In the end, Dio let out a soft scoff. Without sparing Seraphiel another glance, he turned and strode toward the cave's entrance, leaving behind a cold, mocking remark that drifted back on the wind:
"Childish make-believe."
It wasn't until Dio's golden figure vanished completely beyond the cave's shimmering light that Seraphiel's tightly wound shoulders finally slumped, as if all the strength had drained out of him.
Dio's commanding presence had been etched into Seraphiel's very bones since childhood. Defying him just now felt worse than facing down a mechanical monster in a fight to the death.
"Arf! Arf!"
The snow fox nipped at his sleeve, seemingly grumbling about something.
Crouching down, Seraphiel pushed aside his tangled emotions and gently stroked the fox's still-trembling back, his voice soft and soothing. "It's okay now, don't be scared… It's all over…"
But just as he started to calm down—
"Dio!"
It was Dad's voice, laced with a rare urgency Seraphiel hardly ever heard. "What happened here?! This mess…"
Then came Clark's booming, thunderous shout, full of worry, nearly shaking loose the pebbles from the cave's ceiling. "Seraphiel?! Where's Seraphiel?!"
"Inside the cave," came Dio's flat, emotionless reply from outside, clear as day. "Playing house with his 'friends.' Quite the spectacle."
In the next instant, two towering figures burst into the cave like a whirlwind of heat—
"Seraphiel!"
Clark rushed forward in a single stride. The brown bear, roaring, lunged toward him… only to be sent flying in an instant.
Dropping to one knee, Clark pulled Seraphiel into a tight hug, his strength nearly knocking the squirrels perched on the boy's shoulders off balance. "You scared the heck out of us!"
Locke stood a bit farther back, his sharp gaze scanning the strange marks outside the cave before settling on Seraphiel's pale face.
Seraphiel lowered his head, unable to meet his father's eyes.
But Locke didn't ask anything.
He didn't question where the destruction came from or why Seraphiel was out here so late. He just walked over, his voice carrying a calm that could smooth over any storm, as if the wreckage around them was nothing more than a broken glass bowl.
"Let's head home for dinner. The food's getting cold."
Seraphiel opened his mouth, his throat tightening. A flood of explanations and secrets clogged his chest, but not a single word came out.
He looked into his father's calm, accepting eyes and gave a small nod, his voice barely hiding a faint choke. "…Okay."
A wave of relieved exhaustion washed over him. Seraphiel instinctively glanced down at his palm.
Just moments ago, a faint, almost invisible wisp of dark mist, cold and alive, had slipped silently back into the shadows at his feet, vanishing without a trace.
Did I… get away with it? Seraphiel wondered.
Trying to hide something from me? Ungrateful kid! Locke thought to himself.
Ruffling his youngest son's dark hair, Locke's eyes reflected text only he could see:
[Seraphiel Kent / Fire Demon of the Divine City, Age 5]
[Ability Awakened: Dominion of the Dragon Court]
[Loading Parental Privilege for Host: Master of the Dragon Court!]
Feeling the slight stiffness in his son's body as he tried to act calm, Locke sighed silently. But deep in his eyes flickered a mix of pride and exasperation only a father could understand.
Well, what do you know… That's my boy!
---
The soft glow of the dinner table's lights bathed the room.
The roasted ribs on the plates glistened with a savory sheen, and the sweet aroma of blueberry pie mingled with the sharp tang of rosemary in the air.
Clark gripped his knife and fork with textbook precision. The sharp blade sliced through the ribs, barely making a sound against the porcelain plate.
Gone was the rough edge of his younger days—his movements were now steady and refined.
But Locke could tell that Clark's superhuman biofield was doing most of the heavy lifting behind that polished control.
Using a biofield just to eat? Talk about overkill, Locke thought, shaking his head before turning his gaze to Dio.
As always, Dio was the picture of elegance, like it was carved into his very being. Even though he was only holding a glass of juice, the way he tilted it, the subtle movement of his throat as he sipped, and the soft clink as he set it down—it was like he was savoring a century-old vintage wine.
He radiated an almost arrogant, aristocratic aura.
Who'd believe this kid grew up on a farm?
Man… time really works wonders, Locke mused, propping his chin on one hand. His eyes flicked between his two adopted sons with a hint of quiet reflection.
Dio had become a gentleman.
Even Clark, who used to wield a fork like a battle axe, had been tamed by time into something resembling one.
Not bad. And it's all thanks to their old man's fine example—me, Locke!
"Chomp, chomp!"
Locke's thoughts were interrupted by a cheerful, slightly messy sound.
At the other end of the table, Seraphiel was hunched over his plate, his little head practically buried in a mountain of food. He shoveled it in with near-primal enthusiasm, cheeks puffed out like a hamster hoarding for winter, completely unaware of the sauce staining the sleeve of his outfit.
He looked absolutely ravenous.
"Slow down, kiddo. Nobody's stealing your food," Locke said with a chuckle, his eyes full of affection.
He grabbed a napkin and leaned over, naturally wiping the sauce and stray grains of rice from Seraphiel's mouth.
Seraphiel mumbled an "Mhm" around a mouthful, his head brushing against his dad's hand before he eagerly stabbed a golden, crispy chunk of roasted potato with his fork.
The fork clinked against the plate, a lively, energetic sound that stood in stark contrast to Clark and Dio's near-silent grace.
Locke smiled at the rice stuck to Seraphiel's nose, his thoughts drifting back to a night five years ago.
This boy—cheeks stuffed, eyes bright, the kind of kid who'd cry over an injured animal—was hard to reconcile with the memory of a tyrant who'd once burned the skies, conquered the earth, and ruled over generations, leaving people in misery.
Funny thing is… Locke mused, that power in me fits the whole "parental privilege" vibe pretty well.
After all, the strength coursing through him, focused on physical enhancement and self-healing, came from none other than the big boss herself—Gen of the Eight Trigrams, Demon Boar.