Tristan observed the man before him, so consumed by rage he resembled a frenzied ape more than a human. The chap's desperate attempts to provoke a fight were almost pathetic.

  Such base tactics...does he truly believe this will work?

  A blur—pain exploded at the back of Tristan’s head. Darkness swallowed him whole as the World Fate's attack reached its peak.

  When his vision cleared, he stood somewhere else entirely. An island stretched before him, its shores battered by ceaseless waves. Jagged cliffs loomed in the distance, weathered and eroded by endless storms. The sky above churned with dark clouds, their shapes twisting like phantom hands clawing at the land.

  He exhaled. My soul realm.

  Looking down, he caught sight of his own body—gaunt, withered, draped in rags. His fingers trembled, his skin like brittle parchment, thin and fragile. A dry chuckle bubbled from his throat.

  "How unsightly," he muttered.

  With a thought, power surged through him. The air warped, space trembled, and with a single step, he shed the husk of his decay. In its place, his sixteen-year-old self stood, muscles firm, posture straight. A body unburdened by the erosion of fate.

  He strode forward, gaze sweeping across the battered land. A reflection of my soul, shaped by the World Fate’s relentless assault. He clicked his tongue. Unacceptable!

  Lifting his fist, he drove it into the island’s heart. The ground cracked. Ethereal symbols flared to life, golden runes slithering across the surface, forming intricate patterns. Energy pulsed outward, coalescing into a translucent dome that stretched to encapsulate the entire island. A barrier—his Authority made manifest, a safeguard against the gnawing whispers of fate.

  The moment it settled, the world around him dissolved.

  Tristan blinked, finding himself once more in reality. Not a second had passed. His opponent was still seething, still baiting him. But Tristan only rolled his shoulders, exhaling.

  A wave of calm settled over him. The whispers had ceased. His will was his own.

  He met the man’s glare, but his expression remained impassive. Even if I wanted to humor this idiot, it would be pointless. His system was still dormant. And to pick a fight with a scion?

  I may not be wise, but I’m not suicidal.

  "You're not worthy," Tristan declared, his gaze sweeping past the man to the others gathered in the hall. The only way was to deflect…

  Rhys practically vibrated with frustration. His knuckles whitened as his fists clenched tighter, ignored by the very person he sought to provoke.

  "Guards! Seize this beast and throw him into the city jail! He will await judgment there!" At this moment, an Elder also stood up and yelled at Rhys to earn himself some favor points from Tristan.

  The hall erupted in a cacophony of voices. Another prominent figure, eager to curry favor with Tristan, jumped to his feet. "Agreed! City Lord, I propose we restrain Rhys and cast him out into the wilderness!"

  "Indeed! This will provide Young Master Tristan with a justifiable explanation for his actions!"

  One by one, the other joined the chorus, condemning Rhys for his audacity and disrespect. Their expressions were masks of righteousness, each vying to earn Tristan's approval.

  He remained standing, a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he took a sip of his wine. How curious... he mused. I haven't uttered a single word in condemnation, yet this Child of Destiny, finds himself in such dire straits.

  He watched as Rhys, his face pale with panic, glanced desperately towards the lady beside him.

  Tristan followed that glance. Young Lady Regina Ellsworth.

  She stood poised, unmoving, the soft candlelight casting shadows along the curve of her cheek. Her lips, normally full and expressive, were pressed into a firm, unreadable line. Hazel eyes—brilliant and sharp—held no warmth.

  At sixteen, Regina was the embodiment of budding nobility. There was an elegance in the way her auburn curls cascaded over her shoulders, a quiet strength in the way she held herself. She had the delicate beauty of youth—a button nose, smooth fair skin—but there was something else beneath it, something cold. A woman unshaken, untouched by the chaos unraveling before her.

  A shame, really. If things were different, she would make a formidable wife. Beautiful, composed, perceptive—qualities that would serve any man well.

  But Regina remained silent.

  Rhys trembled beside her, his last hope dwindling as even Regina refused to speak in his defense.

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  Then—just for a fraction of a second—her expression shifted.

  A subtle understanding glimmered in her eyes, a look that Rhys no doubt mistook for salvation. Tristan, however, wasn’t as easily deceived.

  Interesting. Was she angry at him? Or merely severing ties?

  Before he could delve deeper, a muted but firm voice resonated in his mind. "Young Master," his personal Blood Warrior reported, "There was a strange fluctuation from the ring in Rhys's hand just now."

  Finally, something worth my attention. He may not possess his own system yet, but he had a family warrior guarding from the shadows.

  It was the perfect time to look at what secrets this Scion might have for his unwavering attitude. While he was familiar with Rhys, the secret of Scions is not common knowledge so he could use this chance when Rhys was at his lowest to deduce something.

  His gaze sharpened as the Blood Warrior shared his vision.

  There it was. A subtle but undeniable pulse seeped from that modest copper ring, spreading through Rhys's hand and reaching the head.

  And Rhys—Rhys, who had moments ago bristled with tension—stilled. His breathing evened, the storm in his eyes dulled, replaced by an eerie tranquility. A shift so unnatural it sent a ripple through Tristan’s composed fa?ade.

  His lips parted slightly before curling into a smirk.

  There, almost invisible against his pale skin, was a simple copper ring. It was diminutive, easily overlooked, but to the trained eye of his Blood Warrior, it was a beacon.

  His mind worked through the possibilities with ruthless efficiency. A hidden artifact? A relic from a forgotten ancestor? Or—better yet—the classic mysterious master grandpa?

  Scions. They always had something—some divine stroke of fortune, some edge others could only dream of. A Golden Finger to tip fate in their favor.

  Tristan pitched his voice just loud enough to reach the City Lord’s ears, each syllable dripping with casual arrogance. "Lady Regina," he drawled, letting the title stretch, mocking, "is this the grand entertainment your father has arranged for me today? A rather... unrefined spectacle, wouldn’t you say?"

  He didn't bother to hide his disdain, offering no respect to the City Lord or his family. After all, there was no chance he would ever marry Regina.

  Having a Scion as his wife? Absurd. He had no need for such a troublesome alliance.

  Across the room, City Lord Jack Ellsworth stiffened. His fingers twitched against the jeweled hilt of his ceremonial dagger, the only sign of his barely contained fury.

  Despite his fifty years, Ellsworth looked like a man in his prime—the kind who made others underestimate just how long he had played this game. His thick, jet-black hair, untouched by silver, framed a face that bore none of time’s usual cruelties. A regal straight nose and a strong jawline. A man accustomed to command.

  Yet right now, his unreadable gray eyes betrayed something else—something dangerously close to panic.

  And Tristan enjoyed watching it happen.

  Interesting.

  Her usual mask wavered before she caught herself, straightening, chin tilting higher in defiance. But not before he saw it. Not before he knew.

  So. She hadn’t expected him to be quite this bold.

  Good.

  Let her wonder just how far he was willing to go.

  It wasn't entirely unexpected. Questioning the Level 51 human, who had essentially offered his beautiful daughter to him, was quite daring.

  As they had expected him to play along.

  To flash that arrogant smirk, roll up his sleeves, and meet Rhys blow for blow in some meaningless display of bravado. A pissing contest dressed up as noble posturing. That’s what they wanted—a spectacle, a game where men proved their "worthiness" through petty squabbles and thinly veiled insults.

  It was exactly what he had done in his past life. Not this time.

  "Tristan, do you only know how to bully others with your status?" Rhys roared once more, glaring at him. The raging fire in his eyes was spewing as if the engagement was orchestrated by Tristan to deal with him.

  Tristan still maintained his calm as he kept looking down while drinking his wine. His expression hadn't changed at all, showing neither glee nor fury. In his heart, however, he found the entire spectacle to be quite funny.

  After all, this shit show had nothing to do with him. Based on his memories, he didn't even know about the existence of a nobody like this Rhys before he showed himself and went against him today.

  As for the City Lord of Cinderbrook giving his daughter to him? That wasn't because Tristan desired her; it was because the City Lord wanted to rope him in while he still could, to get on his good side. It was a common tactic in this dog-eat-dog world where the strong preyed upon the weak. Who wouldn't want a terrifying backer like Tristan?

  As for this Rhys? He must be a professional mud-slinger, seeing how he had no real talent and only spewed crap from his mouth. Why should Tristan be the one to clear up this mess?

  "WHAT IMPUDENCE?! How dare you call the Young Master's name with such disrespect?" A chilling voice cut through the tense atmosphere, followed by a wave of oppressive force that seemed to suck the air from the room. Finally someone took the bait…

  It was Chris Ellsworth, the Young Master of the Ellsworth family, brother Regina from different mother, his face a mask of icy fury.

  He strode forward, his every step radiating authority. Runes, intricate and glowing, flickered around his hands, and his aura surged like a tempest, leaving no doubt of his intent to punish Rhys for his perceived insolence.

  [ [F] Human - Level 11 ]

  "Young Master Tristan," Chris said, his voice dripping with barely contained rage, "I apologize for this trash's actions. This Rhys clearly lacks any understanding of proper etiquette." Gloom settled over Chris's face, mirroring the dark mood that had descended upon the hall. The Ellsworths, known for their pride and impeccable manners, had never suffered such a public humiliation.

  The others now buzzed with excitement. This unexpected turn of events had transformed the engagement ceremony into a thrilling spectacle. Whispers filled the air, fueled by curiosity and schadenfreude.

  "Father, please allow me to deal with this Rhys, and offer Young Master Tristan our apologies!" Chris declared, his voice ringing with determination. He didn't wait for a response. With a surge of power, he launched himself at Rhys, his hands ablaze with magical runes.

  A deafening explosion rocked the hall as the runes converged, transforming into a blinding flash of lightning that snaked through the air like a furious dragon.

  Spectral rays of light danced around the combatants, creating a dazzling display that captivated the onlookers.

  However, the more discerning elders, including the City Lord, remained impassive. To them, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Rhys's defeat was inevitable.

  "Good! Let's fight it out then!" Rhys roared, his voice filled with an almost reckless enthusiasm.

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