"Umm… then… Uncle Dad…?"
Rinne's voice hesitantly cut through the comfortable dinner chatter.
"BHWAHAHHWAHAHAWHAHAHHAHAH—"
BLAM!
Oathran immediately passed away. He doubled over, his horns thumping against the solid oak table, shoulders shaking violently as he gasped for air between wheezing, honking paroxysms of pure mirth.
He looked less like the great Dragon Lord and more like a man who had just been spiritually assassinated by a teenager.
"HAAAAAAAAAAAAA—"
Arkai followed a split second later, his own roar of laughter deeper, more ragged. He clapped a hand over his eyes, as if trying to physically shield himself from the title, but his entire body was convulsing.
He slid halfway down his chair, dignifiedly wrecked.
Across the table, Anton Vasiliev froze, a spoonful of broth suspended halfway to his mouth. He was confused, his jaw unhinged in shock, his throat trying to remember how to swallow.
