Inside the main lodge of the Black Flag Territory, firelight danced across the walls, casting the shadows of several people long and short by turns.

  The room was warm and cozy. Draven, Viola, Bran, Rurik, and a few others were seated around the hearth. A pot of thick stew bubbled over the flames, sending up waves of rich meaty aroma.

  Draven kept his head down as he sliced wild vegetables, slowly recounting in detail his journey to the serpentfolk's territory.

  His voice was calm, even somewhat restrained, but as the story progressed, the atmosphere in the room grew increasingly tense.

  When he mentioned that there were four serpentfolk of leader-level strength, the room fell utterly silent.

  "Four?"

  Bran's eyes bulged like copper bells. He yanked off his headscarf, his face a mask of disbelief. "What the fuck kind of racial lineup is that? We run into them, we're just dead!"

  Rurik said nothing, merely furrowing his brows in deep thought. Viola, on the other hand, stared at Draven with eyes that grew brighter and brighter, as if beholding a legendary hero.

  "I'm just saying… maybe we should consider relocating?" Bran ventured hopefully. "We can say the settlement failed and ask the lord to assign us a new place."

  "Is your brain rotting?" Draven finally looked up and shot him a scornful glare. "The lord already made it clear: once a territory is chosen, it cannot be changed. Unless you're ready to give up the right to establish a village—and go work for the succubi as a laborer."

  Bran opened his mouth, then fell silent. Of course he didn't want to become a succubus lackey—who would?

  Draven sighed softly, his tone easing a bit. "I was lucky to make it back alive. But things haven't gotten bad enough for us to abandon everything."

  "You're sure they won't act against us?" Rurik finally spoke, much more level-headed than Bran.

  "At least not in the short term." Draven nodded. "I scared them. The serpentfolk are strong, yes—but they're not without weaknesses."

  He paused, letting his gaze sweep across everyone. "What we need to do now is increase our strength. That's the real key to survival."

  The room fell into a heavy silence.

  Then Viola reached out and gently, but firmly, took Draven's hand. "We'll work hard. We won't let you face this alone."

  Her words touched something in him. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, his expression softening slightly.

  But then Bran muttered under his breath, "We want to get stronger too, but you won't even let us use the magic cores…"

  Draven shot him a look but said nothing. It was true—he had given Bran one magic core, but after discovering that cores might affect advancement potential, he had never allowed anyone to take a second.

  At the moment, he still had four cores in reserve—two provided by the Ghost-faced Owl, one from a green serpent, and the last from a Mudback Boar they had hunted earlier.

  But he knew he had to be careful. These cores weren't just precious—they were also earmarked for other purposes. Besides, their training wasn't slow; what they really needed was time.

  "The full moon is near," Draven murmured to himself. "After the ritual is complete, the pace of growth will quicken."

  That caught everyone's attention. The ritual meant a new opportunity—possibly the breakthrough this young team needed to make real progress.

  Truth be told, the trip to the serpentfolk hadn't been without gain.

  Aside from mapping out their strength boundaries, Draven had noticed something else in the days since his return: Viola had grown, markedly, in several aspects.

  The once-shy little fox girl was now far more forward—so much so that he was occasionally caught off guard.

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  Their nights had become more frequent, more intense. Sometimes even in the shadows, where the firelight couldn't reach… under the red moon, Draven sometimes wondered if she might just drain him dry.

  And then, to top it off, one night after their passion, Viola had seriously proposed an idea: choosing a few female kobolds to move into the main lodge.

  "They're highly fertile," she'd said with a straight face, as though this were a carefully thought-out strategic deployment.

  Draven nearly choked. He stared hard at her to make sure she wasn't joking—and when he realized she wasn't, he suddenly felt like his dignity was under attack.

  Seriously? Kobolds? With those looks? Absolutely not.

  Burning with indignation, the werewolf leader didn't bother arguing. Instead, he threw the little fox girl right back onto the fur mattress, and that night, he "punished" her with every method he could imagine.

  The next morning, Viola was sprawled out, sleeping like the dead—while Draven had already left the house.

  Behind the lodge, he'd selected a plot of land and was ready to lay the foundation himself. He had originally planned to put off the construction for a while, but now, it was clear: expansion was no longer optional.

  He could only sketch out the basic framework for now and leave the rest of the groundwork to Rurik, the acting captain of the stay-behind team.

  There were about twenty people in the hunting party here. Including Big Bear and his three companions, they should be able to finish the task within a day.

  At dawn, the little ones in the village came running out. Seeing Draven drawing all sorts of lines on the ground with a stick, they burst with joy. Upon hearing that the chieftain was going to build new houses for them, they started chattering excitedly, all scrambling to help.

  Draven assigned the digging task to Rurik, then mounted Ragnar and crossed the river once more.

  Building a few simple houses in the village was still manageable, but constructing a bridge across this river—more than ten meters wide—was currently out of the question.

  The rainy season hadn't arrived yet, and the deepest part of the river was only two or three meters. But once the rains came, the water would rise sharply, making the river both wider and deeper. Building a bridge would then become much more difficult.

  Riding on the back of the giant wolf, Draven gazed at the flowing water in the distance, calculations running through his mind.

  This trip to the northern territory had two purposes: one, to verify whether the serpentfolk were keeping their word; two, to prepare for the full moon ritual.

  The life-sized statue of Selene, transported all the way from Selene City, was not just for show.

  As long as the ritual was held on the night of the full moon, they could receive the Lord's blessing. According to legend, the more offerings made and the more frequently rituals were held, the stronger the blessings would be.

  This was the protection Selene granted to all the races within the territory. Even the serpentfolk village had a large statue of Selene standing in the middle of their plaza—far larger than the one at Black Flag Territory.

  No one truly understood the connection between these statues and lordship advancement.

  Draven was still far from reaching lord rank. For now, all he could think about was gaining more power through the ritual.

  And the most crucial element in the ritual was the offerings. Beasts or magical beasts would do, but living ones were best.

  There were rumors that some tribes used slaves as offerings, but no one could confirm the truth of it. Draven privately suspected that the ritual was essentially a means for the lord to absorb energy.

  From an energy standpoint, a slave might not even be worth as much as an ordinary beast—let alone a magical beast. So offering slaves was probably just a misconception among ignorant tribes.

  In any case, the beast-gathering had already been handed over to Bran and his team. Draven's task was to search for magical beasts.

  He had already made up his mind—if he found a suitable magical beast for a contract, he'd keep it for himself; otherwise, he'd offer it to the lord.

  Right then, the Ghost-faced Owl, guardian of the northern territory, flapped down and landed on Draven's shoulder.

  They exchanged a few brief words. After confirming there were no signs of serpentfolk activity, Draven and the owl began tracking magical beasts.

  The northern territory had a radius of about fifty li roughly 25 km, so finding magical beasts shouldn't have been too difficult.

  The problem was, after the serpentfolk's rampage, no one could say how many were left.

  Draven was specifically hunting for large magical beasts—the bigger, the better.

  From a contract perspective, a large magical beast could not only help guard the territory but also assist in construction.

  From a ritual standpoint, the bigger the offering, the more sincere it looked—and the more powerful the blessing might be.

  Unfortunately, things didn't go as planned.

  Even with the Ghost-faced Owl scouting from the sky, Draven wandered for half a day without spotting a single large magical beast.

  He did run into plenty of wild animals and took down a few along the way.

  "If I don't hunt them, the serpentfolk just might," he thought grimly.

  Time ticked by, and Draven grew increasingly anxious.

  Could it be that the serpentfolk had already hunted all the magical beasts to extinction here?

  He ground his teeth in frustration, thinking of how the serpentfolk had enjoyed these resources for years without contributing anything.

  Just then, the Ghost-faced Owl in the air suddenly gave a warning call.

  Draven instantly perked up and rushed toward the signal's direction.

  Before long, he heard violent sounds coming from a thicket up ahead.

  A massive, bear-like magical beast was locked in a fierce battle with a giant, emerald-green python.

  The bear's body was colossal—standing upright, it was more than three meters tall.

  For a snake to be attacking such a giant bear so aggressively, just how big and powerful must it be?