Level 1 to Infinity: My Bloodline Is the Ultimate Cheat!
Chapter 295 - 295: The Dragon's Secret

Ethan found himself the target of the Whitmore family's laughter, utterly baffled.

'Was it really that funny? Are they mocking me for not being able to afford it or what?'

Markham noticed Ethan's bewildered expression and realized he'd misunderstood.

Clapping him on the shoulder with a knowing smirk, he said, "Relax, Ethan. Don't overthink it. This ability of ours isn't some big secret!

You know we all have Dragon Souls, right? Well, do you know where we store them?"

At that, Ethan frowned, then his eyes widened in realization. "Wait… that pocket dimension you guys have—it's meant for holding your Dragon Souls? And you just… toss random junk in there too?"

Markham's nose wrinkled in mild offense. Damn, Ethan really has a way with words—'random junk'?

Still, he nodded. "Yeah."

"We call it the Dragon Vault. Every Whitmore who awakens their Dragon Soul inherits this space."

---

Ethan's hopes of buying one outright were instantly crushed.

He couldn't help but envy the Whitmores for this ability. Forget combat advantages—the sheer convenience was unreal.

No backpacks needed. Toss anything inside, and it stayed perfectly preserved. Frozen goods? Still icy. Fresh meat and vegetables? Crisp as the moment they went in. A fridge couldn't even compare.

"Heh…" The Whitmore matriarch chuckled at his crestfallen expression.

"Don't lose heart, boy. This power isn't exclusive to our bloodline. Once your Soul Sense grows strong enough to commune with the Gate of Ascension and unlock it…

You'll be able to store things within your Mindscape too."

Boom.

Ethan's mind reeled.

'What the hell? You're telling me all I had to do was open the damn Gate of Ascension, and I could've been using it as a storage locker this whole time?'

"Morzan!" he roared internally. "Is this true?"

Of course, silence prevailed.

Melinda, seated across from Ethan with Markham between them, took a delicate sip of her porridge.

Glancing up, she caught the storm of emotions flickering across his face.

Assuming he was disheartened by the steep requirement, she offered a consoling smile.

"Don't worry, Ethan! Even if you never reach the pinnacle of strength… become a Whitmore man, and we have… special methods to help you improve."

Her eyelid dipped in a sly wink.

Special methods? Whitmore man?

Ethan's gaze naturally drifted downward—first to the generous swell of her chest, then further, tracing the length of her legs.

"Ahem." Markham's exaggerated cough snapped him back to reality.

"Uh—" Ethan stiffened, heat creeping up his neck. Right. Probably shouldn't let his intrusive thoughts run wild at this moment.

He jerked his attention back to Melinda, only to meet a glare that was equal parts scolding, flustered, and alarmingly… interested.

Ethan ducked his head, shoveling porridge into his mouth to avoid speaking.

'Holy hell, what the fuck is wrong with me? Empty your mind, temptation is the devil's playground. Do NOT get involved with a Whitmore woman'

The matriarch sighed, watching Melinda's reaction. The struggles of Whitmore women were known only to Whitmore women.

Just then, Maria entered with a tray of side dishes, placing them on the table. The matriarch reached out, pulling her down with unexpected tenderness.

Maria blinked, bewildered by the sudden affection.

Markham witnessed the exchange and let out a quiet sigh, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

The matriarch and Melinda noticed his reaction immediately. For just a fraction of a second, something like pity flickered in their eyes—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by steely resolve.

Then, without warning, Melinda's palm shot out.

WHAP!

The slap connected with the back of Markham's skull with enough force to slam his face straight into his bowl of porridge, sending a splash of milky broth across the table. The impact was so sudden, so violent, that even Ethan winced in sympathy.

Damn. Talk about double standards.

"What are you sighing about, you little brat?" Melinda snapped, her voice dripping with mock exasperation. "Eat your damn food, then go save us some seats!"

Markham peeled his face from the bowl, wiping porridge from his eyebrows with a miserable expression. "Auntie, you guys have seats already," he grumbled. "Up on the platform and everything..."

"Did I ask for your opinion?" This time, it was the matriarch who cut in, her tone sharp enough to slice stone. But then, just as quickly, she relented—slightly. "Thinking of those bastards makes my blood boil," she muttered.

…

After breakfast, Ethan and the Chase siblings followed Markham to the combat arena, arriving well ahead of the main crowd.

Or so they thought.

The moment they stepped into the open-air coliseum, their hopes deflated like a punctured tire. The stands were already packed to the brim, a sea of bodies shifting restlessly in anticipation of the day's events.

Markham's face fell. "Shit," he groaned, wringing his hands. "No good spots left... which means I'm definitely getting my ass kicked later..."

Just then—

"Markham! Ethan! Over here!"

The group turned toward the voice. There, wedged between two burly spectators, Bobby and Rook waved frantically. They'd somehow secured a small, miraculously empty section of the bleachers—marked by a row of strategically placed chess pieces on the stone seats.

Markham's eyes lit up like a kid spotting a candy store. He bulldozed through the crowd, the others trailing behind.

"You saved these for us?" he demanded, eyeing the seven vacant spots.

Bobby puffed out his chest. "Hell yeah we did. You think we'd forget about you guys?"

Markham clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man." Without another word, he ushered the Chase siblings into the seats, treating the arrangement like some divine right.

But the moment Bobby and Rook moved to sit down themselves—

THWACK! THWACK!

Markham's foot lashed out twice in rapid succession, planting squarely in each of their backsides and sending them stumbling forward.

"The hell, Markham?!" Bobby yelped, rubbing his tailbone where the kick had landed with pinpoint accuracy.

Markham crossed his arms. "What? You think I'm gonna reward you for seat-hogging?" He tsked, shaking his head in mock disapproval—then immediately pivoted, his expression transforming into a sickeningly sweet smile as three familiar figures approached.

"Matriarch! Aunt Melinda! Maria!" He gestured grandly to the now-vacated spots. "Your excellent seats, as promised."

The matriarch sniffed, unimpressed, but sat anyway. Markham's grin didn't waver. Sure, he'd just been blatantly ignored—but at least he'd avoided a public beatdown. Getting humiliated in front of this many people? That was a fate he would rather avoid.

Bobby and Rook, now thoroughly demoted to standing room only, exchanged resigned glances. Of course, they didn't have any choice, not like they could do anything about it.

That left one spot still open—right beside Melinda. Ethan hesitated, hovering awkwardly at the edge of the row.

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