Tyrant's return: Reborn as a Good-For-Nothing Young Master
Chapter 79: Ch 79: Search for Mystica Herba- Part 1

Chapter 79: Ch 79: Search for Mystica Herba- Part 1

Fenrir stepped into his apartment, letting the door swing shut behind him with a soft click.

The moment he was alone, the exhaustion of the day weighed heavier on his shoulders.

He moved like clockwork—boots off, coat hung, a drink poured and left untouched on the desk as he sat in front of his computer and began to type.

’Julie Dane.’

A quick search gave him all the surface-level data: eldest daughter of the Dane family, once aristocrats of the hunter world.

Their downfall had come in the early days of dungeon expansion, when a crack formed in one of their managed gates.

Hundreds had died, including her father, and the Dane family had been stripped of their power and fortune almost overnight.

Julie had clawed her way back to relevance on sheer strength and strategic genius, building the Secret Hunter Services from the ground up.

"Impressive. But also incredibly... clean."

Fenrir muttered, scrolling through the rest of the files.

Too clean. No controversies, no real scandals, no rivalries that weren’t buried. Her public image was polished like marble—cold, untouchable.

If she had any skeletons, they were buried deep.

Uninterested in spending the night digging for secrets, Fenrir closed her file for now.

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, his thoughts shifting gears.

’The Tower.’

The system-wide quest had been triggered. The echoes had spread, and soon, the Tower itself would descend. Just like it had in the past.

Fenrir remembered the process—how the world changed after the Tower appeared. How it devoured logic, rewrote the rules, and rendered all current rankings meaningless.

There was no A-rank or S-rank in the Tower.

Only level progression. Strength came not from titles, but actions. Survive, kill, climb—that was all.

But the Tower wasn’t here yet.

The world still played by the system’s rules, which meant he had one last chance to prepare. He’d need to rank up.

Fast.

He checked his current stats. B-rank. Not bad—but not good enough, not for what was coming.

He needed S-rank status in the world’s eyes, because once the Tower came, only those at the top would be able to enter and take control of the early floors.

The influence he could gain there would be unmatched.

There were two things he needed: experience and resources.

The most efficient way to gain experience quickly was solo dungeon diving. No parties, no splits. Just him, the monsters, and his gun.

It would be dangerous, exhausting, and slow—but it would give him full control over the mana buildup in his body, and help him sharpen his new instincts.

He pulled up the available dungeon list and selected a difficult one: Wyvern’s Ruin.

An A-class deathtrap known for tight caverns, relentless flying enemies, and nasty elemental variants. Perfect.

Once he got the experience and strengthened his body, he could attempt what very few had ever done—craft the Miracle potion.

The one that doubled all stats and power for a full hour.

The potion that had once made him unstoppable.

That was the beginning of his end, too. The tipping point that had turned him into a tyrant in the old world.

But that was the past. This time, he wasn’t going to use it to dominate. This time, he’d use it to climb higher, faster—until no one could reach him, or stop him.

He glanced at his alchemical notes.

The potion was difficult. Incredibly so.

Most people couldn’t even stabilize the mana in the base mixture. But he could. He had. And he would again.

But there was a problem.

The potion required a single rare ingredient as its catalyst: Mystica Herba.

A herb that only grew under a unique set of magical conditions.

One stalk every hundred years. One bloom per continent. And the system had already confirmed what he feared—there was currently only one in existence.

Fenrir pinched the bridge of his nose.

He didn’t know where it was, only that it was out there. Someone might already be hoarding it, unaware of what they held.

Or worse—it might be in a sealed dungeon or hidden in a zone still under development.

"I’ll have to find it before anyone else does."

He muttered.

If someone else used it up for some half-baked elixir, it could ruin everything. He didn’t have the luxury of waiting a century for the next one.

Fenrir stood, crossing to his weapon rack and picking up his new S-ranked gun. It was sleek, custom-built, humming softly with mana. It fit his hand like it had always been meant for him.

He looked at the barrel, then at the door.

One A-class dungeon. One level-up. That’s all he needed right now.

Then... he’d start hunting the herb.

Because the world wasn’t ready for the Tower.

But he would be.

______

Fenrir finished another A-class dungeon run with barely a scratch on him.

The monsters were growing weaker—or maybe he was just getting stronger.

Either way, his focus wasn’t on experience right now. His thoughts were consumed by a single goal: finding the Mystica Herba.

The problem was, there was no system marker, no quest pointer, no location hint.

The herb’s magic was elusive and silent, hiding itself from even the most advanced detection tools.

Which meant he had to go old school—scouting dungeons manually, cross-referencing terrain data, studying humidity levels, soil composition, mana pressure, and even dungeon age.

It was slow, exhausting work, but necessary.

Each dungeon he visited, he studied. He didn’t just kill monsters; he examined the land, the flora, the feel of the air.

The Mystica Herba only grew in locations with extremely dense and stable mana fields—ancient, untouched areas deep in the heart of dungeons that hadn’t fully decayed into chaos yet.

He was reviewing a few such records when a headline caught his eye.

[Rare Mystery Herb to Be Auctioned at Midnight – Possible High-Grade Catalyst?]

Fenrir raised an eyebrow and clicked in.

It didn’t take him long to recognize the herb in the preview image. Pale silver leaves with soft blue veins. A faint shimmer that clung to it like dew.

At first glance, it looked like the real thing.

But he knew better.

"Fake Mystic." Fenrir muttered, leaning back in his chair.

It was an herb infamous for its mimicry of the Mystica Herba.

Everything from its shape, color, and even mana aura tried to copy the real thing. Most alchemists couldn’t tell the difference without testing.

But its key trait was more important than its disguise—it only grew in the same mana field as a true Mystica Herba. Where there was a Fake Mystic, a real one was never far.

Which meant...

He had his first clue already.