At night, the two of them lay side by side, their bodies pressed closely together. Draven had grown accustomed to this kind of intimacy. With their flesh against each other, he spoke softly to the little fox girl, his voice gentle and warm.

  A faint blush tinged the girl's cheeks, and her eyes sparkled with curiosity. Ever since the rabbit-raising incident, she'd been eager to learn more clever tricks and ideas from Draven.

  Draven told her that he planned to continue patrolling the territory—he wanted to fully understand the layout of the land and its environmental nuances as soon as possible. At the same time, he asked Viola to try digging some ground around the stone wall to plant cassava.

  He explained that cassava didn't taste particularly good, nor did it yield high harvests, but it had the advantage of adaptability. It often grew well in the wild, especially in sandy soils on hillsides. Though he had no prior experience with cultivation or breeding, he figured there was no harm in trying.

  The little fox girl became intrigued by the concept of planting. Her Fire Fox tribe did have traditions of growing magical herbs, so she found it easier to grasp these agricultural ideas than most.

  What she couldn't understand, however, was why Draven said the latrine waste could be used as fertilizer.

  Her big watery eyes stared at Draven, seeking a reasonable explanation.

  But Draven could only smile bitterly inside—he hadn't done much farming himself, and chemistry had never been his strong suit. He really didn't understand the principles behind it all.

  Facing Viola's curiosity, he decided to take a different approach to satisfy her questions.

  The next morning, the little fox girl still refused to get out of bed. Draven lay in bed, stretching his back and groaning about the side effects of staying up late.

  He noticed figures hurrying past on the eastern side of the village and couldn't help but smile.

  The Black Flag Territory's latrine had been built on the eastern side of the village—sheltered from the wind and conveniently located for using waste as fertilizer.

  He vaguely remembered that the optimal ratio for using waste water in fertilizer was about 1 to 15.

  That number floated in his mind, but Draven knew he lacked any real experience in this area.

  Still, he thought, no big deal—trial and error would eventually lead to a solution.

  Honestly, he would've preferred to stay in the village, figuring out how to eat, drink, enjoy himself, and raise a few things. It sounded way better than constantly running around fighting and risking his life.

  But reality didn't allow for that luxury, so he endured.

  Taking a deep breath, Draven got up and headed for the village gate.

  Ragnar was lazily lying there. When he saw his master coming, he lifted his head slightly, his eyes full of reluctant drowsiness.

  This bonded beast of his was supposed to be a powerful helper—now it had practically become a glorified guard dog.

  Fortunately, with the Eyebrow-Patterned King Serpent guarding the underground chamber, Ragnar could rest during the day and hunt at night.

  These days, Ragnar functioned more as Draven's mount. Riding him sped up the patrol process significantly.

  The great river split the territory in two, with Black Flag Territory located on the southern side. So Draven decided to start by scouting the southern region.

  He called for the Ghost-faced Owl to join him and rode Ragnar upstream along the river. Fifty kilometers was an easy trek for Ragnar.

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  They stopped near a waterfall on the eastern side. Estimating the distance, Draven figured the waterfall could serve as a natural eastern boundary.

  He took out a larger piece of beast hide from his backpack, laid it over a wooden plank for support, and began sketching a map, marking various features.

  His task was to map out the entire territory south of the river. Knowing just the borders wasn't enough—he had to leave clear marks.

  It was somewhat like how wild beasts marked their own territory. A shiver ran through him at the thought. He tugged at his pants, pulled out his long axe, and carved "Black Flag Territory" into the stone wall near the waterfall.

  No paint was needed—the color of the rock itself was striking enough.

  Draven restrained the impulse to go straight to the eastern neighbor's territory and say hello.

  He knew well that beastkin weren't exactly polite—one misstep, and a friendly greeting could easily be mistaken for a provocative intrusion.

  On the eastern highlands lived a tribe of rhino-men, known for their brashness and lack of patience. Dealing with them required extreme caution.

  So, Draven didn't linger in the east. Instead, he mentally mapped out a semicircular patrol route and continued his inspection.

  Riding Ragnar, he surveyed the surrounding terrain, occasionally marking new points on the beast-hide map with his pen. If he got lucky and came across prey, he'd take it down to replenish their food supply.

  By midday, he was approaching the southern border. The terrain to the south was much lower and flatter than the east or north.

  Draven found several ancient trees and used them as natural boundary markers for the territory.

  On the other side of those ancient trees lay the dense jungle of the monkey-men tribe.

  Monkey-men had thick fur like other beastkin, but they were nowhere near as large as the ape-men.

  They were just over a meter tall, with long limbs and a tail. In terms of temperament, they were aggressive but lacked real strength—more annoying and amusing than dangerous.

  However, they were famously vengeful. One notorious incident involved a monkey-man tribe being bullied by another race. Their chieftain led a retaliatory raid, marching boldly into the enemy village and causing absolute chaos.

  Since then, the very mention of monkey-men was enough to put other beastkin on alert.

  With neighbors like that, Draven had no choice but to be even more careful. Not because he feared a war, but because he feared their crude and chaotic form of revenge.

  To avoid any conflict, he subtly shifted his territorial markings half a mile inward, not daring to provoke them.

  After returning, he resolved to warn Bran and the others: never mess with the monkey-men.

  Finding a clear spot, Draven pulled out some dry wood from his pack and prepared to roast meat over a fire.

  From across the jungle came the occasional cries of monkeys, which sparked his curiosity—what might monkey meat taste like?

  And monkey brains—he had only heard of them, never had the chance to try, though the idea sounded rather brutal.

  While he pondered, the Ghost-faced Owl was less troubled by such thoughts. After all, cranial surgery was one of its specialties.

  As Draven roasted meat and refined his map, the Ghost-faced Owl silently slipped into the jungle, hunting with precision.

  The monkey-men, after all, were still ordinary beastkin—hardly a match for the psychic powers of the Ghost-faced Owl.

  Suddenly, sharp and piercing monkey screams erupted from the southern jungle, cutting through the silence like an alarm.

  Draven slapped his thigh—damn! He had forgotten to recall the Ghost-faced Owl!

  He quickly attempted to reestablish the contract bond and summon it back, but instead received a strange emotional feedback—one that seemed… a little smug and amused.

  Draven frowned, uncertain of what was going on. With no other choice, he decided to investigate for himself.

  The Ghost-faced Owl couldn't speak; communication was limited to emotions and basic signals.

  A flash of red light passed—Draven tightened Ragnar's reins and dismounted. They were near the border, and stealth was the safer approach.

  Even without a mount, Draven moved swiftly.

  Before long, he reached the area where the Ghost-faced Owl waited. Even before arriving, he could sense a commotion in the jungle ahead.

  The Owl was perched silently among the branches, watching what could only be described as a show.

  That's right—a show. Deep in the jungle, a chaotic scene was playing out.

  A group of monkey-men had been driven up the trees by a low-tier magical beast—a mud-armored boar—and were now screeching in terror.

  The mud-armored boar had thick skin and loved to roll in swamps. It was coated in a hardened layer of mud that resembled natural armor.

  Enhanced by magic, this mud-shell was as hard as iron, nearly impervious to blades or spears.

  Forced up the tall trees, the monkey-men tried to escape its attacks. But the boar wasn't giving up.

  It rammed the tree with immense force, over and over again, until the trunk began to bend, creaking under the pressure.

  One monkey-man clinging to the tree, empty-handed and panicked, kept screaming, clearly terrified.

  From nearby branches, its companions hurled spears at the boar, trying to drive it off.

  But the spears only sparked against the hardened mud, causing no real damage.

  The tree was about to fall. Things were getting desperate.

  Suddenly, a blood-red arrow of light streaked through the air, piercing the mud-armored boar right through the head!

  The monkey-men froze in shock, then burst into joyful cries.

  Some of the braver ones leapt down from the trees, trembling as they prodded the fallen beast with their spears to make sure it was really dead.