Rise to Power: The Miraculous Liam Regan.

Chapter 6

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Deep within a massive temple built entirely of pure gold, silence ruled like a sacred law. The walls shimmered softly under the glow of eternal flames, each surface carved with ancient symbols that told stories older than the nation itself.

At the center of the temple, an old man with white‑grey hair knelt on a velvet mat, his back straight despite his age. His eyes were closed, his lips moving in steady prayer, his voice barely louder than a breath. The air around him felt heavy with reverence.

Suddenly—Footsteps echoed. Fast. Panicked.

The grand doors burst open, and a young acolyte rushed inside, breathless, his face pale with fear and disbelief.

“High Priest!” he cried, dropping to one knee. “Something is wrong with the Ancestry Statue it has been glowing. It has not stopped for over an hour now!”

Immediately the old man’s eyes snapped open, for a heartbeat, the world stood still.

“What did you say?”

He rose to his feet immediately, the weight of decades pressing into his bones, yet urgency carried him forward. His prayer beads slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the golden floor as he turned and hurried toward the inner sanctum the forbidden hall where the bloodline relics were kept.

“Twenty‑five years.”

That was how long it had been since the last direct descendant of the Reagan family died. On that same day, the Ancestry Statue lost its light, its divine glow fading into lifeless stone. Since then, the temple had known only silence.

Now… it was glowing again, the old man’s heart thundered in his chest. There were only two possibilities no more, no less.

Either the ancestors, watching from the realm beyond, had finally taken pity and chosen a successor… Or—Someone from the direct lineage of the Reagan family was still alive.

But that made no sense.

The ancestral law was absolute: it took fifty years before the spirits could appoint a new successor. Fifty full years of mourning, cleansing, and waiting. And it had only been twenty‑five.

Yet every record, every scroll, every blood‑seal confirmed the same truth the Reagan lineage had been wiped out completely.

The doors swung open, and the High Priest entered the hall where the Family Ancestry Statue stood.

The inner hall was already crowded when the old man arrived. Golden pillars towered overhead, their surfaces reflecting the anxious faces gathered beneath them.

Every surviving member of the Reagan family was present, along with high‑ranking disciples and elders dressed in ceremonial robes. Murmurs rippled through the chamber like restless waves.

The Ancestry Statue stood at the center vast, ancient, and glowing faintly with a light that hadn’t been seen in decades.

As soon as the old man stepped inside, voices rose from the crowd.

“Has the gods finally chosen a successor?”

“Is the Reagan bloodline restored?”

“High Priest, tell us what this means!”

The old man ignored them all. His expression was grave, his eyes locked onto the statue as he pushed forward.

This was not a moment for speculation or hope. Only one person had the right to speak now only one person could understand the will of the ancestors.

Only the oldest could interpret the message of the Ancestry Statue.

That person was Lord Ayden.

For over two centuries, Lord Ayden had remained the oldest living member of the Reagan family. Time had bent around him but never claimed him, for he awakened the power of immortality at birth.

Immortality did not mean invincibility.

It did not mean death could never touch him. It simply meant time itself could not. He would live far beyond the natural span of man unless someone with enough power chose to end his life.

Such beings were rare. And those who possessed this gift inevitably became pillars of wisdom. Centuries of memory sharpened their judgment; generations of experience made their words law.

Lord Ayden had advised three generations of the Reagan family’s direct lineage.

He had seen heirs rise, fall, and perish. He had guided children who became legends and mourned those who never reached their potential.

Now, with the bloodline believed to be extinct, there was no one else to trust with this matter.

No one but him.

Lord Ayden stepped into the center of the hall, his long robe brushing against the golden floor. The closer he drew, the brighter the Ancestry Statue became, its ancient runes pulsing with a living glow. Even he who had lived for over two centuries couldn’t hide the flicker of shock that crossed his face.

“It’s real…” he murmured.

He took a slow, steady breath and placed both hands against the statue.

The moment his palms touched the cold surface, the entire hall fell into absolute silence. No one dared to breathe. Hundreds of eyes locked onto him, waiting, praying, fearing what the ancestors were about to reveal.

The glow suddenly shifted.

Gold turned to crimson.

The Ancestry Statue burned red, the light spilling across the hall like flowing blood.

At that moment Lord Ayden’s eyes snapped open, and he slowly turned to face the crowd. His expression was grave heavy with truth that could not be softened.

“Someone is tapping into the Ancestry Power of the Reagan family,” he said, his voice echoing through the chamber. “He is of the direct lineage of Reagan.”

The crowd stiffened.

Lord Ayden continued, each word striking like a hammer.

“The Hendrix Reagan family still has one surviving child. He is alive… and he is on the other side of the world.”

The hall erupted instantly.

Gasps, cries, and disbelief collided into chaos. Elders clutched their chests. Disciples whispered in panic. No one could accept it someone from the direct lineage had survived the massacre twenty‑five years ago?

That destruction had been absolute. Or so they believed.

Slowly, a horrifying realization spread among them. If a child survived, then there was only one explanation.

Lady Charlotte had given birth before she died.

The thought drained the color from every face. Regret and guilt crashed down like a tidal wave. They had searched the ruins, burned the records, mourned the dead yet all this time, the true heir had been living unseen, unprotected, forgotten.

At that moment one elder fell to his knees. Another clenched his fists until they shook.

“It has been twenty‑five years,” someone whispered hoarsely, voice trembling with shame. “For twenty‑five years, the heir of our family has been lying in obscurity under our very noses…”

Immediately Lord Ayden’s expression darkened. His voice lowered, urgent and heavy with dread.

“He must have been in grave danger that is the only reason his powers would awaken now,” he said. “And at this rate… he may be killed before we ever find him.”