The final part of the will finally revealed Gareth's true last words.

  He confessed that during his long escape, he had spent an enormous amount of resources—nearly exhausting his entire fortune.

  Later, in order to seek the protection of the succubi, Gareth was forced to pay an even steeper price, offering nearly everything he had left.

  After all, the succubi were enemies of the blood elves, and earning their approval and protection came at a heavy cost.

  Gareth wrote that although he had little left, the remaining relics were of great significance to him. He believed their fate should not vanish with his own.

  He specifically noted that whoever had the chance to read his will—regardless of who they were—was chosen by fate.

  He hoped that this person, guided by such providence, would take the last treasures within his storage ring—two blood beast eggs—and return them to their kin.

  He emphasized that the power of blood beasts was useless to other races—only blood elves could utilize them. In other words, only his own people could benefit from the eggs.

  Gareth went on to say that he had fathered many offspring for the blood elf race throughout his life.

  Among them, there was one male child named Ronan who resembled him the most—not only in appearance, but also in talent, ranking among the best of the male offspring.

  Gareth entrusted the blood beast eggs along with a book of secret arts, hoping that both would be given to Ronan. He wanted Ronan to inherit their power and carry on the unfinished mission—to restore the glory of the blood elves and break free from the oppression of their matriarchal society.

  He also reassured repeatedly that Ronan would offer a generous reward and would not let the bearer of this mission make the journey in vain.

  At the end of the will was a crudely drawn map.

  It was clear Gareth's strength was waning when he drew it—the lines were barely legible.

  It took Draven considerable effort to decipher the direction marked on the map: the location of the blood elf tribe, deep in the far south, nearly at the edge of the continent.

  Following the map were fragmented ramblings, the writing chaotic and messy.

  They seemed to be Gareth's final thoughts as he teetered on the edge of death—disjointed phrases like "I want a grand funeral," "not reconciled," and even a few crude curses.

  Reading all this, Draven couldn't help but feel a bit impatient.

  "What a joke," he muttered under his breath. "Who's really going to take this back for you?"

  He decided that no matter whether the blood beasts were truly only useful to blood elves, he would not return them to those enemies.

  After all, Gareth himself had said that blood elves and succubi were mortal foes—and Draven still needed to survive under Selene's command.

  So to him, this will offered little more than a curious story. It held no real value—though, he had to admit, it wasn't completely useless.

  Draven's eyes fell on the decaying finger. Without hesitation, he used the will to cushion his hand and carefully removed the ring from the corpse.

  Was this the legendary storage ring? He used the beast-hide parchment of the will to gently wipe the dust from the ring.

  At first, he was going to toss the will aside—but something held him back. Instead, he fed it to the torch's flame.

  The fire licked the hide, slowly turning it to ash.

  He nudged the ashes with his boot, making sure nothing remained, and finally turned his full attention to the plain, iron ring.

  It didn't look like much, but it was rare. Draven felt his pulse quicken, unable to resist the urge—he drew a long axe from his back.

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  Running his thumb lightly across the axe blade, a fine line of blood welled up immediately.

  He brought the ring to the wound, and watched as it seemed to absorb the blood like a living creature.

  At that moment, Draven felt a strange connection surge into his consciousness.

  A square-shaped space, about ten feet in length and width, appeared in his mind.

  Inside the neatly shaped space floated a few items—not many, clearly all that remained of Gareth's possessions.

  Draven inspected them carefully, making sure it wasn't some trick. He willed a square metallic box to float into his hand.

  The box was silver-white, engraved with intricate and mysterious patterns—like some form of ancient runes.

  There was no need to sense it deliberately; the magical aura pulsing from it was already quite clear.

  Draven observed the silver-white box carefully for a while. Aside from a small button in the center, there was no visible way to open it. He tried pressing the button firmly, but felt almost no mechanical response. So, he simply sat down on the ground and placed the box in front of him.

  When he gently pressed the button with his finger, the box suddenly reacted. Intricate patterns on its surface began to emit a faint silver glow, as if some ancient magic was hidden within. The glow didn't last long before gradually fading away, but then the top of the box split open from the middle and slid to the sides, as if pushed by invisible hands.

  The box was finally open. Inside lay two objects about the size of chicken eggs, glowing with a ruby-like luster—crystal clear and radiant. Draven immediately recognized them as the Blood Beast eggs mentioned in the will.

  He carefully picked them up one by one and rolled them gently in his palm, trying to discern any clues. But no matter how he examined them, the eggs seemed to be nothing more than beautiful on the outside; inside, they were utterly still, showing no signs of life.

  Draven felt a twinge of doubt. Eggs this small—could the creatures hatched from them even have enough blood to be of any real use? He privately questioned the true value of these so-called Blood Beast eggs.

  After studying them for a while, he gently placed the eggs back into the box. He pressed the button again, and the box slowly closed, returning to its original form.

  To be honest, Draven wasn't particularly interested in the Blood Beast eggs. To him, they were like a pair of pretty but useless gemstones—or lifeless curiosities.

  He set the box aside and pulled out a longbow from his storage ring.

  What he didn't notice was that while handling the Blood Beast eggs, blood from the wound on his thumb had smeared onto one of the shells.

  To him, that seemed insignificant. He was fully immersed in the longbow he had just obtained.

  The longbow was a signature weapon of the elves, especially the blood elves, renowned for their precision archery. This particular longbow, inherited from Gareth, might have been one of their tribe's famed deadly weapons.

  What made it unique was that it didn't require traditional arrows. The bow itself could channel bloodline magic to conjure crimson arrow projections that pierced through enemy defenses.

  However, Gareth had died over a decade ago, and the bloodline power within the bow had long since faded. Without a fresh infusion of bloodline energy, it was now little more than a beautiful antique.

  The bow was a deep crimson color throughout, though Draven couldn't quite identify the material it was made from. Its body was covered with intricate carvings, showcasing the elves' usual ornate and meticulous style.

  Even so, it didn't diminish Draven's appreciation. In fact, he had always wanted a ranged weapon. While his battle axe was powerful, it lacked flexibility, and ranged attacks could give him an extra layer of protection in combat.

  At this moment, he silently thanked Gareth and the blood elves for gifting him this treasure.

  Filled with excitement, Draven toyed with the longbow and attempted to infuse it with his own bloodline power. Immediately, a faint red glow shimmered along the bowstring, as if the weapon had come back to life.

  He slowly drew the string, and a crimson light arrow shot out, tracing a graceful arc through the air.

  Draven quickly estimated that, with his current strength, he could probably fire a dozen or so of these light arrows. That might not be a lot, but it was more than enough to handle the fights ahead.

  With care, he withdrew his bloodline power and set the longbow aside as if it were a priceless artifact.

  In the storage ring, aside from the box and the bow, there were still a book and a sword remaining. Remembering the secret technique mentioned in the will, Draven picked up the book first.

  It was heavy in his hands, giving a palpable sense of weight. But when he opened it, he was instantly stunned.

  Though the cover was reinforced with metal and appeared sturdy and durable, the pages inside weren't made of ordinary paper—they were individual leaves, as if some natural material had been woven into a book.

  That wasn't even the strangest part. The text on the pages was utterly incomprehensible. The characters curled and twisted like floral vines, or perhaps arcane symbols.

  Draven flipped through a few pages and immediately felt a headache coming on. This was clearly no language an ordinary person could understand. It had to be the ancient script of the blood elves.

  Only they would go to such lengths to make their writing look like a mix of artwork and encrypted code.

  Annoyed, he tossed the book aside, having lost all interest. Thankfully, there was still the sword.

  It was a one-handed sword with an ornate scabbard. Even before drawing it, Draven could tell it was another piece of blood elf craftsmanship.

  The scabbard and hilt were encrusted with a multitude of dazzling gemstones, and the intricate designs were even more elaborate than those on the longbow.

  This sword looked more like a work of art than a weapon meant for killing.

  He drew the blade, which gleamed with a cold sheen. Aside from being sharp, it bore no magical traces—certainly not a bloodline weapon.

  This left Draven a little disappointed. He curled his lip and thought to himself, "This worthless thing might as well not even exist."