Draven's consciousness brushed against the ring of light formed by the contract with the Serpent Ancestor, and a strange yet lucid realization followed.

  He froze.

  A new cluster of awareness had appeared in his mental space. Strangely enough, that awareness didn't belong to anyone else—it was… himself.

  No, it was another version of him, but one that obeyed completely, like a subordinate avatar under his absolute control.

  This was the Serpent Ancestor's gift—a new ability born from the contract: Second Consciousness.

  It sounded unbelievable, but it was real—and immensely useful. Draven could use this second consciousness to invade someone else's mental domain.

  If the target was unconscious or in a coma, he could slip in silently, seize control of their body, read their memories, and even fully replace them.

  But this skill wasn't without limits. It had two critical restrictions:

  The target's strength couldn't exceed Draven's own.

  The operation could only be executed when the target's consciousness was completely inactive.

  Draven recalled the moment when the Serpent Ancestor had spat that faint orb of light toward him. In hindsight, it was likely an attempt at the same kind of mental invasion.

  Had it not been for the master-servant hierarchy enforced by the contract, he probably would've fallen victim right then. He was inwardly grateful that he had signed the contract before accessing the serpent's core powers—otherwise, the consequences would've been disastrous.

  Upon realizing all this, Draven's first reaction wasn't gratitude—it was fury. Even as joy stirred in his chest, he remained on guard and lashed out with a ruthless mental punishment.

  The Serpent Ancestor might have the air of a cunning old schemer, but he no longer posed a threat—yet he was still hiding secrets, and that irked Draven deeply.

  The Serpent Ancestor's current condition was, frankly, pathetic. His power was nearly drained; even after devouring several serpentfolk corpses, he had only barely recovered to the level of a low-tier magical beast.

  Yes, low-tier. Just hearing it was enough to make one sneer.

  Don't be misled by the title "Serpent Ancestor." His true form was that of a magical beast—a Spectral Demon Serpent.

  According to legend, once fully grown, these serpents possessed the strength of a High Lord. Not only were they powerful, but they also came with innate abilities to manipulate living creatures and dominate minds—a true disaster upon the world.

  Cunning, vicious, and almost impossible to kill completely—these were no exaggerations.

  Their growth relied on flesh and soul. Vast quantities of fresh meat were essential to their evolution. The only reason the Serpent Ancestor had been so severely injured in his battle with Selene was that his main body hadn't recovered—he was too weak for a proper fight.

  And yet, even a fragment of his soul, restored to Lord-level power, had destroyed four of Selene's clones in a single strike. Selene had been forced to use forbidden arts and still failed to finish him off.

  In the end, it took the accidental swallowing by the Eyebrow-Patterned King Serpent to suppress the creature.

  Now, the Serpent Ancestor was firmly in Draven's hands. With the contract signed, he had no chance of making a comeback.

  At that moment, in the dark woods behind the village, Draven walked a narrow forest path with a serpentfolk warrior who carried the bloodline of their tribe. They were heading toward the group of over three hundred survivors.

  Behind them slithered a black serpent, no thicker than a man's arm, but radiating an oppressive, dangerous aura.

  Its scales were so fine and delicate they looked more like smooth fish skin—that was the Serpent Ancestor.

  Just hours earlier, the surviving serpentfolk had held a loyalty ritual, formally recognizing Draven as their new master.

  Of course, not everyone was willing. Among three hundred, there were bound to be dissenters.

  Draven didn't say much. He simply invited the troublemakers to take a walk in the woods.

  He led them into the depths of the forest—and when he returned, only Gregor, the bloodline warrior beside him now, had come back.

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  As for the others?

  No doubt their bones were already gone.

  Even stranger, Gregor's eyes had changed completely. He still stood upright, still spoke with his own voice—but the soul inside no longer belonged to him.

  Draven had personally used his Second Consciousness to take over Gregor's mind, turning him into a living puppet.

  "From today on, he's your lieutenant," Draven said calmly.

  Greenscale nodded, though a trace of confusion flickered across his face. Gregor had been one of the fiercest opponents earlier—he'd nearly drawn his sword in open rebellion. Yet now, after one short trip into the forest, he was… different.

  Greenscale cast a sidelong glance at Gregor, then at Draven. Though something clearly felt off, he chose to say nothing. He wasn't stupid—he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

  A tribe of over three hundred might have temporarily submitted, but true loyalty wouldn't come from words alone.

  Draven understood this better than anyone. To truly control the serpentfolk, he needed to solidify the power structure. Transforming Gregor—one of the most respected bloodline warriors—had been a critical step.

  He ordered Greenscale to continue hiding the tribe deep within the forest, away from prying eyes or other factions.

  As for himself, Draven turned back toward the heart of the serpentfolk village—taking the Serpent Ancestor with him.

  The repaired stone walls had been rebuilt, and all the planned houses were completed on schedule. The village had regained order—stronger and more stable than before.

  Draven kept his promise. The first thing he did upon returning was to burn the slave contracts in front of everyone.

  He didn't say anything extra—just tossed that thick pile of blood-stained papers into the fire and watched the flames devour them piece by piece.

  From that moment on, the people of the village were no longer slaves. They were free men—people who could walk out on their own and decide their own future.

  But to Draven's surprise, the villagers' reactions were not what he had expected. There were no tears of joy, no cheers or embraces of freedom.

  What he saw instead was confusion—blank, lost expressions, like people standing at the edge of a cliff, as if they had been abandoned.

  At first, Draven couldn't understand. But later, as he watched them work harder than ever—repairing the walls, carrying logs, hauling water—it suddenly dawned on him.

  In the world of demi-humans, power was everything. Without sufficient strength, so-called freedom was meaningless.

  They had survived not as individuals, but as a tribe. And these people had long since lost any tribe to belong to. The moment the contracts burned, they had effectively been cut off from society.

  To them, freedom wasn't hope—it was a threat. It meant no one would provide food, no one would tell them what to do, no one would take responsibility for their survival.

  What to eat, where to sleep, what work to do—they had to decide for themselves. That kind of independence wasn't liberation; it was fear.

  They were used to being ordered around. Even if all they had every day was some overcooked cassava paste, it was at least food. They had never made decisions for themselves—let alone lived independently.

  Once Draven understood this, he stopped talking about freedom. No more preaching. No more ideology.

  He simply began changing their lives bit by bit—better food, warmer clothes, more comfortable homes.

  He used the most direct method to show them: "You're not slaves anymore. But your life will be better."

  As they began to feel that life had changed, they gradually started to change too.

  He made it clear: everyone would follow orders and get their share. Those with skills would earn more. The elderly and weak would not be abandoned.

  As long as there was hope, food, warmth, and dignity—they would eventually lift their heads again and reclaim their self-respect.

  The entire village carried a new atmosphere. Smoke drifted through the air as strips of meat hung drying everywhere—slices cut from the two massive pythons they had slain.

  The meat was thinly sliced, salted, and hung on racks to cure. As long as nothing was wasted, the food would last for months.

  Just as Draven was preparing to gather Viola and the others to discuss whether it was time to start planning relocation, Rurik came riding back from afar on Ragnar.

  He looked like he'd been stripped raw by wind and sand—his eyes bloodshot, his face covered in dust, even Ragnar's fur was clumped into hard mats. He looked utterly exhausted, nearly falling off the saddle, but still forced himself to ride into the village.

  Draven felt a pang of guilt the moment he saw him.

  It was he who had sent Rurik to deliver the message to Selene—back when everything was in chaos. He hadn't even had time to say a proper goodbye, just pushed him out the door.

  And Rurik's journey to Selene City had turned out to be far more difficult than expected.

  He tried to see the lord, but the guards wouldn't let him in. Tried to speak to the steward, but he was away. Couldn't even find a halfway decent envoy to talk to.

  He waited in the city, frustrated, unable to show any emotion. Then he was suddenly summoned by Selene herself, and for a moment, thought he was going to be executed.

  But she interrupted his report with just one sentence, casually stating that the serpentfolk crisis had already been resolved—as if she were commenting on a minor hunting trip.

  Rurik was stunned and relieved, bowed hastily, and prepared to leave. But then Selene suddenly changed her mind and ordered him to stay.

  It turned out Selene didn't care about the serpentfolk at all—she just wanted to extract everything he knew about Draven.

  But Rurik was no fool. He thought it through and decided to play dumb to the end. No matter what she asked, he just said he didn't know—acting completely clueless.

  Selene quickly grew impatient and threw him out of her residence.

  That was when Rurik realized something was wrong. He could smell the danger in the air.

  He didn't linger in Selene City. He rode through the night, barely resting, and finally returned to the village.

  After hearing his story, Draven ordered someone to bring water and food, urging him to rest. He had originally planned to reward Rurik with some of his precious monkey wine—but seeing how dehydrated the man was, he quietly put the bottle back.

  "Drink water. Focus on staying alive first," Draven said, stuffing the wine back into his coat.

  Bran, standing nearby, couldn't help complaining: "If it were me, I'd have answered all her questions. No need to play games!"

  "That's exactly why you weren't sent," Draven shot him a look.

  Still, he was secretly pleased. Selene had taken notice of him. What did that mean? It meant she no longer saw him as ordinary.

  A smile crept onto Draven's lips as his gaze landed on the statue of the lord in the center of the square, his eyes glinting with pride.

  Rurik happened to look up and saw Draven smiling like an idiot at the statue. He thought to himself:

  If Selene saw that look on your face, I wonder what she'd think.

  No wonder her tone hadn't sounded all that friendly.