Durette stood frozen, the performance dying in his throat. Erwin lifted his coffee cup and took a measured sip.
He chuckled. "Finished?"
Durette nodded instinctively, like a student responding to a teacher's question.
Erwin set the cup down with deliberate care. "A clear line of reasoning, at least. It demonstrates some logic. Good—it saved me considerable effort. So, what is your next move? I now possess the bloodline power of both the Selwyn and Cavendish families, and the Vablatsky bloodline is practically within my grasp. Tempting, isn't it?"
Durette frowned, uncertain what game Erwin was playing.
"You've never wondered why your father didn't hand the family over to you?" Erwin asked with a laugh.
"Why else?" Durette snapped. "Because he craved power! Because he couldn't bear to relinquish it!"
Erwin shook his head. "That is your greatest folly. You never understand. No matter the empire he constructed, it was all for you. He didn't hand the family over because you're too inexperienced—and because he wanted to clear the path so you could inherit a ready-made legacy. If your father were alive now, he would be the one confronting me."
Erwin vanished.
He reappeared instantly behind Durette.
Durette leapt from his chair in shock. A wand—shaped like a scepter—materialized in his hand, pointed at Erwin's back. Erwin didn't seem to notice. He casually picked up a nearby vase, inspected it, and scoffed.
"Counterfeit."
He set it down. "So? What do you plan to do now? Attempt to kill me? Initiate a war?"
Erwin's voice was unnervingly close. Durette's arms trembled. Logic screamed at him to attack, to strike. But his body betrayed him—he couldn't move a single muscle.
Move! his mind roared. Move!
But he remained paralyzed.
Erwin slowly turned. "Struggling? Then let me assist you."
He took a single step.
To Durette, it felt like the distance collapsed entirely. Erwin was suddenly directly before him.
Before Durette could react, cold pressure settled against his forehead.
Erwin's wand.
"Courage to attack? To harm me?" Erwin's voice was light, almost amused. "All your preparations are worthless in my estimation."
He tightened his grip.
Pain lanced through Durette's forehead. His blood surged violently, boiling, rushing toward the point of contact. Durette realized what was happening in absolute terror.
Erwin was extracting his bloodline.
"No!" Durette cried out desperately. "Stop!"
Erwin ignored him completely.
A bead of blood welled on Durette's skin, expanding rapidly until it condensed into a perfect sphere. Durette's face went deathly pale. Erwin's wand twisted gently, drawing the blood sphere free.
The moment it separated, Durette collapsed, his strength utterly gone.
The blood sphere flowed back into Erwin through his wand. His aura surged dramatically.
His magical power skyrocketed, breaking through level seven and surging toward level eight. It halted just short of the threshold.
Erwin nodded in satisfaction. With the bloodlines of the four supreme families fused, he would reach level nine—the realm of gods. He already possessed the authority to slay deities. The final battle was no longer a question of if he would win, but when.
He glanced at the gasping figure on the floor.
"Reflect on your life," Erwin said coldly. "It won't do you any good, but it's all you have remaining."
He turned and walked out of the manor.
Durette watched him depart, finally comprehending the chasm between them. It wasn't merely skill or power—it was a fundamental difference he could never bridge. He had inherited the same bloodline, the same legacy, yet he was nothing compared to Erwin.
It wasn't fair. But fairness didn't exist here.
This was simply Durette's destiny: a silent, defeated exit. Erwin had already transcended everyone.
Outside, the standoff continued. American wizards faced the Cavendish forces, wands drawn tensely.
Erwin emerged.
A hostile American wizard shouted, "Where is Durette?"
Erwin turned his head.
Purple flames erupted on the man's body. He didn't even scream. The fire consumed him instantly, scattering his ashes into the wind.
The American wizards recoiled, drawing their wands and pointing them at Erwin. The Cavendish operatives tensed, ready for the order to attack.
Erwin strolled through the center of the hostile crowd, hands casually in his pockets. No one moved. The pressure radiating from him was suffocating.
He stopped and smirked.
"Three minutes," he said, his voice cutting through the silence. "Submit—or die."