Weakest Beast Tamer Gets All SSS Dragons

The director’s office had lost its characteristic aura of formal dignity.

In the center, Director Ignatius remained seated. His face, normally serene and authoritative, showed the weariness of someone who had looked death directly in the eyes.

His phoenix was partially manifested, both from defensive instinct and the need to accelerate his own healing.

But it was the absence of healing that proved most shocking. Where his left leg should have been, only an empty space remained beneath the carefully folded fabric of his trousers.

The legendary regeneration of his specific beast would allow him to recover the limb eventually, but the attackers had ensured its destruction to an excessive degree, beyond what even a phoenix could quickly repair.

Victor Dravenholm, Julius’s older brother, occupied a nearby armchair, his usual royal attire replaced by bandages covering much of his torso and right arm. Blood had seeped through in places, creating dark patterns against the white gauze. His face, so similar to Julius’s but marked by more years of combat, showed an intensity of tension more severe than usual.

“The triples proved more powerful than we anticipated,” the director was explaining to Julius, his voice maintaining admirable composure considering his circumstances. “It wasn’t just their individual strength, but their synergies… as if the enhancements were retroactive.”

Julius absorbed the scene with the analytical meticulousness that characterized him. The devastation evident in these two powerful men sent a chill through him, but he kept his expression neutral. “Real triples?”

Victor turned toward his younger brother, a weary smile briefly appearing on his face. “Tamers with three beasts at the same time indeed. A facet of Yino we would have preferred never to know.”

“Impossible,” Julius responded automatically. “In their experiments, they could never withstand the strain of managing three cores…”

“Evidently,” the director interrupted, gesturing toward his absent leg, “they have found a way.”

Victor sat up slightly, wincing in pain when the movement tensed the bandages on his chest. “I believe the secret is the power of the main beast… Each carried a Gold beast as a base. One Gold-1, the other Gold-2. Despite both secondary beasts being only Silver-3… The synergies with the abyssals gave them many unexpected combinations.”

“The enhancement percentages multiplied with each other,” the director continued. “Combinations of abilities that no traditional tamer could achieve.”

The director paused, his gaze involuntarily drifting toward his missing leg, a momentary lapse in his otherwise perfect composure.

Julius remained silent, processing the information. The implications were staggering, if Yino had successfully developed stable triple tamers, the balance of power had shifted dramatically.

“What was their objective?” he finally asked, though he suspected the answer already.

“The seed,” Victor and the director responded in unison, exchanging a significant look. The word hung in the air between them, laden with implications.

A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the soft hum of the healer’s energy.

“They knew exactly what they were looking for and that the academy was lightly guarded these days.”

“Which leads us to wonder,” the director tilted his head slightly, “how did they obtain that information so fast?”

“The Goldcrests,” Victor growled, his voice loading with bitterness. “They’re infiltrated even into the walls of this institution.”

The director neither confirmed nor denied the accusation, but his silence was eloquent.

“I barely arrived in time to help Ignatius,” Victor continued, unconsciously rubbing his injured shoulder. “Professor Song and Professor Jasiba had already fallen.”

Julius knew both professors. Song, with his contagious enthusiasm for crystallography; Jasiba, stern but fair, an expert in beasts of the second ring. Deaths that left a void impossible to fill. He could picture Song’s animated explanations, Jasiba’s precise corrections… now silenced forever.

“And the abyssal beasts certainly didn’t help,” added Victor, his frustration clear. “The auxiliaries and the rest of the teaching staff were busy evacuating students and containing abyssal leaks.”

A muscle tensed in Victor’s jaw as he continued. “If those bastards from the castle were more efficient in their damned functions… if our dear siblings were less concerned with politics and more with actual security…”

He interrupted himself, as if suddenly remembering Julius’s presence.

“But mainly,” his voice descended to a dangerously low tone, “if we could root out the real problem: the Goldcrests and their treachery.”

“Victor,” the director’s tone contained a veiled warning. “Be careful what you say aloud, even here.”

“Why? Do you fear the walls have ears, Ignatius?” Victor let out a bitter laugh. “They probably do. But it wouldn’t matter…”

Julius remained still, observing the exchange.

“…If the old man were here instead of wasting valuable resources and time,” Victor finally continued. “Chasing fantasies on the diamond line while Yino moves its pieces here.”

“But he isn’t,” said Ignatius.

“Victor… Did you reach the 6th ring with him?” Julius asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

Victor sighed heavily. “Don’t ask, brother.”

Julius’s curiosity, however, could not be so easily deflected. “Since you arrived, you’ve been hiding it… I want to try contacting him again. Were you at least able to follow him? Do you know where he is now?”

A dry laugh escaped Victor. “Follow him? The Gold-3 ring was already dangerous even for me, little brother. Platinum-1 is a constant dance with death for anyone who isn’t him… I found him resting there just by luck.”

Victor leaned forward, his expression suddenly serious. “But Platinum-2 is hell itself, Julius. Trying to follow him to the edge of the Diamond level would have been suicide, even for me… But if you want to try, go ahead. He should still be in the central territory’s artery… the 4th one.”

The mention of the Diamond ring made Julius visibly tense. It was legendary territory, home to the youngest dragons whose power already surpassed human comprehension. The mere idea that their father was tempting that limit…

“And you tried to convince him?”

Victor shook his head. “A waste of time. You know how he is.”

Oh yes, Julius knew. Dragarion Dravenholm, King of Yano, was known for his legendary stubbornness as much as for his impossible feats. Once he set a goal, not even the gods themselves could dissuade him.

“But has he achieved something, at least?” Julius asked, trying to find some hope in the situation.

Victor seemed to hesitate, as if considering whether he should share certain information. Finally, he nodded slowly.

“He already has two minor rings,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

♢♢♢♢

A torrent of emerald energy tore through the clearing, vaporizing rocks and turning the air itself into greenish fire.

The dragon’s breath, concentrated like a living laser, transformed everything in its path into an extreme explosion of life. Particles of pure essence scattered in its wake, refracting the surrounding light into cascading prisms.

Where it touched the earth, vegetation emerged with uncontrolled violence, not simple plants, but botanical monstrosities that joined the battle.

Dragarion rolled under the beam, feeling the heat that threatened to steal his vitality brush against his back as carnivorous trees instantly sprouted from the charred soil.

He rose with the fluidity of a predator, adjusting the feathered gauntlet protecting his right hand, a defense torn from the claws of a Flame Griffin in the depths of the second Platinum ring. The gauntlet glowed with residual fire, embers dancing between the golden feathers.

“Damn it, you’re too persistent for a lazy ass skipper!” exclaimed Drag, a savage smile illuminating his weathered face as he dodged another burst of the arboreal breath. His eyes gleamed with the thrill of combat, a hunter facing worthy prey.

The King of Yano bore no resemblance to the traditional image of a monarch. No crown adorned his unkempt hair, cut irregularly as if he himself had taken a knife to keep it out of his eyes.

His clothes, though of exquisite quality, showed evident signs of countless battles: patches made during campaigns, acid burns, and the characteristic discoloration produced by toxins from beasts of the fourth ring in this latitude.

Mud caked his boots, and various implements hung from his belt, tools of survival rather than symbols of office. His weathered skin told the story of a life spent under harsh conditions, far from the comforts of court and castle.