Tyrant's return: Reborn as a Good-For-Nothing Young Master
Chapter 80: Ch 80: Search for Mystica Herba- Part 2

Chapter 80: Ch 80: Search for Mystica Herba- Part 2

Fenrir leaned back in his chair, his fingers pausing mid-air above the holographic keyboard.

The screen in front of him still showed the auction site’s interface, glowing faintly under the dim lighting of his lab.

A new item had been listed only moments ago—one labeled as a "mysterious herb," and though it wasn’t named, Fenrir recognized it instantly for what it was: the Fake Mystica.

While most wouldn’t give it a second glance, he knew better.

The Fake Mystica always grew in proximity to the real one—the Mystica Herba, the single most vital component of the ultimate potion he intended to craft.

The moment he confirmed the resemblance through the image, he reached out to the auction’s seller through a secure message system under the pseudonym "Mr. X."

The woman on the other end took a while to respond, but when she did, her tone was all silk and caution.

[Mr. X, was it? That’s quite the surprise. To think someone of your... reputation would be interested in this herb.]

Fenrir’s reply was short and direct.

[I need to ask you a few questions. I’ll trade you one of my potions in exchange for the answers.]

The seller’s smile widened, visible even through her filtered video feed.

Her instincts were sharp. She knew she’d just hooked someone valuable, and her voice turned businesslike with a hidden glint of greed.

[Sensitive information like that isn’t meant for screens. You’ll have to attend the auction in person. And if you want my cooperation, you’ll need to purchase an item. Specifically, the Lady’s Necklace. An S-grade item. Win it, and I’ll give you your answers.]

She said smoothly.

Fenrir’s eyes narrowed slightly.

The necklace was a scam, a bait item listed at an absurd starting price. She was trying to milk him, clearly.

But rather than react, Fenrir let the conversation continue, his expression unreadable.

As she went on spinning her web of persuasion, he silently accessed the system’s internal functions and initiated a stealth hack into the auction database.

It took less than a minute for him to trace the Fake Mystica’s origin.

[Swallow’s Nest]

He murmured, reading the entry attached to the herb’s acquisition. His brows furrowed. Of course, it had to be an S-grade dungeon.

He leaned back with a sigh, irritation flickering briefly across his face.

That dungeon was known for its treacherous environment—unstable mana, aggressive monster ecology, and absurdly difficult terrain.

But if the Fake Mystica was harvested from there, then the real Mystica Herba was likely somewhere within it too.

On the other end of the call, the woman’s voice grew quiet.

[Mr. X? You went quiet. Thinking hard about your offer?]

Fenrir’s gaze returned to her onscreen.

[No. I got the information I needed.]

He said flatly.

She blinked, her practiced poise slipping.

[Excuse me?]

[I’m no longer interested in your offer. Or your auction.]

Fenrir added coldly.

Then, without giving her time to react, he cut the connection. The screen flickered and went dark. Silence returned to the lab.

Far across the city, the woman sat frozen at her terminal, staring at the terminated call in stunned disbelief.

For a moment, her greed had made her believe she had power. But now she realized she’d just let go of something—or someone—far beyond her league.

"Mr. X... Just who are you really?"

She muttered under her breath, lips twisting into a half-angry, half-fascinated expression.

______

Back in his lab, Fenrir closed the auction site and leaned forward again. The real work was only just beginning.

Swallow’s Nest was no ordinary dungeon.

He would need to prepare more potions, refine his weapons, and maybe even forge a few new tools if he wanted to survive what lay ahead.

But he wasn’t worried.

A challenge like this was exactly what he needed to test himself.

The system pinged softly in the background as Fenrir began drafting his plan of attack.

Operation: Find the Mystica Herba had officially begun.

Fenrir rolled his shoulders, the ache in his muscles so familiar now it had become part of his rhythm.

Vials and flasks cluttered his workstation, some bubbling faintly, others glowing with barely contained magic.

For the past week, he had thrown himself into relentless work—crafting potions, refining alloys, testing enchantments, and pushing his body to its limit.

It had paid off.

He tapped his wrist and brought up his status screen. His stats now hovered at the triple-digit mark across the board—attack, defense, mana pool, and stamina.

Not monstrous by top-tier S-rank standards, but impressive for someone who had only recently climbed from B-class.

More importantly, he had acquired a range of supportive skills: Mana Weave (Passive), Battle Focus (Active), Enduring Flesh (Passive)—each one amplifying his combat readiness and mental precision.

No, this wasn’t his peak. Not even close. In the Tower, he had been terrifying. A tyrant. Here, he was still a shadow of that power.

But for the first time since his return, Fenrir felt progress—real, measurable progress—and it steeled his resolve.

"The time’s right. No more warm-ups."

He muttered to himself.

His eyes shifted to a separate screen, where the map of the S-class dungeon, Swallow’s Nest, glowed in faint red.

A dungeon infamous for the sheer hostility of its environment, twisted mana storms, and apex predators.

But that’s also what made it the perfect hiding place for something as rare and delicate as the Mystica Herba.

But S-class wasn’t A-class. It wasn’t just a step up—it was a leap.

Even with his new gear, potions, and stats, Fenrir knew going alone would be a gamble.

He turned away from his workstation and walked toward a summoning circle etched into the far corner of the lab.

With a snap of his fingers and a pulse of mana, his familiars materialized around him.

"Drink these. We’re going hunting."

He said, tossing them each a flask.

One by one, his familiars drank.

As Fenrir turned to leave, a familiar, deeper presence intercepted him. A massive claw blocked his path, and his gaze rose to meet glowing reptilian eyes.

"Nedrax, What?"

Fenrir said, raising a brow.

The giant black-scaled dragon, still wearing an expression of perpetual boredom, leaned in closer.

"Do I get to fight this time? You’ve been locking me away too long. It’s boring."

He asked, voice low but eager.

Fenrir studied him for a moment, then smirked.

"You’ll fight. You’ll have to fight. We’re going into an S-class dungeon. And the enemies there aren’t the type I can take lightly."

A gleam sparked in Nedrax’s eyes, his wings flaring ever so slightly.

"Finally. Something worth my time."

He growled, grinning wide.

Fenrir gave a sharp nod and turned, leading the group out.

For most hunters, this would be a suicide mission.

But Fenrir wasn’t like most hunters. He had lived through the rise and fall of the Tower.

He had once ruled as a monster cloaked in human skin. And though he had long ways to go before reclaiming his former strength, he wasn’t here to hesitate.

With his familiars following close and his dragon now practically vibrating with anticipation, Fenrir walked straight toward the dungeon gate shimmering at the horizon.

This was it—the real beginning.

It wasn’t about surviving anymore.

It was about reclaiming what was his.