My Taming System Makes Me Overpowered

For three agonizing hours, the bioluminescent spires of Nethros shifted in a sea of silent, swirling currents.

Lyrielle’s glamor spell remained firm, her illusionary weave wrapping around both herself and Vetra. To any passing eye, they appeared as ordinary abyssal sirens—their skin gleaming with a soft indigo tint, fake fin-structures resting over their ears, and long, shimmering tails beating through the heavy water. Yet, despite the flawless disguise, their search had yielded nothing.

They had navigated past soaring arches of hollowed basalt, through residential terraces framed by weeping sea-willows, and under the shadow of patrolling Vanguard squads whose heavy armor displaced subtle pressure waves through the deep water. There were no scriptoriums. No open halls of learning.

"This is pointless," Vetra growled low, her tail lashing through the current as they drifted into a bustling mid-tier district. "Fish-people don’t write on paper, long ears. If they keep records, they’re probably locked in some noble’s private vault."

"Keep your voice down," Lyrielle whispered, her dark eyes darting toward a open-sea pavilion carved into a natural shelf of pink coral.

The establishment was a sunken sit-out. Polished, disk-shaped coral served as tables, while hollowed, iridescent clam shells functioned as seats, anchored to the stone floor by thick, flowering kelp ropes. Patrons sat floating lazily above their seats, sipping shimmering bioluminescent spirits from hollowed sea-glass.

"We rest here for a moment," Lyrielle said, steering them toward a quiet table near the edge of the pavilion. "We’re drawing attention by constantly moving."

A local merman bartender glided over, his webbed hands holding a slate tablet. "What can I get for two travelers from the outer tiers?"

"Nothing. We’re waiting for someone," Lyrielle dismissed him sharply, waving a hand.

The bartender raised an eyebrow at her abrupt tone, giving a curt nod before swimming back toward the central bar.

Vetra leaned over the coral table, her amber eyes scanning the surrounding current with predatory tension. "We’re sitting ducks out in the open like this. Disguise or not, I don’t like it. Every second we waste here, Vince is sitting in an iron cage."

"Wait a little," Lyrielle murmured.

Vetra blinked, confused. "Wait for what?"

Lyrielle paid her no mind. Her gaze was locked onto an elderly siren woman working quietly behind the main counter. She had weathered, pale-blue scales, her fins frayed at the edges with age, and eyes that held the milky stillness of the deep abyssal trenches. While the rest of the patrons chattered nervously about the Vanguard patrols, the old woman moved with a strange, deliberate calm.

Ignoring Vetra’s warning grunt, Lyrielle pushed off her shell chair and swam directly to the counter.

"Excuse me," Lyrielle said smoothly, keeping her voice low. "Where can I find texts on the heritage and history of Nethros? An archive or a hall of records?"

The old siren paused, her clawed fingers lingering over a crystal glass. She slowly raised her head, her milky, pale eyes studying Lyrielle’s face—not just her features, but the subtle, unnatural way her illusionary mana drifted through the water.

"You speak with a strange cadence, girl," the old woman said softly, her voice like grinding coral. "You are clearly not from this city."

Lyrielle’s jaw tightened, but she held her composure. "We hail from the Eastern Faction. My companion and I are... distant travelers."

The old woman let out a dry, rustling breath that sent a ripple through the water. "The Eastern Faction. If it pleases you to say so. If you seek mundane history—tax records, lineage trees, city blueprints—head for the high arch in the city center. You will find the Royal Archives guarded by two dozen Vanguard spears."

"Thank you," Lyrielle replied instantly, turning on her heel to swim back to Vetra.

"But if you seek information on the prophecy," the old woman added, her voice dropping an octave, "you will not find it written in any archive or library."

The words hit Lyrielle like a sudden drop in water pressure. She froze mid-stroke, suspending herself in the current. She turned back slowly.

"What prophecy?" Lyrielle asked.

The elder siren wiped down the polished stone counter with a slow, rhythmic motion. "Between ten and fifty years ago, a foretelling was spoken in the deepest rift of the Glass Sea. A shadow cast over the future of Nethros. For decades, the nobility called it the ramblings of a mad oracle. But lately... every line has begun to bleed into reality."

Lyrielle swam a step closer to the counter, her pulse quickening. "Do you know it? How it was spoken?"

The old woman closed her eyes. The quiet chatter of the tavern seemed to fade into the background as a heavy, suffocating silence settled over the counter. When she spoke again, her voice resonated not through the water, but directly through the bones of Lyrielle’s chest.

«When the seals of blood are broken,

and the crowned keepers fall into the silent deep,

the Sleeper shall stir beneath the kingdom.

Then shall come the Stranger—

born beneath a different sky,

walking where no blood of Nethros should walk.

The tide shall carry him to the heart of the abyss,

though he shall not come as its savior.

Beware the hand that bears your own blood.

For the blade that shall split Nethros

shall not be forged by an enemy.

It shall be raised by one who calls the kingdom home.

Then shall the Coral Crown crack.

The gates shall fall.

The ancient walls shall bow to the deep,

and Nethros shall crumble beneath the shadow it once buried.

Yet the kingdom shall not die.

Victory shall belong to Nethros—

or to what remains of Nethros when the waters grow still.

But victory shall demand its price.

The General shall stand where the kingdom falls,

and when the final tide recedes,

Thier life shall recede with it.

Remember this, O Children of the Deep:

No victory shall be born from the world that was.

No ancient wall shall save the ancient kingdom.

No hand that clings to what must perish shall prevail.

For only through Change shall victory be bound.

And when the Sleeper finally opens its eyes,

you will understand.»

Lyrielle stood paralyzed in the water. Her eyes were wide, her breathing shallow inside her localized air pocket.

A Stranger born beneath a different sky... walking where no blood of Nethros should walk.

It was Vince. The prophecy was describing Vince. And the blade raised by one who calls the kingdom home—

"Lyrielle!"

A sudden, forceful grip clamped around her upper arm. Vetra had glided up behind her, her amber eyes darting toward the main street where a squad of eight heavily armored Vanguard guards were sweeping their bioluminescent spears across the pavilion.

"Move it, long ears!" Vetra snapped, paying no mind to the stunned look on the elf’s face.

Vetra yanked the motionless Lyrielle away from the counter, kicking her powerful tail and pulling them rapidly into the dark, narrow side-currents of the abyssal canyon, leaving the old siren and her dark foretelling behind in the shadows of the deep.