Monster Tamer is the Worst Class Chapter 29: Barbs and Cracks

The embers of disorder burned in two corners of the continent, fueled not by natural winds, but by the breath of fear, betrayal, and blind belief.

In Barovik, after the partial fall of Ser Modell’s guild, what remained was a city in ruins—not by broken stone, but by shattered bonds and ideals split in half. The structures still standing seed like tombs erected for the old order. The forr guild mbers, once united under the promise of a glorious rebirth for the Tars, were now divided between flight, betrayal, and resistance. So tore their own crests in despair, burning what was left of their identity. Others ford militias, hidden among alleys and ruins, using pieces of armor and empty words as shields. A few, desperate for any sense of stability, pledged allegiance to the first new leader that erged—even if it was a masked assassin.

There were those who sold information about forr allies. There were those who sold weapons confiscated from the guild itself. And there were those who sold... monsters. Companions once bound by magical ties, now caged, drugged, pushed as living rchandise. The underground markets thrived where assemblies once stood. Promises of justice were replaced by price lists and weapons hidden in bread baskets.

The streets, once vibrant with the determined steps of warriors and drears, were now crossed by hurried steps and sidelong glances. Silence and suspicion walked hand in hand. Ard groups of forr adventurers tried to restore so order, but without leadership, each obeyed only their own version of the truth. The alleys turned into stages for improvised trials. Eren had left a void—and the void always sucks in what is most unstable.

Temporary alliances were forged under the crack of broken bottles, whispered oaths under the threat of a knife, and pacts that lasted only as long as a sweaty handshake. The buildings that still bore the guild’s crest were scrawled with ssages of hate or sealed with unstable magic. Children passed these places in silence, quickening their pace, as if sothing still lived inside—perhaps the shadow of parents who once fought for that na.

Eren had left a trail—and that trail was becoming legend.

Rumors about a "rebel Tar" who had deceived, confronted, and humiliated Ser Modell spread like fire in dry straw. So called him a liberator, a symbol of breaking chains, the "Unleashed Tar." Others, a prophet of chaos, a seed of new tyranny. But everyone talked about him. In damp alleys, hidden crypts, in letters written in dried blood, his na was invoked as prayer or curse. So painted his figure on the walls: a silhouette cloaked in shadows and red eyes, surrounded by monsters with human expressions. Others scratched the na with knives and nails. And there were those who worshipped him, building small altars with looted items, as if their fragnts contained part of his power.

Ser Modell, on the other hand, was the statue that crumbled in slow motion.

His words still echoed through the squares, but the squares were empty. His orders were still spoken, but no one listened. He was like a puppeteer with cut strings. His allies deserted—so silently, others spitting insults in his direction. The personal guard was the first to evaporate. The scribes abandoned him upon realizing his words were no longer worth ink. Finally, the counselors left, taking secrets, coffers, and maps with them. Even his own residence was invaded by looters—not enemies, but forr allies hungry for revenge and furniture. All that remained were the ruins of a failed promise. So said he fled to the mountains. Others, that he lived hidden in so crypt of the old guild. But most... simply forgot.

anwhile, in Archenval, the embers had turned into a firestorm.

There, the dominion of faith grew like mold under the heat of ignorance, clinging to every available surface: walls, souls, hopes. In the streets, radical believers marched with torches and counterfeit books, chanting hymns that spoke of purity with the sa voice that demanded blood. Each word was a symbolic dagger, aid at all who dared to feel. Smaller groups, hidden in cellars, undergrounds, and forgotten chapels, sheltered Tars as if they were living relics. Archenval was no longer a city: now it was a stage. The play? The Trial of the Century. And no one could leave the theater.

The people were divided between those who burned and those who feared being burned. Fear was so tangible it seed to seep through the street tiles.

Children pointed fingers with the precision of executioners. Parents denounced children. Shop owners tore down signs of forr partners and replaced them with symbols of the Eye in Flas. Faith did not knock on the door—it broke in, dragged, and purified. Prayers were made for rcy, but fire was received.

Public executions beca as common as markets. Small squares turned into altars. Blood washed the sidewalks. The bonfires illuminated the nights—not as beacons, but as warnings. The statues of Tar heroes were toppled, their pieces buried like toxic waste. In their place, banners of dirty cloth and rusted iron bore the flaming symbol of the new faith. Even the fountains, once places of life and gathering, were now clogged with ashes and charred bones.

Children played "judge the Tar," building small fires with twigs and rag dolls. It was just a ga... until it wasn’t.

The laws were rewritten with ink and blood. Confessions replaced debates. Preachings replaced schools. Knowledge beca sin. Even art beca a cri. Paintings burned. Verses disappeared. Songs were denounced. Joy was suspicious. Doubt, blasphemy. And neutrality... betrayal.

Families were torn apart. Brothers accused brothers. Mothers betrayed children. Fathers remained silent for fear of breathing wrong. The city had beco a spiritual concentration camp.

And the crowd... applauded.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

She danced through the shadows like a vengeful whisper, zigzagging between dry leaves, soot, and broken promises. Small, almost imperceptible under the gray light of the morning that never fully dawned in Archenval, the fairy that once carried the blessings of Hagan was now just a projection of rancor. Her wings, once gleaming like petals bathed in dew, now flickered like blades of dirty glass. Her glow was dull, greenish, tainted with contained rage.

She didn’t hunt by divine command. She hunted because she wanted to.

Eren.

The na repeated in her mind like a rhythmic drum, beating relentlessly: Eren, Eren, Eren. Not for love. Not for justice. But because there was sothing about him that was unsettling. Sothing that needed to be broken. He was like a steel splinter embedded under her magical skin, infecting every thought.

She wanted to see him scream. Not from physical pain — that was trivial. But from confusion, from helplessness, from terror in the face of sothing he couldn’t manipulate with words. She wanted to see him beg with his eyes while still maintaining the cynical smile on his lips. She wanted to tear from him that which he hid so well: control.

The night before, she had torn the tongue out of a smuggler who ntioned "a strange Tar with tired eyes and a companion that seed like sli." She left the tongue hanging on a nail, like a trophy. The man lived. But he would never speak again.

The next morning, she blew truth powder into an entire tavern. When the patrons began to confess secrets they didn’t even know they had, she flew among them, gathering information like poisonous flowers. So cried. Others laughed. One of them tried to kill himself right there, cutting his own face with a wooden fork. She watched it all with fascination, like a child in front of a puppet theater.

It wasn’t malice.

It was curiosity.

A curiosity hungry for ruin.

She interrogated like an artist paints: with patience, thod, and a certain sick pleasure in watching the picture take form. She floated before faces, observed the facial muscles react, noted the exact mont when the lie was born — and then she crushed it.

"You saw him, didn’t you?" she whispered, leaning close to the ear of the next unfortunate soul.

When the answer ca hesitantly, she would blow a light spell, almost a caress: an illusion of Eren’s face laughing on soone’s beloved’s bed, or touching one of the monsters as if he were a king. It was a kind of symbolic torture. It insinuated what could happen, and that was enough.

She wanted him to doubt his companions, his own thoughts, his reason. She wanted him to start looking at Nyssa and Kaela with fear, not love. She wanted every bond to beco a chain too tight, until he couldn’t breathe.

And she smiled. Always smiled. Her smile was a curved blade.

The city, divided by faith and fear, was the perfect habitat. While most fled from the Order of the Flaming Eye, she took advantage of the collective hysteria to sneak through alleys, abandoned churches, and houses that were empty even before they were looted.

She followed the clues as if weaving a web of intentions. Each person she encountered was a thread. Each lie extracted, a tight knot.

Eren was approaching the center of it all — and she intended to be the thorn that would make him stumble.

But alone, she recognized that her influence had limits. The city was vast. The rumors, confusing. Eren was clever, the kind who hides within his own sins. To catch him, she needed sothing... bigger. More organized.

That’s when the rumors reached her ears: a secret guild, ford by scholars and wizards, interested not in capturing Eren — but in understanding him.

Intriguing.

They wanted to study the Tar who had breached the system’s limits. The man who shared status with his companions. The one who survived in places where others went mad. The one who seed... hybrid.

She floated silently above the roof of an abandoned warehouse, observing the encrypted symbols that opened the way to the underground.

The magical words exchanged between the guild’s sentinels were too formal for those who rely intended to protect the truth. Those n and won wanted to manipulate the truth — and that, for the fairy, was deliciously compatible.

She introduced herself as a willing ally. She didn’t reveal her true na. She didn’t need to. It was enough to show so valuable information, conjure a map with Eren’s routes over the last few days, ntion nas of contacts who had disappeared after encountering him.

They accepted her. Of course, they did.

And while one of the wizards offered her a magical contract of mutual trust, she was already plotting a thousand ways to break it without being punished.

"They will help find him. Then... they will beg to leave."

Flying slowly through the underground corridors, illuminated by blue lanterns and pulsing runes, she smiled like a child before the cake before the party.

Her glow increased with every deal made. Her wings vibrated faster. She fed on others’ fear. On false promises. On vile ambitions. It was this that made her beautiful again — not love, not faith, but chaos disguised as order.

Eren was her focus. But the entire city... was her arena.

"I will find him," she said, landing on the shoulder of an old wizard. "And when I find him... he will thank for the pain."

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

In the pulsating underground of Archenval, far from the eyes of the flaming faith and the popular hysteria, there existed a sanctuary of silence and study. Below the cathedrals occupied by the Order, under streets marked with the symbol of the Flaming Eye, a forgotten network of tunnels served as ho to a group of renegade scholars. Neither acolytes nor rebels. They were... observers. And what they most desired was to understand the impossible.

And Eren had beco the impossible.

The fairy of Hagan hovered at the entrance of one of these tunnels, motionless in the air like a frozen fragnt of sickly light. In front of her, a door of oxidized iron — without a handle, without slits — covered with ancient and pulsing symbols. Three knocks. Then, a whistled lody. The door opened inward, revealing a corridor where the walls breathed in a faded blue.

The man who received her had eyes sewn with magical thread. He did not see the world like others — he perceived traces of mana, intentions, and patterns. He wore a dark brown robe, adorned with scraps of parchnt and small glass spheres. They called him the Cartographer, though no one knew if the title was literal or symbolic.

"A small visitor... but with an ancient presence" he said, without smiling.

"I’m not small. Just compact" retorted the fairy, with a sweet tone that didn’t match her crimson glow."

He let her in without another word. She floated down the corridor with the confidence of soone who had done this sort of thing hundreds of tis. Deep down, that was what she was: a diator between worlds, between incompatible wills. Now, she would put this skill to use for her own revenge.

The main hall of the guild was an underground do illuminated by floating lights, each pulsing with a different shade of knowledge. There were tables filled with living maps, holograms in the shape of hybrid creatures, and cauldrons boiling without fire.

Four mbers were seated on makeshift thrones, each representing a school of study: Biothermy, Psychodynamics, Systemology, and Fragnted Theurgy.

"We know why you’re here" said the woman of Psychodynamics.

"And we want the sa thing as you" completed the old man of Systemology.

The fairy laughed, a tallic and tinkling sound that echoed among the floating books.

"I doubt you want the sa thing. But I’m willing to pretend you do... for a ti."

The silence was brief, but tense. The scholars knew they were dealing with sothing unstable — a creature smaller than a hand, but more dangerous than any warrior with a sword. Still, Eren was a priority. He was a living anomaly: a Tar who broke the logic of contracts, who fused statuses with his companions, who resisted mazes designed to drive lesser gods insane.

"We want to study him " said the Cartographer, appearing beside her again, unnoticed.

"His patterns... his connection with the monsters. His impact on the enchanted systems of the world."

"And what do I get? " asked the fairy, already knowing the answer.

"The chance to see him on his knees, under the weight of truth." was the dry response from the woman of Psychodynamics.

That was enough.

She landed on a purple cushion, crossing her diminutive legs with theatrical affectation. From her wings, she retrieved a crystal drop, a fragnt of mory collected from one of the recent victims.

With a breath, she projected an image: Eren, in a devastated field, tired eyes, surrounded by monsters that seed... almost human.

"Is this all you have so far?" she taunted.

"It’s enough to start the calculations" replied the man of Theurgy, "already raising a compass of energy."

They began to encircle her with scrolls and runes. One of them attempted to conjure a contract. A vow of mutual cooperation.

"Ah-ah" said the fairy, raising a finger as if she were a stern teacher. "No seals with . I cooperate... my way. No bindings. No magical clauses."

They hesitated.

"If I wanted to kill the boy, I would have done it already. If I wanted to hand him over to the Order, I would already have a temple in my honor. I want sothing more... entertaining. I want to see him break."

She floated near one of the scholars, almost touching the tip of his nose with her own feet.

"And you... want to study how he remains whole."

The exchange was sealed with silence. They accepted. Because knowledge cos before ethics. Because the unknown is more important than the safe. Because they wanted to see with their own eyes how a carnal bond could generate real power. And how it could be replicated.

"Then it’s a deal — said the Cartographer."

"We share with you the data and progress..."

"And you lead us to him."

She smiled. A smile too wide for that small face. A smile that didn’t extend to her eyes, but lit up her wings with a pulsing red.

"When you’re done studying him... you’ll beg to kill him for you."

Her wings vibrated. A drop of mana fell to the ground and evaporated with a sharp sound, like a stifled scream.

And then... she vanished, leaving only a trail of shimring dust and ruined promises.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The sound of steel scraping stone ca first. Then, whispers chanted like prayers – fanatics praying for blood. Eren, who was inspecting the surroundings ahead of the group, raised his arm in a warning signal. Behind him, Kaela took a guard position, baring her teeth. Nyssa clung to his leg with wide eyes. And Morwynn... Morwynn had already vanished.

The wall of invisible webs rose in seconds. Threads almost impossible to notice began to pulse at low frequency along the narrow tunnel, blocking vision, redirecting sounds, confusing steps.

"They are coming"

Whispered Eren, drawing the curved dagger he now carried as a last resort.

Lights appeared at the end of the corridor, coming from lanterns imbued with sacred magic. The paladins of the Order of the Flaming Eye marched in silence, except for a somber chant that vibrated on the walls.

"Purify those who walk with corrupted flesh."

"Burn the eyes of those who gaze upon beasts with desire."

Five of them. All wore white armor with red symbols, their helts obscuring any human trait. The one at the front held a sword whose blade seed inflad from within, as if the tal had swallowed embers.

"The Judgnt has begun!" he shouted, raising the weapon.

The advance was swift. But Morwynn had already mapped every step.

The first paladin stumbled. A thread pulled his leg upward, and he fell headfirst, his helt cracking against the stone with force. The second swung the sword in the air, but it was deflected by an elastic web that wrapped around his wrist and forced him to hit his own shield. The others hesitated — only for a second. But it was enough.

"Now!"

Shouted Eren.

Kaela charged like a hurricane of muscle and instinct, pushing two of them against the wall. Nyssa stretched her body like a liquid wave, wrapping around a paladin’s ankle and solidifying around it, trapping his movent. But the one truly dominating the field... was Morwynn.

She was on the ceiling. On the floor. On the sides. A silent specter among the threads.

Sticky webs covered the secondary passages, forming a three-dinsional network that reduced the enemies’ mobility. Each thread captured the intruders’ movents and vibrated at a different frequency, which Morwynn used to read the field as a real-ti map.

Eren, hidden between two rock formations, observed.

"She’s not fighting. She’s conducting."

She distributed signals with soft clicks of her hind legs. Kaela reacted as if she had trained with her for years. Nyssa, still frightened, obeyed without hesitation. For the first ti, Eren didn’t need to give orders. He was part of the chanism — not the center.

The paladin leading the troop fell to his knees, his helt dented by multiple blows and tiny cuts made by sharp web threads.

"Retreat!"

Shouted one of the survivors.

The sound of withdrawal was imdiate. Two of them carried the body of the third, dragging him out of the web field. The flashlight beams vanished as quickly as they had appeared.

Silence returned. Dense. Elastic. Tense.

Morwynn slowly descended from a crack in the ceiling, landing softly between Eren and Kaela. Without glory. Without pose. Just a constant presence.

"They will co back... with more flas," she murmured.

Eren didn’t respond imdiately. His eyes were still fixed on the field set up with brutal precision.

She’s not just a monster. She’s an excellent leader.

For the first ti in a long ti... he trusted a monster.