Sylvia was an elf, but she had to hide her true identity. She wore a special magical mask that transformed her appearance into that of a catfolk.

  Fluffy ears, a long tail, and soft paws—everything looked so real, almost indistinguishable from the real thing.

  But magic was not omnipotent. It could hide appearances, but it couldn't block physical contact.

  The vile werewolf who had caught her hadn't taken his eyes off her since. Even in her catfolk form, his filthy gaze felt like it was stripping her bare. His rough fingers toyed with her feline ears, deliberately humiliating her.

  She was pinned to the ground, her mouth stuffed with a piece of beast hide. She couldn't move. She struggled instinctively, but it was futile. All she could do was endure the rage and humiliation, waiting for the right moment.

  Finally, someone yanked the cloth from her mouth. Her throat stung with pain, and just as she opened her mouth to speak, someone grabbed her chin roughly.

  "Talk. Who sent you to assassinate me?" the man asked coldly, his tone devoid of warmth.

  Sylvia froze. Her mind went blank for a moment. Assassinate?

  She nearly burst into tears from frustration.

  "Let me go! I'm not an assassin!" she cried, her eyes turning red with panic. Her voice trembled."I'm the Saint of the Elven people—I mean no harm! I only came here to find the Holy Sword!"

  Her voice was quivering, filled with a mixture of sincerity and fear, trying her best to convince him of her innocence.

  But in return, she got a skeptical glare."You're a saint? Looking for a Holy Sword?"

  Draven's eyes were full of suspicion, but there was also a flicker of confusion. His gaze drifted to the tail behind her. He frowned and reached out to grab it, giving it a light tug.

  Sylvia jolted in shock—that tail was actually her long hair, magically transformed.

  "Don't touch that! If you don't believe me, just take off the mask on my face!"

  Draven paused, lowering his gaze to her face. He had just touched her jaw, and the warmth of her skin hadn't felt like there was a mask.

  Still, he followed her words. He reached toward the edge of her cheek, finding a faint seam. With a gentle tug, a thin silver-white mask came off.

  In that instant, the catgirl's figure shimmered like wind scattering light and shadow. Her silhouette blurred, and the ears and tail vanished. A few seconds later, standing in her place was a tall, elegant elf maiden—alert and wary.

  Draven's jaw nearly dropped. He stood frozen in place.

  When he finally came to, he realized this elven girl was indeed the catfolk he'd seen moments ago. Then her earlier words hit him like a hammer: She was the Saint of the Elves!

  His heart skipped a beat. His thoughts began racing. He didn't hate elves, but their status was far above his.

  He was nothing more than a low-ranking lord stationed at the border with a few dozen werewolf soldiers. And now—he had tied her up, touched her, and nearly insulted the Elven Saint?

  This was a disaster in the making!

  Draven's expression shifted rapidly, and he didn't even know where to place his hands. For a brief moment, he considered killing her. If she disappeared, who would ever know what happened?

  But it was only a fleeting thought. He knew full well that murdering a Saint would bring far worse consequences than his current predicament. More importantly, he was genuinely curious: Why was the Elven Saint on beastkin territory?

  After all, relations between beastkin and elves had never been friendly. There was no open war, but the rift had lasted for thousands of years.

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  Legend said that thousands of years ago, the blood elves had split from the Elven Empire in pursuit of freedom and power, and sought asylum among the beastkin.

  The Elven Empire saw it as betrayal, while the blood elves called it independence. Ever since, tensions between the two peoples had never eased.

  Draven knew all this. He also knew he was just a minor figure—Black Flag Territory could not afford to provoke the elves lightly.

  He forced himself to appear calm, keeping up a stern demeanor as he continued questioning her. He didn't untie her—he needed to figure out her real intentions first.

  After a short exchange, he finally exhaled in relief.

  The Elven Saint didn't intend to retaliate. At least, that's what she said. She claimed her sole purpose here was to find a legendary Holy Sword.

  "The Holy Sword?" Draven frowned, deep in thought.

  He searched his memory and suddenly recalled the elven shortsword tucked away in his storage ring.

  Could that be the Holy Sword she was looking for?

  When Draven retrieved the overly ornate elven sword from his storage ring—its hilt encrusted with gemstones, its entire design gaudy beyond measure—his expression was clearly one of distaste.

  He had seen the thing before. It was a spoil of war, taken from the blood elf Gareth. The blade was too thin, too light, too polished—completely unsuited to his tastes.

  He preferred weapons that were heavy, solid, and capable of cleaving through a man in one strike. This sword? He'd tossed it into the ring with barely a second glance, never intending to touch it again. Over time, as the ring filled with more junk, he had completely forgotten about it.

  Had it not been for that elf girl crying and begging for the "sacred sword" just moments ago, he probably wouldn't have remembered it for the rest of his life.

  But when he finally pulled the sword out, Sylvia's reaction took him by surprise.

  The elven girl trembled as silent tears rolled down her cheeks. Her hands shook as she received the sword, holding it like a sacred relic. Her eyes held no joy—only a complex mixture of sorrow and relief.

  Draven frowned. He couldn't for the life of him understand why anyone would get so emotional over a damn sword.

  To him, a sword was just a sword. If it could kill, it was good.

  This one, with its polished surface and stage-prop decorations? Useless. He'd be embarrassed to carry it.

  "You people care this much about this thing?" Draven asked, frowning at her.

  Sylvia wiped her tears and gave a small nod. Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke.

  "This sword is a symbol of the Elven Kingdom. Thousands of years ago, during the turmoil when the blood elves defected, it was lost.

  No king since then has seen the true blade—only replicas have stood in its place.

  Only the Saintess knows that the real sacred sword was missing. And to find it… that is our mission."

  "So you came here just to look for this thing?"

  "Yes," she lowered her head, her voice barely audible."And I'm already 212 years old. If this keeps dragging on, I won't last much longer."

  Draven blinked. 212 sounded astronomical—but for elves, it was probably just adulthood.

  Yet from her tone, it sounded like Saintesses didn't live very long.

  "The sacred sword's spirit is sustained by the Saintess's life force," she added quietly.

  "My aunts, their mothers, and their mothers before them—none lived past three hundred."

  Draven frowned even deeper. Weren't elves supposed to live for over a thousand years? This sword was a damn parasite.

  "Is it really worth it? For this broken sword?" he finally asked, unable to hold it in.

  Sylvia didn't answer. She simply clutched the sword to her chest like she was holding a departed friend.

  Draven sighed and finally decided to untie her. As he undid the ropes, he muttered,"Hard to believe a sword could carry such a tragic backstory."

  Sylvia stretched her sore limbs. Even as she stood, she retained that graceful poise unique to elves.

  Her tall frame, slender limbs, and that flowing silver hair made her stand out instantly.

  The cat ears were gone, replaced by the signature pointed ears of her race. The fluffy tail had vanished too—her long hair returned to its natural form.

  Draven looked at her refined features and felt an odd pang of disappointment.

  He'd actually kind of liked those cat ears and tail. Now that they were gone, something felt… missing.

  But his attention soon shifted to the aura she gave off.

  That cold, pure radiance—like a divine glow that could burn you if you got too close. And ironically, it was that very quality that made him want to defile it, to shatter it.

  He coughed and shoved those inappropriate thoughts aside, resetting his tone.

  "Saintess Sylvia, right?" he said as calmly as he could."Well, as you can see, the sacred sword you spoke of is now in my hands."

  "I could give it back," he continued, a strange smile curling his lips,"but you know… everything has a price."

  He rubbed his fingers together meaningfully, clearly implying something.

  Sylvia wasn't stupid. She understood instantly what he was getting at. She froze for a brief moment but quickly composed herself.

  "Lord Draven, if you are willing to return the sacred sword, I, Saintess Sylvia, express the deepest gratitude of the Elven Kingdom."

  Draven stared at her with an expression that clearly said, That's it?

  "That's all? No more?" he asked.

  Sylvia frowned slightly, seemingly unsure why he looked so disappointed.

  Draven shrugged."Alright, fine. Gratitude it is." With that, he turned and headed toward his Nightmare Horse.

  "Wait! Where are you going?" Sylvia called out, alarmed."You haven't given me the sword yet!"

  "You can't be serious!" Sylvia rushed after him, ignoring the pain in her legs, spreading her arms to block his way.

  Draven stopped in his tracks. The corner of his mouth lifted in amusement—and suddenly, he pulled her into his arms.

  "Is this how you elves say farewell?" he murmured into her ear, his breath warm against her skin. Sylvia froze completely.

  A few seconds later, he let her go, his face still carrying that mischievous, suggestive grin.