy gravity. He ascended fifty feet, a hundred, until he hung suspended above the desert like a crimson angel of death.

From this height, he could see the entire Imperial deployment.

Thousands of human soldiers arranged in perfect formation. The Haelves scattered throughout their ranks, their nine-foot frames making them easy to identify. The artillery pieces were positioned for maximum coverage.

And at the command position on the northern ridge, two figures who stood apart from the rest—enhanced beyond normal human capacity, their presence radiating authority.

Caden and Constance.

The siblings who thought they were hunters.

Jorghan cleared his throat, then reached for the blood essence coursing through his body, using it to amplify his voice beyond anything natural.

When he spoke, his words rolled across the desert like thunder, audible for miles, impossible to ignore.

"LISTEN, YOU DIPSHIT COWARDS!"

The entire Imperial army heard it. Soldiers who had been marching froze mid-step. Haelves turned their heads in unison to locate the source.

On the command ridge, Caden's enhanced vision locked onto the floating figure.

"LET ME GIVE YOU A PIECE OF ADVICE."

"IF YOU WANT TO LIVE, JUST RUN AWAY!"

Jorghan's voice carried absolute conviction, each word enhanced not just by volume but by the weight of power behind it.

It wasn't a threat—it was a promise.

"BECAUSE ONCE YOU RAISE YOUR BLADE AT ME, I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN TO THE DEPTHS OF THE EMPIRE!

THERE WILL BE NO ESCAPE!

NO MERCY!

NO FORGIVENESS!"

He spread his arms wide, blood essence manifesting around him in visible currents that painted the air crimson.

"I AM JORGHAN SOL'VUR, HEIR TO THE BERSERK MONARCHS! AND YOU HAVE MADE THE FATAL MISTAKE OF THREATENING MY FAMILY!"

The declaration echoed across the desert, seeming to hang in the air long after the sound should have faded.

For a moment—just a moment—there was complete silence.

Then Caden's voice cut through the stillness, amplified by his own technology, carrying a command that centuries of military conditioning had embedded in human soldiers.

"ALL UNITS, ADVANCE! PRIMARY TARGET ACQUIRED! ENGAGE AND CAPTURE!"

The Imperial army began to move, discipline overcoming the fear that Jorghan's declaration had instilled. Thousands of soldiers marching forward, Haelves breaking into supernatural sprints, and artillery pieces adjusting their aim.

They thought their numbers would protect them. Thought their technology and their enhanced warriors would be enough. Thought that one individual, no matter how powerful, couldn't stand against a coordinated military force.

They were about to learn exactly how wrong they were.

Jorghan descended slowly, touching down beside Gorva.

The massive Bloodhound's tail—thick as a tree trunk and tipped with what looked like a blade of crystallized blood—swayed back and forth in anticipation.

"You ready?" Jorghan asked quietly, though his amplified voice was gone now, replaced by a conversational tone.

Gorva's response was a growl that vibrated through the ground, a sound that carried hunger and eagerness in equal measure.

"Good," Jorghan said, and his grin was utterly inhuman.

"Let's show them what happens when they hunt the wrong prey."

The Imperial army was five hundred yards away now.

Four hundred.

Three hundred.

Close enough for artillery range.

The first bombardment began—shells screaming through the air, designed to saturate the area with explosive force and shrapnel.

Jorghan raised one hand almost lazily.

Blood manifested in the air—not in small quantities, but in vast sheets, creating barriers that intercepted the shells mid-flight. The explosions were contained, force dispersed harmlessly against barriers that shouldn't have been able to exist but did anyway because Jorghan willed them to.

Two hundred yards.

The Haelves were pulling ahead of the main force now, their superior speed letting them close distance faster.

Jorghan counted them—forty enhanced warriors, each one theoretically capable of killing dozens of normal soldiers, all focused on him.

One hundred yards.

Close enough.

Jorghan's eyes blazed brighter, and when he spoke, his voice carried to the settlements behind him, to the elves watching in terror and hope.

"Watch carefully. This is what the Berserk Lords were. This is what we can still be."

Then he moved.

And the massacre began.

-

The Haelves came first, breaking away from the main force in a coordinated sprint that ate up ground with terrifying speed.

All forty of them, nine-foot frames moving with predatory grace, their enhanced muscles propelling them forward faster than any natural creature should move.

They were beautiful in a terrible way—engineered perfection, human ruthlessness combined with elven capabilities, each one a masterpiece of Imperial genetic manipulation.

And they were coming to kill him.

Jorghan turned to Gorva, the massive Bloodhound vibrating with eagerness beside him.

"The human army. Don't let them pass. Kill anyone who tries to advance, but focus on containment. I don't want them reaching the settlements."

Gorva's response was a sound that was half-growl, half-laugh—a noise that promised violence and relished the opportunity. The creature loped off toward the main Imperial force, covering ground with impossible speed, its crimson form leaving a trail of disturbed sand in its wake.

Jorghan turned his attention back to the Haelves.

They had surrounded him in perfect formation—a circle with overlapping fields of attack, positioning that ensured he couldn't focus on one without exposing himself to others. Their movements were synchronized, not through communication but through training so intensive it had become instinct.

They attacked as one.

The first wave came from four directions simultaneously, strikes calculated to force him into a defensive position, to test his capabilities while minimizing their own risk. Their fists moved with speed that would have been invisible to normal vision, each blow carrying enough force to shatter stone.

Jorghan didn't dodge.

Blood manifested around him in streams, responding to his will like extensions of his own body. The crimson essence intercepted the strikes mid-motion, wrapping around Haelve's fists and arms, not blocking but redirecting, using their own momentum against them, throwing off their balance just enough that the coordinated attack became fractionally less perfect.

In that fraction of a second, Jorghan moved.

His fist struck the nearest Haelve in the chest—not a wild swing but a precise blow enhanced by blood essence flowing through his arm. The impact created a shockwave that rippled through the air, and the nine-foot warrior was thrown backward fifteen feet, crashing into two of his companions and disrupting their formation.

But the others adapted instantly.

Where one Haelve fell back, another stepped forward, filling the gap. Their circle contracted, tightening around him, limiting his movement space.

They came again, this time with more caution, testing different angles, probing for weaknesses in his defense.

They seemed not fazed by Jorghan's destructive force or his high-level pressure. And right after Jorghan struck, they were moving in a coordinated movement, as if they were adapting to his attacks.

Jorghan's hands moved in constant motion, blood essence flowing around him like a living shield. When a Haelve struck high, blood tendrils yanked its arm down.

When another came low, the essence lifted it, disrupting the attack.

It was like watching someone conduct an orchestra of violence, each movement precisely calculated to counter multiple threats simultaneously.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.