The hallway held its breath.
A stillness clung to the air—dense and deliberate, and far too silent to be natural. There were no footsteps, not even a voice. And not even the rustle of distant servants. Only the soft hum of magic was buried beneath the stone, pulsing like a sleeping heart.
Eris stood alone, knuckles bruised, hair a little disheveled from the earlier brawl. A smirk tugged at his lips as he flexed his hand, still aching, still alive.
"There were two reasons I beat the living hell out of my siblings Yesterday," he muttered aloud to no one, his voice echoing faintly against the stone walls of the Mist Chamber. "First—pure vengeance."
He turned toward the fogged window, watching the light shift through the distant clouds beyond Ironvale.
"For everything they did to me in my previous life. For every bruise and humiliation. Every time they laughed when I bled and called it discipline ."
He clenched his fist again.
"And the Second and main reason was to attract the duke's Attention ."
He lifted his left hand, and faint crimson wisps curled from his palm—like smoke, but heavier, richer. It pulsed faintly with an unnatural rhythm, flickering between solid and flame. Not enough to cause damage. Just enough… to be seen.
"The moment Maria said the twins were coming to Mist Palace… I knew."
His voice was low, steady, sharp enough to cut through fog.
"There would be an official knight with them. "
"So, I leaked a small fragment of Crimson Energy during the sparring match," he muttered, eyes narrowing with cold calculation.
"Just enough to get noticed."
He leaned back against the chair, arms crossed.
"What I didn't expect… was that the knight would be him."
A faint smirk touched his lips.
"Sir Kaelith. Viscount Kaelith Lionhearth."
He is from one of House Vale's most trusted Vassal Families, a prodigy who reached Grade 9 at a young age and rose to become the Duke's right hand and second-in-command.
"With him involved, things moved even faster than I'd planned. Much better."
He exhaled lightly—more amused than relieved.
"Heh… Hahaha."
A low chuckle slipped past his lips, growing into something darker—satisfied, almost amused.
"Mother Luck… looks like you're finally on my side."
Just then, a knock echoed through the heavy wooden door.
Sharp
"Young Master," came Maria's voice, soft and formal as always, though tinged with an unspoken concern. "Dinner is ready."
Eris turned. "Smells good," he said, walking past her.
Maria gave a short bow, falling into step behind him. She didn't comment on the bruises or the faint mana residue still lingering on his fingers.
In the dining hall, candlelight danced gently along the polished silverware. The room was elegant but modest by Vale Family standards—
Eris sat down at the head of the narrow table. Maria brought over a steaming plate and placed it in front of him.
The aroma hit him instantly—rich, savory, unlike anything he'd ever smelled.
It wasn't just food. It was mana in scent form.
He narrowed his eyes, staring at the seared steak laid atop seasoned vegetables. The scent was wild and ancient, like rain falling on scorched stone. His brows furrowed.
"…Maria," he said slowly, eyes fixed on the dish. "What is this?"
She blinked, startled by his tone. "It's a gift," she replied gently. "From Lady Bellatrix."
His fork paused mid-air.
"No way…"
His eyes narrowed, instincts flaring.
"If what I'm thinking is correct, then this isn't just any meat."
He leaned in, inspecting the texture, the scent.
"This is definitely… dragon meat."
Eris pushed his chair back with a sharp screech. He stood and stared down at the plate, as if the steak might grow wings and breathe fire.
"You're serious?" His tone was low, incredulous. "Bellatrix gave this to me?"
Maria nodded slowly. "Yes, Young Master. She requested that I serve it to you… personally."
"…Why?" he asked.
"I don't know. She only smiled and said, 'He'll need it soon.'"
That woman… He couldn't tell whether she was curious, manipulating him, or entertained by his presence. Either way, this wasn't some noble snack.
This was power incarnate.
He slowly sat back down, frowning as he gazed at the meat. Then, quietly, he began to speak. Not to Maria. Not even to himself. But perhaps… to the shadow of the boy he used to be.
"Dragons, they are the eternal symbols of power, and mysterious
creatures whose very names echo through the annals of civilization as living myths, embodiments of the impossible. Revered as gods by some, feared as walking cataclysms by others, dragons exist at the highest tier of creation, straddling the fragile line between nature and divinity.
To a dragon, mana is not a tool nor a weapon.
It is their soul.
They do not use magic—their very existence is Magic.
This is why dragons are often called the Masters of Mana. While mortals strain to grasp the currents of energy, a dragon bends them with the ease of a sigh. Their mana cores are vast beyond mortal comprehension, capable of fueling spells that shatter mountains and reducing empires to ash.
Even the flesh of a lesser dragon contains incomprehensibly dense mana, concentrated, volatile, and alive. When consumed, it serves as a natural miracle: a potent enhancer that sharpens the flow of energy within the body, refines aura pathways, and amplifies mana reserves several times over.
Its effects are immediate and lasting.
From forging weapons and healing fatal wounds to breaking through bottlenecks in cultivation, dragon meat is a treasure coveted by the Mage Tower.
Even a single bite can change the fate of a warrior."
He let the bite linger near his mouth, his mind racing. Why now? Why did Bellatrix give him this? Was it a reward? A test? Or a way to see how far he'd go?
Maria finally broke the silence. "You seem troubled, Young Master."
"I am," he admitted.
"Is it because of Lady Bellatrix?"
Bellatrix Vale
Third daughter of Grand Duke Cael Vale, and the fourth-born of the House Vale.
and a crest bearer
And feared across the Empire as the "Madwoman of the North."
To Bellatrix, strength is everything.
Bloodlines, titles, diplomacy—none of it matters if it comes from the weak.
When the Second Prince of the Solkardia Empire dared to propose marriage, she answered not with words—
But with violence.
She shattered his pride, broke several of his bones, and declared coldly:
"I don't marry men who are weaker than me."
Since then, her name has become both a warning and a legend.
"Yes." He paused. "It's because I am surprised it's my first time getting something from my siblings ."
"I still can't believe it… She gave me something this rare, this precious.
Why?
What could be her motive for doing something like that?"
His thoughts spiraled, caught between suspicion and disbelief.
"No one gives away power without a reason… especially someone like her.
"I'm not sure what her intentions are, but I will accept any free meal ."
He then finally took the bite.
The moment it touched his tongue, his vision dimmed slightly. It was like swallowing liquid lightning—warm, potent, alive. He could feel the meat break down in his body, releasing wave after wave of energy that pulsed through his core like a second heartbeat.
A faint sweat broke on his brow.
Maria stepped closer, worried. "Are you alright?"
"…Yeah," he muttered, setting the utensils down slowly. "Just—feels like my blood's boiling."
He leaned back, chest rising and falling as his body adjusted to the foreign energy invading it.
"She… she gave me dragon meat."
He chuckled softly.
Outskirts of Azma City
The wheels of the carriage rolled slowly over the dew-laced stone, the forest mist dancing like shy spirits in its wake. Outside, the distant lights of Azma City blinked through the dusk haze—warm, flickering reminders of a world teeming with noise and motion.
Inside the carriage, however, silence reigned.
Until a quiet voice finally broke it.
"…My lady, if I may."
Bellatrix Vale turned slightly, resting her cheek against her gloved knuckles as she looked toward the speaker—her ever-loyal attendant and knight, Ophelia Raventhorn.
Ophelia's armor clinked faintly as she leaned forward, her tone respectful but laced with a confusion she could no longer suppress. "Why did you give the dragon meat to the Fourth Young Master? That was meant for Lady Ariel?"
Bellatrix didn't answer at first. Her violet eyes remained on the misted window, watching the trees sway gently as if whispering secrets.
"…Because I felt like it."
Ophelia blinked. "Pardon?"
Bellatrix tilted her head back with a soft, half-laugh, one that was more air than sound.
"You saw it too, didn't you?" she said, her voice low and unreadable. "Father was smiling today."
Ophelia frowned. "Yes… But I fail to see—"
"Don't you know what that means?" Bellatrix cut in, eyes narrowing. "The Duke of Vale only smiles for one reason when something amuses him.
She turned now, fully facing Ophelia.
"The Duke only acknowledges those with worth. After the first crest bearer stepped down, he was disappointed. Deeply. That, Not Even a single one of the remaining crest Bearers was to his expectations, including Myself."
Ophelia looked down. "Even you, Lady Bellatrix?"
Bellatrix gave a dry chuckle. "Even me. I was the proudest disappointment he had."
A long pause passed between them. The carriage's wheels bumped gently, the rhythm oddly comforting.
"And now," Bellatrix continued, "he looks at Eris… and he smiles."
Ophelia hesitated. "But… Lady Bellatrix, with all due respect, the Fourth showed no signs of talent until recently. Nothing. He was unawakened, unskilled, unrecognized. The family barely acknowledged his existence."
"Exactly." Bellatrix's eyes gleamed. "And then—out of nowhere—he defeats his younger twin siblings who were Stronger than him in a Spar. And what's More Interesting is that Father, no, the Duke leaves. Without a word, Ophelia finished softly.
"And that," Bellatrix whispered, "means he is hiding Something he doesn't want revealed yet."
And Father knew what that was.
Ophelia leaned back, processing the implication. "You think he knows the reason behind the Fourth Younger Master's sudden growth?"
"I think he knows enough not to act rashly. And you know how dangerous it is when Father chooses to watch instead of strike."
The carriage continued forward, now leaving the last remnants of Azma's outskirts behind.
Ophelia looked back at Bellatrix, then down at her hands.
"But the dragon heart… Wasn't that prepared to aid Lady Ariel's breakthrough?"
"It was," Bellatrix said casually. "But there are plenty of other methods, so it's not a big Problem.
Bellatrix smiled faintly. " And I'm… curious."
"Curious?"
"About the younger brother, I used to call a weakling and A failure." Her tone shifted—quieter now, almost uncertain. "And yet, somehow… he's the one who made Father smile again."
"I am looking forward to meeting you again."
The carriage rolled on, swallowed by fog and intrigue.
Vexlor, the capital of the Vale Duchy
The palace loomed like a mountain carved from night itself. Its black obsidian towers stood vigilant under the deep violet sky, their golden crests glowing faintly in the mist that curled along the walls like living breath.
Ironvale was not built for warmth. It was a fortress of legacy.
The great gates opened with a resonating groan.
Through them walked a single man—his steps slow, heavy with authority. The long golden cloak he wore trailed behind him like the tail of a comet, gleaming in the torchlight.
The servants along the hall dropped to one knee. The knights stood straight and saluted in perfect unison.
"We greet the Patriarch of the House Vale," they intoned, their voices echoing like a sacred hymn.
But the Duke said nothing.
He didn't nod or glance.
He walked—his boots tapping cold marble—past painted tapestries of wars long won and lost, past ancestral blades and crumbling tomes, until he reached a tall, sealed door.
He paused.
Then pushed it open.
The room was quiet and Intimate.
Golden light spilled through half-drawn curtains, casting shadows over the crimson-draped Bed. Vases lined the walls, painted with the insignia of House Vale—black roses blooming beneath a full moon.
Books rested, untouched for years. A harp sat in the corner, strings silent.
And in the center of it all, a person was lying on the Bed.
Her beauty was unmatched. Long black hair fanned across the pillows like ink spilled across parchment. Her breathing was soft and slow, so fragile that it barely stirred the air.
The Duke walked forward, expression unreadable.
Then—slowly, deliberately—he knelt beside the Bed.
His fingers, always wrapped in iron gauntlets during court, now trembled slightly as they wrapped around her hand..
"…Your son has finally grown up."
The words fell like snowflakes. Barely above a whisper. Weighted with more emotion than any war command ever uttered from his lips.
He brushed a lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear as though she would wake at the touch.
"He's strong now," he whispered. "Strong, and you believe it nearly made me draw my sword ."
His gaze lingered on her face, remembering a time when she smiled, when her laughter filled the corridors.
"So please…"
His voice cracked, just barely.
"…Wake up, Savannah."
His hand rested on hers for a long time, unmoving. Golden eyes—those same eyes that terrified generals and kings—were now glassy with longing.
End Of Chapter 9