The Snake God with SSS Rank Evolution System

Wincenth’s mechanical fingers continued their slow, rhythmic drumming against his thigh as the door clicked shut behind Adam and his companions. The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the groans of the man still cradling his broken wrist on the floor.

’A dragon. In Myrta. Of all the places...’ Wincenth’s internal voice was cool, calculating. ’And not just any dragon—one who throws himself into the middle of a petty extortion dispute. Either he’s genuinely protective, or he’s looking for something.’

His voice was smooth, carrying a note of quiet command.

”Bring me the men who visited the blacksmith this morning.”

Two of his subordinates moved immediately, disappearing through a side door. Moments later, they returned, dragging three men by the collars—the same thugs who had pounded on Hilt’s door just hours ago. They were pale, trembling, their earlier bravado completely evaporated.

One of them dropped to his knees before Wincenth, his voice cracking with desperation.

”Lord Wincenth! Please—we didn’t know! We had no idea who we were dealing with! If we’d known he was a dragon—”

Another cut in, his words tumbling over themselves in a frantic rush.

”He threatened us! He said if we came back, he’d—”

Wincenth raised a hand, and the men fell silent instantly. His voice was calm, carrying an edge that made the air around them grow cold.

”You approached a dragon. You threatened a dragon. And you did so without any knowledge of who he was or what he was capable of.” He paused, his mechanical fingers stilling. ”That is not incompetence. That is stupidity.”

The first man’s face went pale, his voice barely a whisper.

”Lord Wincenth, please—we’ll do anything! We’ll make it right! Just give us another chance!”

Wincenth’s lips curved into a thin, unreadable smile. His mechanical hand reached out, resting lightly on the man’s shoulder. The gears whirred softly as the fingers tightened, just enough to make the man flinch.

”Another chance?” His voice was almost gentle. ”You’ve already used your chance. You brought a dragon to my doorstep. You endangered this entire operation because you couldn’t be bothered to assess your targets before shaking them down.”

He released the man’s shoulder and took a step back, his voice dropping to a cold, measured tone.

”Take them to the back room. We’ll discuss their punishment later.”

The men’s protests were swallowed by the sound of heavy boots as they were dragged away, their pleas fading into the depths of the building.

The man with the broken wrist, still crumpled on the floor, let out a low, pained whimper.

Wincenth’s gaze drifted to him, a flicker of cold amusement passing through his eyes.

”And you. You’re lucky he only broke your wrist. Next time, you might not be so fortunate.”

The man who stepped forward from the shadows of the side corridor was impeccably dressed in deep burgundy velvet, a silver chain glinting at his collar. His sharp features carried the unmistakable air of nobility—the kind that had never known a day of honest labor and expected the world to bend to his whims.

His voice was smooth, cultured, carrying a note of refined skepticism.

”A dragon? Truly? I find it rather difficult to believe that a creature of such legend would be wandering the ruins of a city like this, threatening petty lords and protecting blacksmiths.”

Wincenth turned, a flicker of recognition passing through his cold eyes. He inclined his head in a gesture of practiced respect—a bow that stopped just short of genuine deference.

”Oh. If it isn’t Duke Giorno Javelin. I thought you were still enjoying your tea, Your Grace.”

Giorno’s thin lips curved into a faint, almost condescending smile. His fingers drummed once against the head of his silver-tipped cane.

”I was. But I heard there was a commotion involving a dragon who threatens lords with unspeakable consequences. I decided it was worth interrupting my tea.”

His gaze drifted to the shattered door, the scattered chairs, the groaning thugs being dragged away. A note of amusement crept into his voice.

”You seem to be handling the situation admirably.”

Wincenth’s mechanical fingers flexed once, a soft whir of gears accompanying the motion. His voice remained smooth, but there was a flicker of something colder beneath it.

”I’m doing my best to keep order, Your Grace. The dragon’s presence is... unexpected. But it presents certain opportunities.”

Giorno’s eyebrows rose slightly, his voice carrying a note of dry skepticism.

”Opportunities? You speak as if you intend to negotiate with a dragon.”

Wincenth’s smile didn’t waver.

”Dragon can be useful, Your Grace. They can also be directed, if you know how to offer the right incentives.”

Giorno’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of cold calculation passing through them. His fingers drummed once more against his cane, a slow, thoughtful rhythm.

”I hope for your sake you know what you’re doing, Wincenth. A dragon is not a tool to be wielded lightly.” He paused, his voice dropping to a cold, measured note. ”And if you find yourself unable to control it, I will not hesitate to remove you from the equation.”

Wincenth’s smile didn’t waver, but something shifted in his eyes—a flicker of cold acknowledgment.

’Empty threats. He needs me as much as I need him. But I’ll let him have his moment.’

”Understood, Your Grace. I would expect nothing less.”

Giorno’s thin lips pressed into a hard line, his silver-tipped cane tapping once against the stone floor. His voice carried a sharp edge of irritation, barely contained beneath the surface of his aristocratic composure.

”So the one who’s been circling Selena is a dragon.” His eyes narrowed, cold calculation flickering behind them. ”That complicates things.”

Wincenth’s mechanical fingers resumed their slow, deliberate drumming against his thigh. His voice was smooth, carrying a note of quiet confidence.

’Good. He’s worried. That means he’ll be more willing to follow my lead.’

”My sources are reliable, Your Grace. The horned man is indeed a dragon—and there’s a strong possibility he’s connected to the destruction of Kaelthar. The timing aligns too perfectly to be coincidence.”

Giorno’s jaw tightened, his grip on his cane whitening at the knuckles. His voice dropped, cold and sharp.

”If the dragon is supporting Selena, that changes everything. Our plans could be undone before they even begin. We can’t afford to have a creature of that magnitude standing in our way.”

Wincenth’s smile didn’t waver. His mechanical fingers stilled, and he met Giorno’s cold gaze with unwavering certainty.

”Rest assured, Your Grace. I already have a plan in motion. You’re not going to back down just because of a dragon, are you?” A pause, his voice dropping to a measured, almost teasing edge. ”Besides—your influence in Solaria is already waning. This is your chance to reclaim it. You can’t afford to hesitate.”

Giorno’s eye twitched, a flash of barely restrained fury passing through his features. His voice came out through gritted teeth, sharp and venomous.

”Tch. Don’t bring that up. It only makes me more irritated.”

Wincenth inclined his head, a gesture of practiced deference, though a flicker of cold amusement lingered in his eyes.

”My apologies, Your Grace. I meant no offense.”

Giorno’s fingers tightened around his cane, his voice dropping to a cold, measured warning.

”Just make sure your plan works, Wincenth. I didn’t come all this way to watch everything fall apart because of a dragon.”

Wincenth’s smile widened, just slightly—a thin, calculated expression that didn’t reach his cold eyes.

”It will, Your Grace. You have my word.”

Giorno’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer—a silent threat carried in the cold weight of his stare. Then he turned, his boots echoing sharply against the stone floor as he strode toward the door.

His voice drifted back over his shoulder, carrying a final, cutting note.

”See that it does.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Wincenth alone in the dimly lit room.

Giorno walked through the winding, rubble-strewn streets of Myrta, his silver-tipped cane tapping against the cracked stone with each step. His face was a mask of cold composure, but his eyes burned with barely concealed irritation.

Behind him, his bodyguard—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a weathered face and a massive greatsword strapped across his back—kept pace with practiced silence. He had been with Giorno long enough to know when to speak and when to simply follow.

When they had put enough distance between themselves and Wincenth’s headquarters, the bodyguard’s voice came out low, measured.

”Your Grace. Do you trust him?”

Giorno’s steps didn’t falter. His voice was flat, carrying a note of cold certainty.

”Of course not. Wincenth is useful, but he’s not loyal. He serves his own interests, just like everyone else.”

The bodyguard’s brow furrowed slightly, his voice carrying a note of cautious concern.

”Then why are you working with him?”

Giorno’s lips curved into a thin, cold smile.

”Because he’s predictable. And predictable men are easy to control.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the ruins ahead. ”Besides—if his plan fails, I’ll simply find another way.”

The bodyguard was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly.

”As you say, Your Grace.”