Ancestral Lineage

Who was Lamair Griswold? He was many things—a proud member of the prestigious Griswold family, the son of its powerful patriarch, one of Ethan's closest friends, a subordinate of Ethan, the lover of Lusamine Seikiro, and the secret yearning of Cassandra Casa. But above all, Lamair was a controller, a master strategist, a manipulator—a Puppeteer.

When Lamair first awakened his affinity, disappointment had weighed heavy on him. His elder brothers mocked him relentlessly, calling him a failure and an embarrassment to the Griswold legacy. Yet, amidst the ridicule, his father's reaction was strikingly different. The family patriarch roared with laughter, congratulating Lamair and declaring him "one of the rare, blessed awakeners" of the Puppeteering Affinity.

"The Puppeteering Affinity is no mere talent," his father said with pride. "It is power in its purest form. A Puppeteer is a chess player of the highest order. Everything and everyone are but pawns—a collection of pieces to move in the grand game. The strongest Puppeteers hold the power of absolute control, with strength that can rewrite the tides of battle. You, my son, are destined to master it."@@novelbin@@

While his father's encouragement inspired him, Lamair quickly learned that talent was only half the equation. Resources played a critical role, and fortunately, he had been born into a family of immense wealth and influence. The Griswolds spared no expense in cultivating his potential, ensuring Lamair had every tool, artifact, and training method to hone his rare gift.

The fruits of this dedication began to show during Lamair's second year at the academy. A mock duel was announced, pitting representatives from each class against one another. To the surprise of many, Lamair was chosen to represent his year. At that time, the true nature of his affinity was unknown to his peers. Most assumed his selection was due to his prestigious lineage—after all, the son of the Griswold patriarch was expected to be strong, even if no one had seen it for themselves.

But when Lamair stepped into the ring, he spectacularly revealed his hand. His ability wasn't flashy like fire or lightning, nor was it as visually striking as summoning storms or conjuring illusions. It was subtle, precise, and terrifying. With a wave of his hand, he summoned his puppets, lifelike constructs that moved with unnerving precision. They didn't just fight—they outmaneuvered, outsmarted, and dismantled his opponent with surgical efficiency.

The crowd watched in stunned silence as Lamair's opponent—a renowned prodigy—was reduced to a helpless pawn, overpowered not by raw strength but by strategy and control. That day, the Griswold name echoed louder than ever, and Lamair carved his place among the elite as the Puppeteer.

From then on, his rise was meteoric. His elder brothers fell silent, their scorn replaced with jealousy and unease. He grew into his role as a controller, not just of puppets but of situations and people. For Lamair, life was a chessboard, and he was always ten steps ahead. But even as he embraced his identity as a Puppeteer, he remained loyal to those closest to him, particularly Ethan, Trevor, Clara, Emily, Lusamine... they were his family.

Lamair Griswold wasn't just a player in the game—he was the one pulling the strings. And he never forgot his father's words: "The board is yours to command, Lamair. Never let anyone else touch the pieces."

For the first time since his awakening, Lamair felt that even being a hundred steps ahead wouldn't be enough. His usual confidence, built on strategy and foresight, wavered against the overwhelming presence bearing down on him. He didn't want to alarm the others, but he knew the truth—the approaching beast wasn't merely a Diamond-rank creature. He had faced a Diamond-rank beast before, albeit as a summoned challenge orchestrated by the Griswold Head Butler, and this was nothing like that.

This aura… it was distinct, almost tangible in its intensity. It clung to the air like an oppressive storm, pressing down with a weight that seemed to warp reality itself. It wasn't just power; it was a presence, ancient and otherworldly, like staring into the abyss and feeling it stare back. The very ground beneath his feet seemed to hum in protest, and the forest around them, usually teeming with life, had fallen deathly silent. Even his puppets, extensions of his will, seemed to quiver as if aware of the monster's unparalleled might.

And yet, somehow, Lamair stood. More than that, he ran—not away, but toward the source of this primal force. How he was still moving, let alone charging headfirst into this nightmare, felt like a miracle. His legs burned, and his breaths came in sharp gasps, but he didn't stop.

"Sigh… I'm such a fool," he muttered under his breath, letting out a small chuckle. The laugh was dry, humorless, but it steadied his resolve. If even the master of strategy—the Puppeteer—had been reduced to a desperate fool, then so be it. He would embrace that role if it meant buying time for the others.

Around him, shadows streaked through the forest, moving with eerie precision. His puppets—his lifeline, his army. They ran, jumped, flew, and swarmed, surrounding him in a flurry of motion. Each one bore a unique design, a reflection of his artistry and control.

Some were humanoid, their joints moving with mechanical perfection, their expressions blank yet unnervingly lifelike. Others were beastlike, with claws, wings, or fangs glinting under the pale light of the moon. The most terrifying among them were hybrids—a grotesque blend of man and beast, their forms designed for maximum efficiency and carnage.

The puppets moved as though alive, but they were extensions of his mind, pieces on his grand chessboard. Yet even they, his trusted creations, felt fragile compared to the entity he now faced. For the first time, he wondered if his meticulous planning and unyielding will would be enough.

But there was no turning back. Lamair Griswold, the Puppeteer, wasn't just running toward the beast—he was running toward his destiny.

"Are you ready, Qirantha?" Lamair asked, his voice calm despite the storm brewing in his chest. The spider perched on his head chirped in acknowledgment, its humanoid upper body swaying slightly as if in anticipation.

"Haha! Let's hope we don't die in one hit," Lamair joked, his words light but carrying the weight of grim determination. With a deep breath, he stretched his hands forward, his fingers glowing faintly with the soft, ethereal pink of his puppeteering power.

Two massive puppets shaped like eagles launched from the shadows around him. Their sleek, mechanical bodies gleamed in the faint moonlight, and their glowing dark pink eyes pulsed like beating hearts. With a deafening, mechanical screech, they shot forward like missiles, their speed tearing through the air. As they ascended, powerful gusts of wind erupted from their wings, uprooting trees and sending them crashing to the ground in their wake. The forest around them seemed to crumble, unable to withstand the sheer force of their flight.

Lamair's eyes glowed a brighter pink as he stretched his hands once more. This time, catlike puppets, their bodies low and sleek, bolted forward with terrifying agility. Their sharp, gleaming claws dug into the earth, ripping apart the ground with every leap. As they moved, chunks of dirt, rock, and shattered wood shot into the air, creating a chaotic storm of debris. The gale-force winds from the eagle puppets above caught the debris, scattering it like shrapnel toward the beast's direction.

The devastation spread like wildfire, and the once-dense forest was reduced to splintered wood, dust, and chaos. But all this was merely the prelude. Lamair wasn't just attacking—he was testing, gauging, and preparing.

Then, amidst the cacophony of destruction, he saw it—the beast.

Emerging from the darkness, it was a harbinger of dread, its aura an overwhelming beacon of terror that seemed to choke the life out of the air around it. The yellowish glow of its eyes pierced through the chaos, radiating malice and power. The creature's massive form moved with an unnatural grace, its four tails swaying behind it like pendulums of destruction. Every step it took crushed the earth beneath it, each movement an announcement of its dominance.

Lamair's breath hitched for a moment, his composure faltering briefly as the sheer presence of the monster bore down on him. It was no ordinary creature; this was something born of nightmares, a force of nature twisted into form.

"Well, Qirantha," Lamair said with a tight grin, his voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through him. "Let's give it hell."

The puppets surged forward in unison, the storm of wind, debris, and precision-crafted chaos descending upon the beast with deadly intent.

...

The chaos raged like a living storm, the forest itself seeming to cry out as Lamair's puppets tore through the night. The air was thick with dust and the acrid scent of uprooted earth, a battlefield born of desperation. Yet, through the cacophony, the beast remained—a looming silhouette framed by the dim, fractured moonlight. It did not flinch. It did not falter. It simply watched; its glowing eyes fixed on Lamair like twin suns piercing through a dying world.

Lamair's heart thundered in his chest as he stared back, his mind racing. Why isn't it moving? The puppets he'd unleashed were nearly upon it, their mechanical cries echoing through the hollowed woods. Still, the beast stood there, unyielding, its massive frame radiating an unshakable calm. It was waiting.

Qirantha shifted slightly atop his head, her chirp sharp and urgent, a warning he didn't need. He could feel it now, crawling up his spine—a presence so overwhelming it felt as though the very fabric of reality was warping around it.

And then, as the first of the eagle puppets dove toward the beast, its claws gleaming in the moonlight, something shifted.

The world seemed to hold its breath.

The beast moved.

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A single, deliberate motion.

Its tails lashed out, a blur of raw power and speed that Lamair's eyes struggled to follow. The air rippled, a shockwave exploding outward as the eagle puppet was reduced to fragments, its pieces scattering like broken stars against the night sky.

Lamair's stomach dropped. His hands trembled, the pink glow around them flickering. He hadn't even seen it strike.

The beast's glowing eyes turned toward him fully now, the intensity of their gaze like a weight pressing down on his soul. It let out a low, rumbling growl that shook the earth beneath his feet, a sound that wasn't just heard but felt—deep in his bones, his very core.

Lamair swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. "So, this is what true terror feels like."

The beast took a step forward, its colossal form emerging further into the light. Its scales glinted like polished steel, its fur bristling with an almost electric energy. The forest behind it was no longer visible—only darkness, as if the creature itself had devoured the light.

Lamair's puppets repositioned, their glowing eyes refocusing on the target, but he knew. Deep down, he knew. This wasn't a battle he was meant to win.

"Qirantha," he muttered, his voice steady but low. "We're not just buying time anymore. We're surviving."

The beast let out another roar, louder this time, shaking the heavens. Lamair braced himself as the ground quaked beneath him.

And then it lunged.

Everything became a blur—a dance of shadows, destruction, and the haunting glow of the beast's eyes.