I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 637: You must be a proud father [Golden Ticket - Bonus]

The words weren’t loud. They weren’t shouted or delivered with particular force. They were a statement of such fundamental authority that Queen Morvana’s remaining words died in her throat.

Her mouth remained open, her expression shifting from righteous anger to genuine shock that someone had just dared to tell her to be silent in her own throne room.

The council members all went rigid.

One of them, a male with dark hair and eyes that had seen centuries of history, made a sound and chuckled under his breath.

The guards were failing to maintain composure.

Several had actually fallen to their knees now, overwhelmed by the combination of heat, the manifestation of the fire hand, and the sheer oppressive weight of Jack’s presence.

Their hands shook as they gripped their weapons, weapons that suddenly seemed about as useful as paper against the being standing in the center of the throne room.

One guard’s eyes had rolled back slightly, the whites visible; he was experiencing something approaching a dissociative state.

His breathing had become so shallow it was barely perceptible. Another guard had begun to hyperventilate, his chest heaving so violently that foam was beginning to form at the corners of his mouth.

King Maelor’s tapping continued.

Jack’s fire hand dissipated, collapsing back into his body and leaving him with just the void of his missing appendage once more.

But the temperature remained elevated, the thermal radiation from his body still making the air feel like it was cooking the flesh off the guards’ bones.

”You reached out to the Great Nation of Elysium for a mediator,” Jack stated, his tone becoming conversational in a way that made the threat more profound rather than less.

”I represent King Eric Valdris in mind, body, and soul. To insult me is to insult all of Elysium, and you wouldn’t want a war on two fronts.”

He paused, allowing the implications to settle across the throne room.

”Elysium is the only nation with five chosen ones,” he continued. ”Five individuals blessed by the gods themselves with power that transcends normal magical limitations. And yet, there is only one chosen one in the entire world who can control lightning.”

The hood tilted fractionally, and beneath it, a flicker of golden light emerged.

It wasn’t subtle. It was a spark of electricity so intense that it ionized the air around it.

The smell of ozone filled the throne room with an acrid smell. The electrical charge was so potent that it created a visible shimmer in the air around Jack’s hooded form, distorting reality in ways that made distance and depth seem to shift and change.

The guards felt it immediately.

The hair on their arms stood on end. The sensation was primal, a warning system that had evolved over millennia to alert humans and other creatures to the presence of lightning so intense that it threatened to vaporize anything in its proximity.

One guard’s hand spasmed, his grip on his weapon involuntarily loosening. The spear fell from his fingers and clattered to the stone floor, the sound echoing across the chamber like a death knell.

The council members experienced it as a different kind of assault.

For beings whose magical understanding stretched back centuries, the electrical charge registered with terrifying clarity.

They could perceive the golden lightning not just as a visual phenomenon but as a fundamental force that existed on a scale so far beyond their own power that comparisons became meaningless.

Queen Morvana’s hands were now shaking visibly.

Her composure, which had been the defining characteristic of her rule, was cracking.

Her eyes were wide, fixed on the golden light beneath Jack’s hood. Her breathing had become rapid and shallow, mirroring the guards’ struggle to process air that had become fundamentally hostile.

King Maelor’s tapping stopped.

His finger stilled against the stone armrest, the rhythm interrupted.

His expression remained unchanged. The King was no longer measuring out whatever internal calculation he had been maintaining. Something had shifted in his assessment.

Jack’s voice emerged again, and when it did, it carried the weight of absolute certainty.

”Queen Morvana, age is a metric for those who lack the talent to achieve anything in their youth. You have sat on this throne for centuries, and yet you had to beg a ’child’ to save you from Orcs. Silence fits you much better than leadership.”

The words landed like a sledgehammer to the chest

Queen Morvana’s entire body went rigid. Her hands gripped the armrests of her throne with such force that the white stone shattered, fragments falling to the floor.

Her face flushed, an Elven flush that brought color to her cheeks and temples, a physical manifestation of rage so profound it was threatening to overwhelm her carefully maintained composure.

But she remained silent.

Not because she wanted to, but because her body recognized on a cellular level that any attempt to respond would be met with consequences she couldn’t fathom.

The council members shifted uncomfortably, their eyes beginning to move.

First toward Jack, then toward King Maelor, then toward the guards, searching for some indication of what was supposed to happen next, searching for some framework that could accommodate what was occurring in the throne room.

The runes on the floor had stopped reacting.

They had degraded to the point that the magical inscriptions were no longer functional.

The blue light had faded entirely, replaced by dark char marks where the ancient patterns had ceased to exist. The floor of the throne room, which had been maintained with meticulous care for thousands of years, was now scarred with the evidence of Jack’s presence.

Jack’s form remained absolutely still, his hooded visage containing a presence so profound that the weight of it seemed to press down on every individual in the room, crushing them beneath the understanding that they were in the presence of something that operated on an entirely different scale of power and authority than anyone they had ever encountered.

The silence stretched.

It was absolute and terrifying. No one moved. No one spoke. The only sound was the harsh, rapid breathing of guards and council members, as they struggled to process what was happening before them.

Finally, the guards and council members began to shift their eyes.

Not toward Jack, but toward King Maelor.

Their gazes gradually and cautiously turned towards the Elven King, who remained motionless on his throne. His expression remained composed, his posture impeccable, and his hand continued to rest on the armrest, the previous tapping replaced by complete stillness.

They were looking to him for guidance, for salvation, for some indication of what happened next.

King Maelor remained motionless, his ancient eyes tracking Jack with the assessment of someone observing a situation unfolding according to patterns he had anticipated, someone waiting for the precise moment when he would need to intervene.

Suddenly, the heat began to subside, allowing the guards to control themselves in the King’s presence.

”I heard Rhys solo cleared an S-rank dungeon by himself,” Jack stated, his words directed not at Queen Morvana but at King Maelor specifically, his gaze moving from the Queen to lock onto the Elven King with the intensity of a predator fixing on its target.

”You must be a proud father.”