CHAPTER 54: LET GO!

The ninth star was but the penultimate gate.

Beyond it lay the tenth star, the true threshold—the ascension. To reach it was to stand at the very brink of godhood, a mortal no longer, but a lesser god in truth.

The goddess herself had spoken of it.

She had promised him, "When you step into the realm of immortality, I shall stand before you once more."

"Your bloodline abilities have progressed significantly," Sigora observed.

"The seals I placed are almost entirely dissolved now. You’re at what—eighty percent integration?"

Jorghan nodded.

[Three seals intact—Profundity]

[Current Status: Bloodline Integration 80%]

[Carnage Requiem: Advanced Protocols Accessible]

[Ancestral Memory Banks: Expanding]

"Jorghan," Sigora said gently.

"Promise me that you will never break those seals."

"I cannot say for sure, Mother. But I will try to keep myself out of trouble."

Sigora squinted her eyes. For a second, she thought that, maybe, she shouldn’t have taught him about the sealing techniques.

"I cannot watch over you at every turn, child... so I can only hope my words linger when you stand at the edge of recklessness."

Jorghan was silent for a long moment, watching the crimson planet’s slow progress across the sky. "You don’t have to worry, Mother."

Sigora was grinning every time he called her by the maternal title.

"The Sol’vur legacy is not a curse," Sigora reminded him, though her tone carried understanding rather than dismissal.

"Your bloodline is ancient and powerful, yes, but you are still yourself. The power serves you—not the other way around."

"Sometimes, I get this rage inside me that makes me feel like destroying everything."

Sigora’s expression grew more serious.

"Is the Bloodborne Rage becoming harder to control?"

"No. Maybe. I don’t know."

Jorghan ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair, frustration evident in every line of his body.

"I can hold it back. I do hold it back. But it’s always there now, just beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest excuse to break free."

They sat in silence for a while longer before Sigora finally spoke again. "The convergence set forces in motion that none of us fully understand yet. That big red sphere, I feel like it will collide with our world."

"I know," he said quietly.

Jorghan rose to his feet, brushing the dirt from his tunic. "I’m returning. I can hardly keep upright—I’ll take to my bed."

"I will be right behind you. You go ahead."

Sigora watched him walk into the house, and then she turned back to gaze at the starry sky as she delved into her thoughts.

-

The next morning dawned clear and bright, the kind of perfect weather that seemed designed to mock the underlying tension Jorghan carried in his chest. He went through his usual routine—washing, dressing in his simple tavern clothes, carefully checking that his tattoos were fully concealed beneath his collar—before making the walk back into the bustling city.

The Wanderer’s Rest was already bustling when he arrived, with Grisha directing the morning staff with her usual efficient brusqueness.

The orc woman gave him an approving nod as he tied on his apron and took his position behind the bar, ready for another day of serving drinks and deflecting unwanted romantic attention.

The morning shift passed without incident, a steady stream of regulars and travelers looking for breakfast and ale to start their day.

Jorghan moved through the familiar routines with practiced ease, his mind half-occupied with more serious concerns even as his hands worked automatically.

It was just past midday when trouble walked through the door.

There were six of them—humans all, dressed in the mismatched but functional gear of professional mercenaries. Battle-scarred armor sat alongside newer pieces, weapons were worn but well-maintained, and they carried themselves with the confident swagger of men who had survived situations where others had died. Their leader was a bull-necked brute with a scarred face and cold eyes that catalogued the tavern’s occupants with professional assessment.

They chose a table near the center of the common room, making sure they had clear sightlines to all entrances—standard mercenary practice.

When Jorghan approached to take their order, the leader’s eyes tracked over him with the kind of calculating attention that immediately set off warning bells.

"Well, well," the mercenary said, his voice carrying across the suddenly quieter tavern.

"What do we have here? You serve half-breeds now, Grisha? Standards must be slipping."

Jorghan kept his expression neutral, his voice professionally polite.

"What can I get you gentlemen today?"

One of the other mercenaries—a wiry man with a jagged scar running from temple to jaw—leaned forward with a nasty grin.

"You hear that, boys? It talks like a proper person and everything. Must have had a human father willing to rut with one of those tree-huggers."

The insults weren’t new.

Jorghan had heard variations on them countless times over the past seven years—from the elves who resented his human blood and from the humans who scorned his pointed ears and unusual features.

He had learned to let the words slide off him like water, to remain professional in the face of provocation.

But today, something was different.

Maybe it was the conversation with Sigora the night before, the reminder of all the suppressed rage he carried. Maybe it was seven years of accumulated insults finally reaching critical mass. Or maybe it was simply that he was tired—tired of hiding, tired of pretending to be less than he was, tired of swallowing his pride for the sake of peace.

"Six ales," he said evenly.

"Will that be all?"

The leader reached out suddenly, grabbing Jorghan’s wrist with bruising force.

"Did I say you could walk away, half-breed? I asked you a question. Who was it—a human daddy fucking an elf whore, or was it the other way around?"

The common room had gone completely silent now, all conversation dying as other patrons watched the confrontation unfold.

This was the moment where Jorghan was supposed to de-escalate, supposed to bow his head and endure, supposed to fetch Grisha to handle the situation.

Instead, he looked down at the hand gripping his wrist, then up into the mercenary’s eyes.

"Let. Go."