Night draped its velvet cloak over the Ruthwilfer estate, and the grand hall came alive with a symphony of light, music, and opulence. Chandeliers, heavy with crystal, bathed the marbled floor in golden glow. Strings of violins sang softly as nobles and noblewomen mingled, their laughter a chiming chorus, their goblets brimming with wines that glittered like garnet and amber.
The ball had begun.
At the heart of the celebration, Will and Evan Ruthwilfer stood to greet none other than His Majesty, Raoul Kain, the King himself. Towering and sharp-eyed, the king exuded a natural authority that silenced whispers as he passed.
"Your Majesty," Evan spoke, his tone respectful and proud as he bowed deeply, his son Taka following suit with youthful discipline.
Raoul turned his gaze downward, eyes settling on the boy. "Good discipline, this one," he remarked, voice deep like rumbling thunder. "Which of you sired him?"
"I did. Evan Ruthwilfer," Evan answered with composed confidence.
The king gave a rare nod. "Then keep him so. A disciplined child is a father's legacy."
As Raoul moved on to sample the refreshments, a voice sharp as winter's chill cut through the noble hum.
"Still the ever attention-seeker, aren't you, Evan? I was wise to reject our parents' betrothal arrangement."
Evan turned slowly, recognizing the white-haired figure that approached. Iccia Fafner—aged 45 and still a fierce beauty—was the matriarch of the Fafner Clan, known for their icy politics and even colder tempers.
"I see you've not changed," Evan said flatly. "Still as nosy as ever."
Will stepped in with a smile to smooth the tension. "Lady Iccia, it is an honor."
"The honor is mine, Will Ruthwilfer. Thank you for the invitation," Iccia replied, bowing slightly.
"And your daughter? I heard she's in attendance?" Will asked politely.
"She's here, though she's likely chatting with the other brats who slipped into the adult section."
Suddenly, trumpets blared through the hall. The announcer's voice boomed, silencing all else.
"Announcing the arrival of Queen Xilang, daughter of the late God King Bahemot of the Dragon Clan, King Giang of the same, and Princess Zhurong, heir to their blood!"
A heavy hush fell.
The Dragon Clan.
Their name carried the weight of legends—beings whose might rivaled both gods and demons, and who had fought alongside mortals in the War of Calamities. Their arrival was more than symbolic. It was a reminder of ancient alliances and power rarely witnessed by human eyes.
The regal trio entered, their steps slow and dignified. Queen Xilang's beauty was fierce and untouchable, her presence commanding. King Giang wore exhaustion like a ceremonial cloak, his expression one of practiced tolerance. Between them walked Zhurong—nine years old, light brown skin glowing under the golden light, her crimson hair tied back, and small horns protruding with pride. Her cold, tomboyish glare scanned the room like a warrior sizing up a battlefield.
Will and Evan bowed deeply. Will greeted them with diplomatic poise, "Your Majesties, it is an honor."
Queen Xilang narrowed her eyes. "Strange, that you would invite us, Will Ruthwilfer."
King Giang chuckled tiredly. "Stranger still would be staying buried in paperwork. A ball is… refreshing."
The pleasantries flowed, and Will turned to the young Zhurong.
"A disciplined daughter," he commented.
"She should be," said Queen Xilang. "She's a dragon."
Evan, ever the tactician, nudged Taka forward. "Go. Introduce yourself. Make friends."
He had plans. Ambitions. Taka and Zhurong united could forge powerful ties.
Taka approached, nervous but curious. "H-hi."
Zhurong barely glanced at him. "Hmm? Hi."
"Lovely ball. And your horns—they're... brown. Can I, uh, touch them?"
Zhurong recoiled, eyes sharp. "Excuse me? Who do you think you are?"
"I—uh, I just meant—"
"You think I'm some showpiece? My horns are mine. I train, not pose. I shouldn't have come. I could be perfecting my punches."
As she turned, Taka reached out. "W-wait!"
She spun. "What?!"
"You're acting like a tantrum-throwing toddler!"
Zhurong stared, flabbergasted. "How old are you?"
"Nine."
"Idiot. Can't even see your own face in a mirror."
Rage overcame Taka. He grabbed her wrist. "You—!"
"Unhand me, filth!"
Before it could escalate, the trumpets blared once more.
"Attention, esteemed guests! Lady Diana will not be attending tonight's ball. In her stead, we present her personal guest—Dante Ruthwilfer—and his temporary bodyguard, Lady Fina Abigail!"
Heads turned. Whispers rippled like wind through wheat.
Dante descended the grand staircase, dressed in a black suit cut to his calves, over a crimson shirt, his black slacks tailored in a style never seen before. His confidence drew every eye.
"Whose design is that?"
"A new trend, perhaps?"
"Who is that boy?"
Evan's eyes widened. "He's… alive?"
Will remained composed, hiding the truth behind a diplomat's smile.
Dante walked the hall with grace, weaving between nobles and dignitaries. He spotted Taka still gripping Zhurong's wrist, a red mark forming.
"Taka," Dante said calmly, "let the lady go."
Taka sneered. "Or what?!"
Dante glanced at Zhurong and gave her a small nod.
With a grin, Zhurong yanked Taka forward, flipped his collar, and slammed him into the ground.
Taka groaned, dazed.
"Idiot," Zhurong spat.
"You said it," Dante smirked.
She paused, staring. "Zhurong."
"Dante."
She walked off without another word. Dante chuckled to himself. "Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this."
Minutes passed. Dante mingled, made connections, weaving his charm with a silver tongue honed in a life long past. He spoke of fabric and form, never revealing the suit's otherworldly origin. Nobles warmed to him.
Zhurong approached, arms crossed. "Hey. Dante, right?"
"Indeed. You handled Taka… well."
"Could've done worse. Oh—Mother wants to talk to you."
Dante followed her toward the corner of the hall, heart suddenly alert. Queen Xilang and King Giang turned as he approached.
"So," Xilang began coolly, "this is the boy who stood up for my daughter."
"I thank you," said King Giang with a small bow. "Zhurong told us everything."
"Mom!!" Zhurong groaned.
"Oh? Does our little girl like him?" teased the king.
"DAD!" Zhurong hissed as her parents laughed.
From afar, Evan watched, fists clenched.
Later, Zhurong led Dante into the garden. The night air was crisp, stars glimmering above.
"You're something else, Dante," Zhurong admitted. "No kid my age's ever stood eye-to-eye with my parents without wetting themselves."
"Really? They just seem like… parents."
They talked. Laughed. Shared stories under the moonlight.
Back inside, the dance floor opened.
Dante offered his hand. Zhurong took it without hesitation.
They danced.
A human boy and a dragon princess, moving in perfect rhythm. The crowd murmured in awe. Xilang and Giang watched, speechless.
When the dance ended, applause thundered. Dante bowed, Zhurong returned the gesture, then slipped away.
Will Ruthwilfer leaned on his cane, watching. "Not bad… you little punk. Not bad at all."
A voice behind him whispered, "Was that a smile, dear nephew?"
Will turned. Diana stood in a dark violet gown, walking stick in hand.
"Aunt Diana. You shouldn't be up."
"I'm fine. Just weak. But… was that pride in your voice, Will? Have you taken a liking to your illegitimate son?"
"No! He is… a mistake. My mistake."
Diana arched an eyebrow. "Will…"
"I—"
"AAAHH!!"
A scream shattered the moment. Ten cloaked figures stormed the hall. One impaled a steward.
A hood fell.
"No…" Will gasped.
"It can't be," Diana breathed.
The man stepped forward, eyes blazing with hatred.
The Demon Clan has returned!
---
Chapter 6 — End.