Invincible Blood Sorceror

Chapter 93: The Dance of Destruction

Their exchanged blows continued, the tempo accelerating. What had started as measured combat became increasingly violent, their bodies moving almost too fast for even the trained eyes of the assembled clans to fully track.

El’ran’s blade grew brighter, accumulating magical energy as he continued to channel power through it. He was testing Jorghan, pushing him, trying to force a reaction that would reveal his true capabilities.

Jorghan obliged him with a mistake.

A small one, nothing that would actually endanger him, but enough to look like a genuine error. He was a moment too slow blocking a downward strike, let the blade grazed his shoulder, allowing blood to flow freely from the wound.

El’ran’s entire demeanour shifted.

His attacks became more aggressive, more committed, no longer searching but executing with absolute confidence in victory.

He launched a combination that used his full strength—a series of slashes and thrusts designed to overwhelm through sheer force and speed. His blade sang through the air, creating a storm of metal and magic that should have been impossible to defend against.

Jorghan let the first three strikes connect.

They didn’t penetrate his defences entirely—his training was too good for that—but they landed hard enough to send him sliding backwards, hard enough to create the impression that he was losing ground.

The crowd was roaring now, sensing the kill, expecting to witness the patriarch put down the half-blood presumption once and for all.

While the clan of Nuwe’rak watched with anticipation, they were rooting for Jorghan.

The arena had now become like some giant had stomped its legs all over. Deep pits and the sand were pushed back; the ground cracked here and there.

Going at this rate, the arena might not last against their battle.

But as Jorghan accelerated into his backward slide, he planted his feet and pivoted sharply. El’ran’s momentum was too committed to stop or adjust. He came forward in a perfectly straight line, his guard momentarily open as his body mass carried him past the deflection point.

And there was also the height difference between them. El’ran towered over eight feet, while Jorghan was six feet, giving Jorghan the mobility advantage.

Jorghan exploded forward in a burst of speed that made the air crack. His hand moved with exact precision toward El’ran’s chest, fingers extended like a spear, channeling power through pure physical impact.

El’ran reacted with reflexes honed through centuries. His blade came around in a desperate defensive arc, moving from an overhead position to a horizontal block in what should have been an impossible timeline.

They collided at the midpoint.

The impact sent a violent shockwave across the entire arena. And it wasn’t like the ones before; this time, elves shook off their seats, falling to the floor, and the trembling sensation lasted for a few seconds.

Then another erupted from the point where they met.

It was even more aggressive than the previous one. This was a concussive blast of force that originated from the collision point and expanded outward like an invisible wall. Sand lifted from the ground in a visible wave, creating a dust storm that obscured both fighters from view.

Spectators in the front rows were knocked backwards by the pressure, some losing their footing, others throwing up their hands to shield their faces from the swirling debris.

Sarhita, watching from the Nuwe’rak section, didn’t hesitate.

She stood and began gathering mana, her liquid gold eyes flaring with power as she prepared a containment field.

”Everyone move back!” she shouted, her magically amplified voice cutting through the chaos.

”All spectators, move back now! Clear the arena perimeter!”

With a sweeping gesture, she opened a gap in the natural stone wall that formed the amphitheatre’s far side, revealing the vast expanse of desert beyond. Sand began flowing into the arena from the gap like an hourglass in reverse, creating a buffer zone that would contain the destruction.

The assembled clans didn’t need to be told twice.

They stood and began evacuating to higher ground, moving away from the combat zone as more powerful shockwaves rippled outward.

The dust from the collision settled slightly, revealing both fighters in completely different positions than they’d started.

El’ran had been forced backwards a full twenty feet, his armour scorched where Jorghan’s strike had gotten close to his body.

Jorghan stood closer to the center, his breathing only slightly elevated, blood dripping from multiple wounds, but his eyes clear and focused.

[Multiple injuries detected]

[Healing will be initiated once the Bloodborne reaches its full potential]

[Bloodborne Rage 66%]

”Well,” El’ran said, and his tone carried arrogance.

”You can actually fight. I concede I underestimated you, half-blood. That was a mistake.”

”Don’t make another one,” Jorghan replied, his voice calm despite the adrenaline flooding his system.

They stood staring at each other across the devastated arena.

What had been a pristine combat space just minutes earlier was now a mass of disturbed sand and cracked stone. Fissures ran across the arena floor, marking the lines where their power had impacted. Dust still hung in the air, and the very ground seemed to be settling from the force of their exchange.

El’ran studied him, his ancient eyes calculating, assessing, and reading everything a seven-century-old warrior could reveal from stance and breathing, as well as the subtle shifts of weight that indicated future movement.

”You’re stronger than you appear,” El’ran said, not as a question but as a statement of fact.

”Your technique is inadequate for someone with your raw power. You’re holding back, either deliberately or because you haven’t learned to utilize your abilities fully.”

”Does it matter?” Jorghan asked.

”To strategy? Not particularly. To curiosity? Immensely.”

El’ran raised his blade, not in attack position but in a gesture that suggested readiness.

”Shall we stop testing and actually fight, half-blood? Or will you continue this dance of deflection and misdirection?”

Jorghan felt something shift inside him.

The question, asked by an opponent who recognised him as something beyond a mere half-blood, something that deserved genuine respect rather than contempt—it triggered something primal in his bloodline.

He moved.