It would take Lydia at least a full day to return to the city, and Draven had no certainty about the speed of Lord Selene.

  He didn't know how powerful she truly was, nor whether she could set out immediately.

  But judging from the speed of a Nightmare Mount, if that lord-level being truly began to move, she should be faster than Lydia.

  The most optimistic estimate was a bit more than a day for the lord to reach the Black Flag Territory. In the worst case, two days.

  Draven couldn't take that gamble. He couldn't pin his hopes on luck, nor fall completely into despair.

  Either way, he had to hold out for at least a day and a half. He knew clearly that he could leave by himself, but Bran, Viola, and those younglings would never be able to keep up.

  But if he changed the approach—if he stayed behind to draw the enemy's attention—then Bran and the others might have a chance to escape.

  It was a terrible choice, but better than having no choice at all.

  Draven took the black serpent-headed scimitar from Bran's hands, examined it for a moment, then handed it back. His gaze was firm.

  "This blade is yours now. I told you, once the Black Serpent was dead, it would be yours."

  Now that the serpent-head scimitar had no master, a bloodline warrior like Bran could wield it. While it wouldn't unleash its full power, it would be enough.

  Bran accepted the blade with trembling hands, momentarily at a loss for words.

  "Listen," Draven continued, "take Viola and all the little ones. Head south, through the forest—go as far as you can. Don't stop, don't look back, and don't expect me to come after you."

  Bran opened his mouth to protest, but Draven stepped closer and stared him down.

  "Don't argue, Bran. You're not a child anymore. You've killed, you've bathed in blood—now you carry responsibility."

  Bran lowered his head, biting his lip hard.

  Draven turned to Viola. The little fox girl's face was drenched in tears, her eyes red and swollen, her whole body shaking.

  He stepped forward and pulled her into a tight embrace, holding her soft, warm frame against his chest.

  "Don't cry, my little fox," he whispered, his voice gentle but hoarse. "Two days, at most, and I'll catch up to you. See that Nightmare Mount? It runs a thousand miles a day—faster than the wind."

  He forced a smile, patting Viola's back and gently stroking her flaming red hair.

  As his fingers brushed the tips of her ears, she suddenly clung to him tighter, as if unwilling to ever let go.

  Viola was crying so hard she couldn't even speak.

  She didn't understand exactly what was happening at the Black Flag Territory, but she knew this parting was different.

  She remembered how, years ago, her mother had said goodbye to her and her brother Alaric—hugging them like this, whispering soft comfort through tears.

  She had never seen her mother again since.

  She feared this memory would repeat itself. She felt ashamed—helpless, unable to offer any help at all.

  Draven took a deep breath and gently pushed her away. Then he walked over and called out to Liliana, who had been standing in the corner.

  The little druid looked pitiful, with bruises still visible on her face—clear signs that the Black Serpent hadn't held back.

  She stood upright, but her gaze was timid.

  Draven looked at her for a few seconds, then raised his hand and released the binding of their contract.

  "Liliana," he said, "promise me this. From now on, protect Viola and the others. Okay?"

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  He bent down and gently stroked the little horns on her head, the motion as delicate as touching porcelain.

  Liliana nodded. She didn't seem to notice that the contract had been lifted—her red-rimmed eyes just quietly agreed.

  She was deeply upset too, but she understood she had to leave.

  Finally, Draven called for Titus—the clever but cowardly kobold. He didn't sugarcoat anything, nor did he bother with motivational nonsense.

  He made things perfectly clear.

  "Titus, you need to lead your people out as well. Take a different route—don't go with Viola's group."

  Titus blinked in surprise, then asked nervously, "We're not going together?"

  Draven replied calmly, "What if I can't hold the enemy off? You'd all die together. If you split up, they'll have a better chance of survival."

  Titus couldn't say a word—he just kept nodding.

  Draven stood atop a small hill, gazing at the group of companions who, for now, were still alive—black wolf slaves, bearfolk, minotaurs, boarmen, and those few men carrying the younglings on their backs.

  He felt reluctant to let them go, but he knew they had to. This wasn't the time for sentiment. His words were becoming more direct—and more brutal.

  "You are not slaves," he said. "You are bait."

  Draven solemnly promised: as long as they survived, the slave contracts on them would be nullified, and they would be granted the status of free citizens of Black Flag Territory.

  "Of course," he added inwardly, almost murmuring, "that's assuming Black Flag Territory still exists by then."

  He watched as the kobold Titus accepted the task with determination and realized he had nothing left to take with him.

  Each person, slave or not, was given just enough dried meat for three days and some basic gear. At Draven's urging, they began their march deeper into the forest.

  Viola carried a wine jar in her arms, constantly glancing back. Inside the jar was monkey wine—and two little octopuses.

  Though the octopuses had already recognized Draven as their master, they weren't bound like contract beasts that would die with him. They were spirit beast aides, and as long as they lived, there was still hope for the tribe to rise again someday.

  Draven watched as Viola and the others gradually disappeared into the woods, then turned around and took a deep breath.

  He knew this was far from enough. He needed to do more—or the serpent-folk would be on them in no time.

  He used the forced contract to summon the Ghost-faced Owl, which had been secretly monitoring serpent-folk movements in the north.

  Then Draven lifted the severed head of the Black Serpent and ordered the Eyebrow-Patterned King Serpent to swallow both the corpse of the Black Serpent and the giant python.

  The Black Serpent was quickly digested, but the python was left intact for now—after all, if they survived, they'd still need it in the future.

  While the Ghost-faced Owl was away, Draven stepped into the main hall, retrieved a piece of beast hide from the corner, and carefully spread it on a rough wooden table to begin writing a letter.

  He knew the Black Serpent and Green Serpent couldn't have attacked the village without permission. The serpent-folk were undoubtedly awaiting news of a triumphant return.

  Draven wouldn't sit around waiting for scouts to come snooping—he would strike first and make some noise to rattle them.

  The pen tip flew across the beast hide. Draven's tone was blunt and merciless. He accused the serpent-folk of breaking order, disrespecting the will of the lords, and recklessly provoking intertribal conflict.

  "Today, the elders of the serpent-folk—Black Serpent and Green Serpent—dared to attack. Black Flag Territory returns the head as a warning! Let the serpent-folk leader take heed, and cherish the lives of his kin!"

  With that final line, he set down his pen.

  At that moment, the Ghost-faced Owl swooped into the room. Draven swiftly wrapped the serpent's head and the letter in the beast hide and tied it securely.

  He stroked the Ghost-faced Owl's head and sent it off with a command through the contract: deliver this "gift" to the serpent-folk.

  The Ghost-faced Owl soared into the night sky, vanishing into the moonlight with the bundle.

  A cold smile curled on Draven's lips—he was certain the serpent-folk leader, Red Serpent, would be shaken by this unexpected present.

  With that done, Draven lifted the stone slab and descended into the underground chamber.

  He opened the first wine urn, revealing more than half of the bloodwine still left inside. Without hesitation, he plunged in with both hands, immersing himself in the thick liquid.

  The bloodwine seeped through his skin—he felt every inch of his body swelling with power.

  He remembered how, before the Full Moon Ritual, he had sensed he was close to a breakthrough.

  Tonight's battle might just push him over the edge. He only needed one more step to reach a new stage of power.

  He prayed silently that the severed head and the letter would buy him the time he so desperately needed.

  As the bloodwine permeated him, he closed his eyes slowly, steadying his heartbeat, focusing his mind.

  Far away, the Ghost-faced Owl hurled the bundle hard at the base of the city wall, then flapped away in a panic.

  The power emanating from within the walls made it too afraid to linger—it didn't dare pause for even a second.

  Ever since being bound by the forced contract, the Ghost-faced Owl had been constantly on edge, often despairing over its lost freedom.

  It missed the days when it soared freely over the cliffs, worrying only about its next meal, not the shackles of a bond.

  "If only I hadn't been so greedy that day," the owl cursed itself bitterly, "I wouldn't have ended up enslaved. If it weren't for the contract, I wouldn't be living in constant fear…"

  Meanwhile, the serpent-folk leader Red Serpent was in a very different state of mind.

  His fury blazed through the chieftain's hall, smashing furniture into splinters.

  "How dare he?! How dare he treat my elder like this?!" Red Serpent roared, fists pounding the table into kindling, woodchips flying everywhere.

  White Serpent rushed in, halting at the ruined table. There lay the severed head of the Black Serpent, its eyes wide open in death.

  White Serpent was so stunned he could barely speak. He anxiously picked up the letter wrapped beside the head and unfolded it with trembling hands.

  His eyes scanned the words in disbelief.