“Daeryon our next step is.” I said carefully, “isn’t what you think. It’s not the elders. Not yet.”

  His brow furrowed.

  “The traitors are the rot in this clan. If they aren’t cut out, they’ll strangle everything I’ve built. You know that.”

  “I do,” I admitted. The crimson words still burned behind my eyes.

  Strike at the Hidden Talons.

  “But they aren’t the foundation. Your family is.”

  His expression hardened. The storm in his chi shifted, colder now, darker. “My children…”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “If you can’t heal what’s broken between you and them, then even if you win against the elders, it won’t matter. Your family will collapse from within.”

  Daeryon’s jaw tightened. His eyes shadowed, his face drawn with something.

  I hadn’t seen before not rage, not arrogance. Something worse.

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,”

  he admitted. The words sounded foreign coming from him, like an emperor confessing weakness.

  “Each time I speak to my sons, I find only distance, as if strength itself has built walls between us. My daughter remains quiet, her words few and guarded, as though she saves them for another ear.”

  His fists curled at his sides.

  “They are my blood, and yet I cannot reach them.”

  I floated closer, lowering my voice.

  “You don’t have to reach them alone. That’s where I come in.”

  His gaze snapped to me, sharp with disbelief.

  “You? What can you do that I cannot?”

  I smiled, though there was nothing light about it.

  “I can listen. I can see the story from angles you can’t. You’re a dragon, Daeryon. You crush mountains. But sometimes… what a child needs isn’t a dragon. It’s a father.”

  For a moment, silence. His aura wavered, as if caught between pride and despair.

  Finally, he exhaled, a sound like stone grinding. “If you fail me in this… if they turn further away because of you…”

  “They won’t,” I said. “Because this time, you’re not doing it alone.”

  Daeryon didn’t hesitate. “If my children are the first step, then I will begin with Giron.”

  We found his eldest son in the training courtyard, sweat rolling down his arms.

  His blade cutting the air with precise, practiced strikes. The sound echoed, steady and unbroken.

  Noticing Daeryon, Giron lowered his blade and bowed. ‘Father.

  Daeryon’s gaze softened, though only slightly. “How many forms today?”

  “Seventy-three,” Giron answered. His voice was clipped, formal. A report.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Daeryon gave a small nod. “You’ve grown stronger. Your stance doesn’t waver you are doing your best.”

  Giron’s head lifted a fraction, his eyes flickering with a restrained pride. “Thank you, father.”

  But then Daeryon’s tone shifted, firm though not cruel.

  “Still… seventy-three is not enough. You cannot stop where it feels comfortable. When I was your age, I trained until my hands bled and the calluses tore open again. Discipline builds more than strength it builds will. And one day, will is all that remains.”

  “Yes, father.” Giron’s reply was obedient, but distant.

  Daeryon studied him in silence for a moment longer. His hand twitched at his side.

  As though he might rest it on his son’s shoulder... but he didn’t. The moment passed, replaced by his usual sternness.

  “You are my eldest. One day, the weight of this clan may rest on your back. I need you ready.”

  “I will be ready, father,” Giron said. The words were sharp, loyal. But they carried no warmth.

  “This will be harder than I thought…’ I muttered.”

  The blue screen flickered into existence.

  [Character Relationship Chart unlocked]

  [Daeryon Kang → Giron Kang: 30%]

  Numbers. Percentages. Cold as ice. But proof, at least. Their bond wasn’t broken it was still… there.

  Daeryon and I walked away from the courtyard, silence stretching between us, wide as a chasm.

  At last, I couldn’t hold it in. “What the fuck was that?”

  Daeryon’s head turned slowly, his eyes narrowing.

  “What did you just say to me you bastard?” His aura flared, heavy as thunderclouds pressing down.

  "First of all, stop calling me bastard; my name is Daniel, and I said you suck at this!" I snapped, my voice breaking loose before I could stop it.

  “You think barking orders is fatherhood? That’s not raising an heir that’s drilling a soldier! No wonder he sees you only as his lord!’”

  Daeryon stopped dead, his jaw tightening, the air around him humming with restrained fury.

  “Careful with your words. You walk a thin line.”

  “Yeah, well maybe someone should say it to your face!” I shot back, chest heaving even though I didn’t need to breathe.

  “The only person you know how to speak to without turning to stone is your wife! Everyone else? Your kids? You talk to them like they’re disposable pawns on a board!”

  For a long moment, Daeryon didn’t move. His gaze was sharp enough to cut stone, and for an instant, I thought he might actually strike me.

  But then his lips curled into something between a grimace and a bitter smile.

  “You think you understand me? You think I can afford to be soft, when every weakness in this clan is preyed upon by elders and rivals alike?”

  I dragged a hand down my face, the weight of his words pressing into me. “Alright… I’ll help you, Daeryon. We’ll figure this out together. Let’s go to the second one. Maybe this will be different. At least let’s try.”

  Daeryon gave me a look, unreadable as stone, then nodded. “Jarin.”

  I rubbed at my temple, bracing myself. “If Giron was distance, How would Jarin be?”

  We found him in the study. Scrolls stacked high, the ink still wet on his brush. He didn’t even look up as Daeryon entered.

  “Father,” Jarin said, his voice flat, precise. Not cold. Not warm. Just… neutral.

  Daeryon stepped closer, clearing his throat.

  His tone softened, though it still sounded like a commander lowering his voice in the war room. “You’ve been studying hard.”

  “Yes thank you father.”

  A beat of silence stretched.

  “I’m… proud of your diligence,” Daeryon added, carefully, like he was trying to shape words that didn’t belong in his mouth.

  “Yes.”

  A flicker passed over Daeryon’s face. He hesitated, then tried again.

  “And… your health? You’ve been... eating well?”

  “Yes, father.”

  The words fell like stones in a void.

  The air was thick with emptiness. They exchanged words like two machines passing data.

  Jarin’s eyes never lifted from the scroll. Daeryon’s hands stayed locked behind his back, rigid as iron.

  They spoke for a while. About formations. About history. About the Kang clan’s records.

  But none of it carried weight. No warmth. No spark. Just words, mechanical and hollow.

  I felt my ghostly stomach twist. This is worse than Giron. At least Giron bled obedience and respect. This is just… lifeless.

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  I wanted to grab Daeryon by the collar and shake him. This wasn’t father and son.

  This was… two strangers, playing at roles neither of them believed in.

  And then the screen appeared.

  [Daeryon Kang → Jarin Kang: 10%]

  I froze. My chest hollowed out. Ten percent.

  Ten.

  I swallowed, my thoughts spun, jagged and frantic, bile rising though I had no stomach.

  How the fuck… how is it this bad?

  With Giron, it was cold, sure. Distant. But at least there was loyalty, obedience.

  A thread of something.

  But this? Ten percent? That was practically nothing. A sliver above hatred.

  My hands trembled as I stared at the glowing number. So fragile, so hollow. For a father and son, that was a death sentence.

  How do you even get here? How does a relationship reach this point?

  My vision swam, the weight of it pressing down.

  For the first time since coming into this story, I felt something worse than helplessness.

  It was dread.

  “This is…” My whisper cracked. “…worse than last time.”