CHAPTER 210: EX 210. MAKE SHANTEL GREAT AGAIN

James and his team stared at the massive corpse, the copper scent of blood still clinging to the air. Shock weighed on them heavily, but for James, another realization struck with the force of a hammer.

’He was the one who killed the Tyrant... but how?’

The confusion wasn’t misplaced. The Great Tyrant was no ordinary beast, it was a full-fledged Rank 6, a terror that had dominated this forest for as long as he could remember. To fell such a creature was a feat reserved for seasoned elites, warriors who had crawled their way through blood and death to reach the peak. Yet the boy before them... he looked far too young.

Noble lineage, perhaps? That would explain a foundation sturdy enough to reach Rank 4 by this age. But Rank 6? If anyone claimed to have seen such a thing, they would have been dismissed as liars, branded as lunatics who saw ghosts and demons.

James’s mind churned with possibilities, but one truth was clear: this changed everything.

Slowly, and deliberately, James lowered his head. His voice became firm and reverent.

"Thank you, great practitioner, for your help."

The cave echoed faintly with the words.

Leon blinked in baffled disbelief. And he wasn’t the only one, James’s team glanced at their leader, brows furrowed in confusion. But before they could object, James’s voice cut across their minds in a sharp mental thread:

(Follow my lead.)

Skepticism lingered, but they obeyed. One after another, they bowed, voices overlapping in forced unison.

"Thank you, great practitioner."

Leon’s eyes narrowed slightly.

’They’re planning something,’ he thought, but what it was eluded him. He wasn’t interested in playing guessing games, so he decided to cut through the fog directly.

"Why," he asked flatly, "are you thanking me?"

James straightened at once, his voice rising with more enthusiasm than before. "O great practi—"

Leon’s frown deepened. "Just call me Leon. Drop the ’great practitioner’ nonsense."

James faltered, almost tripping over his own tongue. "Ok, gre—" He caught himself, bowing his head lower. "Sorry. Leon."

"Good." Leon leaned back against the moss-covered stone, still chewing idly on his ration. "Now... tell me. Why are you thanking me?"

James’s tone grew solemn, weight pressing every word. "Because you defeated the Tyrant that has plagued us for generations. That beast has terrorized our homes, our children, our lands. No one, no company, no unit, had ever succeeded in slaying it. And yet here it lies... dead."

Leon’s brows lifted slightly, curiosity sparked. So the bear wasn’t just a wandering beast. It was their nightmare.

James went on, voice steady now, drawing courage from the truth.

****

After James finished recounting the ordeal of the Great Tyrant and the hardships it had forced upon Shantel, Leon leaned back, letting the words settle. His gaze drifted toward the massive, headless corpse sprawled across the cavern floor, summoned from his inventory like some grotesque centerpiece.

’So this big fella caused that much trouble...’

The thought was almost casual, but the weight of it wasn’t lost on him. For three generations of lords, that beast had cast a shadow over an entire city. To them, it was despair incarnate. To Leon, it was just another corpse in his storage.

Yet, buried in their explanation was something Leon hadn’t overlooked: their ranking system. They had called the Tyrant a Rank 6 beast. That matched perfectly with his own estimation—what he would classify as an A-rank opponent. Different words, same scale. That meant this world’s foundation wasn’t as foreign as it first seemed.

Still, one question gnawed at him.

If the beast was truly so territorial... why hadn’t it wiped out the city that sat practically in its lap? Why tolerate them for generations, only preying on travelers and never razing Shantel itself? Leon couldn’t make sense of it.

’There’s a reason... but whatever it is, I’ll figure it out later.’

Right now, what he needed wasn’t speculation. It was knowledge, cold, hard facts. Assumptions wouldn’t help him survive, much less complete the tasks he had here.

His sharp blue eyes fell on James.

"Do you have a library in your town?"

James blinked, clearly caught off guard. "A... library?"

"Yes." Leon’s tone was steady, deliberate.

The mage hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. "We do. It was built eight generations ago, long before the Tyrant appeared. But..." His voice dipped slightly. "The last time it was properly updated was four generations back."

Leon exhaled, almost like a sigh of relief. "Good."

He rose to his feet then, the dim glow of the cavern catching the faint sheen of his white hair as it shifted down his back. He stretched slightly, then glanced toward the distant entrance as if peering straight through stone and forest.

"I’d like to see my new territory."

The words landed like a thunderclap.

James and his team stiffened, wide-eyed. They hadn’t dared to say it aloud, but the truth was undeniable. The one who slew the Tyrant inherited its domain. That was the law of the wilds, a truth as old as the continent itself.

Shock rippled through them, but none could argue. The boy standing before them, half-dressed, calm, almost bored was now the ruler of the Tyrant’s Forest.

And by extension... their neighbor.

****

After the last of his attendants had departed and the echo of footsteps faded from the grand hall, the Lord of Shantel lingered alone for a moment, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. The decisions he had made weighed on him like stone, sending men and women to what was likely their deaths. But such was the burden of his station.

With a slow, weary breath, he turned and left the meeting hall, his boots carrying him through the long candlelit corridors of the manor until he reached the wide doors of his bedchamber. Inside, silence ruled. The only sound was the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft shuffle of his robes as he approached the tall, ornate mirror that stood against the far wall.

His reflection met him there.

He studied it with a grim expression. Sixty winters had passed since his birth, and though he was a Rank 4 mage, a realm that should have granted him vitality well beyond mortal years, his reflection betrayed him. The face staring back was that of an ordinary old man, lined and worn, with eyes sunken and tired. No glimmer of ageless strength. No spark of undying vigor. Only the years, heavy and unkind.

A sigh escaped his lips, rough and ragged. Slowly, he lifted a hand and pressed it against the mirror’s cold surface. At once, a soft hum stirred in the glass, and with a low grinding sound, a portion of the floor beside him shifted. Stone parted. A dark stairwell yawned open, spiraling into the depths.

Without hesitation, the Lord stepped into the passage, the air growing colder as the stone sealed behind him. His footsteps echoed on the narrow stairs, the descent long and winding. Each step seemed to take him further away from the frail man in the mirror... and deeper toward the secret that had consumed his lineage for generations.

At last, the stairs ended in a cavernous chamber lit by eerie blue torches. At its center loomed a monolith of black stone, tall and imposing, its surface veined with faint crimson lines that pulsed like a heartbeat. The air around it was heavy, and oppressive, carrying a power both ancient and ominous.

The Lord approached slowly, until he stood before the stone. His hand trembled slightly as he raised it, then pressed it against the cold surface. The veins of crimson flared brighter, responding to his touch.

His voice was a whisper, but it echoed through the chamber as though the stone itself drank his vow.

"Shantel will be great again," he swore, his eyes hard despite the years. "I swear it."

The stone pulsed once more, as if in answer.