The Serpent of Domination - Gerard Martain

The Tiger Marquis, Gerard Martain—a warrior. It had been nearly a decade since any hero had fallen, yet the sudden Monster Wave claimed the life of the Marquis of Martine. Thus began an era of upheaval.

With a single sun spear, he had made the Empire tremble, and true to his legend, the Marquis met a fitting end. He slew the leader of the Monster Wave that drove the horde forward with its cries, perishing in mutual destruction.

Once the leader fell, the Monster Wave lost its cohesion. Like a fluid stream that grows swifter and stronger when focused, the horde scattered as if the riverbed were widening. Battles raged for days. In the aftermath, Martine Territory lay in ruins.

Countless people were devoured by the beasts, and monsters that had preyed on each other in the Great Forest now tasted human flesh. Farmlands and homes burned. Yet the Marquis's struggle held meaning. The warriors of House Martine defended the lord's castle and the territory's key cities.

The Monster Wave did not halt; it flowed onward. The beasts crossed the border into the Empire. Slaying the endless monsters now fell to the Empire's forces. The survivors of Martine began the cleanup. Among them were soldiers investigating Aindol Plains, the site of the first clash.

They needed to recover the corpse of the twin-headed chimera that took the Marquis's life and the bodies of fallen soldiers. Upon arrival, the troops spotted a wagon at the center of the site, entwined in tree roots. They dispatched nearby scavengers resembling vultures, then hacked away the roots with axes.

People were inside. Upon learning their identities, the soldiers escorted them straight to the lord's castle. Marchioness Mary Martine received them.

"Oliver, hunter from Grayrim."

Oliver knelt on one knee and introduced himself. As Zain beside him moved to speak—

"And next to him is Sir Jarein, knight of Grayrim."

"...Jarein."

Instead of declaring himself a knight of the Iron Lion Order, that's how he was presented. Zain immediately grasped it as Oliver's consideration.

"Lania Grayrim."

Lania introduced herself, tense to the point of trembling. She looked nothing like a noble lady now—unwashed face and clothes caked in grime, cheeks gaunt from sleepless nights.

"Might I ask what brought you to such a place...?"

The question came not from the Marchioness but from the castle steward. The sharp-featured Marchioness stood silently, her expression unreadable.

Though monsters had swept through Martine, the lord's castle remained opulent—far more so than Grayrim. Lania shivered.

"We were fleeing to Martine... but that massive chimera snake kidnapped us."

Stammering, Lania recounted their ordeal—omitting any mention of the white snake, as promised with Oliver and Zain.

"How awful..."

"You've suffered greatly."

The retainers of Martine murmured. Lania's head spun. Her grandfather was dead. That indomitable hero. She'd come to Martine seeking his aid in the first place. In the interim, Grayrim had crumbled, and Martine lay devastated. What fate awaited Lania now? Her grandmother, a stranger, seemed utterly terrifying. She might be cast out. Then she'd have to return to the charred ruins of Grayrim. Gunter might still be there.

The Marchioness spoke next.

"Lania."

She descended the stairs slowly. Her attire wasn't lavish given the circumstances, but nobility shone in her graceful steps. She was tall. Lania wanted to flee. Her ragged state felt out of place here.

Then it happened. The Marchioness pulled Lania into a fierce embrace.

"I'm so glad you're alive. Sob."

She collapsed before Lania. Stunned, Lania found herself in her grandmother's arms.

"Grandmother..."

"You, you..."

The Marchioness revealed a shocking truth.

"You're the last surviving direct blood kin of the Marquis."

"Ah."

Oliver and Zain's faces hardened in surprise. The Marquis had children—an heir—and grandchildren.

"They're all... gone."

House Martine's warriors always led the vanguard. That spirit ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ultimately doomed the Marquis. The implication was clear.

"Now, you're his successor."

Her grandmother—whom ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she'd just met—held her and wept. Lania couldn't process it immediately. But she sensed one thing: She would no longer live as Lania Grayrim, but as Lania Martine.

Gray Mountains. One of the continent's five great demon realms. But don't mistake it for a mere cluster of peaks. Narrower than the Great Forest or the "desert," its length is immense. That's why it's called the continent's spine.

The towering Orrilate Range spans kingdoms and the continent—a vertebral spine. And spines have ribs. Smaller ranges branch from the Orrilate like ribs. Valleys between hold people and cities. Even with occasional monster descents, the mountains' riches drew humans and dwarves.

Kalea City, famed for its mines, lay among them. At the road's start to Kalea stood a trading post where caravans gathered.

Today's wholesalers informed the peddlers of prices.

"Deposit 50 silver per oak barrel. Refund on return."

"You think I don't know? It used to be 30—why the jump to 50?"

"We've lost barrels to bandits too many times."

The wholesaler picked his ear, nonchalant.

"Can't just hike it like that."

"Take it or leave. Plenty of peddlers want ale."

Ale sold out instantly in beer-loving Kalea. Sighing, the merchant relented.

"Fine, whatever."

Peddlers ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠traveled with a single wagon—like pack traders, minus beasts of burden. This one didn't look wealthy: soft face, scruffy unshaven jaw, weary eyes unfit for a tycoon.

"Royle, decide quick. Buy now, I'll throw in an extra box of jerky."

Royle nodded reluctantly.

"Smart choice. Pay over there. My boys'll load it."

"Thanks, much obliged."

"And travel with other wagons. Bandits everywhere—you know that. With your son along, be extra careful."

"Yeah..."

Royle trudged out. The wholesaler's friendly concern vanished.

"Whiny bastard. Gonna buy anyway but always haggles."

Sell ale in Kalea, retrieve barrels next time—or pay hefty fees, or massive losses if lost. Wholesalers exploited this leverage.

A porter chuckled.

"Royle's the widower dragging his kid on trips. Needs cash—wants him in the academy."

"Academy? For that bumpkin?"

"Right? Haha."

"Quit slacking—load that on his wagon."

The wholesaler kicked a wooden box: near-expired jerky, the "generous" extra.

The porter hefted it with a grunt.

"Heavy today? Extra jerky?"

"Shut it, no whining."

Grinning sheepishly, the porter carried it out. Contrary to the wholesaler's assumption, he wasn't exaggerating. His sharp senses deserved praise—the jerky box weighed exactly as much as one snake.

Assassin Crystal Crown Python. Wagon infiltration success.

I munched the jerky beside me. Salty and chewy—irresistible after raw monster for so long. Seasonings made my eyes roll.

'This is travel, this is bliss.'

Not fun from the start. Escaping the army was dicey. I slipped into a passing cart, then clung under a sick-transport wagon to break free. Luck struck: a northbound caravan. While a mercenary pissed in the bushes, I crammed into a donkey's load. Thus to the trading post.

Now, into another merchant's wagon. Oak barrels of ale stacked neatly.

"All loaded. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Jerky inside."

"Thanks."

Weight left ample space—my love nest.

'Da-ra-ra-da~' Humming, I inspected my suite. Room to stretch and roll. Jerky, merchant's rations, gear in one corner. Five-star hotel for a short stay. I'd leave payment on exit!

"All set? Let's roll!"

"Go."

Commotion ended; wagon moved. I checked my map from sub-space. Crimson dots marked spots—Pellelian's dungeon.

The "ink"? Sniff sniff. Still cherry-scented. Stolen juice stains.

Found "Kalea." This wagon's destination. A dot on its edge.

-This is bad...

Pellelian sighed.

'Why? It's here, right?'

-That's the problem. No city when I built it!

He grumbled. I worried too.

'Probably looted already.'

-Doubt it... Dwarves helped build.

When the Reverse Heaven Mage made it, Kalea Mountain was dwarven land.

-Dwarves didn't vanish—humans building there makes no sense.

Reality disagreed.

'Empty dungeon'd suck.'

-Don't worry... Probably fine.

His confidence waned. Hope intact! A Hero Slayer like Uroboros needed prime gear.

The paladin who killed Kkubugi? Turns out a big shot: top kingdom noble, holy knight captain, pinnacle martial artist. Tiger Marquis Gerard Martain.

'Nailed an achievement.'

Karma nagged, but life accumulates deeds. Many titles for Gerard; "Gunter's rival" hit home.

One meaning: 'I'm strong.'

I slew his rival.

'Equal to Gunter—or better.' Pride swelled.

-Nonsense! Train magic.

'Yes.'

Pellelian tsked in disgust. Vacationing, but not idle.

Level 12. Evolved at 30 last; next at 40-50? I evolve faster than most. Hoping for Serpent.

Focused magic. Elementals leveled; Transparent Hand broke 10; Lightweight hit Lv3. Surprisingly useful.

Oak barrel smaller than a full keg, but over 100 liters—100kg+. Lightweight let me shove it.

Stacked into a wall, hiding me. For quiet training.

'Need guards.'

New tool time.

'This one's perfect.'

Wagons often had crickets. Ate as snack? Nah—repurposed.

'Borrowing Horn' became 'Theft Crown.' 'Leaping Horn' to 'Overcome Crown.' 'Taming' to 'Domination Crown.'

Failed full on chimera snake, but partial success. Didn't grasp then. Now? Immense potential.

Domination: Puppet mastery.

'Chirp if anyone nears the cargo—alert me.'

Cricket obeyed. Unlike commanding tamed beasts—total control.

One bug now. Level up? With Overcome Crown? Maybe humans. Like Gunter!

Fun fantasies aside, magic training began.