Veil of Inheritance

The Third Level

The Dragon King, Lucas, walked unrecognized in his own palace. The raw fury of the Sinclairs and Elle’s deep shame were fresh in his mind, but they were distant echoes compared to the ancient hum of the obsidian walls around him. This was his true home, and the "freeloader" facade he presented in the human world was merely a strategic disguise. His foster father, the Priest, the true King of the Dragon Clans, had prepared him for this. Lucas, a mortal, was the first to achieve dragon transformation, given immense power and wealth that none of the Sinclairs could ever imagine. This carefully planned public humiliation was simply one step in a much larger, secret game. The weight of his twin lives, the mortal and the mystical, settled upon him like a familiar cloak.

After Eleanor’s disastrous birthday party, the Sinclair family’s luxurious vehicle sped away from the Grand Square. The silence inside was suffocating, punctuated only by Eleanor’s sharp, agitated breaths and Frederick’s low, disgusted mumbles. The air was thick with tension and the bitter taste of public shame, a humiliation they believed Lucas had single handedly orchestrated. As they pulled up to their mansion, a grim mausoleum of their shattered pride, Lucas turned to Elle, his expression unusually grave.

"I can't come in just yet," he told her softly, his voice a low rumble. "I need to head straight to the hospital to check on my mother."

Elle’s eyes, still red-rimmed from tears shed over the public spectacle, were filled with immediate concern. Her own embarrassment at the gala, though profound, always yielded to her genuine worry about Lucas’s quiet mother. "Lucas, wait! "Let me come with you. "I can help," she began, reaching for his arm.

Lucas gently shook his head, his touch light but firm. "No, Elle. Please, stay here with your mother. Her condition is pretty severe, and the hospital isn't allowing many visitors right now. It's better if you’re here for Mrs. Sinclair." His words were a carefully constructed lie. He needed to avoid the mansion's wrath, yes, but more importantly, he needed to reach the Dragon Palace without delay. "I just need to go settle some bills."

Elle’s brow furrowed. She remembered her anger at the party; it wasn't about him needing money itself, but about the shocking public request, the stark surprise. He hadn't told her. That lack of trust had stung deeper than any insult thrown by the guests. Still, her worry about her ailing mother pushed aside her lingering hurt. "Here," she said, quickly pulling a thick wad of cash from her elegant purse. "Please, take this." For her treatment. "Don't even worry about it." Lucas took the money, a genuine warmth flickering in his eyes for her unwavering support, a steadfast light in the storm of their lives. "Thanks, Elle. "You have no idea how much this helps," he murmured, his gaze holding hers for a moment longer than necessary before he turned and melted into the shadows of the mansion's expansive grounds. His real destination, of course, was not a hospital. The pulsating heart of the Dragon Palace called him.

He slipped away from the mansion, leaving the human world's petty drama behind. He moved through ancient, hidden pathways, feeling the mystical energy that thrummed beneath the earth, a direct conduit to his true home. The air grew charged, different from the stale, anxious atmosphere of Spring Town. The Dragon Palace, carved from glistening obsidian, pulsed with a living, powerful energy, each stone a testament to millennia of strength and secrets.

As he entered a quiet, inner courtyard, adorned with shimmering dragon statues that seemed to watch him with ancient eyes, Elder Stephen emerged from the deep shadows. Stephen was a wise, ancient dragon, his scales the color of old jade, his eyes sparkling with knowing amusement.

"Nephew," Elder Stephen rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly sound that resonated with the very stones of the palace. His gaze briefly flickered towards the palace entrance Lucas had just passed, a hint of a smile playing on his ageless lips. "Quite a display. That young bull, Kelvin, nearly bowled you over in his fury just now."

Lucas offered a respectful nod, a quiet grace in his posture. "Uncle Stephen, "I take it he didn't find what he was looking for?" Lucas’s voice was calm, revealing nothing of his recent dramatic encounter with Kelvin.

"Only what his impatience allowed him to find, which was precisely nothing," Stephen chuckled, a sound like pebbles shifting in a dry riverbed. "He tried to trick me, you see, to pry loose the location of our hidden King. "A fool's errand, as ever." Stephen then looked at Lucas with a keen, searching gaze, his ancient eyes piercing. They settled on the faint, pulsing emerald glow on Lucas's forehead. This was the visible, undeniable sign of Lucas's current power level, a subtle luminescence that only those of the Dragon Clans could perceive. "You, Lucas," Stephen stated, his tone shifting, becoming more careful, more clinical, only on the third level. You're the first mortal in history to achieve true dragon transformation, which is nothing short of extraordinary. The Priest... he had his own unique knowledge of your initial change, secrets that allowed you to transcend mortal limits. But this glow? "It shows your current strength, your raw power needs refinement." Stephen spoke to Lucas casually, not because he was higher in rank than the King, but from a familiar respect born of their long association, knowing the Dragon King preferred honest talk to formal titles. The Dragon King’s position, however, remained the most powerful in the entire Dragon Kingdom, absolute and unquestioned by all who dared.

Lucas’s brow furrowed, a flicker of intense focus in his eyes. The third level. A vast chasm lay between him and Kelvin's formidable power. "How do I get to the seventh level?" Lucas asked, his voice low, betraying an immediate, urgent need to understand. He felt immense, untamed power deep within him, a vast ocean of energy waiting to be controlled.

"You must cultivate, nephew," Stephen replied, his voice serious, carrying the weight of ages. It is a long, difficult path. It demands complete control of yourself and yourself. The Priest, he gave you the initial spark, the transformation itself. But to truly reach Godly Immortal power, to harness your full potential, you must find your own way, through rigorous, solitary cultivation."

Before Lucas could ask more about this daunting path, the quiet of the courtyard was shattered. Urgent, panicked voices echoed from the main hall. A young, nervous Southern Clan messenger, his scales trembling visibly, rushed into the courtyard, bowing frantically, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Elder Stephen! My King! Forgive my intrusion!"

"Speak, boy!" Stephen commanded, his eyes narrowing, sensing the clear danger in the messenger’s frantic energy.

"It's Kelvin!" the messenger stammered, fear evident in his voice. He has just issued a formal challenge! Not to you, Elder, nor openly to the King... but to Elder Theron of the Southern Clan! He accuses Elder Theron of 'hoarding resources' meant for a general assembly, and demands a public trial by combat!"

Lucas’s eyes glinted, the emerald sign on his forehead pulsing brighter, reflecting the sudden surge of immense, untamed power stirring within him. Kelvin wasn't just ambitious; he was cunning, targeting a weaker, aging elder to assert dominance and further destabilize Lucas's still-hidden rule. The Sinclairs' drama now seemed like a child’s play, a distant echo of petty human concerns. Lucas knew he needed to solve this issue before it escalated beyond control. He also knew that this escalating chaos was, in part, a consequence of his long absence, of not fully taking up his role as the Dragon King, who was supposed to maintain strict order in the kingdom.

Lucas then left the Dragon Kingdom, his departure as swift and unseen as his arrival. He needed to be physically present in Spring Town, to maintain his disguise and keep an eye on his human life, even as his true responsibilities weighed heavily. When he entered the Sinclair mansion, the gateman, a grizzled old man with eyes that saw too much, gave him a cold, hard glare. The disdain was palpable, immediately yanking Lucas back to the crushing reality of his public humiliation at Grand Square. He recalled the whispers, the snide remarks, the sheer, unadulterated shame he had deliberately inflicted upon the Sinclairs.

As he entered the opulent, yet now tense, living room, Eleanor, his mother-in-law, was already waiting, her face a mask of furious self-righteousness. She began throwing a fresh round of tantrums, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. "Good for nothing!" she shrieked, her hands clenching into fists. "Where did you go? "I thought you ran away after the humiliation you cost us! "After feeding you for over two years, this is how you repay us?" As Lucas tried to speak, to offer some explanation, she cut him off with a dismissive wave. "Who asked you to speak? "You have no right!" She then dramatically produced a crisp white cheque and a legal document, slamming them onto the polished coffee table. "Here! Here is a cheque for one hundred million dollars! It’s far more than you wanted, and even more to take care of you, you freeloader, for a lifetime! "Take this, and sign this paper!" she declared, her voice laced with venom, pushing a divorce paper towards him. This was her final, triumphant strike, her ultimate bid to buy him off and sever all ties, to cleanse the Sinclair name of his perceived blight.

Lucas’s face remained calm, unreadable. He slowly picked up the divorce paper, his fingers brushing over the formal language. With deliberate, almost theatrical precision, he folded it once, then again, and again, until it was a small, tight ball. His eyes widened, a strange light in their depths, as he took aim. With a smooth, fluid motion, he flicked his wrist, sending the paper ball arcing through the air. It sailed effortlessly, perfectly, across the grand living room, landing with a soft thwack directly into the small, decorative trash can by the door. His aim was flawless, almost impossible. A subtle, yet powerful, testament to the enhanced senses and control he possessed. Lucas then clapped his hands together, a look of genuine, almost childlike wonder on his face. "Wow!" he exclaimed, his voice ringing with a cool, detached amusement that utterly infuriated Eleanor. "I think I should go back to playing basketball!"

At that moment, Eleanor, her face contorted in a mask of pure, unadulterated rage, moved to strike him. Her hand shot out, aiming for his face, her pride shattered by his audacity. But in her blind fury, her foot caught on the edge of the plush rug. She tripped, her carefully composed dignity vanishing in a clumsy flail of limbs, and fell heavily to the ground with a grunt, landing in an undignified heap. Lucas simply watched her fall, a quiet triumph in his eyes, offering no help, no comfort. The Sinclairs' petty dramas, their superficial concerns, seemed utterly insignificant next to the brewing war in his true home.