The battlefield fell silent as the smoke cleared from the ruins of what once was the proud homeland of the Sol’vur clan. Dead clan members and their homes being burnt, and they were soldiers who were taking care of the remnants, fled the scene.
The child stood alone, five summers old now but with eyes that burned with deep blood red.
Hawkin was watching the boy with calculated interest in his cold eyes. He created enough distance between them. The polished steel of his armour caught the dying light of day, the emblems of his treachery etched into every gleaming plate.
He had struck down Ser’gu, the Berserk Lord—his half-brother—and believed the bloodline nearly extinguished.
Only this child remained, this final ember of the Sol’vur flame.
"So, nephew," Hawkin’s voice cut through the silence like a poisoned blade, "it seems your father’s blood runs stronger in you than I anticipated."
Jorghan only groaned. He was not in a state to register his words. His small frame trembled not with fear but with barely contained fury.
His eyes blazed with murderous intent.
The crimson tattoo that marked his neck began to glow, the intricate patterns shifting like living blood beneath his skin. They seem to have a life of their own as they spread further on his little frame.
These were not mere decorations but channels for the ancient power that coursed through the Sol’vur lineage, awakened prematurely by tragedy and rage.
"Kill the boy!!" Hawkin commanded, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Don’t let him breathe any longer."
Among his men, there was an elite mage unit; they nodded.
The eight mages stepped forward, their dark robes billowing in the wind that had begun to rise around them. Each bore the eight-pointed star, the mark of the ranking in the magical prowess. They moved quickly and formed a perfect circle around Jorghan, their eyes glowing with magical power as they began to channel their mana.
The mana in the air turned dense as eight of them unleashed their magic.
"The Sol’vur bloodline ends today," the lead mage declared, raising his gnarled staff toward the darkening sky.
Jorghan’s eyes narrowed, the crimson glow intensifying until they resembled twin pools of liquid ruby.
"I... will... kill...you... all," he growled, his voice unnaturally deep for a child of ten, resonating with power that made the very air vibrate.
He was standing in the middle of them, but he was not the prey they thought he was. Even in his unconscious state, Jorghan was sharp.
The tattoos on his neck flared brighter, and with them came a surge of power.
The first mage struck, sending a lance of midnight-blue energy hurtling toward Jorghan’s heart. The boy moved with impossible speed, sidestepping the deadly bolt with a grace that belied his years.
The mage’s eyes widened in shock—no child should possess such reflexes.
"Encircle him!" shouted another mage, his hands weaving intricate patterns in the air. "Do not underestimate the blood of the Berserk lord!"
Six more bolts of magical energy converged on Jorghan from all directions, each one powerful enough to reduce a lesser being to ash.
The boy’s tattoos pulsed once, twice, then erupted in a corona of blood-red light that expanded outward, consuming the incoming magic. The mana didn’t simply dissipate—it was devoured, absorbed into the glowing patterns on his skin.
[Mana Devouring Attribute Activated]
No matter how many attacks they launched, they were all being consumed, and Hawkins’s attacks weren’t having any effect. And moreover, Hawkin didn’t want to get involved, so he was letting his men do the work.
"Impossible," whispered one of the mages, taking an involuntary step backward. "He’s... feeding on our mana."
Hawkin’s smirk faded, replaced by a look of genuine concern.
"What the?!" he muttered, recognition dawning in his eyes. "What sort of monster did you give birth to, dear Ser’gu?"
Jorghan felt the power surging through him, the absorbed mana mingling with the ancestral energy that had awakened when he witnessed his father’s death. His small body could barely contain it, the veins beneath his skin glowing red-hot as if molten metal flowed through them instead of blood.
He was gluttonous, consuming everything that was thrown at him.
"KILL!" the boy roared.
A ripple swept the entire area, halting everyone for a second.
Hawkin, who was undisturbed, yelled at his men, "What are you doing? Finish him already."
The lead mage stepped forward, his weathered face contorted with determination. "Enough of this. We must use the forbidden art. The Stillflame Invocation will consume everything—even the berserk cannot survive its purifying fire."