Invincible Blood Sorceror

Chapter 51: City of mixed races - Bleusmoore

The tavern called ”The Wanderer’s Rest” buzzed with its usual evening chaos, a symphony of clinking glasses, raucous laughter, and the occasional brawl that seemed as natural as breathing in the diverse city of Bleusmoore.

The establishment had earned its reputation as one of the few truly neutral grounds in a settlement where humans, orcs, dwarves, beast-kin, and dozens of other races tried to coexist in something approximating harmony.

Behind the polished bar, a young man moved with practiced efficiency, his movements simple and sensible as he filled tankards and balanced plates with the ease of someone who had been doing this work for years.

At eighteen, he had grown tall and lean, his frame carrying the kind of wiry strength that spoke of physical labor tempered with natural grace. His black hair fell to his shoulders, bound in a simple tail that revealed streaks of premature silver threading through the darkness—a peculiarity that drew more attention than he preferred.

Most striking, however, were his features.

High cheekbones and an angular jaw gave him an almost aristocratic bearing that seemed at odds with his humble occupation, while his eyes held depths that suggested far more experience than his apparent years should allow. His ears carried just a hint of point to them—not the dramatic elongation of full elven heritage, but enough to mark him as something other than purely human.

And there, partially hidden beneath his collar but occasionally visible when he turned his head just so, was the edge of a tattoo that traced along the left side of his neck.

Most patrons assumed it was merely decorative ink, the kind of marking common among young people trying to appear dangerous or exotic.

They couldn’t see the way it sometimes pulsed with its own inner light when he grew angry, or how the intricate script seemed to shift and move when viewed from the corner of one’s eye.

”Jor!” The tavern owner’s voice boomed across the common room, cutting through the ambient noise with the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

Grisha was an orc of impressive proportions, standing nearly seven feet tall with shoulders that could have been carved from mountain stone. Her tusks had been inlaid with silver decorations, and her graying hair was braided with small bones and metal rings that chimed softly when she moved.

”Table seven wants another round, and make sure you smile at the redhead. She’s been nursing that single ale for two hours just to keep staring at you.”

Jorghan—though he went simply by ”Jor” in this place—suppressed a grimace as he loaded fresh drinks onto his tray.

Grisha’s practical approach to business meant she had no qualms about using his appearance to keep customers lingering longer than they might otherwise.

It was honest work, and he was grateful for it, but there were times when the constant attention made him deeply uncomfortable.

In these parts of lands, humans and elves rarely appear and don’t stay long enough to spend time in this forsaken place, a home to petty thieves and criminals.

The redhead in question—a merchant’s daughter from the look of her fine clothes—did indeed follow his every movement with the kind of hungry attention that spoke of romantic fantasies involving a mysterious young man.

She wasn’t alone in her interest; over the years, Jorghan had learned to recognize the signs.

The sidelong glances, the manufactured excuses to engage him in conversation, and the way certain patrons would time their visits to coincide with his shifts.

If only they knew what truly lay beneath the carefully maintained facade of normalcy.

[Host: Jorghan Sol’vur]

[Current Status: Concealed Identity Maintained]

[Mana: 557% Efficiency]

[Seven Star Blood Deviant—Dormant State]

[Ancestral Bloodline Progress: 80% Unlocked]

[Seal of Profoundity]

[Nine star Sorcerer]

Seven years have passed since the covergence happened and a lot had changed since then.

Jorghan had grown into a powerful young man but he was still too unstable for taking that amouth of mana, so Sigora had sealed half of his mana.

He had solidified his nine star rank and focused on his developing his bloodline progress all these years and now he was full control of his mana and his seals.

The crimson dot that existed in the void of his consciousness pulsed with patient persistence, a constant reminder of power that could reshape continents if he allowed it to surface.

Jorghan had learned discipline in the seven years since his awakening, had mastered the art of living as if he were nothing more than an ordinary young man trying to make his way in the world. The tattoo on his neck remained quiescent, its ancient script dulled to mere decorative lines, while his mana signature stayed buried so deep that even skilled mages would detect nothing unusual about him.

It was a necessary deception.

The convergence had brought more than just cosmic upheaval—it had awakened hunters, drawn the attention of powers that sought bloodlines like his for purposes he didn’t fully understand.

Even as powerful as him, he needed to make a living in the city.

So he served drinks, cleaned tables, and endured the romantic attentions of patrons while keeping his true self locked away like a dangerous secret.

He had to live his life as a normal young man until his aunt came back to her senses.

The remainder of his shift passed without incident, though he noticed several new faces in the crowd—travelers from distant lands, their clothing and bearing marking them as refugees from regions where the convergence effects had been more dramatic.

Bleusmoore had always been a crossroads city, but the cosmic upheaval had accelerated the mixing of peoples, bringing together races and cultures that had rarely interacted before.

Among the newcomers were beings that hadn’t existed before the convergence—humanoids with skin that shifted like living mercury, ethereal figures whose forms seemed partially translucent, and stranger things that tested the boundaries of what could be considered truly alive.

The cosmic realignment had apparently created new forms of existence, and many of them had gravitated toward places like Bleusmoore, where diversity was already the norm.

As dusk painted the western sky in shades of amber and rose, Jorghan finally untied his apron and hung it on its designated hook behind the bar.

Grisha counted out his wages for the day—a modest sum, but enough to maintain his simple lifestyle—and added her usual parting comments about the positive effect his presence had on business.

”Same time tomorrow, boy,” she said, her voice carrying the gruff affection she reserved for employees who had proven their worth.

”And try to get some sun on that pretty face of yours. You’re looking pale again.”