Leon walked in silence, his gaze sweeping across the vast estate.
The sheer scale of the wealth surrounding him was almost too much to process.
This wasn't just rich.
This was old money. Generational wealth. The kind that built empires and shaped societies.
And he was walking straight into its beating heart.
As he moved through the halls, he noticed something peculiar.
It wasn't just the sheer number of maids, butlers, and workers tending to the estate.
It was what they were.
A maid with four arms carried trays stacked high with teacups, moving with a precision that seemed almost robotic.
A gardener with vines for hair tended to the plants, adjusting the flowers with a delicate touch.
A butler with bird-like talons for feet walked past him, completely unbothered by the unnatural balance.
Leon had grown up seeing Quirks in everyday life, but never like this.
This was an entire workforce built around ability-based efficiency.
The sheer coordination of it all made his stomach tighten.
Because this?
This wasn't just wealth.
This was power.
And it belonged to his grandfather.
The man leading him—whom Leon now assumed to be a butler—walked at a steady, unhurried pace.
His bag had already been taken away by a maid who silently peeled away from the group the moment they stepped inside.
Leon didn't even get a chance to object.
That, in itself, was unsettling.
The smooth efficiency. The complete lack of wasted movement.
Like a well-oiled machine.
Like this was normal.
Leon's thoughts churned as he followed the butler through the estate of blue blood.
How did something like this even come to be?
No matter how much he tried to wrap his head around it, he kept coming to the same conclusion:
This isn't just wealth. It's legacy.
And legacy like this didn't come from clean hands.
His grip subtly tightened at his sides.
If his grandfather was the kind of person he suspected—**a relic of old blood, an untouchable pillar of power—**then the chances of him being a 'rotten tree' were overwhelmingly high.
And if that was the case…
Leon's confidence in his ability to escape a bad situation plummeted.
His heart beat faster.
His brows furrowed ever so slightly.
Even with his Quirk, against someone with this much influence, he might as well be a rat in a lion's den.
But—
There was still one way out.
He just wasn't sure if it would work.
Before he could fully develop that thought, they stopped in front of a massive set of doors.
The butler raised a hand and knocked.
A few seconds passed.
Then, an aged voice—firm yet measured—spoke from within.
"Come in."
The butler pushed open the doors and stepped aside.
Leon took a deep breath.
Then, with steady steps, he crossed the threshold.
The first thing that struck Leon was the light.
Soft, dappled rays filtered through the trees, casting a gentle golden glow over the garden.
It was beautiful.
Trees swayed lightly in the breeze, their rustling leaves carrying an almost calming presence. The air was fresh—untainted by the artificial chill of air conditioning or the sterile cleanliness of a sealed-off office.
It was natural.
And yet—
Somehow, that made it even more unnerving.
Because for someone of his grandfather's supposed status, a setting like this was almost too…peaceful.
Seated on a patio near the entrance was an old man.
He looked to be in his seventies, his silvered hair neatly combed back. Sharp, calculating eyes peered at Leon from behind a pair of thin-rimmed glasses.
In front of him, a small table sat between two chairs.
On his side—a glass of dark amber liquid.
On the other—an empty seat.
The old man took a slow sip from his drink, his gaze never leaving Leon.
Then, he spoke.
"Sit."
Leon met his gaze.
And without a word, he stepped forward—
And took the seat across from his grandfather.
Leon sat in silence, the weight of the moment pressing down on him as he faced the old man across the polished wooden table. The garden around them was eerily quiet, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the finely kept grass.
The old man—Thaddeus Lucian Lioren—held himself with quiet authority. His silver hair, neatly combed back, framed a face lined with age and experience. His deep blue eyes, identical to Leon's, were sharp, unwavering, as if peering straight through him.
Then, he spoke.
"I wanted a son."
The words were blunt. Matter-of-fact.
"But fate gave me a daughter."
His voice was steady, but there was something in his tone—something deep. Worn.
"At my age, I had accepted that I would leave nothing behind. My wife and I—" he exhaled, staring into his glass, "we were in our late fifties when she conceived. And I… was infertile."
Leon's fingers curled against his palm.
Infertile.
Yet—his mother had been born.
A miracle.
"My wife was already frail, too weak for childbirth."****" His grandfather's voice grew softer, as if speaking of something long buried. "But she wanted the child. We both did. And so, we took the risk."
The light filtering through the trees cast shadows over his face.
"It cost her life."
A pause.
The kind of pause that stretched beyond time.
Then—
"I raised my daughter alone. She was my wife's final gift to this world. I gave her everything I could, every bit of love, every comfort. But perhaps… I gave too much."
Leon remained silent.
"I spoiled her."
There was no sadness in his tone. Only a deep, heavy acceptance.
"When she was old enough, she ran away with a man. A Japanese man. Followed him to Musutafu and took his name. Changed herself completely. Became a Mushiki."
His fingers tapped lightly against his glass.
"She never contacted me again."
His grandfather leaned forward slightly, peering at Leon with sharp, searching eyes.
"Tell me, boy." His voice held a weight that pressed down like an iron hand. "Have you noticed the difference?"
Leon met his gaze.
Then, he nodded. "Yes."
Leon Lioren.
A name that bore no resemblance to his parents'—whether in origin or in family name.
"My daughter, who was blessed with a child at a young age, wanted to throw him away."
A stillness settled over the garden.
Leon's breath caught.
His grandfather swirled the drink in his glass, watching the liquid move like it held the answers to something deeper.
"It took my wife's whole life to bring her into this world," he murmured, "and she grows up to throw away the child she was blessed with."
The words weren't spoken with anger.
They weren't even spoken with sorrow.
Just finality.
A judgment that had already been made.
"Even when she left, even when she changed her name, even when she cut all ties… I still loved her." His voice dropped lower. "But no longer."
Leon's stomach tightened.
Then, his grandfather spoke the words that changed everything.
"That is why, when I heard of what she tried to do, I registered you under my name."
The air around them seemed to still.
"I am Thaddeus Lucian Lioren."
His eyes locked onto Leon's.
"And you are my only relative. My direct descendant."
The weight of those words crashed down like a tidal wave.
"You will inherit everything."
The wealth.
The legacy.
The power.
Leon sat frozen.
Because whether he wanted it or not—
He was the heir of Lioren.
Leon sat still, his body relaxed, but his mind—his mind was anything but.
The revelation that he had been taken in, registered under the Lioren name, was already heavy. But now? The man was peeling away layers that Leon hadn't even realized he had.
Still, he swallowed the information like a sponge, letting it settle, linking fragments together. His mother's abandonment, his grandfather's disappointment rather than anger, the sheer coldness in his voice when he spoke of his only child…
It made sense.
And yet—
Why was he telling him all this?
Children typically gained self-awareness somewhere between four and six years old. And even then, they wouldn't grasp the weight of inheritance, abandonment, and legacy the way Thaddeus expected him to. Hell, even Leon wasn't sure he fully understood it now.
But one thing was certain.
Thaddeus Lioren was more disappointed than angry.
That thought alone irked Leon.
His mother was a lost cause, but her actions had clearly left a scar on this old man—one that hadn't healed, only hardened.
Leon exhaled through his nose, tilting his head back slightly.
Then he spoke.
"You know, she doesn't really care about me. So if you were hoping for a family reunion through me, you have a better chance at having another child."
It was blunt. Sharp. Laced with bitterness he wasn't sure he had held on to.
Leon was spiteful.
Sufficiently spiteful.
But what he didn't expect—
Was for the old man to laugh.
It was dry, carrying the weight of something bitter. But within that bitterness—
Relief.
Like the confirmation of a truth he had already known but refused to voice.
Leon stared.
Thaddeus chuckled, shaking his head. "Another child, huh?" He let out a long, amused sigh. "Boy, I think we both know I'm too damn old for that."
Leon clicked his tongue but said nothing.
The air settled again, but Thaddeus was the first to break it.
"I heard you were quirkless."
Leon stiffened—just slightly.
It was barely noticeable, but Thaddeus caught it.
For a brief second, his expression soured—just enough to show how much that single word annoyed him.
But it was quickly wiped away when his grandfather continued.
"You had them fooled, huh?"
Leon felt his brain freeze.
"What?"
He blinked.
He must've misheard.
But the grin on Thaddeus's face told him otherwise.
"How—?"
A thousand thoughts flew through Leon's head.
How did he know? How could he know? There was no possible way—
Seeing the obvious confusion on Leon's face, Thaddeus merely smirked.
"Tell me, boy." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "How many like you do you think tried to hide their quirks? And how many do you think actually managed to?"
Leon didn't answer.
Because he knew the answer.
None.
People who had quirks always had a record. A test, a trace, something that tied them to the system. The fact that he had successfully lived as a quirkless person without suspicion was already an anomaly in itself.
It made sense.
Power was to be used.
Even in his old words, a person who bought a gun would feel the itch to use it.
And this old man—this stranger who was somehow his grandfather—saw through it immediately.
How?
"I've dealt with all kinds of people," Thaddeus continued, "and I know a strong person when I see one."
Leon finally found his voice. "What's your quirk?"
His grandfather's grin widened slightly.
"Heh. I see you're smart, but not enough."
Leon narrowed his eyes.
Thaddeus let the words hang for a moment before finally answering.
"My quirk is called 'Golden Sight.'"
A simple name. But Leon already knew it wasn't something to scoff at.
"It allows me to see the probability of success when taking an action."
Leon blinked.
"...You can see the odds?"
Thaddeus nodded.
"You can think of it as determining the path of victory in anything," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Though it hurts to use, it's well worth it, as you can see."
He gestured subtly to their surroundings.
The wealth. The status. The power.
Leon exhaled through his nose, letting the weight of the revelation settle in.
This wasn't just some ordinary rich man.
This was someone who saw success. Calculated it. Achieved it.
Every. Single. Time.
And now, this man was claiming him as his heir.
His mind buzzed.
There was too much to process, too much weight behind every sentence that had just been spoken.
He would've been overwhelmed if not for one thing.
Mana.
It strengthened every part of him—his body, his mind. And right now, he needed every bit of reinforcement he could get.
He took a slow breath.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"So what now?"
Thaddeus's expression shifted slightly. Amused. Calculating.
"That depends."
Leon's eyes narrowed.
"On?"
Thaddeus leaned back in his chair, looking completely at ease. "On what you want, boy."
Silence stretched between them.
Leon searched the old man's expression.
Was this a test? A trap? Some kind of power play?
No.
It was an opportunity.
And Leon knew one thing for certain.
Opportunities like this—
Didn't come twice.