Draven knew very well what the little fox girl Viola truly wished for. She wanted a child—their child.

  But whenever he thought about it, something felt off. He couldn't quite explain why. Perhaps he simply wasn't ready yet.

  Maybe… if he managed to survive this battle, he wouldn't mind giving it serious thought.

  At the thought of Viola, the corners of his mouth curved into a soft smile.

  Even if he died tonight, he'd have no regrets. He was the leader of the Black Flag, a warrior of the Black Wolf Clan, and the man she loved.

  He lowered his head, took a sip of fish soup, and chewed on the freshly grilled fish. It was slightly charred, but flavorful.

  The blood-wine, brewed from fresh blood, burned warmly down his throat, spreading heat through his limbs.

  Once finished, Draven walked to the river, washing the grease from his hands in the icy water.

  The cold morning river was bone-chilling, but it cleared his mind. When he raised his head again, a faint glow had already begun to creep into the eastern sky.

  From his storage ring, he retrieved a crimson corner flag. Finding a sturdy tree branch, he hoisted the flag high.

  The wind tugged at it, making it snap and flutter with sharp intensity. The snarling black wolf head emblazoned on the flag seemed almost ready to leap from the fabric in a roar.

  "It's time," he murmured.

  Draven staked the flag between two stone markers engraved with the name "Black Flag Territory."

  He mounted his Nightmare Horse again, bare-chested, his long hair draping over his shoulders.

  Standing at the river's edge, he waited in silence for his enemy to arrive.

  At that very moment, in the Serpentfolk's command hall, Red Serpent was panting heavily, crimson markings still glowing faintly across his face.

  He pushed the White Serpent off him without a hint of tenderness, straightened his clothes, and threw his cloak over his shoulders.

  His eyes had regained their cold clarity, and his steps were steady as he walked toward the door.

  Just before exiting, he glanced back at the White Serpent, his gaze complex.

  "Leave. Go as far away as you can."

  He gave no explanation and didn't say another word. The door slammed shut behind him, and his footsteps faded into the distance.

  Reason told Red Serpent that victory was not guaranteed. The Black Wolf leader was unlike the average beastman—he wouldn't be easy prey.

  But there was no turning back. He had had enough of the incompetence of Black Serpent and Green Serpent. He would not repeat their mistakes.

  No one knew better than him that the Serpentfolk had never truly possessed a divine ancestor. But if faith—even a lie—could bring victory, so be it.

  He emerged from the hall, raising a hand toward the already-assembled warriors waiting outside.

  "Victory is ours!"

  "Victory!"

  Over a thousand Serpentfolk roared in unison, their voices like thunder, shaking the very stones of the plaza.

  The army quickly mobilized. Red Serpent stood atop a massive red python, his gaze cold and fixed toward the direction of the Black Flag Territory's territory.

  The Serpentfolk never fought without preparation. This time, they sought more than victory—they intended to annex the Black Wolves' land completely.

  High above, hidden among the treetop foliage, a Ghost-faced Owl with eerie human-like facial patterns and gray feathers silently watched it all unfold.

  Motionless, it captured every move of the Serpentfolk. Through their spiritual link, Draven saw everything the owl saw.

  He took a deep breath and looked toward the brightening sky. Lydia had set out the night before; she should be nearing Selene City by now.

  He could only hope the lord of Selene would be willing to offer aid. But hope was just that—he dared not rely on it.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  This battle… would ultimately be his to fight.

  He took out his battle axe. Its blade was etched with wild, ancient runes, heavy and solid in his grip.

  He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. When the first horn blast sounded across the river, his eyes snapped open.

  The moment the horn sounded, no one needed to be told that war had arrived.

  Hundreds of Serpentfolk surged into view on the opposite bank, so many that their ranks blurred into one.

  Each bore crimson blood-markings, and some warriors had venomous snakes coiled around their necks.

  At the very front, standing high atop the head of a giant python, Red Serpent looked down like a sovereign gazing at his prey.

  Draven nudged his Nightmare Horse forward, letting it step elegantly ahead. Its hooves made no sound, black fire curling silently beneath them.

  "Red Serpent, why only you? Where's the White Serpent?"

  From across the wide river, his voice was casual, as if exchanging pleasantries.

  Red Serpent didn't reply. His expression was cold as ice. He simply raised his hand.

  Over forty bloodline warriors immediately stepped forward, forming a sharp vanguard.

  More followed in waves, like a rising tide. The riverbank trembled with their approach, and the air grew thick with the scent of battle.

  At the very front slithered a writhing mass of venomous snakes, pythons, and grotesque, mutated serpents over four or five meters long—these beasts would strike first.

  The Serpentfolk were born with the ability to command serpents, making them far more dangerous than most beastkin.

  After awakening their bloodline, although the Serpentfolk warriors hadn't reached the level of gaining the blessing of a guardian beast like Red Serpent had, they could still tame some serpentine beasts.

  The giant pythons charging into the river were each as thick as barrels, shaped like living pillars, covered in colorful patterns and armored with gleaming, hardened scales—there was nothing "small" about them.

  Draven sat motionless atop his Nightmare Horse. His upper body was bare, muscles taut as he stared at the mass of serpents slithering toward the river.

  He knew not to rush. He had to wait—wait until those snakes entered the water, until the lead few dove in and splashed mightily—then Draven swung his massive battle-axe.

  From deep within the forest came a low, resonant hum. The treant warriors who had hidden in the woods all night suddenly stirred like awakened titans.

  Their thick arms lifted the giant stones they'd prepared and hurled them high into the sky.

  Boulders the size of millstones whistled through the air, crashing directly into the river with tremendous force.

  "Crush them!" Draven growled lowly, his eyes cold and sharp. No fancy tactics, no elaborate formations—just the most primal, direct suppression. Striking the enemy mid-crossing was the deadliest blow the Serpentfolk could suffer.

  The rocks landed with explosive splashes and dull, violent thuds. The pythons hit screamed and twisted in pain, their cries mingled with the shouts of Serpentfolk warriors echoing through the river valley.

  Meanwhile, a shadow darted beneath the water. It was the Eyebrow-Patterned King Serpent, a hidden ace Draven had planted in advance.

  Though not as massive as the Crimson Python, it was as fast as lightning and strong enough to tear through iron armor. Every time it surged from the depths, blood sprayed like fountains.

  First, it targeted the Serpentfolk bloodline warriors, then opened its jaws and swallowed a charging python whole.

  The King Serpent rampaged through the river, biting, coiling, thrashing—turning the center of the river into a boiling pot of death. From the bank, Draven watched with grim satisfaction.

  "Feast. Eat your fill. You barely eat as it is, so today, it's on me."

  On the opposite shore, Red Serpent watched his kin fall one after another. His face darkened like a thundercloud.

  He hadn't expected the battle to spiral out of control from the very start. It wasn't that his warriors lacked courage—it was that the enemy refused to show themselves, instead striking from the shadows.

  His forces were shattered by the barrage of rocks, and the pythons couldn't mount an organized charge.

  Worse still, the serpent lurking beneath the river struck with terrifying precision, each time claiming the life of another bloodline warrior.

  "Retreat!" he finally roared, the withdrawal horn blaring in response.

  The Serpentfolk scattered back in panic. Though the river appeared clear, with no visible corpses, Red Serpent knew—less than half his warriors had made it back alive.

  On the riverbank, Draven chuckled coldly, his voice laced with mockery.

  "Red Serpent, still think you can power through this? Or shall we talk things over like gentlemen?"

  Red Serpent didn't reply. He snorted heavily and urged the crimson python beneath him a few paces forward.

  "You filthy Black Wolf scum! Draven, you coward—dare you face me one-on-one?!"

  Draven nearly shot back, "Come over here if you've got the guts," but restrained himself. He knew better than to fall for the bait.

  His mission was to stall, to hold the line, to pin down Red Serpent and his forces long enough for Lydia to bring reinforcements.

  Still, he couldn't help but worry about Viola. White Serpent's absence from the battlefield was suspicious—possibly sent to hunt her down. He frowned, unease rising in his chest.

  "Then let's make it quick."

  He pulled out his axe and gently patted the neck of the Nightmare Horse. The beast neighed lowly and began to step into the river.

  Red Serpent narrowed his eyes. When he saw the mount beneath Draven, he jolted inwardly.

  "Nightmare Horse? From the lord's stables? No wonder Black Serpent's forces were annihilated!"

  He immediately sensed that a more powerful force was involved in this. With that realization, he instinctively held back some strength, ready to withdraw at any moment.

  But even so, when their weapons finally clashed, Red Serpent struck with full force.

  His blood-red spear thundered forward like wind and lightning, smashing into Draven's axe. The clash of metal on metal sent painful tremors up Draven's arms, his blood surging—he nearly coughed up blood.

  The Nightmare Horse's agile footing barely dodged the crimson python's gaping jaws. A second slower, and Draven would've died on the spot.

  "You're definitely stronger than Black Serpent," Draven muttered, blood at the corner of his lips, his hand shaking but still managing to crack a grim joke.

  He urged the Nightmare Horse into the air, trying to create distance and recover his turbulent bloodline power.

  But Red Serpent seemed to sense this. Without a word, he suddenly drove his mount forward.

  The crimson python launched upward like a spring!

  The Nightmare Horse shrieked in mid-air, twisting to dodge. It barely avoided the serpent's jaws—but couldn't escape Red Serpent's spear.

  The blood-colored weapon pierced the horse's belly instantly.

  The Nightmare Horse wailed, lost control, and plummeted from the sky—dragging Draven down with it into the churning river below!