Draven stood by the side of the caravan's freight wagon, his gaze occasionally sweeping over the goods displayed on the shelves. Klaus had indeed brought quite a variety this time.

  To the beastkin tribes, such a human caravan was like a treasure trove suddenly appearing before their eyes. The monkeyfolk were especially excited, clustering around the wagons with eyes glowing like lit torches.

  Draven watched as a few monkeyfolk warriors, their faces brimming with excitement, eagerly exchanged animal hides, bones, and small chunks of ore for candies and fabric.

  They looked just like children trading for long-desired toys at a market. One particularly exaggerated scene involved an aging bloodline warrior who pulled out a rare magic core from his chest pocket, fingers trembling as he handed it over—all for a roll of shimmering silk.

  Draven watched with a cold, detached eye, a faint, almost imperceptible smile curling at his lips. He knew full well: though this caravan appeared friendly and warm, most of the goods they sold were appealing only in appearance, with little practical value.

  Aside from the brightly colored fabrics, what drew the most attention on the shelves were the small pouches of refined salt.

  The beastkin weren't completely lacking in salt. They sourced coarse salt from nearby salt mines—large-grained and mixed with impurities, yet sufficient for daily use.

  The refined salt brought by the humans was merely whiter and finer from processing, but it was hyped up like some miracle cure-all.

  The monkeyfolk didn't hesitate to trade magical beast pelts for it, faces lit up with barely concealed joy. Watching their happy expressions, Draven found himself at a loss for words.

  He was never one to meddle in others' affairs, but watching these transactions stirred a trace of mockery in his heart. This was an utterly unequal exchange.

  The monkeyfolk believed they were making a profit, unaware that the real winners were those smooth-talking merchants.

  Of course, he didn't speak up to stop it, nor did he feel responsible to warn them. In fact, he was rather intrigued, observing the caravan's every move as if enjoying a performance.

  The moment that brought him the most satisfaction was written plainly across the face of the monkeyfolk chieftain, Goldmanes. When Goldmanes quietly informed Klaus that they could no longer supply monkey wine, Draven nearly burst out laughing.

  Klaus's ever-pleasant smile stiffened for a brief second, a flicker of suppressed anger flashing in his eyes—a subtle emotion that only a keen observer would notice, but Draven saw it clearly.

  That sweet feeling of satisfaction surged within him.

  "Can't let you take all the advantage," Draven muttered inwardly. He had never had much fondness for these human caravans. Even setting aside his beastkin identity, he didn't believe these merchants were merely honest traders.

  He had already grown suspicious. The force backing Klaus was likely the so-called Holy Kingdom of Thalos. On the surface, they were doing business, but in reality, it was just another form of resource exploitation.

  These men might appear polite and refined, but deep down, they were like bloodsucking leeches—just biting with a different face.

  Failing to acquire the monkey wine, Klaus didn't press the matter. Instead, he quickly adjusted his strategy and turned to strike up a conversation with Draven.

  His tone was overly courteous, jumping from weather talk to territory locations, from grain harvests to village populations—seemingly casual, but in truth, probing every step of the way.

  Draven responded with polite indifference, casually claiming that the village was newly built and lacked everything, probably unable to afford such fine goods. His tone was relaxed, as if chatting with a friend, but his words were watertight.

  Klaus's smile turned a bit stiff, and the warmth in his eyes noticeably faded. After a moment of silence, he shifted his focus back to the bloodline warriors of the monkeyfolk, once again pitching his goods—faster in speech, more fervent in tone, as though afraid to lose his final buyers.

  Draven took it all in, unsurprised. He didn't find such sales tactics particularly shameful—after all, merchants had to make a living. Instead, his mind was quietly running calculations on something else.

  He had noticed the several storage rings on Klaus's fingers, each of different design but all glimmering faintly. That glow meant they held quite a bit—perhaps valuable merchandise, or maybe weapons and backup supplies.

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  "Should I rob him?" The thought flickered through Draven's mind. It wouldn't be the first time he'd done something like that.

  But the thought barely surfaced before he shook his head. It wasn't that he didn't dare—it just wasn't worth it.

  For these humans to conduct business so brazenly in beastkin territory, they had to have strong backing.

  Besides the support of the Holy Kingdom of Thalos, they likely had tacit approval from certain beastkin leaders as well. Otherwise, forget doing business—they wouldn't even make it past the mountain trails.

  To strike at them would mean challenging an entire web of interests. And the Black Flag Territory was far from strong enough to stand against such power.

  Draven was sure he wasn't the first to eye this caravan. Yet they still lived well, hadn't been robbed, and were only growing in size—that fact alone said everything.

  Klaus's trade caravan had already left, but Draven remained in the monkeykin's territory. He wasn't in a hurry to leave—partly because the atmosphere here was pleasant, the monkeykin were in high spirits, the whole place alive with a festive mood; and partly because, well, he was hungry and hoped to snag some food and drink—maybe pick up a few rumors while he was at it.

  Inside a stone cave, the firelight flickered. Host and guest sat around a rough stone table as steaming fruit wine and roasted meat were served. Before Draven could speak, the old monkeykin chieftain, Goldmanes, fixed him with a look and asked:

  "Why don't you trade with the human merchants?"

  Draven smiled and shook his head, repeating his usual excuse. "My territory's just been built. It's not stable yet, and there's nothing to trade. It's not the right time."

  Goldmanes didn't respond immediately. He sighed instead. He looked tired, but his gaze remained sharp. "You think I don't know we got the short end of the stick?"

  That made Draven pause. He had assumed the monkeykin chief was just a kindly old man, but clearly he wasn't so simple.

  "But we beastkin simply don't have those things," Goldmanes continued. "The young ones have never seen sugar, don't know cloth can be made into clothes, or that salt can be so fine. Even if we know we're being cheated, we can only accept it."

  Draven nodded. He'd never assumed all beastkin were na?ve. In fact, Goldmanes's words earned his respect—no one lived to be several hundred years old by being a fool.

  To keep the conversation from turning too grim, Draven changed the subject and asked about the situation in the Godwar Hills.

  At that, Goldmanes perked up. His speech quickened and his voice grew louder—it was clear he took great pleasure in the downfall of the serpentkin.

  "I have to thank the werewolf chief," he said. "The serpentkin were always a threat. We monkeykin may be far from them, but who knows when they might go mad? Now that they've been taken down a peg, everyone can breathe easier."

  "Don't worry." Goldmanes paused, then added, "Everyone's too busy dealing with their own problems. No one's going to cause trouble for your Black Flag Territory."

  His tone was casual, but it sounded like a promise. Draven felt a weight lift from his chest. The monkeykin chief had made his stance clear.

  But as Draven was about to leave, Goldmanes stopped him with a parting comment. "Remember, the northern tribes don't play fair. Watch yourself."

  Draven nodded in agreement, but he filed the warning away. The old chief's tone was light, but the words carried weight.

  When Draven left the monkeykin's lands, he left with more than just insight. He also carried a fresh batch of monkey wine, the result of a new agreement with Goldmanes.

  Clearly, the appeal of bloodwine was strong enough that the monkeykin were willing to continue the partnership. Even though Draven knew his village was already experimenting with brewing monkey wine themselves, he wasn't ready to cut off this supply line just yet.

  It wasn't just the wine—his mind was on other resources too. He knew the monkeykin's mountains still held rare ores and herbs. Gaining access to those would mean a great deal for the development of Black Flag Territory.

  When he returned to Village No. 2, he immediately noticed that it was nearly as lively as the monkeykin's land. From the direction of the main gate came waves of shrieks and laughter. Following the noise, he saw Liliana playing energetically with a group of youngsters.

  Each child held a wooden stick, and under Liliana's command, they were mock-attacking Ragnar, the gate guard. Ragnar was laughing as he retreated, casting a pleading look toward Draven.

  Draven chuckled and took a wide detour to avoid becoming a target of the little ones' assaults.

  He'd personally arranged for the children's accommodation—boys and girls separated, but otherwise mixed across all races, five per room. His goal was to get them to know each other quickly and learn how to cooperate. Judging by the current scene, it seemed to be working well.

  He didn't linger and went straight to the wine cellar.

  The so-called cellar was actually a storeroom next to the main hall, converted for its new purpose. Two kobold guards stood at the entrance. Without his permission, no one got in.

  When he pushed open the door, a strong aroma of fermenting alcohol greeted him. Inside, rows of large clay jars were neatly arranged—both bloodwine and monkey wine were currently fermenting.

  Two small octopus creatures spotted him and immediately hopped off the jars, bouncing toward him and affectionately rubbing their tentacles against his legs.

  Draven crouched to play with them for a few minutes, then carefully set down the wine jars and retrieved the promised share of bloodwine for the monkeykin from the storage shelf. He'd always honored his agreements—trust was the key to long-term cooperation.

  Back in the main hall, he unrolled a rough beast-hide map. He'd drawn it himself while riding his Nightmare Horse. Now, the layout and boundaries of Black Flag Territory were clear.

  In addition to the original fifty-mile radius around the village, a horizontally stretched area had been added—that was the area around Village No. 2.

  He gazed at the blank space extending northward. He knew that was the vacuum left behind by the defeated serpentkin—unclaimed, unmanaged.

  But he wanted to claim it. The problem was manpower. If he sent people now, it would stretch the defensive line, and any trouble would be hard to respond to in time. But if he didn't claim it, the land would just sit there—until someone else came to take it.