Level 1 to Infinity: My Bloodline Is the Ultimate Cheat!

Liam had barely finished speaking when a scornful voice cut in.

"Hmph…" Markham shot him a sidelong glance.

"So, it's just the steward!"

His sister, Maria, added with a smirk, "Oh, so he's on the same level as our Goldie!"

"Yep, yep… That's right! Except our Goldie wears a leash—and the Silverwoods' doesn't!"

"Seems like it. When we get home, let's take Goldie's leash off too."

"Sounds like a plan!"

The siblings bantered with ease, their words sharp, each jab laced with mockery.

Ethan listened until the end—and finally understood. This Goldie… was a dog.

Across from them, Liam clearly understood as well. A beat of silence followed, tense with unspoken fury.

Then Liam erupted. "Head of the Whitmore Family," he growled, "is this how you discipline your juniors?"

No sooner had the words left his mouth—

Smack.

A crisp, echoing slap rang out.

Everyone present was accomplished in their own right—none missed what happened. The moment Liam finished speaking, a figure shot out from the Whitmore Family's side—

—then returned to its place just as swiftly.

Only after the figure stood still again did a voice, steady and biting, reach the gathering.

Liam froze, stunned. On his cheek, the red imprint of five fingers slowly emerged.

The figure was, of course, Ethan.

Now standing casually behind Matriarch Whitmore, he flashed a wicked grin. "Hmph… A mere dog of a steward dares question how the family head disciplines her juniors?

Aunt Melinda, I've spoken on your behalf. No need to stoop to arguing with a dog—it's not worth the trouble."

As he said this, he lazily shook out his hand.

Markham and Maria had only implied the insult moments ago. But Ethan? He'd made it explicit. He'd called Liam a dog—to his face.

Then, as if worried some hadn't quite caught his meaning, he added in a voice low but clear enough for all to hear, "That hide of his is thick—my hand still hurts. Can't believe I didn't crack his skull.

They say a loyal dog has a skull of brass and hide of iron—damn if that isn't the truth."

The boldness of Ethan's strike left the crowd stunned. His speed—none had seen it clearly. They only caught the blur that appeared before Liam, and the blur that returned, leaving Liam still caught off guard, mid-anger, with a slap freshly delivered to his face.

This kid… was utterly fearless.

To strike Liam in full view of the Eighth Lord of the Silverwoods?

Liam's face was flushed—partly from the slap, but more so from rage and humiliation. In front of everyone, he hadn't even seen the strike coming. And yet, he'd been slapped—clean across the face.

If word of this spread, wouldn't he become a laughingstock?

"You…" Liam stepped forward, fury blazing.

"Stand down."

Lachlan Silverwood's voice cut in—low and commanding.

"Eighth Uncle…" Liam turned to him, unwillingness written all over his face.

"You, a mere steward, spoke rudely to the head of the Whitmore Family. You deserved that slap. Go. Do your job."

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Lachlan signaled for him to leave.

"But they—" Liam began, his voice tight.

He meant Markham and Maria. They had called him a dog, even if indirectly.

He wouldn't dispute Ethan hitting him—he had indeed been disrespectful toward Matriarch Whitmore. The slap was justified.

To push further would only deepen his shame. More than anything, he wanted this public humiliation to be over.

"Hmph…"

Lachlan cast him an irritated glance.

"Young Master Whitmore and Young Miss Whitmore—what are their positions? And what's yours?

They called you a dog. What now? You plan to retaliate?"

Liam froze.

His anger had clouded his judgment, made him forget their respective standings.

Now, sobered by Lachlan's words, he faltered. Resentment still burned in him, but he held it back. After a long, cold look at Ethan and the others, he turned and left—his expression grim.

But even as he walked away, Lachlan's words echoed in his mind.

He couldn't strike back now… but later? That was another matter.

"All right, Matriarch Whitmore," Lachlan said, his voice steady, unreadable. "You can hand him over now, can't you?"

"And if I refuse?" Matriarch Whitmore responded, eyes open and tone cool.

"Matriarch Whitmore, don't let an outsider disrupt the harmony of our Noble Eight Families."

As Lachlan spoke, several other families chimed in.

One after another, voices rose, urging the Whitmores to turn Ethan over.

Loudest among them were the Langfords and the Zanes.

Ethan scanned the crowd. Only three families remained silent:

The Blackwells. The Quinns. The Wynns.

He understood the Blackwells and the Wynns—their own heirs, Bobby and Rook, were involved.

But the Quinns? Why weren't they speaking?

He turned and saw a young girl tugging gently on a woman's arm, pleading with sweet, earnest persistence.

The woman glanced at Ethan, clearly reluctant, but then gave the girl's hand a gentle pat. Instantly, the girl beamed, planting a kiss on the woman's cheek.

The woman gave her a playful glare in response.

Ethan's curiosity was piqued.

What was going on? The girl seemed to be asking the woman to intervene on his behalf. Was she trying to help him?

As he mulled it over, Matriarch Whitmore let out a soft snort and iInstant silence prevailed.

Her authority was unmistakable.

What Ethan didn't realize was that these people were truly afraid of her. Back when these current heads were young, they'd seen it with their own eyes:

Their fathers—leaders of noble houses—beaten senseless by this very old woman.

One woman. Seven patriarchs. She fought them for four hours straight. In the end, the seven men were left in miserable shape.

Minor injuries meant broken bones. Serious ones meant displaced organs. No one knew exactly what sparked the fight. Only that the Eight Family Heads had gathered to discuss something, and Matriarch Whitmore had flown into a fury and attacked.

Now, most of their fathers had long since passed. She still lived.

Some whispered that their deaths were linked to whatever it was they'd discussed back then.

Only two people knew the truth: the elderly Wynn patriarch… and her.

Now, with everyone silent, Matriarch Whitmore spoke, her voice cool and commanding:

"Who says Ethan is an outsider? He's the Whitmore Family's son-in-law."

"Huh?"

Ethan, still scanning the crowd, froze.

'Since when did I become the Whitmore Family's son-in-law?'

His eyes instinctively darted to Melinda and his intrusive thoughts ran wild.

This 'aunt wasn't bad looking at all—those legs were something else. Her skin was baby-soft, smooth and delicate—how the hell did she maintain it?

She looked twenty-three, twenty-four at most. If not for the mature air around her, Ethan would've thought she was still single.

When she saw him looking her way, Melinda's face flushed unexpectedly.

She shot him a playful, reproachful glance.