Johnny stood before the floor to ceiling glass wall, the city sprawling beneath him like a circuit board of light and ambition. Morning haze softened the skyline, but from this height, nothing felt distant.

  In his hand was a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid.

  The glass caught the morning light, warm against the cold skyline.

  Behind him, his secretary stood poised, tablet in hand, silent as a shadow that had chosen discipline over existence.

  Johnny did not turn.

  "Report."

  Her voice began, steady, precise.

  But before she could continue—

  He snapped his fingers.

  The air shifted.

  Not violently.

  Not theatrically.

  Just a distortion in pressure, as though the room acknowledged something ancient. A blood red blade materialized beside him.

  Not summoned with effort. Not dragged from another realm.

  It simply manifested, glowing with quiet authority, as if reality itself adjusted to make space for it.

  The metal was a deep, living crimson. Not painted. Not stained.

  Alive.

  Light did not normally reflect off it. It slid along the surface like liquid over glass, pooling faintly along the veins carved within the blade's core. Those veins pulsed slowly. Steadily.

  Like a heartbeat.

  Not his.

  The sword hovered upright at his right side.

  Perfectly aligned.

  Perfectly still.

  Its edge was unnaturally thin, so precise it seemed less forged and more defined. As though the concept of "cut" had taken physical form.

  There were no decorative excesses. No jewels. No ancient runes screaming for attention.

  Only a refined guard curved in subtle elegance, and a hilt wrapped in dark leather that looked worn, but not weakened.

  The weapon did not radiate chaos.

  It radiated obedience.

  The polished crimson surface caught the reflection of the glass wall.

  And in that crimson steel—

  Johnny stood.

  Tall,not towering in a dramatic way. Just enough that most men had to look slightly up when speaking to him.

  Lean, but not fragile. His build was precise. The kind earned through discipline rather than display. Broad shoulders beneath a perfectly tailored black suit. The fabric sat clean against him, no wrinkle daring to exist without permission.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  His posture was effortless. Not military stiff. Not carelessly relaxed.

  Balanced.

  His hair was dark. Ink black. Neatly kept, yet not overly styled. It moved slightly with the faint airflow of the room, as if even the air treated him carefully.

  His skin was porcelain smooth. Not pale from weakness. Pale from something else. Untouched by stress. Untouched by age.

  There were no visible scars.

  Utterly perfect.

  His face was sharp without being harsh. High cheekbones. Clean jawline. Lips that rarely curved fully into a smile.

  And his eyes—

  Dark.

  Deep enough to absorb the light around them.

  They did not flicker.

  They did not wander.

  They assessed.

  Measured.

  Contained.

  When he looked at the city below, it did not feel like admiration.

  It felt like inventory. In the blade's reflection, however—

  The darkness in his eyes seemed heavier.

  Older.

  For a fraction of a second, the reflection almost looked as if it were the one studying him.

  Johnny raised the glass to his lips. The amber liquid caught the crimson glow.

  He drank.

  Calm.

  Untouched.

  Paused.

  His expression did not change.

  Then—

  He spat it back into the glass.

  A sharp, controlled motion. Not messy. Not dramatic.

  "Hey," he said flatly, staring at the tumbler.

  "This isn't my green tea."

  Behind him, his secretary answered without hesitation.

  "Single malt. Thirty years."

  Johnny stared at it.

  "It tastes terrible."

  A beat.

  "It's alcohol, sir."

  "Yeah. No shit."

  He handed the glass back without turning.

  "It burns."

  A faint pause.

  "Replace it with green tea."

  "Yes."

  She stepped forward and took the glass as if nothing unusual had happened.

  Professional. Precise. Unbothered.

  But out of the corner of his eye—

  He caught it.

  The faintest upward curve at the edge of her lips.

  Controlled.

  Subtle.

  Almost invisible.

  If anyone else were looking, they would have missed it.

  Johnny did not.

  And somewhere beneath the stillness in his chest—

  He knew.

  She was amused.

  The sword pulsed.

  A slow surge of crimson running through its veins.

  Heat gathered in the air beside him.

  The polished steel darkened, then brightened from within.

  White hair emerged first in the reflection.

  Then a pair of crimson eyes.

  Then the outline of a man stepping out of the blade as though crossing a thin veil between rooms.

  Porcelain skin.

  White hair falling loosely, less disciplined than Johnny's.

  Crimson eyes that did not bother pretending to be anything else.

  His father rolled his shoulders once, glancing at the empty glass.

  "You spat it out."

  Johnny did not look at him.

  "Yeah. Fuck you."

  The father laughed. Low. Rich. Warm.

  The sword's veins glowed brighter for half a second.

  "You used to pretend better."

  "I was twelve."

  "And already judging thirty year single malts."

  Johnny finally turned slightly, just enough for his profile to catch the red glow.

  "It tastes terrible."

  His father smirked.

  "It's not supposed to taste good."

  "Then why drink it."

  A beat.

  The father shrugged lightly.

  "Image."

  Johnny slid his hand back into his pocket.

  "Pointless."

  The father's eyes shifted toward the secretary.

  "She's enjoying this."

  She was enjoying this too much.

  But not openly and not carelessly.

  But in the precise way she returned the glass to the bar cart…

  in the measured turn of her wrist…

  in the almost imperceptible steadiness of her breathing—

  She was entertained.

  Johnny did not look at her.

  He did not need to.

  The blade pulsed once beside him, crimson veins dimming back into a steady rhythm.

  Footsteps.

  Soft.

  Even.

  She disposed of the glass without comment and returned to her original position behind him.

  Professional.

  Precise.

  Unbothered.

  As if nothing ancient had manifested in the room.

  As if the Chairman of Blackmore Holding had not rejected thirty year single malt like spoiled juice.

  She returned to her place behind him.

  Totally Professional.

  Johnny stared at the skyline.

  Then—

  "Akari."

  He said her name without turning.

  Deliberate.

  Measured.

  A small acknowledgment.

  She straightened slightly.

  "Yes, sir."

  A pause.

  "Finally. Report."

  The sword hovered beside him, crimson veins steady.

  Akari glanced at her tablet.

  "The Two Dragons Competition this year will be swimming."

  A faint shimmer ran through the blade.

  White hair emerged first within the reflection.

  Then crimson eyes.

  His father stepped out of the steel with casual familiarity, red aura faint but present.

  "Mmm," he said thoughtfully.

  "I think the red one will win."

  Johnny did not look at him.

  "We should bet on it. It's a sure win."

  "That is the worst analysis I've heard today."

  The father tilted his head.

  "It's obvious. Red dragon. Red blade. Red bloodline. Momentum."

  "That's not how probability works."

  "It's worked before."

  Johnny's voice remained flat.

  "You mean when you got bored of Murim and ran away with half the treasury to Europe."

  The father paused.

  "…I mean, we made it, didn't we?"

  "You died in Europe."

  A beat.

  "Why sweat the small stuff."

  "Mmm. Tell that to the Asia Branch."

  Silence.

  "No, wait. They got wiped because their leader got bored."

  "That was philosophical restructuring and clearly it didn't work out for them."

  "Aren't you the leader?" Johnny responded.

  The father blinked.

  "…Technically."

  "Then it was your restructuring."

  "They misinterpreted my vision."

  "You left."

  "Strategic absence."

  "They collapsed."

  "They lacked initiative."

  "They lacked a leader."

  Silence.

  The sword hovered beside him, crimson veins steady.

  Johnny looked back at the skyline.

  "I think the white one will win."

  The father frowned.

  "…The dragon?"

  "Yes."

  "Why."

  "His human form is twenty centimeters taller than the red."

  A small pause.

  "Longer reach."

  The father scoffed.

  "It's swimming."

  "Height correlates to limb span."

  The blade pulsed once.

  "Larger frame. Better propulsion potential."

  The father stared at him.

  "You're betting on bone structure."

  "I'm betting on mechanics."

  Akari remained silent.

  Far from glass towers and corporate debates—

  The ocean was already shifting.

  And neither of them had accounted for what truly decides a dragon's race.

  They would both be wrong.