My Taming System Makes Me Overpowered

The holy incense burning within the grand, gold-leafed corridors of the Bishop’s Mansion did little to mask the heavy scent of ozone, horse sweat, and cold black iron. Located just three leagues outside the neutral borders of Royal Oakhaven Academy, the opulent sanctuary had been completely transformed into a high-tier command outpost.

In the inner courtyard, pristine marble fountains were now covered in the grease of disassembled trebuchets. Hundreds of heavy cavalry mounts stamped their hooves against the manicured lawns, their black leather barding bearing the sharp, coiled crest of the Iron Vipers Mercenary Guild.

Inside the private chapel, Bishop Malakai stood before a towering stained-glass window, his immaculate white robes heavily embroidered with golden thread. He poured a cup of imported elven wine, his face twisted into a mask of righteous disdain as he looked down at the tactical maps spread across the altar.

”A commoner,” Malakai sneered, his voice dripping with venom. ”A magicless piece of street trash occupies the central tribunal of Oakhaven Academy, and you tell me the advance scouts were liquidated? The Holy Divinity will not tolerate this stain on the divine hierarchy, Duke Owen. The research within that academy belongs to the crown and the church. Not to a peasant.”

From the dark, shadowed corner of the chapel, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through the stone walls, causing the holy water in the silver basins to ripple.

”The boy is an anomaly, Bishop,” a smooth, chilling voice responded from the darkness. ”But anomalies are easily crushed beneath a sufficient amount of strength.”

Stepping into the faint light of the stained-glass window was Garreth, the Duke’s Right Hand and personal Executioner. He was a lean, falcon-eyed man dressed in a high-collared coat of dark wyvern leather. Unlike standard knights, Garreth carried no shield—only a massive, single-edged executioner’s blade strapped to his back, a weapon that had claimed the heads of dozens of rebel lords. He filtered through the battlefield scrolls with a look of cold, unfeeling martial efficiency. ”He got lucky against the Shadow-Claws. He won’t get lucky twice.”

Garreth turned toward the heavy oak doors of the chapel and barked a single command. ”Commanders. Present yourselves.”

The doors swung open, and four distinct, terrifying auras flooded the sacred room, instantly suppressing the Bishop’s holy mana. These were the Four Dread Commanders of the Iron Vipers—each a peak A-rank nightmare whose names were whispered with dread across the borderlands.

First to step forward was Commander Balthazar, the Crimson Shield. A silent, seven-foot behemoth clad in blood-stained, enchanted plate armor. His massive tower shield scraped against the marble floor, radiating a dense, physical gravity that made the air feel thin. He had held frontline breaches against high-tier monster stampedes without shifting a single inch.

Behind him glided Commander Vesper, the Ashen Shadow. A slender, masked figure wrapped in shifting, illusionary dark cloaks. Vesper’s dual daggers dripped with a specialized tracking poison, and his presence was so faint that he seemed to phase in and out of reality itself.

Next was Commander Rin, the Plague Weaver. The guild’s chief combat caster, wearing tattered emerald robes that smelled faintly of rot. His staff was topped with a cracked, glowing necro-crystal. Rin didn’t cast standard elemental spells; his unique magic rotted an enemy’s mana pools from the inside out, turning a mage’s own power into a lethal poison.

Finally, her heavy steel greaves clicking sharply against the stone, came Commander Moira, the Iron Maiden. A ruthless, battle-scarred swordswoman with a jagged scar running across her blind left eye. She was the absolute commander of the heavy cavalry, notorious for her relentless, blood-soaked charges that broke enemy formations before a single spell could be cast.

The four commanders stood in a flawless diagonal line, their collective killing intent so dense that Bishop Malakai unconsciously took half a step back, his hand trembling slightly against his wine goblet.

But the true terror had yet to enter the room.

The heavy iron-reinforced doors at the back of the altar chamber violently groaned. The ambient temperature in the chapel instantly skyrocketed, the holy incense suffocating and dying in the air as a suffocating, blood-red warlord aura flooded the sanctuary.

Duke Owen Oakhaven stepped into the light.

He was a massive, imposing figure, his broad shoulders draped in a heavy mantle of black manticore fur over intricate, dark red runic armor. His hair was a stark, iron gray, and his eyes burned with the cold, unyielding pride of a man who had conquered territories through raw, unadulterated slaughter. He didn’t just possess a Master-tier core; he was the core. His physical presence alone caused the air to shimmer with a faint, heat-distortion haze.

He didn’t look at the Bishop. He didn’t look at the maps. He simply stared toward the distant horizon where the spires of Royal Oakhaven Academy pierced the morning sky. To him, Vince wasn’t a rival, nor was he a threat. He was an irritating insect that had dared to crawl onto his ledger.

”The sun is rising,” Duke Owen’s voice boomed, a deep, tyrannical baritone that demanded absolute compliance from the universe itself. ”I Heard the no talent had a professor allied with him. Whatever artifact he’s using would be discovered today either swiftly or over his dead body .”

He unsheathed a massive, broad-bladed greatsword, the runic inscriptions along the metal glowing a dangerous, volatile crimson. He pointed the tip directly toward the distant academy.

”As for the commoner upstart who thinks he can claim my territory...” The Duke’s eyes flashed with a brutal, terrifying light. ”Turn him to ash. Tear down the academy gates, slaughter anyone who stands beside him, and bring me the keys to the vaults. March.”

”By your command, My Lord,” Garreth and the four commanders bellowed in perfect, terrifying unison.

Outside, the massive iron gates of the Bishop’s Mansion were thrown open with a deafening crash. The low, rhythmic, and thunderous thud of thousands of armored boots and heavy warhorses began to shake the very foundation of the earth.

The Iron Vipers were deployed. The storm was officially moving toward Vince.