This Beast-Tamer is a Little Strange - Chapter 508

Chapter 508: Chapter 508: From Rags to Riches
Malzahir wanted to die.

He had truly given up all hope in life.

He had given his entire life, his everything, to the tribe.

‘And look how that turned out…’ He mocked himself internally, wishing he could rewind time.

Malzahir’s earliest memories were filled with the rough laughter of warriors and the scent of blood and sand. His parents, both warriors who awakened bloodline markings, had been his heroes—until they weren’t.

His parents had died defending the tribe from the raid of an enemy tribe when he was just a toddler, and too young to even remember their faces.

Since then his grandmother became his whole world and his only family.

Unfortunately, despite the heroic sacrifice of his family, aside from a small pouch of gold thrown at his grandmother’s feet in compensation, most of them showed no care for the child of the warriors who fought by their side.

The Obari tribe had no pity for the weak, and without bloodline markings, his grandmother and himself were considered little more than a burden.

They lived in poverty, their hut on the outskirts of the village, far from the grand stone structures where the warriors and their families resided—where they’d once resided under the care and protection of his parents.

But despite the hardships, there was warmth in their home. His grandmother’s laughter, her gentle hands braiding his hair, the way she would hum ancient songs as she cooked, his grandmother’s wrinkled hands, weaving simple talismans to trade for scraps. Her voice, gentle and patient, teaching him old songs of their ancestors. Even as the other children mocked him for his family’s disgrace, even as the children of warriors spat at his feet, Malzahir had never felt alone. Although their home was poor, it was warm.

But everything began to look up the day his bloodline awakened.

Three months before his eighteenth birthday, searing pain had shot through his body as an intricate tattoo-like marking was seemingly seared into his skin by an invisible being.

The entire settlement had been stunned. Most warriors awakened between ages eighteen and twenty-five—rarely before. And more shocking than the timing was the shape his marking took.

A ‘tattoo’ of a Tyrant Boa coiled around his upper right arm identified his affinity—an extremely powerful one.

The Tyrant Boa was a rare spiritual creature worshipped by some tribes, with a lineage that combined the strength of true dragons and the regenerative ability of hydras. A beast that was strong and greater in potential than all but the highest quality dragon bloodlines.

Overnight, Malzahir was no longer a disgrace. He was a prodigy, a rising star, the future of the tribe. Lord Sirakhim himself, one of the few Demigod-level warriors of the Obari tribe, took notice. With his support, Malzahir was able to obtain the rare young Tyrant Boa he needed allowing him to fully maximize his potential.

For the first time, his fellow tribesmen looked at him with something other than disdain. Their smiles, their cheers, their admiration—it was intoxicating. He was now among the upper echelons of the tribe. And with his newfound status, Malzahir used his influence to pull himself and his grandmother out of poverty. No longer did they live in a crumbling shack. No longer did his grandmother have to barter for scraps. Life had finally changed.

But now, all of that was gone.

“The old bitch is dead.”

Those words were like a stab in Malzahir’s heart, made even worse by the fact that they were uttered by one of the people Malzahir trusted the most—Himolker. Himolker was a trusted subordinate of Lord Sirakhim and had practically served as Malzahir’s direct mentor when Lord Sirakhim was busy—which was the vast majority of the time.

But for some reason, he’d now been betrayed by him.

‘Why?’

Malzahir still couldn’t come to terms with the sudden backstabbing and looked into the unfamiliar and cold expression on the otherwise familiar face.

‘Why? Is he planning to betray Lord Sirakhim? Or…was this the order of Lord Sirakhim?’

‘No! No way!’

Just the thought that one of the most important figures in his life may want him dead, was not something he could come to terms with. It was almost as heartbreaking as the knowledge that while he was away his grandmother had met her end.

But it was an undeniable fact that in the middle of a routine hunt, all of his allies had injured and then chased him down as he fled—at least until he could flee no more.

Malzahir cradled the cooling body of his Tyrant Boa, its once-lustrous black scales now dull, its golden eyes dimming as the life faded from them. Blood seeped between his fingers as he held its massive head close to his chest, his own body trembling with pain and grief.

As the sole contract that they could ever have, the bond Southerners had with their contracts via bloodline markings was deeper than those from the Celestial Empire. But now, that connection was irrevocably severed for him.

Moreover, the loss of his Tyrant Boa meant more than just losing his partner; it meant he was now a cripple. And in a tribe where the weak are barely tolerated, suddenly losing his power was worse than death for him.

His power, his status, his future—everything was gone. The warmth that had finally returned to his life had been ripped away once more, leaving only the bitter taste of betrayal.

Himolker stood above him, spear in hand, his eyes hard. And yet, for the briefest moment, a flicker of something else crossed his face—regret? Affection? Malzahir couldn’t be sure. But whatever it was, it disappeared as quickly as it came. Without a word, Himolker turned and left.

He didn’t even bother to deliver the final blow.

Malzahir was no longer a threat.

Perhaps weak at the last second and still retaining some lingering affection for his student, Himolker left Malzahir deep and isolated in the desert alone.

He was destined to die anyway.