He had just seen Dorian and the others off, and now stood at the gate, gazing out at the fields beyond, lost in thought.

  The coming war was unavoidable. He had to quickly improve the overall strength of the demi-human forces— even if it was only some basic training and sharpening their combat awareness, it was better than doing nothing at all.

  Assigning the deer tribe as scouts was no problem. They were naturally skilled at stealth and rapid strikes, their footsteps as light as falling leaves, with senses of smell and hearing far keener than ordinary people.

  But even warriors like Dorian, born with strong bloodlines, still lacked enough individual fighting power. When it came to desperate battles on the field, their bodies were too fragile.

  Kobolds might not be able to beat them, but the hyena tribe was a whole other matter!

  Those lunatics didn't follow any rules. Their fighting style was brutal, reckless, and ruthless, always targeting the enemy's most vulnerable spots— especially their notorious move of gouging the anus, leaving foes caught between life and death.

  Thinking of this, Draven sighed and shook his head. These days, surviving required not just courage but ability. Looking toward the northern horizon, he knew that war in that direction was inevitable.

  This time, he would no longer be just a commander.

  He would take the field himself, crushing the spines of the three northern tribes one by one, and carve out a path of survival for Dorian and the others. As their leader, these people were his family to protect.

  But before that, there was one important thing to prepare— the ritual.

  Draven summoned Titus and reminded him not to forget: there were only two days left until the full moon night.

  The remaining beasts were to be sacrificed and must be tightly guarded. Their drug effects were nearly worn off, and if they awoke and injured someone, it would be disastrous.

  "Don't worry, Boss!" Titus thumped his chest with a confident and thunderous assurance, nostrils flaring as if he was about to take flight.

  But instead of leaving immediately, he stood still with an inexplicable excitement on his face.

  Draven raised an eyebrow, reading his expression:"You want to go to the battlefield too?"

  Titus nodded heavily, his eyes gleaming like an orc eager to pounce and bite.

  Draven hesitated briefly but finally nodded:"Pick fifty kobolds and start training for war."

  Upon hearing this, Titus nearly jumped for joy, running off while loudly rallying his tribe.

  Watching the kobolds hopping cheerfully toward the camp, Draven couldn't help but laugh.

  Demi-humans were truly a warlike race at heart. Bloodthirstiness was their instinct; war was their fastest path to growth. The enemy's blood and corpses were their best nourishment.

  Draven squinted, staring toward the southern horizon. The sunlight was fractured by clouds, casting scattered rays across the distant skyline. He silently said to himself:

  "Sylvia, when I grow stronger… when I am strong enough, I will come find you myself."

  At this moment, far away in the southern elven kingdom, Sylvia sat inside a high tower, thinking of him.

  Icehawk had finally returned, bringing news she had longed for from the northern lands.

  The messenger brought not only a letter but also a few inconspicuous yet meaningful gifts. Sylvia didn't bother opening the boxes immediately but unrolled the thick bestial parchment first.

  "Sylvia, we all miss you."

  Just that short opening sentence brought a smile to her eyes.

  She seemed to see the familiar campfires, the raucous werewolves, and that always overbearing yet gentle Draven.

  As she read the letter, a blush crept onto her cheeks. At the end of the letter were some crude teasing words.

  Sylvia snorted softly but her gaze was incredibly gentle.

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  She caressed her belly and took out a small clay jar. Opening it, she smelled the familiar scent of honey.

  She whispered,"Look, child, your father doesn't even know you exist yet, and he's already sent you a gift."

  Her belly was still flat for now, but her eyes had softened completely, her face seeming to glow with a holy light.

  Outside the door, a tall and lean figure stood silently— it was the elven king Sigurd.

  He had intended to enter, but seeing his daughter like this, his hand hesitated on the door handle. Her happiness moved him, but the identity of the child in her womb tore at his heart.

  It was not an elf's offspring but a demi-human's. Pain flickered in Sigurd's eyes, yet he still stepped into the tower's highest chamber.

  "Sylvia, has the High Prophet emerged from seclusion yet?"

  Sylvia snapped back to reality, hastily putting away the letter and jar, her voice uneven:"Not yet..."

  Sigurd nodded, pretending to see nothing. He was neither a foolish father nor a weak king.

  But he understood the greatest tolerance he could give was to turn a blind eye.

  Right now, though, his greatest concern was not the unborn grandson, but the still missing High Prophet Garin.

  Since that brutal war with the blood elves, Garin had remained silent and secluded, with no sign of emerging.

  Every few days, Sigurd would come to the tower. He always asked Sylvia gently if she was feeling unwell anywhere or if she needed more priests to come and tend to her health.

  Even though she was already carrying a child in her womb, he still treated her like the innocent little girl who always loved hiding in her father's arms.

  But Sylvia was no longer that child watching clouds from the balcony.

  "Father, have the Blood Elves made any moves recently?" she asked softly.

  When she was in the Black Flag Territory, she had seen Draven rushing everywhere almost every day, running around to ensure the safety of the lands.

  She had witnessed and absorbed that sense of responsibility and pressure. The elven princess's temperament was quietly changing. Although she still lived in the tower, she no longer wanted to turn a blind eye to the affairs outside.

  Perhaps the information she gathered could help her father.

  The elven king did not know his daughter's thoughts and still thought she was merely worried about him. His always serious face finally softened with a rare gentleness.

  He shook his head, his voice low and warm:"No new developments. How is your health, Sylvia?"

  They spoke briefly about lighter topics. After sitting for a while and sensing his daughter's emotional stability, Sigurd left the tower with a faint smile.

  But once his figure completely disappeared, the smile on Sylvia's face faded as well.

  She could feel the weight on her father's shoulders, even if he spoke lightly. She knew he was hiding something. The kingdom's situation was surely not as calm as he claimed.

  Sylvia sighed quietly and walked over to her desk. From the drawer, she took out a treated Betoro leaf— a special message medium used by the elves, thin yet tough, fireproof and moisture resistant.

  She wrote a few brief words, carefully rolled it up, and slipped it into the message ring strapped on icehawk's leg.

  "Go. Deliver this to Second Brother."

  Icehawk flapped its wings and flew off, disappearing into the night sky outside the tower.

  The"Second Brother" she referred to was Prince Alessio, the kingdom's second son. Compared to the eldest prince Legolas, who was always on the battlefield bearing heavy responsibilities, Alessio had more time to stay in the capital, handle internal affairs, and assist their father.

  At that moment, Alessio was sitting alone in his study, looking weary. He had just left a court meeting not long ago where new intelligence was reported: the Blood Elf legion was rapidly expanding and had recently conquered a large tribe of ogres.

  This news triggered alarm bells in his mind. If the Blood Elves continued to grow their power, the situation would become increasingly difficult to control.

  "Damn humans…" Alessio cursed quietly, irritably gazing out the window.

  His elder brother was currently in the southern territories, leading the elven army against the northern human duke. If it weren't for human interference, the elven kingdom's power wouldn't have been so completely divided.

  Their father seemed to place all his hope in the Grand Prophet Garin, believing that as long as he returned from his seclusion, there would still be a chance to turn things around.

  But Alessio never held high expectations for such fantasies. Though young, he was painfully aware of reality's harshness.

  Even if the Grand Prophet recovered from his injuries, did the Blood Elves have no trump cards of their own? Rumor had it they had already contacted a mysterious demigod—such power was not something that could be resisted by mere faith.

  Rubbing his throbbing forehead, he tried to organize his next strategies and how to persuade his father. Suddenly, a clear chirp sounded at the window.

  Looking up, a slight smile appeared on his face. It was Sylvia's icehawk.

  His little sister always sent him small things or some whimsical requests when he was most troubled. But this time, after unrolling the scroll and reading it, his expression gradually grew serious.

  "Why does she care about the kingdom's situation?" he muttered quietly, a hint of puzzlement in his voice.

  Even so, he replied to the letter carefully. He knew Sylvia had changed—she was no longer the naive little girl.

  What he did not know was that this letter would soon be delivered by that same icehawk to the Black Flag Territory, falling into the hands of a black werewolf of the demi-human tribes.

  ......

  The full moon night arrived once again.

  Under the night sky of Black Flag Territory, fine rain drifted down. The moon seemed shrouded in a veil of red gauze—hazy and cold—like a blood-soaked beast's hide hanging in the sky.

  The rain was too light to affect the ritual.

  Draven stood before the altar, cutting the tip of his finger and letting the drops of blood drip down his arm. He smeared the fresh blood over the statue of Selene at the altar's center—across her cold forehead and lips.

  Behind him, villagers and slaves knelt, softly chanting long and obscure ritual incantations. Their voices were low and suppressed, sounding like an ancient summons in the rainy night.

  The ceremony in Village No. 1 was taking place simultaneously.

  Though Martha was the village chief, the ritual was led by Bran.

  Several hundred black werewolf slaves knelt on the ground, their devotion far surpassing that of the Rhinoceros Men also participating in the ceremony nearby.

  They were not just worshipping their lord—they were praying to the deities deep within their bloodline.