Ancestral Lineage

The doors groaned as they swung open, the heavy wood and metal hinges releasing a deep, resonant creak that echoed through the grand hall. The murmurs of the gathered clan members dwindled into hushed anticipation, all eyes drawn to the widening gap like moths to a flame.

First entered the newly elevated eight great families—leaders who had once been subordinates but now stood at the pinnacle of power.

At the forefront strode Pius Tennyson, his designer suit tailored to perfection, complementing the glow of his golden eyes. He radiated an effortless confidence, a near-carefree air, as if oblivious to the ravenous stares of the vampires among them, who looked as if they had laid eyes upon a five-star feast.

Next came Harry Noir, tall and composed, his black hair catching the light as his silver eyes reflected it unnaturally. The once-subordinate Noir family had risen, and their leader carried himself with the gravity of that change.

Behind him, Jasper Daniels followed, his brown hair shifting slightly with each step. His emerald-green eyes gleamed in the soft glow of the chandeliers.

Then came Wilson Barnes, father to Ethan and Trevor, his expression unreadable as he took his place among the greats. Beside him, Anthony Griswold, his striking purple hair swaying behind him, moved with silent assurance.

Following was Archibold Verna, small in stature but carrying an unmistakable presence. His youthful appearance belied his age, but the six elegant white fox tails now swaying behind him and the twitch of his fox ears spoke of something far beyond mere years.

Then came Percival Steil, his yellow eyes glowing with restrained intensity. His lion tail flicked behind him—not in mere movement, but a poised, elegant warning.

Together, they filled eight seats on the lowest tier of the stage. Only one remained empty.

The elders of the Smith Clan followed next, their presence commanding yet distant, filling six seats above the great families.

Then entered four striking women—Emily, Sixtie, Lusamine, and Cassandra—their crimson dresses adorned with intricate blue patterns and a crest of a golden compass with multicolored points. They moved with the effortless grace of nobility.

Behind them followed seven more women, each a vision of beauty and power—Carmen, Clara, Harley, Lisa, Andriel, Lisa (Pisces), and Tia in her humanoid form. Draped in exquisite red dresses lined with fur collars, and jeweled tiaras resting atop their heads, their mere presence silenced the hall in awe.

Next came a duo the entire hall recognized—Madeleine, the runaway princess, and Vlad, the former Patriarch. Their arrival sent ripples of tension through the room.

Then, a shift.

Three beings entered, and with them came a force unlike any before—a silent yet undeniable pressure washing over the gathered dwarves, vampires, and even the ghouls.

Trevor. Lamair. And Seraphina.

The moment her figure was recognized, gasps broke out in the hall. Eyes widened in shock, whispers exchanged in disbelief. The three figures took their seats just below the massive, throne-like chair reserved only for the Patriarch.

The air itself seemed to anticipate what would come next.

Then, it happened.

A golden glow seeped through the entrance, spilling onto the polished marble-like liquid fire. The sheer weight of something immense filled the space—unseen, yet undeniable. A presence that pressed against the very souls of those gathered, demanding recognition.

And then—he stepped forward.

Ethan.

The collective breath of the hall hitched.

Towering over seven feet tall, his frame carried an effortless strength, each step a declaration of dominance. His crystalline horns gleamed under the grand chandeliers, their structure an intricate blend of dwarven resilience and vampiric grace.

Behind him, vast wings of blue and gold unfurled, silent yet radiant, pulsating with raw, untamed power.

His hair once streaked with silver, now shimmered with an ethereal brilliance—gold, silver, and deep blue, shifting like woven strands of the cosmos.

And his eyes—piercing gold, burning like twin suns—swept over the assembly with a quiet intensity that made even the proudest nobles avert their gaze.

He was not a dwarf.

Not a vampire.

Not even a mere hybrid.

He was something greater.

Something divine.

Damn, I hate formalities.

Elaine's breath caught in her throat. Even through the curtain of her tangled green hair, she felt it—the suffocating, overwhelming force of his presence.

This... was their new Patriarch?

Gasps rippled through the hall—some in awe, others in disbelief.

But not everyone bowed.

A sharp scoff shattered the silence.

A dwarf with blood-red horns rose to his feet, arms crossed over his broad chest. His thick beard was impeccably groomed, and the gold embroidery on his robes marked him as a noble of high standing.

"This is the so-called heir of the Smith Clan?" His voice dripped with disdain. "A child who barely knows the weight of responsibility?"

Murmurs of agreement rippled through a portion of the nobles. Another elder, a dwarf with golden-brown horns, gave a firm nod.

"The Smith Clan has always been ruled by strength and wisdom, not mere bloodline," he said gruffly. "You may be powerful, but power alone does not make a leader."

A vampire elder leaned forward, sharp red eyes narrowing. "We demand a test of worthiness," he declared. "Let the Patriarch prove himself."

Ethan did not react.

He merely stood there, unmoving, silent.

The longer his silence stretched, the heavier the air became.

Then—

A shift.

No movement. No sound. Yet the very atmosphere changed.

The nobles who had spoken stiffened, their instincts screaming at them in warning.

Ethan inhaled slowly.

And then—

A wave of power crashed down upon the assembly.

The entire hall shook.

Dwarves and vampires alike gasped as an unseen force pressed into their very souls. Some gripped their chairs, others fell to their knees, struggling for breath.

And then, Ethan spoke.

"It seems you don't understand who I am."

A flicker of gold rippled through the room, and with it—

Their very blood sang.

A connection. A resonance. A call to something ancient—something beyond them all.

The dwarves felt the earth respond to him. The veins of metal deep beneath the land thrummed in recognition. The very ancestors of the dwarven empire stirred.

The vampires felt the night itself bend to him. Shadows stretched unnaturally, drawn to his presence. Their fangs ached, their very beings reacting to something incomprehensible.

Ethan stepped forward.

"I am not a half-blood."

His voice was low, yet it echoed like a thunderclap.

Another step. The ground beneath him cracked—not from weight but sheer authority.

"I am a perfect hybrid. The first of my kind."

Another step. A noble tried to speak—only to choke on his own breath as Ethan's golden gaze pinned him in place.

"I am your ancestor. Your origin. Your future."

Silence.

No one dared to move.

Then Ethan's voice dropped—lower. Sharper.

"You are hereby stripped of your status. For even a mere noble to speak to the Patriarch without permission..." He exhaled, unimpressed. "I'm disappointed."

A pause.

"This is a mere punishment. If you dare defy me again—" His golden eyes gleamed. "You will be stripped of your race itself. Believe me, I can do it."

The hall trembled.

And one by one, those who had defied him lowered their heads in submission.

The noble with blood-red horns trembled his face dark with rage and humiliation. Yet, he did not dare utter another word. Ethan's golden eyes bore into him, unwavering, unrelenting—a silent decree that even defiance would not be tolerated.

One by one, the elders and nobles who had spoken out bowed their heads. Some did so out of reluctant acknowledgment, others out of sheer survival instinct. The weight of Ethan's power still pressed upon them like a storm held at bay, ready to unleash devastation at the slightest provocation.

Ethan let the silence stretch, his golden gaze sweeping over the hall, ensuring that every soul present understood—this was no mere show of force. This was his declaration. His rule was absolute.

Then, with a slow breath, he withdrew his power.

The pressure lifted, and the hall filled with the sharp inhalations of those who had been on the verge of collapse. Hands unclenched, shoulders sagged, and more than a few nobles wiped sweat from their brows.

Yet before the tension could fully ease—

A single clap echoed through the chamber.

It was slow, deliberate, and filled with amusement.

Ethan's eyes flicked toward the source.

Trevor.

Seated just below the throne, his red tattoos gleamed under the chandelier's glow, his crimson eyes alight with mad glee. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, a smirk curving his lips.

"Magnificent," Trevor mused. "Truly. I expected you to make a statement bro, but this…" He let out a low chuckle. "You've exceeded even my expectations, Patriarch."

The way he said it—with so much joy—wasn't lost on anyone.

Ethan's gaze remained unreadable though his smile told another story. "I don't concern myself with expectations," he said, exposing his fangs. "I concern myself with results."

Trevor's smirk widened, but he said nothing more.

Another figure shifted forward.

Seraphina.

The moment her name was registered in the minds of the clansmen, another wave of silent shock rippled through the hall. Seraphina, the one lost to time, the one who had vanished without a trace centuries ago, was here.

And she looked unchanged.

"Fear fades. Respect endures."

She said, a silent advice to Ethan, her grandson.

Ethan remained silent for a moment.

Then—he smiled.

Not mocking, not arrogant—just a small, knowing smile.

"You're not wrong," he admitted. "But you are mistaken in thinking I don't know that already, Grandma."

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them until they were mere inches apart.
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"I did not come here simply to instill fear." His voice dropped lower, softer, yet no less commanding. "I came here to establish my place. And my place is above them."

His golden eyes gleamed.

"They will fear me, yes. But in time, they will worship me."

Seraphina nodded in approval. After all, she had experienced his authority in her visions. He was the origin of both races for a reason. Not even she, who had the same status as him could defy his authority and power.

Ethan turned away, stepping toward the massive throne that loomed over them all. The seat of the Patriarch.

With effortless grace, he ascended the steps and lowered himself onto the seat.

The moment he sat, a pulse of golden light rippled outward.

A proclamation.

A coronation.

Ethan Smith had taken his throne.

And the era of his reign had begun.