The dining hall felt less like a room for a family meal and more like a high-stakes interrogation chamber. At the head of the long obsidian table sat Duke Alaric Blackwood, his presence so heavy it felt like the gravity in the room had doubled. Across from him, Julian was perched on a mountain of velvet cushions, desperately trying to keep his spine from folding like a cheap map.
'This chair costs more than a commoner's house, yet it feels like I'm sitting on a bed of nails,' Julian thought, his eyes tracking the servants as they brought in the main course. 'And here it is. The Krak-Bull. A beast so tough that even the scavengers in the North wait for it to rot for a month before trying to bite it.'
The meat was served—a slab of dark, fibrous muscle that was still sizzling and steaming. It looked less like food and more like a piece of tanned dragon hide.
"Eat," Alaric commanded, his voice vibrating the fine crystal glassware. "A Blackwood heir doesn't survive on broths and sentiments. Prove your strength, Julian."
Julian picked up his silver knife. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, yet as he pressed it against the meat, the blade didn't even leave a scratch. 'My wrist is going to snap before this steak does,' he panicked internally. 'If I fail to cut this, Alaric will see it as a metaphor for my entire existence. I'll be disinherited before the dessert arrives!'
Julian took a deep breath, focusing his [Heavenly Mana Sensing] on the structure of the meat.
He spotted a microscopic flaw in the muscle fibers—a 'glitch' in the beast's legendary toughness.
With a sudden, calculated flick of his wrist, he drove the knife through the weak point. CRACK.
"Aha," Julian whispered, though his shoulder joint screamed in agony from the effort. He held up a perfectly severed piece of meat on his fork. "You see, Father? Strength is a blunt instrument. Precision... precision is how you dismantle an empire. Or a dinner."
He popped the meat into his mouth. It was like chewing on a leather boot soaked in pepper. His jaw protested immediately, a dull ache spreading toward his temples. 'If I break a tooth, the dental reconstruction fees will be ruinous,' he thought, forcing a relaxed smile while his molars engaged in a life-or-death struggle with the Krak-Bull.
Alaric watched him, his icy eyes narrowing. "Precision. An interesting excuse for physical frailty. And what of your... 'friend'?" He gestured toward Lyra, who was sitting at the side of the room, her purple eyes glowing with silent, silver-haired menace.
"She is the ultimate precision tool," Julian wheezed, finally swallowing the meat (which felt like a stone dropping into his stomach). "Why should I exert myself to lift a sword when I have a 'Calamity' who can rewrite the map with a wave of her hand? I am the Architect, Father. I don't lay the bricks; I design the fortress."
[System Notification: Duke Alaric's Suspicion is wavering...] [Current Status: 85% Skeptical -> 70% Intrigued]
'Keep it up, Julian,' he told himself, his heart hammering against his brittle ribs. 'Just two more bites and a glass of wine, and we might actually survive this audit without becoming a corpse.'