My Taming System Makes Me Overpowered

The grand oak door to Duke Owen’s private study did not knock before opening.

Gareth stepped across the threshold, his heavy, dark leather coat sweeping behind him. The air inside the room was suffocating—thick with the sour reek of spilled wine, unwashed silk, and stale incense.

At the center of the chamber, Duke Owen stood over a mahogany desk covered in crumpled map scrolls and shattered glass. His eyes were bloodshot, his face flushed a dark, blotchy red, and his tunic unbuttoned at the neck. He held a half-empty crystal bottle, his hand trembling so violently that amber liquid sloshed over his knuckles onto the parchment below.

"Gareth," Owen rasped, his voice raw, laced with wild, uncontainable fury. "Where are they? Why hasn’t Vesper sent word? The forest route is quiet! The border outposts have heard nothing! Where is that magicless rat’s head?!"

Owen slammed his fist onto the desk, rattling the remaining glasses.

"A magicless orphan!" Owen shrieked, his chest heaving as the humiliation of the past few months boiled over. "An unranked, trash human boy who couldn’t even form a basic mana thread in my dungeons! He escaped! He killed my scouts! The other noble houses are laughing at me, Gareth! They whisper behind my back in the capital! They say the Western Duchy can’t even clean its own gutters!"

Gareth stood completely still near the closed door, his arms crossed over his chest, his sharp eyes devoid of emotion as he watched his lord unravel.

"Vesper is probably dead," Gareth said flatly.

The room went dead silent. Owen froze, the bottle hovering inches from his lips.

"What... what did you say?" Owen whispered.

"I went to Malgrath a while back," Gareth replied, his voice calm, steady, and utterly devoid of comfort. "I witnessed the fight. Vesper and the rest of the Crows didn’t just get defeated or humiliated, Your Grace. They were most likely killed."

Owen’s jaw worked silently, his face draining of all color before flushing purple with fresh, hysterical rage. "Lies! Vesper was a Master Assassin! A shadow practitioner! You expect me to believe a magicless bastard wiped out five elite assassins?!"

"Believe what you wish," Gareth said coolly, stepping forward. "The reality remains the same. Vince is alive, he is moving west, and he is stronger than any intelligence report claimed."

"Then mobilize the Vanguard!" Owen roared, dropping the bottle to the floor, where it shattered into a hundred jagged pieces. "Gather the heavy armor-breakers! The anti-magic battalions! Sound the horn of war! I want five thousand men surrounding his Very location! I want him brought to me in pieces! I will personally flay his skin and hang his corpse from the duchy gates!"

"I’m sorry but I won’t let you do that your grace," Gareth interrupted sharply, his voice dropping into a low, quiet register that carried an undeniable weight of authority.

Owen blinked, caught off guard by his right hand’s insolence. "I am your Duke!"

"And Emperor Marcus is your sovereign," Gareth countered, eyeing Owen coldness. "Have you forgotten the Imperial Mandate? The Emperor’s decree regarding the boy?"

Owen hesitated, his furious breathing slowing as the cold reality of the capital’s shadow fell over him.

"The Emperor does not want a corpse," Gareth reminded him, his eyes narrowing. "He wants the boy alive. An unranked, magicless human who suddenly wields unprecedented, unclassified power? I don’t know The Emperor’s intentions with the boy, but going against his decree without valid reasons is an unwise decision."

Owen gritted his teeth so hard his jaw creaked. The thought of Vince standing alive—even in chains—made his stomach turn with pure venom. He wanted to watch the boy bleed. He wanted to erase the humiliation that had haunted his sleep every night since Vince broke out of his domain.

"Fine," Owen spat out through clenched teeth, his hands curling into white-knuckled fists. "Bring him alive to Oakhaven. Let the Emperor have his show. But the moment that is done..."

Owen turned to his desk, grabbing a gold-embossed seal. "Take the 3rd Heavy Brigade. Take the anti-mana suppressors and the spatial binding arrays from the vault—"

"No," Gareth said, turning toward the door.

Owen paused, frowning. "No?"

"A battalion of heavy armor will only alert him," Gareth said softly, resting his hand on the pommel of his longsword. "A mass of soldiers creates noise. Noise breeds unpredictability. Vince proved against the Crows that attacking in groups is meaningless."

Gareth looked back over his shoulder, his eyes gleaming with cold, absolute confidence.

"I will go alone."

Owen stared at him. "Alone?"

"The Crows relied on stealth and cheap spatial tricks," Gareth replied calmly, his tone devoid of arrogance, stating it as a simple fact of nature. "I am not Vesper. I do not hide in shadows, and I do not fail. You my lord should be very aware of that fact. I will take the heavy spatial suppressors, intercept the boy and drag him bound to Oakhaven before the summit begins."

Without waiting for Owen’s permission, Gareth turned and walked out of the study, the heavy doors closing softly behind him.

A Grin appeared on Owens face.

---

In the shadowed alcove just beyond the study’s heavy stone archway, a figure melted back into the dark.

Emily stood pressing her back against the cool tapestry, her breath coming in short, shallow hitches. Her hands were buried in the velvet folds of her gown, her fingers trembling—not with terror, but with an intoxicating, wicked thrill.

She had heard every single word.

She listened as her husband—the proud, arrogant Duke of the West—squealed like a stuck pig over a "magicless, trash orphan." She had felt the pathetic desperation in Owen’s voice, the sheer, humiliation of a noble whose power was slipping through his fingers like sand.

And then there was Gareth. Cold, deadly Gareth, setting off alone to hunt down a boy who had turned five master assassins into dust.

Emily slowly stepped out from the alcove, watching Gareth’s tall, armored figure disappear down the grand spiral staircase at the end of the hallway.

A slow, dark smile curved her lips. She raised her hand, lightly touching her throat, feeling the rapid, chaotic beat of her own pulse.

"A magicless trash boy..." she whispered into the empty corridor, her voice thick with dark, lingering fascination. "And he has you all shaking in your boots."

She turned toward her husband’s study, listening to the muffled sound of Owen smashing another glass against the wall inside.

Emily curled her lip in utter disgust, then turned on her heel, heading back to her private chambers. The game was changing, the board was burning.

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