Weakest Beast Tamer Gets All SSS Dragons

The sun set over the suburbs, bathing the deteriorated houses with a deceptively warm golden light that belied the hardship within their walls.

Goldcrest border patrollers marched through the streets in their impeccable uniforms with their beasts partially manifested, displaying the new reality of the divided city.

“Day 360,” Reed murmured, observing the small calendar where they had been meticulously marking each morning, days of completed ritual. “When Ren arrives, at least…”

The thousand-day mark remained distant, and the ritual had become both a comfort and a burden. They had already been forced to choose between buying food or keeping the processed materials for the ritual stored safely.

They always chose the ritual. Their son’s promise, however improbable it seemed, was the only thing they could cling to in these increasingly desperate times.

Fern stirred the soup, adding the last tiny herbs growing in their window box, scraggly remnants of what had once been a vibrant kitchen garden. “Any secure job prospects for today?” she asked, keeping her voice steady despite the gnawing anxiety.

Reed shook his head, his shoulders slumping slightly. “They say they’re not hiring.” His voice betrayed the weariness of someone who has received too many rejections. “And the position at the bakery… well, when they saw our current address, they simply said they would ‘call later’.”

The silence that followed was laden with unspoken words. They didn’t need to express what both knew: living on this side of the new border as Iron-ranks was a tremendous strike against them.

The Goldcrests had been effective in dividing the poor zones and spreading distrust among neighbors who were now “enemies” as part of the border vicinity.

♢♢♢♢

A few weeks earlier…

The Patinders stopped a few meters from the checkpoint, watching how the guards meticulously examined each person attempting to cross.

The scanning for contraband, the scrutiny of documentation, the occasional “random” power assessment.

The queue extended, serpentine, composed of hungry workers who only wanted to complete another day of labor on the other side. Some were rejected, sent back with increasingly arbitrary excuses.

“Work permit expired”. “Insufficient documentation”. “Weekly quota reached”.

With a sigh of resignation, they joined the line. This had been their daily routine for the past months, since the new border had solidified. Each day, rising before dawn to cross when the queues were shorter, working all day, and then enduring this ordeal to return home.

Until one day, three months ago, they could not pass.

“Next,” barked the guard when it was finally their turn, two hours later. The morning sun had climbed high.

Reed presented their case with the rehearsed humility he had learned to adopt. Showing pride or irritation only resulted in additional delays or, worse still, rejection.

The guard, a young man with tiger markings glowing beneath his skin, examined him with disdain. “Patinder? From district fifteen?”

“Yes, sir,” Reed responded, keeping his eyes downcast, though decades of cooking with pride made the posture feel a bit unnatural.

“Work?”

“Cook.”

The guard exchanged a glance with his companion. “District eight now belongs to enemy zone level 3. You need endorsement from a Silver-rank Goldcrest resident to work there.”

Reed felt the ground vanish beneath his feet. “But… we’ve worked there for decades. We have a valid contract.”

“Previous contracts are subject to review,” the guard responded with a smile that never reached his eyes. “Security policy.”

Reed wanted to protest, to explain how important that job was, how they depended on it, but the words caught in his throat. He had seen what happened to those who challenged the guards: confiscation of permits, marking in the registry, or even temporary detention.

“I understand,” he finally murmured. “Thank you for your time.”

That night, they had arrived home with empty hands and heavy hearts.

The following day…

They had been rejected again. And the next day. And the next.

On the seventh day, they managed to cross.

But at the restaurant they were told: “We regret to inform you that, due to current circumstances, we cannot maintain your position.”

♢♢♢♢

Back in the present…

Reed sat at the small table that served as desk, dining table, and workstation. The scarred surface bore witness to years of family meals.

“But although there’s no work today, not all news is bad… Mr. Huang from the district nineteen market said he might need help next week,” he commented, trying to inject optimism into his worn voice. “And Mrs. Lang’s bakery mentioned she might consider hiring temporary assistants for the increased consumption during the students’ vacation week.”

Fern nodded while stirring what could generously be called soup in the small pot they had left. The aroma was thin, lacking the rich complexity that had once filled their home.

“That sounds promising,” she responded, although they both knew it wasn’t.

They looked at each other, a flicker of hope illuminating their tired faces.

But reality imposed itself again when Fern returned to her watery soup. The real food reserves had been depleted long ago. The landlord had threatened to evict them if they didn’t pay the overdue rent soon. And they could only eat the last sweet roots until tonight for Ren’s visit…

They had saved them for him with an iron will against any level of hunger.

“We can’t let him worry about us,” Fern had insisted weeks earlier, her normally soft voice firm with maternal determination. “He’s achieving so much at the academy. He doesn’t need to worry about us.”

They had agreed to maintain a facade of normalcy. Carefully saved the few presentable clothes they had left. Preserved ingredients to prepare the sweet root stew that Ren liked so much, at the cost of eating barely three days a week. Cleaned and arranged the small house as best they could.

But hungry bodies don’t lie…

“Do you think he’ll notice?” asked Reed, looking at his own hands. They were calloused and thin, the skin stretched tight over knuckles that had become more prominent.

“He’s a clever boy,” Fern responded with a dejected smile. “Of course he’ll notice.”

Reed sighed, running a hand through his hair, now with more gray than six months ago. “I’m sorry, Fern. I should have been a better provider. I should have foreseen all this…”

Fern left the pot and sat beside her husband, taking his hands in hers. Her eyes, though tired, shone with the same determination that had characterized her entire life.

“We’ve been very proud parents,” she said firmly. “Perhaps accepting a little help from Ren would have reduced the shock he’ll get.”

Reed covered his wife’s hands with his own. “It’s too late for that, isn’t it?” he murmured. “At least we can learn from the mistake and apologize…”

“Yes… He’ll understand,” Fern assured him. “Our son has always been very understanding.”

Discrimination had worsened with each passing week. Residents on the “loyal” side looked at them with suspicion, as if not having a high rank to support the Goldcrests automatically made them traitors.

The patrols had become more aggressive, implementing curfews and “random searches” in houses that seemed specifically directed at families like theirs.

Two days earlier, an elderly woman had been beaten for “resisting” during one of these searches. Her crime: trying to protect a medallion from her late husband that a guard wanted to confiscate as “contraband material from the other side”.

It was in this atmosphere of tension and fear that Reed and Fern tried to keep hope alive.

A knock on the door interrupted their thoughts.

They looked at each other, alarmed. Ren wouldn’t arrive until evening as he was 8 hours away…

The landlord had threatened to come today to collect payment, but he usually shouted from outside before knocking.

Another knock, more insistent.

“Could it be some of the guards?” Fern whispered, fear evident in her voice. The “searches” had become more common lately.

Reed stood up, protectively positioning himself in front of Fern. “Stay back,” he murmured, though they both knew he could do little if they were indeed the Silver-rank guards.

A third knock.

Reed approached the door. His hand tightened slightly as he reached for the knob. Fern stood beside him, refusing to let him face whatever it was alone.

Together, as they had been for decades, as they had raised their son, as they had faced every obstacle in their lives, they opened the door.