"Who are you?! Get out!"
The woman, who looked to be around the same age as Thorn—Ignyr's biological father—had the same cold elegance in her features.
She sat on the edge of the bed, tending to an elderly woman whose wrinkled face bore a serene kindness. But the moment she noticed the intruder, her expression soured.
Eyes narrowed, she snapped at him without hesitation, clearly not used to being disobeyed—especially in the sanctity of a Celestial Dragon's private quarters.
Ignyr walked into the room slowly, unfazed by the outburst. Without a word, he stopped in front of the bed and stared silently.
"You're the intruder," the old woman said calmly.
Though her face was aged and gentle, her eyes were piercing. Clear and sharp. As if they could see through souls.
At her words, the younger woman's anger turned to alarm. She stood quickly, instinctively placing herself between Ignyr and the old woman.
Ignyr ignored her completely. His attention was fixed on the grandmother. Their eyes locked—still water meeting still water—both seeing more than words could say.
"Yes," Ignyr finally replied. "And I've come to kill the Draco patriarch."
The room froze.
The woman's elegant demeanor shattered. Her jaw dropped in disbelief. It wasn't just that he admitted who he was—it was that his target was her own father.
The grandmother, however, only blinked. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but calm quickly returned. She remained composed.
"You're… Ignyr?"
The old woman was silent for a long moment, searching her memory for the countless enemies the Draco family had earned over the years. She studied his face, noting the resemblance—familiar eyes, the shape of the brow.
Then it clicked. He looked like Thorn. Her son. The son she hadn't seen in years.
Her eyes darkened. Her brows furrowed deeply. The lines on her face deepened as grim understanding sank in.
"Mother… is he Thorn's son?!"
The younger woman was visibly shaken. She stared at Ignyr, then at the old woman, putting the pieces together.
It was no secret in their family that Thorn had once fathered a child. A scandal that tainted their name. The child had disappeared without a trace—and not long after, Thorn and his entire family vanished too.
"Yes," Ignyr said quietly. "And more."
He hadn't intended to hide anything. From the moment he overheard their conversation, he'd known exactly who they were.
Their pity, their remorse—it made him sick. It was the same disgusting cowardice his father had shown. Their words meant nothing. Their regret changed nothing.
"I killed Thorn's family," he said coldly. "And tore out his heart with my own hands."
He said it plainly, his gaze locked on them, daring them to react.
The words hit like a hammer. The younger woman gasped, stumbling backward, while the old woman's eyes narrowed into steel.
For years, the disappearance of Thorn and his family had remained a mystery. Now the truth stood in front of them, wearing the name they had tried to erase.
"Stop… don't hurt him!"
Breathing hard, the woman rushed toward Ignyr, her mother trying in vain to hold her back. But as her feet crossed the floor, black tendrils erupted from the ground, coiling around her legs.
She was frozen in place, unable to move, unable to strike.
Ignyr didn't attack. Not yet. He watched with cold detachment, letting the silence do the damage. It wasn't enough to kill them physically—he wanted to break them.
"Let go of your hatred," the grandmother said at last. Her voice was steady, but her tone carried weariness and veiled desperation. "It's not too late to turn back."
Even in the face of everything he'd confessed, she still clung to diplomacy.
But Ignyr wasn't moved. He'd seen through them the moment he walked in.
"There's no need to rush death," he said. "I want to expose your masks first."
In his eyes, humans were born corrupt. And those who were raised in power—like the Celestial Dragons—were just the purest version of evil.
He saw it in both women. Behind the grandmother's soft eyes lay the coldness of someone who had turned a blind eye for decades. And the daughter—she was just another soldier of the bloodline.
"You still think you can act your way out," he said. "One of you plays the kind matriarch. The other, the noble rebel. But it's just theater. All of it."
The old woman's expression finally cracked. Her lips thinned. Her eyes darkened. She had underestimated him.
Ignyr lifted his hand. The darkness around it deepened, swirling with a rising aura of menace.
"You heard my footsteps. You guessed who I was before I even entered. You knew."
He looked at both of them, his voice low, calm, but absolute.
"You thought you could appeal to blood. To family. But I'm not your family."
The woman trapped in the tendrils sneered, defiant even now. "You just want to kill us."
Ignyr gave her a long, quiet look. Her mouth said one thing, but fear was already crawling up her spine.
"You're not wrong," he said. "But where's the fun in that?"
The daughter was raw rage. The mother, cold manipulation. Different masks—same face.
"I'm not here just to kill you," he whispered. "I'm here to tear off your illusions, piece by piece."
The black aura around his hand pulsed like a heartbeat.
"Then die, knowing exactly who you are."
---
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