My Taming System Makes Me Overpowered

Beyond the jurisdiction of the Five Dukes, where the jagged borderlands met the sprawling waste, lay the city of Malgrath.

It was a city built not on laws or royal decrees, but on blood, trade, and absolute apathy. Towering, crooked structures made of mismatched iron and dark stone leaned against one another over narrow, mud-slicked alleys. Smoke from illicit forge-fires and cheap pipe-weed hung heavy in the damp night air. In Malgrath, race, noble status, and political allegiance meant nothing. An elf could slit a human noble’s throat in broad daylight, and as long as the coin flowed, no guard or figure of authority would ever come.

The city had no mayor, no high council, and no standing army. It was ruled by a singular, legendary syndicate known as DEATH CROWS—a group composed of five terrifying individuals who had carved out their dominion through sheer, unadulterated strength years ago.

A sudden swirl of dark, crimson-tinted mist coalesced in a quiet, shadowed alleyway near the lower district.

As the mist dissipated, Vesper stepped onto the wet cobblestones, his boots making no sound against the slick ground. He adjusted his high-collared leather coat and cast a lazy glance up at the towering, neon-lit silhouette of the Grim Spire—the central stronghold of Malgrath.

Vesper rolled up his left sleeve, looking down at the dark bat tattoo etched into his forearm. The ink pulsed with a faint, rhythmic heat.

It’s been a while,

Vesper thought, a thin, dangerous smirk touching his lips as he pulled his sleeve back down and buried his hands into his coat pockets.

Let’s see if those old bastards are still alive.

He strolled out of the alley and into the bustling, chaotic streets of the gambling district. Brawny beast-kin mercenaries brushed past hooded elven assassins, while corrupt human traders argued over crates of contraband mana-cores. None of them dared to linger near Vesper. Even without displaying his mana, the cold, spectral aura radiating off him made the surrounding crowd instinctively part ways like water around a stone.

Vesper navigated the labyrinthine streets with practiced ease, eventually stopping in front of a subterranean fighting arena buried three floors beneath an old tavern. The heavy iron doors vibrated with the muffled, thunderous roars of a bloodthirsty audience.

Two towering, horned minotaur guards stepped forward to block the entrance, their massive iron halberds crossing in front of Vesper’s chest.

”Private pit tonight,” one of the minotaurs grunted in a gravelly voice. ”DeathCrow business. Beat it, shade.”

Vesper didn’t flinch. He didn’t even draw his twin matte-black daggers. He simply raised his left wrist, flexing his forearm so the faint crimson glow of the bat tattoo shone through the thin leather of his glove.

The moment the minotaurs caught sight of the mark, their eyes widened in sudden, stark terror. The halberds instantly parted, hitting the stone floor with a heavy, nervous clang.

”M-Master Vesper...” the guard stammered, bowing his massive head low. ”Apologies. We did not recognize—”

”Save it,” Vesper cut him off smoothly, stepping past them and descending the winding stone stairs into the dark pit below.

The air inside the arena was thick with the copper stench of fresh blood, spilled ale, and sweat. At the center of the underground cavern was a massive, circular cage made of reinforced iron bars. Inside the cage, a sprawling pile of unconscious—or dead—gladiators lay scattered across the sand.

Standing in the middle of the carnage was a towering figure.

He was a giant of a man, bare-chested and covered in crisscrossing battle scars, with long, wild black hair tied back in a messy knot. His skin was dusted with dried blood, and his massive, veins-bulging forearms were wrapped in heavy, barbed iron chains. In his right hand, he held a massive war-cleaver that looked heavy enough to snap a horse’s spine in half. And tattooed on his shoulder was the horns of a bull.

This was Brian the Executioner—one of the five founding members of Malgrath, and a former comrade of Vesper from their mercenary days long before Vesper pledged his blade to Duke Owen.

Brian dragged his war-cleaver across the iron floor with a grating SHRIIIIIEK, shaking the blood off it before tossing a defeated opponent out of the cage door like a sack of grain. The crowd cheered wildly, but Brian looked utterly bored. He spat onto the bloody sand and grabbed a heavy wooden tankard off a nearby barrel, slamming back the cheap ale in one massive gulp.

”Is that the best this damn city has to offer?!” Brian bellowed, his deep, booming voice echoing across the arena floor. ”A bunch of soft-bellied dogs! I asked for a warm-up, not a nap!”

”You always did have terrible taste in entertainment, Brian.”

The smooth, quiet voice cut cleanly through the deafening noise of the arena.

Brian froze mid-swallow. He slowly wiped his mouth with the back of his massive, blood-stained hand and turned his head toward the shadowy entrance of the pit.

His dark eyes locked onto Vesper, who was leaning casually against a wooden support beam, rolling his signature blood-red coin back and forth across his knuckles with effortless speed.

A wide, terrifying grin slowly spread across Brian’s scarred face, exposing a row of sharp, jagged teeth.

”Well, well, well...” Brian rumbled, dropping his empty tankard to the floor with a loud thud. He stepped out of the cage, the heavy iron chains around his arms clinking with every massive step he took toward Vesper. ”Look what the shadow dragged in. I thought you were off playing lapdog for that arrogant Duke Owen.”

”Duty calls,” Vesper replied casually, catching the blood-red coin in his palm and sliding it into his pocket. ”Though the scenery in Duke Owen’s estate gets boring after a while. I missed the stench of blood and rust.”

Brian stopped a few feet away, his towering frame casting a massive shadow over Vesper. He leaned down, his dark eyes narrowing as he scrutinized his old squadmate.

”Pretty sure You didn’t travel all the way to Malgrathjust to reminisce, shadow,” Brian growled, though the fierce grin remained on his face. ”Out with it. What brought you back to the pit?”

Vesper looked up into Brian’s eyes, his expression shifting from lazy indifference to a cold, razor-sharp focus.

”I have a target,” Vesper said, his voice dropping into a low murmur meant only for Brian’s ears. ”A magicless human named Vince. He’s erased two of Owen’s Dread Commanders, and is probably heading deeper north.”

Brian raised an eyebrow, a rumble of dark laughter rising in his chest. ”A magicless boy killed Rin and Balthazar? You’re joking.”

”I don’t joke about targets,” Vesper said quietly. ”He’s an anomaly, Brian. Honestly he’s proving to be a true monster. I need the Crew back together for this hunt to raise my chances to take him down.”

Vesper reached out, offering a firm hand to his old comrade, his eyes gleaming with a lethal, promise-filled light beneath the dim arena lanterns.

”Help me assassinate Vince,” Vesper purred, his smile widening into a wicked blade. ”I promise you... it’ll be a thrill just like the old days.”