The silence that followed my demand was a living thing. It was heavier than the stone walls, colder than the low-burning fire. Count Theron Ashworth, a Grandmaster whose presence could still a battlefield, simply stared at me. His face was an unreadable mask of granite, but the oppressive weight of his aura, the sheer force of his will pressing down on the room, receded for a fraction of a second. It was the Aetheric equivalent of a man blinking in surprise.
I held my breath, the steady thump-THUMP of my Dragon Heart the only sound in my own ears. This was the first, and most critical, deviation from the script. The original Lancelot had scurried from this room with his tail between his legs, grateful to have escaped a thrashing. I had just made a demand.
"A reward?" The Count's voice was dangerously soft. "For what, precisely? For dragging the family name through the mud with your reckless flight? For forcing me to dispatch a search party that could have been better used patrolling the borders? You have earned nothing but censure."
His words were sharp, meant to cut me down, to force me back into the box of the timid third son. But armed with the knowledge of the book, I could see the subtle test beneath the scorn. He wasn't just scolding me; he was probing, looking for the substance behind my newfound spine.
"I have earned it with my survival," I said, my voice steady. I had to choose my words carefully. "I faced something in that mountain that should have killed me. The boy who ran into that cave died. The one who walked out is… different. Stronger."
I let that hang in the air. Stronger. It was the only word that truly mattered in this house.
My mind raced, connecting the dots from the novel. The original Lancelot, despite possessing the Dragon Heart, had struggled for months. His new body was that of an Adept, a Tier 2, but his control and instincts were still those of a Tier 1 Awakened. This mismatch had made his power volatile and clumsy. He was a cannon with a faulty fuse, a danger to himself and others.
I remembered the descriptions of his interactions with his brothers after his return. Damian, the Master, had regarded him with a new, wary distance. He was no longer just the useless little brother to be ignored; he was an unpredictable, potentially hazardous weapon. Elias, the Expert, had been even worse, his mediocrity making him openly resentful of the unearned, uncontrolled power Lancelot now possessed. They weren't hostile, not yet, but the brotherly affection, thin as it was, had evaporated, replaced by suspicion.
The original Lancelot had floundered, unable to bridge the gap between his potential and his reality. It wasn't until he was nearly killed on a border skirmish that he had his breakthrough, finally forging his own unique methodology: the Draconic Human Path. It was a way of circulating mana that fused the explosive power of a dragon with the finer control of a human, harmonizing his mismatched hardware and software. That had happened when he was on the cusp of becoming an Expert.
I didn't have that kind of time. The cult's timetable wouldn't wait for me to stumble into my own power. I had to seize it now.
"I can feel it," I continued, speaking to my father. "A power I don't understand. It's like holding a live wire. Without the proper training, without the right environment, I am more a liability than an asset to this house." I met his gaze. "And I will not be a liability."
The Count leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepling before him. The cold, analytical gaze was back. He was no longer seeing a disobedient son, but a potential investment. A faulty asset that was asking for the resources to repair itself.
"What is it you require?" he asked, his tone all business.
Here it was. The moment to accelerate the plot.
"I need access to the Voidstone Chamber," I said.
The name dropped into the room with tangible weight. The Voidstone Chamber was the most valuable training facility in the Ashworth estate, a vault lined with rare, Aether-absorbing rock that created an environment of absolute null-energy. It was designed for masters to meditate and refine their control without any external interference. For someone with volatile, uncontrollable power, it was the only place they could practice without the risk of blowing up half the fortress.
It was a resource reserved for the heir, Damian. To ask for it was an incredible breach of protocol.
I expected him to refuse, to scoff at my audacity. Instead, the Count was silent for a long moment, his grey eyes seeming to peer right through me, weighing and measuring. He was a pragmatist above all else. A useless third son was a sunk cost. A third son who had somehow, against all odds, found power? That was a new piece on the board.
"The Chamber is for warriors who have earned the privilege," he said, his voice flat.
"And I will earn it," I countered. "Let me use it. Let me tame this power. If I fail, you have lost nothing but a bit of time. But if I succeed…"
I left the promise hanging in the air. If I succeed, you will have another Master in the family. Another pillar to hold up this house.
He stared at me, and a ghost of something I couldn't decipher passed through his eyes. In the novel, Lancelot had seen it as disappointment. But now, with my new perspective, I saw it for what it was. A flicker of pride. He had wanted his son to fight for something. And now, finally, I was.
The Count gave a single, sharp nod. "One month," he said, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. "You will have exclusive access to the Voidstone Chamber for one month. At the end of that time, you will demonstrate your progress. If it is satisfactory, we will discuss your future. If it is not… you will accept your place and trouble me no further."
My heart hammered against my ribs. It was more than I could have hoped for.
"Thank you, Father," I said, giving a slight, respectful bow.
"Do not thank me," he said, already turning back to the documents on his desk, the audience clearly over. "Gratitude is a currency for merchants. I expect results."
I turned and walked out of the study, the heavy door closing behind me with a definitive thud. The oppressive weight of his presence lifted, and I could breathe again. I hadn't just survived the confrontation. I had won.
I had the time, and I had the place. Now, I just had to recreate a legendary breakthrough that had taken the original Lancelot years of life-or-death struggle to achieve.
And I had to do it in thirty days.