Bran, Alaric, and the Serpent Ancestor sat huddled in a corner, none of them daring to speak first.

  Across from them sat Deputy Chief Ayla, her face stern, and beside her, the frost-wolf Kevin, his expression grim.

  They all knew—Draven had truly lost his temper just now.

  Bran and Alaric's faces were bruised and swollen, their noses puffed up like overripe tomatoes. By contrast, the black-robed Serpent Ancestor looked untouched.

  But that was far from the truth. When Draven had beaten the other two, the Serpent Ancestor had been writhing on the ground in agony.

  He hadn't been physically struck, but the soul punishment he received was far worse than any beating.

  Draven stood panting, angrily spitting to the side as he cast a cold glance at the trio.

  He wasn't the type to lash out easily, let alone over a few careless words. But this time—this time, he had truly been provoked.

  What enraged him most was that the Serpent Ancestor had passed on a secret technique to Alaric without any prior approval.

  He had thought Alaric to be a sensible one—yet the boy had accepted it without question, acting as though nothing could possibly go wrong.

  And then there was Bran. Ayla had already briefed him on the situation, yet he had failed to relay anything—and had even defended the technique, claiming he thought it was great.

  In a fresh wave of fury, Draven kicked Bran again. Bran rolled on the ground, limbs splayed, gasping for air.

  Alaric hunched his shoulders like a scolded child, subtly trying to scoot away from Draven.

  but still got caught.

  "Don't try to hide," Draven growled, landing several more punches on him.

  Alaric's once fair face was now red and purple, his nose grotesquely swollen.

  Ayla stood expressionless, though inside she was both furious and heartbroken.

  Alaric had ignored her advice, and now she could only accept the chief's way of disciplining him—perhaps a lesson would finally sink in.

  But Draven's anger had yet to subside. At first it was just rage, but as the emotions swelled, so did a dark murderous intent.

  His eyes turned toward the Serpent Ancestor, gaze icy.

  Had the man not sworn—under the binding of a soul contract—that the secret technique held no hidden traps or lingering dangers...

  What's he really plotting? Draven wondered.

  He stared at the Serpent Ancestor, hesitation flickering in his eyes.

  The Serpent Ancestor could feel it. What little warmth remained in his body seemed to freeze over completely. His muscles tensed, his heart threatened to burst from his chest.

  He knew full well—Draven might actually kill him.

  He had thought he understood his master's temperament. He had misjudged.

  To Draven, acting without orders was crossing a line. Worse than any soul curse was the cold, calculated intent to kill that now filled the room.

  Finally, the Serpent Ancestor could take it no longer.

  He dropped to his knees, bowing low like a worshipper before a deity, forehead pressed to the ground, his voice trembling in humble plea for forgiveness.

  Draven remained unmoved.

  He looked down at the notebook containing the copied secret technique, his gaze clouded and unreadable.

  His fingers ran lightly over the lines of symbols, his heart heavy with suspicion.

  He simply could not trust the Serpent Ancestor—

  No matter how powerful the technique was, no matter how promising it appeared for Alaric.

  It was a method based on soul absorption through foxfire, capable of mutating the flame and potentially birthing a new consciousness.

  Legend had it that such flames could burn not just flesh but souls—and possibly evolve into a sentient fire-being, fully under the caster's control.

  Tempting as the power sounded, Draven was far from reassured.

  He closed the notebook and raised a hand, giving a cold wave.

  "Everyone out. Except the Serpent Ancestor."

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  He offered no explanation.

  Kevin and Ayla exchanged a look, then helped the battered Alaric and Bran out of the room.

  The door shut with a heavy thud, as if warning those outside: what's about to happen inside is not for your eyes.

  Alaric sat on the steps, his eyelids so swollen he could barely see. Yet he couldn't help but glance back at the closed door.

  A sudden warmth welled in his chest. The chief's blows had been merciless—but he knew this was a kind of care.

  A warning not to be used by others.

  A scream suddenly pierced the air from inside the room—raw and soul-rending, as if someone's spirit had caught fire.

  Alaric shuddered instinctively and turned toward Ayla. She turned her face away, lips tight, hair flipping sharply and slapping across Alaric's cheek.

  He winced and let out a groan, eyes watering.

  Ayla sighed, her heart finally softening. She reached out and gently touched his swollen face.

  "Now you know pain?" she muttered, frowning, her voice low—part scolding, part worry.

  On the other side, Bran was being carefully tended to by his two spouses, hissing in pain.

  But in his own mind, he still didn't think he had done anything wrong.

  "That technique was pretty powerful..." he muttered.

  Forcing himself to move toward the door. Squinting, he tried to peek inside.

  wondering if maybe he should go in and say something.

  After hearing that the Serpent Ancestor had privately passed a secret technique to Alaric, Bran practically made it his daily mission to curry favor with him.

  Not only did he take the initiative to flatter him, but he even offered his own spouses for the Serpent Ancestor to share—

  Unfortunately, the Serpent Ancestor didn't spare them a single glance.

  To him, Bran's little gestures of goodwill were utterly beneath notice.

  Now, the Serpent Ancestor regretted everything.

  He only had a fragmented soul to begin with, barely clinging to existence by fusing with remnants of the Wraith Serpent.

  Now, having violated his master's taboo, his soul was being torn apart layer by layer by the forced contract's punishment.

  The pain he felt burned straight through his soul—inescapable, unbearable.

  Draven's fury still raged on.

  Inside the village chief's longhouse, the Serpent Ancestor's screams echoed louder and louder.

  His body shifted uncontrollably between serpent and a half-human, half-snake form, his figure growing more unstable, as if he were on the brink of shattering from the agony.

  Draven stood before him, coldly interrogating him again and again.

  But no matter how hard he pressed, the Serpent Ancestor insisted there was no malice or trickery in the secret technique he had passed to Alaric.

  His voice was humble to the point of pleading—yet unwavering.

  Draven stared at the snake writhing in pain before him, torn by conflicting emotions.

  He was not a soft-hearted man, and certainly not the type to forgive those who violated his orders.

  But the Serpent Ancestor now looked like he was being burned alive, his soul beginning to fray and collapse.

  It was only at this point that Draven finally began to believe—perhaps he had truly set no trap.

  The Serpent Ancestor lay crumpled on the ground, once more in snake form.

  His aura had weakened to near nothing, his soul reduced to that of a low-tier beast—barely stronger than a common spotted snake.

  Draven looked down at him, took a deep breath, and forced down the lingering urge to kill.

  He chose to give the Serpent Ancestor one more chance.

  This would be the last.

  If he failed to prove himself, there would be only one outcome: he'd be turned into a belt.

  With that thought, Draven casually picked up the limp Serpent Ancestor like a rag and slung him over his waist.

  Just as he reached the door, before he could say a word, Bran stumbled forward, nearly falling headfirst into the room.

  Draven kicked him back with one swift motion, sending him skidding several steps across the floor.

  His eyes swept over the others outside—Ayla, Kevin, and Alaric.

  His gaze now carried a hint of complexity.

  Black Flag Territory was developing well. Resources were steadily increasing, the villagers were stable, and the bigger picture was finally coming into focus.

  The only problem? His inner circle. Every one of them was under-leveled, unreliable.

  If only he had someone truly capable, someone of chieftain-level strength, he wouldn't have to carry everything on his back.

  He glanced at Alaric, who was hiding behind Ayla, pale-faced, nervously twisting the edge of his shirt.

  Draven let out a long sigh.

  Alaric had already started practicing the secret technique.

  He'd tasted its power, and now there was no turning back.

  What made it worse was that, to make the transition easier, the Serpent Ancestor had even preserved some monster souls specifically for Alaric's use.

  That thought made Draven shudder slightly with unease.

  He gritted his teeth, nearly poking his finger into Alaric's face.

  But in the end, he just raised his hand and gave Alaric a hard slap, leaving a bright red print.

  "If something goes wrong during training, don't come crying to me."

  With those cold words, he mounted his Nightmare Horse and left the village gate without looking back.

  Dust swirled as he rode off. The Serpent Ancestor swung limply from his waist like a bundle of rags.

  Bran, sitting on the doorstep, smacked his lips as he watched the retreating figure.

  "You think the chief's really gonna skin Serpent Ancestor and turn him into a belt?"

  Alaric didn't answer, but his eyes betrayed a hint of agreement.

  He knew—Draven was fully capable of it.

  After his promotion to high-rank chieftain, Draven's original expectations for the Serpent Ancestor had all but vanished.

  This act of secretly teaching the technique behind his back had pushed Draven past his final line.

  Skinning and gutting him? Honestly—not over the line at all.

  ……

  Meanwhile, deep within the canyon at the rear of Black Flag Territory, Draven rode his steed down into the narrowest crevice.

  There was no one else around—the silence so complete one could hear every breath.

  Draven unstrapped the Serpent Ancestor and tossed him into a heap of petrified remains.

  His body slammed into the hardened bone-like stones.

  Draven stood nearby, cold and impassive, as if waiting for something.

  He hadn't truly spared the Serpent Ancestor—this was his final test.

  If the Serpent Ancestor truly bore no ill intent, as he claimed—then now was his chance to prove his worth.

  "If you can glean anything from these corpses, then maybe your life isn't forfeit," Draven said coldly.

  Otherwise, you'll have only yourself to blame.

  The Serpent Ancestor stirred with great difficulty, his body moving like a dying snake as he slowly writhed into a new position.

  He finally slumped against a patch of glowing moss, using its faint light to inspect the pile beneath him.

  The moment he saw the remains, his snake eyes narrowed sharply.

  "These are…"

  A surge of strength came from who knows where.

  His shadowy serpent form slithered rapidly through the corpse pile, diving into the crevices, searching feverishly for something.

  Time passed slowly.

  At last, the Serpent Ancestor emerged from the bones, covered in pale grey dust.

  He looked up at Draven, and for the first time, a hint of human sorrow flickered in his serpent gaze.

  His voice was hoarse and low."I recognize them. They were once my comrades."

  Draven gazed back at him—and finally, a faint smile tugged at his lips.

  He raised his hand, signaling him to continue.