Weakest Beast Tamer Gets All SSS Dragons

Wei worked quickly.

He removed his travel clothes and dressed in the guard’s uniform, which fit reasonably well. The fabric was coarser than he was accustomed to, but it would serve its purpose. He took the man’s identification documents and the patrol papers he carried.

Now he had identity and reason to be in the camp.

Wei tied and gagged the unconscious guard. He hid him behind the bushes where he wouldn’t be found easily, arranging fallen branches to provide additional concealment.

With the uniform on and some random papers in hand, Wei headed toward the camp. The guards at the entrance greeted him casually, just another patroller returning from his rounds.

Once inside, Wei headed directly toward the administrative tent. His story was simple: he needed to deliver official documents. In his experience, people rarely questioned bureaucratic procedures when they seemed routine.

Now comes the dangerous part.

The main scribe’s tent was deeper inside, identifiable by the constant flow of messengers entering and leaving. Wei knew he would find what he really needed there: official documents, writing materials, and most importantly, the Blackwood family seal.

Wei blended with a group of messengers carrying morning dispatches, following them to the entrance of the administrative tent. When they dispersed to their various tasks, he simply continued walking inside as if he belonged there.

The tent was a hive of activity. Scribes copying orders, officers dictating reports, messengers waiting for instructions. Wei moved toward a side table where he had spotted writing materials and seals stored in a wooden box.

He barely had two minutes…

“Can I help you?” A voice stopped him.

Wei stopped and ‘naturally’ approached the senior scribe, a middle-aged man whose ink-stained fingers spoke of administrative service.

“Documents for processing,” Wei said, extending the parchment he had taken from the guard.

“Special dispatch,” Wei murmured, adopting the bored tone of someone handling routine paperwork. “I need the official seal to authenticate.”

The scribe frowned, his bureaucratic instincts sensing something irregular. “On whose behalf?”

Wei had a fraction of a second to decide. “Commander Blackwood. Urgent matter concerning matrimonial arrangements.”

The mention of matrimonial affairs made the scribe hesitate. Those topics were notoriously delicate and complex among the nobility, the kind of sensitive political maneuvering that could make or break careers.

“I should verify with…”

“Of course,” Wei nodded, beginning to step back with calculated reluctance. “I’ll tell the commander that his urgent family matters require additional verification.”

The implicit tone of reproach made the scribe blink nervously. In the noble world, delaying high command affairs was a serious offense.

“No, no, it’s fine,” the scribe quickly opened the box and extracted the seal. “What document needs authentication?”

Wei had prepared for this moment. He produced a sheet of paper with text already written, the kind of document that passed through administrative channels dozens of times per day.

The scribe reviewed it routinely, his eyes scanning the formal language without truly absorbing the content.

“Confirmation of matrimonial arrangements between Lady Isabella Blackwood and Lord Marco Goldcrest, third son of the fourth wife. The agreed terms include the eastern valley territories and commercial passage rights. We expect this union to strengthen our family’s position as Lord Kharzan’s principal advisors, a position that some minor clans seem to believe belongs to them by birthright, despite their evident… inexperience in matters of true importance.”

The scribe read quickly through only the beginning, too busy and preoccupied to notice the subtle insult embedded in the formal language. He applied the seal automatically, the red wax marking the document as officially sanctioned.

“Done,” he said, returning the seal to its box with practiced efficiency.

“Thank you,” Wei took the document and headed toward the exit with a calm but determined pace.

Once outside the tent, Wei found a discrete corner and carefully added in handwriting remarkably similar to the original script: “We expect this union to clearly demonstrate which families have true value to House Goldcrest, unlike those whose only recent contribution has been the clumsy loss of heirs through basic incompetence and foolishness in pushing for achievements beyond their station.”

The ink was slightly different, but in the chaos that would follow, no one would stop to analyze technical details.

Now he needed a Blackwood banner and the perfect opportunity to plant both pieces of evidence.

Wei headed toward the ceremonial supplies tent. This time he used the same direct tactic: he simply entered as if he had authority to be there, took a small Blackwood banner, and left with confidence. The key to successful infiltration was acting like you belonged wherever you went.

With both elements in his possession, Wei headed outside, his mind already calculating the next phase of his plan.

He needed to find the perfect opportunity to plant the evidence. Walking directly to the Strahlfang camp would be too obvious, but if he could make it seem like a Blackwood had been careless…

He found his opportunity near the camp perimeter: a Blackwood soldier, clearly drunk from the previous night, sleeping under a tree. The man’s disheveled appearance and the empty bottle beside him painted a perfect picture of excess and poor judgment.

Wei studied the situation carefully… Perfect.

He worked methodically, tying the document to the drunk officer’s belt and wrapping the banner around his arm like a celebratory band. The positioning had to look natural, as if the man had done this himself in a moment of drunken triumph.

Then, using his enhanced strength, he carefully lifted the man and carried him with his manticore toward Strahlfang territory.

The most difficult part was climbing a tree near the camp with the extra weight, since the manticore was too conspicuous to approach the Strahlfangs directly.

He positioned the officer on a low but visible branch, arranging everything to make it appear that the man had climbed there in his drunken state to make a deliberate demonstration.

Wei descended from the tree and retreated to a safe distance, then picked up a stone and threw it against the trunk directly below where he had placed the officer.

The noise and vibration were sufficient. The drunk officer stirred, lost his balance, and fell from the tree with a cry and crash that alerted everyone in the area.

Wei observed from the bushes while a Strahlfang patrol came running upon hearing the commotion. What they found was a clearly drunk Blackwood officer, wearing a ceremonial banner as a celebratory band, with an insulting official document tied to his belt.

The confused and stammering explanations of the drunk man only made the situation worse. The more he tried to explain that he didn’t remember how he had gotten there, the more guilty he sounded.

Wei began to withdraw when he saw the Strahlfang patrol leader take the document and read it. The man’s expression went from confusion to absolute fury in seconds, his face darkening with the kind of rage that preceded violence.

He reached the point where he could summon his manticore safely.

As he rose into the air, Wei could see groups of Strahlfangs mobilizing aggressively toward an internal border, voices raised in angry discussion.

The distraction had worked perfectly. Now he had to get back before his plan lost its impact.

♢♢♢♢

Yang was already in motion.

The large number of people wanting to cross would be very conspicuous, so first he had to give the border guards something else to do.

He had got them to agree to give him about thirty minutes to generate a problem at the border post adjacent to the one he wanted to empty, that is, a few kilometers away from the gate the procession would use.

Yang arrived at the border post three kilometers from where Chen and the refugees would attempt to cross. What he found surprised him: a line of workers much longer than usual, dozens of people sitting on the dusty ground under the sun.

The sight was more desperate than he had anticipated.

“What’s happening?” he asked a middle-aged man who was wiping sweat with a threadbare shirt.

“The guards won’t let us pass today,” the man responded, pointing toward the magically reinforced rock gate. “They say there are ‘security situations’ but won’t explain what. We’ve been here since before dawn.”

Yang observed the crowd: approximately fifty workers, most with basic Iron beasts. Common plants, some minor insects, nothing that could represent a real threat. But they all looked desperate, hungry, needing work on the other side to feed their families.

People who had walked hours in the pre-dawn darkness only to be told their livelihood was indefinitely suspended.

Perfect.

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