"Are you sure this won't go wrong, Selene?"

  Lydia whispered, her voice low enough that only Selene, standing right beside her, could hear. Her eyes were filled with worry—unease had been stirring inside her for a long time.

  This wasn't the first time she voiced her objections. Ever since she rushed back from the border, she had tried every day to convince Selene not to let the succubi from the South enter the city.

  Accepting their kin? She had no problem with that. But opening the gates and allowing those who once treated them like dirt to enter Selene City—that was a different matter altogether.

  "They can't be trusted," Lydia repeated to herself.

  As Selene grew, she had become stronger, more determined, and increasingly independent. Lydia knew that her role as guardian and mentor no longer carried the same weight it once did.

  But she couldn't let it go. She couldn't forget what happened back then. That year, she had brought the young Selene south in search of aid. And what was the result?

  The succubus lords hadn't even spared them a glance—treating them like beggars and driving them away with cold indifference. That humiliation, that despair, still burned in Lydia's heart like a thorn lodged in her throat—too sharp to swallow, too deep to pull out.

  Now, those same people, facing the decline of their power, had come crawling back to Selene. Their smiles were too fake, their obedience too hollow. Lydia could feel it in her bones—they were hiding something.

  Standing atop the high city wall, Selene watched with a calm smile as rows of succubi slowly filed into the city. Her expression was composed, but her eyes were sharp—as though she had foreseen this moment long ago.

  "Trust me," Selene said softly."I haven't forgotten the humiliation. But right now, we need them."

  The words pierced Lydia's heart like a needle, puncturing the conviction she'd clung to.

  Selene had truly changed. She was no longer a child needing protection, but a woman who could hold her own among a legion of succubi.

  She was taller now, stronger, and far more composed.

  Looking down at her, Lydia suddenly felt old—like a withering vine coiled at the foot of a tree that had grown tall and proud. She sighed, a self-deprecating murmur slipping from her lips:

  "You really have grown up."

  But her sentiment lasted only a moment before wariness returned. She quickly gathered herself, silently resolving: If I can't stop this, then I'll watch them like a hawk. If they try anything, I'll be the first to strike.

  At the same time, at the front of the approaching group, the Southern succubus Freya was in a completely different state of mind.

  She walked with a radiant smile, eyes gleaming, her every step light and graceful—as if she might float into the air. The onlooking beastkin males stood frozen, utterly entranced, as though the women entering the city were not refugees, but dream-lovers descended from the heavens.

  "Look at them," Freya thought smugly."Sooner or later, you'll all bow at our feet."

  As her emotions surged, the seductive power within her—an innate, primal force—radiated outward in silent waves.

  Wherever it passed, beastkin men flushed red, ears burning; some even let out quiet moans, visibly losing control.

  Behind her, her kin chuckled softly—proud of their beauty, proud of their power.

  But in that grand procession, no one noticed the frail, bowed figure trailing at the very end. She kept her head down, her face veiled in black gauze, eyes tightly shut as if unwilling to meet anyone's gaze.

  She was not a succubus, but a blood elf. She had hidden herself well, even suppressing her aura to near invisibility. She had no wish to be discovered. Her eyes were red—and raising her head would invite disaster.

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  Rumors said the succubi had been driven from their homeland by the blood elves.

  But was that really the truth?

  She knew better.

  The story wasn't so simple.

  Meanwhile, far away on the southern continent, shadows of war were quietly spreading. The elves had begun infiltrating the borders of the beastkin lands, launching small-scale hunts against the blood elves.

  Each strike brought casualties. Though both sides suffered losses, it was clear—the elves held the advantage.

  But what puzzled many was that the blood elves had refused to ally with any of the southern powers. They chose to fight alone, time and again enduring the relentless pressure from the elves.

  In the royal palace of Alfheim, Elven King Sigurd frowned as he listened to his messenger's report. For millennia, the enmity between his family and the blood elves had been etched into their legacy like a blood curse.

  Now, the blood elves' isolation struck him as deeply suspicious.

  "What are they plotting?" he murmured, but no one had the answer.

  Still, he wasted no time in making his decision: intensify the assault, seize the opportunity to wipe out his old foes once and for all.

  Orders spread swiftly. More and more elven warriors slipped into beastkin territory, haunting the night with blades drawn and blood on their minds.

  With the sacred sword restored, Sigurd felt unstoppable. He would end this ancient grudge with his own hands, bringing closure to a thousand-year conflict.

  What he didn't know was that, deep within the blood elves' homeland, a change was brewing—silent, but powerful enough to rewrite everything.

  Deep within the blood elf royal palace, in a room draped with heavy curtains and suffused with fragrant mist, faint gasps and whispers echoed softly.

  At that moment, the strongest pair of twin sisters among the blood elves were entangled on a lavish bed, lost in a hedonistic union of flesh and desire with a man of mysterious identity.

  Outside, a storm was brewing. The elven forces pressed ever closer, and the shadow of war loomed large. Yet the two of them seemed utterly indifferent—as if they welcomed the chaos, even relished it.

  "My lord, shouldn't we be getting to the real business now?" Clara pressed against the man's chest, her voice soft and breathless. Her eyes shimmered with moisture, as though she had just emerged from the depths of a fevered abyss, yet they were sharp—clear and alert.

  "Are you sure this isn't the real business?" the man replied lazily, his fingers idly tracing the curve of her pale spine. His tone was teasing, as if he hadn't a care in the world.

  "Let those self-righteous high elves draw closer," he chuckled darkly."The deeper they come, the easier they fall into our trap. When the time comes, we won't just take victory—we'll bathe in their blood."

  "We need more high elf blood."

  Clara nodded slightly and bit her lip. She knew he wasn't bluffing. This man—he had both the power and the ambition. He didn't just want to retaliate; he wanted dominion.

  ...

  Meanwhile, in the Black Flag Territory, the Serpent Ancestor stood face to face with a young snakefolk warrior.

  "Gregor, you don't really want our kind to kneel under the Black Werewolves forever, do you?"

  The Serpent Ancestor was planning to seize the opportunity while Green Serpent was away—taking his first bold step toward freedom.

  In truth, the Serpent Ancestor had initially favored Green Serpent, who carried the true bloodline of a chieftain. But Green Serpent had long since pledged allegiance to the Black Werewolves—an act the Serpent Ancestor viewed as outright betrayal. So he shifted his sights to the hesitant youth now before him.

  "Listen. This is your chance to become the next leader."

  The Serpent Ancestor tilted his head slightly, speaking in a tone almost hypnotic, as he revealed an ancient and forbidden ritual—a bloody rite capable of shattering limits and elevating the performer to the rank of a true chieftain.

  What he didn't know was that Gregor's body was no longer merely that of a snakefolk warrior. His soul had been silently overtaken by Draven's secondary consciousness. Draven didn't immediately reject the offer.

  From his pocket, Gregor pulled out a charcoal stick and carefully transcribed the ritual onto a piece of beast hide, marking down every symbol and word the Serpent Ancestor described.

  At the same time, back in Village No. 2, Draven's main consciousness simultaneously recorded the technique through their mental link.

  The contents of the ritual were gruesome to the point of revulsion—relying almost entirely on vast quantities of blood and flesh rich in energy. Any location where this rite was performed would surely be transformed into a blood-soaked abattoir.

  By the time Gregor finished the last mark, his brow was furrowed deeply."This is way too conspicuous. There's no way we can carry this out in public. If this is all you've got, I won't hesitate to report you directly to the Black Werewolf chief."

  With that, he cast the Serpent Ancestor a scornful look, tucked the parchment away, and turned to leave.

  But the Serpent Ancestor didn't react with anger—instead, a cold, sinister smile crept across his face. He didn't care whether the boy acted now. What he sought wasn't immediate obedience—but to plant a seed, a seed of ambition that would one day bloom.

  "At the very least, the boy isn't a fool. That's enough," the Serpent Ancestor muttered, licking his lips as he curled back into the shadows. His eyes glinted with the anticipation of a viper sizing up its prey.

  What he didn't realize, however, was that the true puppeteer wasn't Gregor at all—but the second mind hiding deep within his body: Draven.

  Back in Village No. 2, Draven had also saved a copy of the ritual.

  There was no excitement on his face—only a faint sigh of disappointment.

  "This sort of thing…" he murmured to himself,"might be a treasure to others, but to me, it's just a waste of resources."

  He glanced disdainfully at the proportions of flesh and blood the ritual demanded. To him, those were rare materials—ingredients better used to brew bloodwine, forge blood crystals, or cultivate elite warriors. Wasting them on a one-time ritual?

  Utterly laughable.