Reincarnated with a lucky draw system

Chapter 397: DELIBERATE ERROR

Loki closed his eyes first.

The moment he stopped resisting, a cool, liquid awareness poured through him like dark wine.

Ancient instincts unfurled inside his mind: heightened senses, rapid healing, strength that hummed beneath his skin like restrained lightning, an innate connection to shadows and night.

And deeper still, promises. Power. Longevity. Freedom from many of the old limitations.

When he opened his eyes again, a slow, satisfied smile spread across his face.

"Hah. If this is what we’ve been handed, then we didn’t just dodge a bomb, we hit the jackpot."

The others were experiencing it too.

Thor’s shoulders relaxed imperceptibly. Rhaigon’s wings gave a single, subtle flex of pleasure.

Even Ignis’s perpetual scowl softened, just a fraction.

"But accepting this bloodline..." Ignis spoke again, quieter now.

"It means betraying our fathers. Betraying our entire race."

Loki shrugged, utterly unconcerned.

"Then keep moping about it if that makes you feel better. It’s not my problem. Besides, it’s not like you can undo it. Might as well enjoy the ride."

Rhaigon sighed, running a hand through his dark hair.

"As much as it pains me to admit it, Loki’s right, brother. There’s no going back. We have a new identity now. A new sire. Nothing can change what’s already been done."

"Plus," Loki added with a lazy drawl, "we can’t even die the normal way anymore. Unless you fancy being locked in a box and tortured for eternity. I, for one, am going to pass."

Thor’s voice cut through the lingering tension, calm and certain.

"Then we do what we’ve always done. We keep this new part of ourselves hidden. We act exactly as we always have. And we wait for our sire." He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "I have a very strong feeling he’s already much closer than any of us realize."

The words settled over them like a shared vow.

One by one, they nodded.

For the first time since waking, the four of them stood in perfect, unspoken agreement.

---

Meanwhile, a short distance away, Jordan, the false identity Aaron Highborn currently used couldn’t stop smiling.

Lilian noticed.

She tilted her head, studying him with open suspicion.

"What are you smiling about? You’ve been acting strange ever since we got here."

Jordan let the smile widen just a little.

Inside, satisfaction curled warm and deep in his chest.

He felt a new connection blooming within him.

Two gods. Two dragons. All four of them tethered to him through the ancient rite of blood.

"I’m just glad," he murmured, voice soft with genuine pleasure, "that I’ll get to see some old friends again."

Lilian raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press the issue.

"If you say so," she muttered, turning her attention back to the path ahead.

They walked on in silence for a few more minutes, boots echoing softly against ancient stone.

Then Lilian stopped.

She gestured forward with a small nod. "We’re here."

Before them rose the towering gates of the Sovereign Court, massive, imposing, carved from obsidian and veined with threads of molten gold.

The air around the entrance thrummed with latent power, heavy with the scent of old magic, incense, and the faint metallic tang of blood long spilled.

Aaron’s smile didn’t falter.

If anything, it grew.

The grand gates of the Sovereign Court loomed even taller up close, their obsidian surface swallowing the faint starlight and reflecting only the soft, ethereal glow of floating angelic lanterns.

A single angel stood sentinel before them, tall, radiant, wings folded with perfect discipline.

His armor gleamed like liquid moonlight, and his expression carried the serene authority of someone who had guarded this threshold for centuries.

"Welcome," the angel said, voice resonant and calm. "Thank you for your impeccable duty. We will take it from here."

Behind him, a gentle rush of air announced the arrival of more angels.

They descended in graceful arcs, wings cutting smooth, silent paths through the night.

Without a word, they surrounded the former governor, their movements precise and almost tender as they assumed custody of the prisoner.

The handover was seamless, practiced, final.

Lilian inclined her head in quiet acknowledgment.

"We simply carried out our duties," she replied, her tone steady despite the long journey behind them.

"Indeed." The guardian angel offered a small, formal bow.

"Please wait here. You will be attended to shortly and hosted properly."

Lilian nodded once more, accepting the instruction without protest.

She turned slightly toward the rest of the group, letting a thin, practiced smile settle on her lips.

"With that, we’re done. All that remains is to watch the trial unfold, then report the verdict back to the governor."

The words sounded simple enough, but the exhaustion beneath them was unmistakable.

Thoughts of watching her father’s trial weighed heavily on her shoulder.

Time passed in quiet anticipation.

Eventually, a slender figure approached from the inner courtyard.

An elf, immaculately dressed in a tailored charcoal suit edged with silver thread that caught the lantern light.

His movements were fluid, unhurried, every step measured.

"Please, come with me," he said, voice smooth and professional.

"Reservations have been prepared on your behalf. We have secured twenty rooms for the twenty of you—"

His words faltered.

He paused, eyes flicking across the group in a quick, practiced headcount. Brows drew together in faint confusion.

"...Twenty-one," he finished, almost apologetically.

"I’m sorry. We reserved exactly twenty rooms. That was the number provided by the governor’s office."

Lilian exhaled through her nose, the first real crack in her composure showing.

"That was the initial number assigned. But just minutes before departure, the governor added one more escort, for additional security."

The elf’s polite mask remained in place, though a subtle tightness appeared around his mouth.

"We were not informed of the change. And I’m afraid we don’t have any reserve rooms available at present."

All eyes turned to Jordan.

Lilian’s gaze carried a mixture of frustration and silent question.

The rest of the team watched with varying degrees of curiosity and discomfort.

Jordan, however, already understood exactly what had happened.

Nick.

The bastard had done this on purpose, slipped in that last-minute addition without bothering to update the accommodations.

A petty, calculated inconvenience meant to leave him stranded and exposed.

I’m going to kill that guy when I get the chance, Jordan thought, the words curling dark and satisfying inside his mind.

Not literally, perhaps. But the fantasy was vivid enough to bring a faint, dangerous edge to his calm expression.

Lilian straightened, taking charge as always.

"It’s alright," she told the elf firmly.

"You can go ahead and attend to the rest of the group. I’ll find a hotel nearby and handle my own arrangements."

Jordan shook his head before she could finish.

"No. It’s fine. I can take care of myself. I don’t want to cause any more trouble, especially since I’m the reason for the awkwardness."

Lilian’s jaw tightened. She stepped closer, voice dropping to something quieter but no less resolute.

"You don’t have a choice. I’m the leader here. It’s my responsibility to make sure everyone on my team is taken care of. Including you."

For a moment, the two of them stood locked in silent stalemate, her stubborn sense of duty against his quiet determination to avoid being a burden.

Then a new voice cut smoothly through the tension.

"What’s going on here?"

The words were calm, almost gentle, yet they carried an unmistakable undercurrent of authority.

Everyone turned toward the source.