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

Bryan stood there, face twisted in disbelief and frustration. He opened his mouth, probably about to argue—

"Shut it!" snapped the old man beside him, shooting him a glare sharp enough to slice through steel. "Haven't embarrassed yourself enough already?

For those who devote themselves to the game, self-discipline and control come first. That temper of yours... when we return, you're to enter closure for three years!"

One impulsive outburst—just one—and now he was slapped with three years of isolation.

Blackwell Family didn't mess around with family discipline.

Bobby sat frozen in his chair, lip twitching, struggling not to laugh.

The one being punished? That was his older brother. The same guy who used to bully him as a kid.

But in the realm of strategy? Bobby was on a whole different level.

…

That said, Bobby's mother wasn't from the main bloodline.

She'd been a chambermaid in the Blackwell household—technically given a name later, but still treated like a servant.

Because of that, even with Bobby's rare talent, he'd always been pushed down, suppressed.

His goal now? Make money. Enough to buy his mom out of that damned Hidden Territory the Blackwells called home.

He was lost in thought when the Silverwood patriarch continued reading out names.

"Tenth place: Gregory Hargrove, total cards…"

"Ninth place: Sylvia Wynn…"

"Eighth place: Kiara Quinn…"

"…Second place: Bobby, Markham, Rook, Evelyn, Ryan, Leeroy… total cards—100!"

BOOM.

The crowd erupted.

No third, fourth, fifth, sixth, or seventh?

Tied for second—six people?

Each with a hundred cards?

The entire match lasted three hours. That's one hundred and eighty minutes total.

To rack up a hundred cards in that time, each person would need to earn one every two minutes.

Even producing one card took longer than that!

That's not playing the game—that's robbing it.

Of course, people from the Strategy Zone knew exactly what had happened.

But no one dared speak a word.

They'd heard about what went down in other zones—someone tried to run a betting table and got smacked to death right there on the spot.

Yet in the Strategy Zone, nothing. No interference. No punishment.

If that wasn't a sign of powerful backing, nothing was.

No one was dumb enough to cross that fat bastard now.

A few reckless people had tried reporting it to their family elders.

But those reports got buried fast. Word got around that the guy's surname was Whitmore. After that, everyone clammed up.

It wasn't hard to understand why.

Unlike other noble families, the Whitmore line only produced one male heir per generation.

And the women? Always born as twins—and trained.

Whitmore men didn't inherit the crafting legacy. That fell to the women, who were taught the conduit forging arts.

But that didn't mean the men were pushovers.

Every Whitmore male was rumoured born with the awakened blood of a dragon.

When they used a conduit to summon a dragon, their beast was stronger, more brutal than any the women could call.

But here's the real problem—

Whitmore women ran the house. And they were terrifying.

If you so much as touched a Whitmore man, it didn't matter if you were right or wrong.

Retaliation would come.

Not once. Not twice. Every single woman in the family—from youngest niece to even a grandma—would take turns showing up to ruin your week.

And if you tried talking your way out of it? Good luck.

They didn't play fair, didn't play by rules, and were stronger than hell.

Sure, the dragons they summoned weren't as savage as their brothers'...

But nobody in their right mind would pick a fight with a Whitmore woman.

But the real reason was control.

Because they were the creators, Whitmore women had an easier time managing their summoned beasts.

Think of it this way—one was a mindless puppet, the other was advanced AI.

So yeah…

In the Supernatural World, there was one golden rule: Mess with anyone, but never mess with the Whitmores.

Or else?

Prepare for harassment that doesn't end when you die. They'd dig up your grave just to whip your corpse, then 'whip' it again… and again.

Which was why no one from the Strategy Zone dared speak up.

The rest of the tournament zones had no clue what went down.

"This isn't fair! They must've rigged it!"

"Yeah, totally rigged!"

Voices started rising in protest.

The Langford patriarch heard the growing unrest and stepped forward, voice deep and cold. "If you suspect foul play, submit a report. But if you spread baseless accusations and slander the Noble Eight…"

He let out a slow, biting laugh.

That was all he needed to say.

The loudmouths instantly clammed up. A second of thought and they all turned pale.

Their family members dragged them back before they could make bigger fools of themselves.

With order restored, the patriarch swept his eyes across the crowd.

"Anyone else want to object?"

Silence.

"Good. Then I now declare the winner of this year's Academic Duel… Ethan. Total cards: 188."

"Ethan? Who the hell is that?"

"Never heard of him… 188? That's jackpot numbers!"

The crowd exploded with whispers. This round felt different from all the rest.

In previous years, the Refined Families always claimed the top four.

Now this Ethan guy had shoved his way to the top—and nobody knew if it was skill or some shady backdoor trick.

Among the four Refined Families, only one name placed: Bobby from Blackwell Family.

He was tied for second.

In the Blackwell family's corner, Bobby kept a straight face—but inside, he was beaming.

The elder who led their group this year? Bryan's grandfather. Which also made him his grandfather.

The guy had always been cold to Bobby—thanks to his mother's status—but now, his gaze kept flicking over, unreadable.

The truth was, in the entire history of the Academic Duel, the Blackwell family never ranked above fourth.

Their combat placement was even worse—dead last in the Noble Eight.

This time, Bobby's hundred-card finish crushed the other three refined families. The four warrior families weren't even in the conversation.

No one knew how he pulled it off—but results were results.

Second place was still second. And among the Noble Eight, this time, it meant first.

That old man may not have said it out loud, but pride was practically seeping from his pores.

Down below, the crowd was still buzzing.

Up above, over at the Silverwood family's booth, Lachlan Silverwood's face was red with fury. He turned to Liam's aunt, voice low and sharp.

"That Ethan kid—he's the one always hanging around Lyla, right? How the hell did he get in here?"

Liam's aunt, Luna, looked rattled too. She leaned in and whispered back, "Uncle Lachlan, I don't know! I've been focused on that… matter. I didn't pay attention to the attendee list!"

"Hmph." Lachlan looked pissed, but when he remembered how much he still needed her help, he let out a sigh and softened.

"How's it going?"

"It's… progressing. There was a hiccup this morning, but I've got it handled."

"A hiccup?" His brow twitched.

Luna dabbed her forehead, trying not to look nervous. "A small one. I'm taking care of it."

He stared at her for a moment, then finally gave a curt nod.

Turning toward Liam, his voice was icy. "Liam. What's the status on Lyla?"

"Still investigating," Liam replied flatly, his tone cold as frost.