Beastlord Supreme

Chapter 1: Rewind

The sorry excuse for a window, half-shattered and held together by wishful thinking and duct tape, leaked a miserable beam of moonlight into the dim room, shadows skittered across the grimy floor.

The ceiling had patches missing, letting in snatches of the night sky.

As for the corners, water steadily dripped in it, leaving mold on the broken floorboards.

Around the room cobwebs hung, holding to what little light there was. Against the wall, a broken chair, with its leg missing leaned on it, looking like it might collapse.

A nearby table was dented and scraped, likely by someone frustrated.

There was a musty odor in the air, mixed with a damp, earthy scent. Near the door a rusted hook hung the battered lantern, with cracked and tarnished glass, ineffective.

Around was a few scattered feathers, a nest of straw and shredded blankets sat in the corner.

Ethan Cross roused awake on a creaky, uncomfortable bed, his body jolting upright like he'd just been struck by a bad idea. In which, coincidentally, was how most of his previous life had gone.

'What the hell is this?'

His hands flew to his chest, patting down the tattered shirt he now wore.

There was no heavy armor, no embroidered insignia of the 'Beastlord's Council', no faint shimmer of the legendary artifacts that had once hung from his neck.

Nope. Just a half-moth-eaten shirt, and pants that could double as sandpaper.

Ethan stopped and looked around the room, which was barely lit. A broken mirror above the sink caught his eye, so he got up and slowly walked over to it.

As he got closer, he saw his reflection in the mirror becoming clearer.

Young.

Too young.

Ethan's shirt hung loosely on his slender frame, the worn fabric barely holding together.

Inconsistent stitching and patches of frayed threads exposed his fair skin. His pants were rough and coarse, scratching his legs.

Turning to the broken mirror, dull light from the moon cast a glow over his reflection.

His face was smooth, untouched by the scars and weariness of his previous life. Bright hazel eyes, filled with youthful energy, seemed too big and too lively for his face.

Untamed dark brown hair fell in messy strands over his forehead, an unkempt mop that framed his features uncomfortably.

Ethan's build was lean but wiry, a frame that spoke more of a life of scrappy survival. His shoulders were narrower than he remembered, and his arms were free of the scars and rough spots developed from years of fighting.

He examined his face closely in the mirror, tilting his head to see the clean-shaven jawline. Decades of rugged facial hair had made the smooth skin seem almost foreign to him.

"Ah, I'm eighteen again," he said flatly. "Perfect. Just the age where you think chugging a whole jug of dragon's milk is a good idea. That went well, didn't it?"

He sighed, stepping back from the mirror as his fingers brushed against the thin fabric of his shirt. "No armor, no scars, no dignity. Fantastic. Guess we're starting from scratch."

Ethan stared at the face before him: clean-shaven, bright-eyed, and hopelessly naïve. He blinked, leaning closer, as if willing the reflection to correct itself.

He stared at his reflection for a moment longer before sighing.

"So, uh... am I dead? Because I don't remember the afterlife being this… disappointing."

---

Ethan wasn't just any tamer. In his previous life, he had been "Ethan Cross, Beastlord Supreme", a title he gave himself after deciding "Beast King" was too modest.

He'd stood at the pinnacle of the beast-taming world, commanding creatures so terrifying that kingdoms collectively agreed not to make eye contact with him.

Ethan Cross had earned his reputation the hard way. His name wasn't called in awe and fear across the kingdoms for nothing.

By the time he reached his peak, he had accomplished feats that tamers across generations could only dream of.

Ethan had managed to tame and unite the 'Titan Roc of the Sky', the "Abyssal Wyrm of the Deep', and the 'Infernal Stag of the Flamewoods'.

These creatures were walking natural disasters, with destructive power and high intelligence. Bringing them together under one banner had been deemed impossible, and it nearly was.

When a massive tear in the fabric of reality unleashed 'chaos' beasts immune to standard taming methods, Ethan led an army of allied tamers, wielding his beasts like living weapons, to seal the Rift permanently.

Many considered this his most heroic act, though Ethan would argue it was the most tedious.

Ethan dismantled a rogue organization of tamers who enslaved intelligent creatures for their power. Its leader? A summoner with a Hydra that could regenerate infinitely.

Ethan's strategy? Throw everything at it. Simply raw, coordinated beastly force, until the Hydra was so overwhelmed it didn't have time to regenerate.

By the time he destroyed its regenerative core, Ethan had personally declared it "the longest and most annoying game of whack-a-mole ever."

The pinnacle of his life's work, though, was the World Devourer. This wasn't some run-of-the-mill apex predator.

No, this was 'the' apex predator, an ancient entity described in texts as "the hunger at the edge of existence."

It didn't simply ate. It consumed. Beasts, landscapes, the very essence of magic, even the occasional annoying adventurer who wandered too close.

Its meals made it stronger, and its arrival was basically the universe's way of saying, "Time's up, folks."

For thirty years, Ethan painstakingly assembled his ultimate beast lineup. Every bond he forged came with blood, sweat, and way too much screaming, mostly his own.

He aligned perfectly with their instincts, earning loyalty through sheer grit. And, occasionally, bribery in the form of exotic snacks.

His strategy wasn't just to overpower the Devourer but to outthink it. A particularly tall order when your opponent's idea of "thinking" is deciding what to eat next.

The battle spanned continents, leaving a trail of devastation so massive that even historians were probably like, "Do we even bother documenting this, or just call it "Tuesday?"

Ethan sacrificed nearly everything: his beasts, his health, his sanity. Not that there was much left anyways.

In the end, he succeeded in sealing the Devourer in a dimensional void, though not without paying the ultimate price.

His life. His companions. His chance to ever eat another slice of honeyed bread.

And yet, here he was. Back in the past. Not as the living legend "Ethan Cross, Beastlord Supreme," but as the version of himself who thought taming a feral raccoon was a great idea. Spoiler: it wasn't.

'Last thing I remember,' Ethan thought, staring blankly at the ceiling, 'was fighting the World Devourer. Big, angry, all-consuming. You know, the usual.'

He groaned, running a hand down his face. "This better not be karma. If it is, I'm suing."

He slumped back onto the bed, rubbing his temples.

"Well, Ethan," said to himself, "on the bright side, you've got a second chance. On the downside, you're eighteen, broke, and your fashion sense screams please mug me."

---

In this age, it didn't just make a career but the very backbone of the civilization itself. Whole governments, in fact, were dynasties of tamers, their legitimacy gained more from the strength and infrequency of their bonded beast than from blood.

Armies sported savage battle creatures bred for war, merchants trading beasts as currency, swapping everything from Wind Falcons to serve as messengers to Leviathan eels able to power whole districts.

Quality of one's companions was a determining factor of social hierarchy; one possessing a rare or powerful beast is revered, while those lacking such were often ignored and openly despised.

Ancient tamers had their temples and shrines throughout the landscape. The walls were carved with famous bonds that existed between humans and beasts.

Marketplaces boasted sections specifically dedicated to selling beast cores, enchanted collars, and rare feeds tailored to the needs of specific creatures.

Nomadic tribes lived symbiotically with packs of roaming predators, while the great urban centers had specialized "beast districts," including taming arenas, healing lodges for injured companions, and training schools for novice and elite tamers alike.

For many beast tamers, bonding with one decent beast took years of training and luck.

For Ethan, it was a different story. It was more like a lot of trial and error, with a heavy emphasis on error.

His gaze then shifted to a small wooden perch in the corner of the room.

"Where's Scruff?" Ethan said.

Scruff was his first ever companion and a Wind Falcon with all the elegance and coordination of a drunken pigeon.

It had taken months for Ethan to train it not to dive-bomb trees for fun.

A soft rustling caught his attention. Ethan turned to see a scruffy, slightly cross-eyed falcon wobbling on the windowsill, as though it had just lost a fight with a particularly aggressive twig.

"Scruff!" Ethan said, his voice somewhere between exasperation and relief.

The falcon chirped, then immediately fell off the windowsill. Ethan caught it easily, holding the scruffy bird in his hands.

"Well, you look like you went through a blender."

"Blender? Seriously? You're one to talk. Look at you, moth-eaten shirt, sleep-deprived, and smelling like regret. At least I have an excuse."

Scruff chirped, his little head bobbing in a way that exuded pure judgment. Ethan had no clue what the bird actually said, but the vibe? Oh, he got it loud and clear.

Scruff hopped indignantly, pecking his finger.

"Love you too, buddy," Ethan sneered with a smirk. "Okay, let's get started. There's a whole world out there to disappoint again."