My Taming System Makes Me Overpowered

Word of the Ashen Shadow travels fast in a city made of scrap and blood, but rumors of his new shadow—a burly, silent fifteen-year-old who hit like an avalanche—traveled faster.

For three months, Vesper and Brian operated out of the damp, abandoned bell towers of the lower city. Brian healed rapidly, his broad frame filling out with hard muscle under Vesper’s ruthless training regimen. But while Brian’s raw physical strength was undeniable, he lacked a weapon that could match his kinetic weight. Swords bent under his grip; iron clubs shattered after a week of heavy use.

"We need a blacksmith," Brian grunted one evening, nursing a bruised fist after accidentally snapping a wooden training spar in half. "Someone who doesn’t charge noble coin for garbage iron."

Vesper leaned against the stonework, paring an apple with his dark dagger. "There’s an auction tonight down at the docks. A rogue merchant from the Iron Crags brought in a shipment of confiscated scrap and unchained labor."

"Slave labor?" Brian’s brow furrowed, his fists clenching tight. He hated cages.

"Let’s go see what’s on the block," Vesper replied, tossing Brian a piece of apple.

---

The slave cages at the Eastern Docks were built inside an unventilated salt warehouse. The air inside was foul, thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, rust, and cheap tallow candles.

Mercenary captains, local gang lieutenants, and low-tier guild overseers crowded around a muddy wooden platform. At the center stood the auctioneer—a fat man in grease-stained velvet—flanked by armed guards carrying iron-tipped pikes.

"Item forty-two!" the auctioneer barked, slamming a brass mallet onto a wooden block. "Straight from the forge-slums of Oakhaven! A boy with no name, picked up after his master’s anvil blew up!"

Two guards dragged a young boy onto the stage, throwing him to his knees. Heavy iron manacles bound his wrists and ankles, the chains clinking heavily against the damp wood.

The boy couldn’t have been more than fourteen. His bare chest and arms were crisscrossed with pale, jagged burn scars—the mark of a lifetime spent leaning over white-hot iron. He was stocky, broad-shouldered, and quiet. Extremely quiet. Even with a iron pike pointed at the small of his back, his dark red eyes stared dead ahead at the wooden floorboards, completely hollow.

"He doesn’t talk, he doesn’t complain, and he eats less than a dog!" the auctioneer yelled, kicking the boy’s side. The boy didn’t even flinch. "Starts at five silver pieces! Good for hauling ore or blowing bellows till he drops!"

"Five silver for a broken mute?" a mercenary laughed from the crowd. "He looks like he’ll die in a week."

Vesper watched from the shadows near the back pillar, his red eyes narrowed. Beside him, Brian shifted uncomfortably, his dark eyes locked on the scarred boy on stage.

"Look at his posture," Vesper whispered softly.

Brian looked closer. Despite the chains dragging the boy’s wrists down, his shoulders weren’t hunched in defeat. His weight was balanced perfectly on the balls of his feet. His hands—scared, calloused, and thick-fingered—were closed into tight, rhythmic pulses, as if his fingers were still holding a heavy hammer, calculating the weight of every strike.

"He’s not broken," Brian muttered, his deep voice thick with realization. "He’s just waiting."

"Ten silver," a pig-faced overseer called out from the front row. "I need someone to dig out the soot-traps in my forge."

"Twelve," another voice chimed.

"Fifty silver," Vesper’s voice echoed smoothly across the silent warehouse, cutting through the low hum of the crowd.

The room went dead quiet. Heads turned toward the back pillar as Vesper stepped out into the torchlight, his dark coat swaying, his hood casting a sharp shadow over his face.

The fat auctioneer blinked, startled by the massive jump in price. "F-fifty silver? From the lad in the hood?"

The pig-faced overseer scowled, turning around. "Who the hell are you to raise the—"

He froze. He caught sight of the twin daggers at Vesper’s waist, the faint aura of shadowy mana coiling around his boots, and the hulking fourteen-year-old Brian standing like a brick wall right behind him. The overseer snapped his mouth shut and quickly sat back down.

"Fifty silver," the auctioneer squeaked, slamming the mallet down before anyone could breathe. "Sold!"

---

Ten minutes later, in the quiet alley behind the warehouse, Vesper tossed a heavy purse to the nervous gate guard and took the key to the boy’s manacles.

The scarred boy stood in the dark alleyway, the cold breeze blowing away soot from his bare shoulders. He looked down at the iron chains binding his wrists, then looked up at Vesper and Brian. He still hadn’t spoken a single word.

Vesper stepped forward, inserted the iron key into the lock, and turned it.

*CLICK.*

The heavy iron manacles fell to the wet cobblestones with a heavy metallic clatter.

The boy rubbed his chafed, bloody wrists, staring at his free hands in silence. He didn’t run. He didn’t bow. He just stared at Vesper with those deep, steady dark red eyes.

"You have a name?" Vesper asked, leaning against the cold alley wall.

The boy swallowed hard, his throat raspy from days without water. When he finally spoke, his voice was like two heavy stones grinding together.

"...Gideon."

"Can you work steel, Gideon?" Brian asked, stepping up beside Vesper, his massive frame looming over the younger boy.

Gideon looked at Brian’s rough, scarred hands, then down at his own. A faint, spark of life flickered in his eyes for the very first time.

"I can forge anything," Gideon rasped, his chin lifting slightly. "If the heat is hot enough."

Vesper smiled—a slow, dangerous curve of his lips under the hood.

"Good," Vesper said, turning to walk down the dark street. "you’re going to build us weapons that will make this entire continent bleed. Until then... let’s get you some hot food."

Gideon looked back at the discarded manacles lying in the mud, then took a firm step forward, falling into silent formation beside Brian and Vesper.

The Crow was no longer just a duo. The anvil had arrived.