Draven stood before the stone wall, staring blankly at several broken gaps. Gray stones lay scattered messily on the ground, like the remnants torn apart by a savage beast.

  As he watched, he shouted to Rurik, "Divide the workers in half and send them to repair the wall. Start by patching the most obvious holes."

  Most of these breaches were caused during the last beast tide; the stones had fallen nearby, so there was no need to search hard for new materials.

  But repairing wasn't just about piling stones back up. Without cement or mortar, relying only on the stones' own weight and some simple interlocking structures, the fix would only hold temporarily.

  To truly withstand the next assault, reinforcement was necessary.

  He knew this very well — these stone walls were just a temporary solution. Yet, the rules of this world were so bizarre it gave him a headache.

  When he first arrived here, he tried mixing sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter to make gunpowder, but no matter what, it wouldn't ignite.

  He experimented endlessly with different ratios, but nothing worked. Cement was even worse — mixing lime powder with sand again and again, yet the stickiness was worse than dry flour.

  This world simply would not allow technology to exist. No matter how hard you tried, it would be inexplicably nullified.

  "Can't even get gunpowder to work, hoping for cement to fix the walls is just a pipe dream," he muttered to himself.

  As for patrolling the territory? He didn't have the mood for that at all. He had just come out from the pile of corpses, the stench of rot still lingering, and his head was spinning. He thought, "It won't hurt to skip a day. Better finish the current work first."

  Rurik seemed bewitched, running back and forth to the stone house in three-step intervals, sometimes going in, sometimes popping out, his eyes filled with excitement he couldn't hide.

  He looked like a kid entering a jewelry store for the first time, afraid others wouldn't know he just found treasure inside.

  At first, Draven thought the kid was crazy, but then he understood. They had all fought their way out from heaps of the dead, with almost nothing to their name.

  Now suddenly they found a stash of blood wine, a batch of rare wine jars, and the legendary offspring of the Holy Spirit — not just Rurik, but even Draven himself could hardly stay calm.

  He touched the storage ring on his hand, his eyes shining with joy he could no longer conceal.

  The sun slowly set, the orange-red afterglow shining on the dilapidated stone wall, also illuminating the weary faces of the group. Yet, the wall repairs were far from complete.

  "Stop working, it's almost dark. Don't risk lives," Draven called out to the slaves still hauling stones.

  He waved to Rurik, "Wrap it up. Continue tomorrow."

  But Rurik didn't move, his face full of anxiety. "Boss, I'm worried. What if we all leave and something happens to the wine jars in the secret chamber?"

  Draven laughed and patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, I've already made arrangements in the secret chamber. And I'll have Ragnar keep watch."

  Only then did Rurik calm down, though he muttered complaints under his breath, he followed after Draven, glancing back every few steps.

  Halfway there, Draven saw a group bustling energetically in the distance. Bran and his men had cleared half the road, bundling the weeds and branches neatly by the roadside.

  "Good job," Draven nodded in approval. "These grasses and branches will make good firewood after drying a few days."

  He leaned toward Bran and whispered, "Tomorrow I'll show you something good. It might be very useful to you."

  Bran's eyes lit up, like a fish hooked on a line. "What is it? Does it have to do with my bloodline awakening?"

  Draven teased him, smiling without answering. Bran was relentless, pestering Rurik the entire way.

  But Rurik's mind was still inside the stone house, not paying any attention.

  When they reached the riverbank, Draven saw Ragnar almost buried under a pile of kids.

  The proud magic wolf lay on the ground with a helpless expression, one child tugging his tail, another pulling his mouth, his eyes full of existential despair.

  "Get out of here!" Draven waved, shooing the kids away.

  Ragnar seemed relieved, immediately lifting his head and standing, shaking off the dust. Draven mounted him and headed back to the stone house.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  He planned to go down to the secret chamber to check on the two little octopuses, letting them meet Ragnar.

  But the moment he stepped into the chamber, he froze — the air had changed.

  That familiar rotten stench was gone. The entire chamber felt much fresher, even breathing was easier.

  He immediately summoned the two little Holy Spirit descendants. Sure enough, they were proudly waiting for his praise.

  "We can enhance the wine, so naturally we can remove odors."

  "There was a curse's smell here, we didn't like it, so we cleared it away."

  Draven's eyes lit up. He couldn't help but pick up one of the little octopuses and twirl it in his hand. "You two are amazing."

  Then he brought the little octopuses upstairs to Ragnar.

  "Come, let me introduce you to a new friend."

  The little octopuses were overjoyed, circling around Ragnar. At first, Ragnar resisted a bit, but soon, his nose twitched and his body stiffened.

  He could sense a different power flowing inside these two creatures — an ancient, holy aura that instinctively made him want to submit.

  Draven nodded with satisfaction, entrusting the air purification task in the secret chamber to them, while instructing Ragnar to guard the stone house well, especially to protect these two Holy Spirit descendants.

  Draven had to run back once again. By the time he arrived at the tidal flat camp, gasping for breath, the roasted meat was already done, filling the air with a rich aroma.

  By the fire, piles of meat jerky that had just been flipped lay stacked—crispy on the outside, tender inside, still glistening with oil.

  He tore off a piece casually and bit into it fiercely. Chewing for a moment, he suddenly remembered he had forgotten to bring the blood wine.

  Blood wine was just the thing to drink at a time like this, but he was too lazy to go back for it. Anyway, his stomach was already mostly full, so he'd make do.

  The sky hadn't fully darkened yet. Draven glanced at the slaves and the few kids nearby who hadn't bathed yet, clicked his tongue, and stood up.

  "Everyone, get in the river and wash off your smell."

  The slaves sluggishly began to strip off their clothes, and the kids started wailing and screaming over there, trying to run away, only to be dragged back one by one by Draven.

  No arguments allowed. Except for Viola, not a single one was spared—they were all driven into the water.

  The demi-humans rarely bathed before—not because they didn't care about cleanliness, but simply because they had no conditions for it. There were no decent rivers in the past.

  Now the river was right next to the camp. The water wasn't cold. It was late spring heading into early summer—perfect for a refreshing bath. The river echoed with joyful shouts—some were splashing water fights, others floating lazily on the surface soaking up the sun.

  Draven was thinking about setting some rules for the future. At least a mandatory weekly bath—these guys sometimes smelled so bad even Ragnar complained.

  After the bath, each was driven back to the camp to sleep. Darkness had fully fallen by then, and several small fires were lit around the camp. The Ghost-faced Owl had already flown up into the air to keep watch.

  Draven didn't trust the other sentries—only it could silently observe the entire area and make no mistakes even in the dark of night.

  But he himself hadn't bathed yet. Viola hadn't bathed yet. He smiled at her, gave no greeting, and simply picked her up, quietly walking upstream to a more secluded spot where the water flowed gently.

  The river water was cool against their skin. The night was so quiet that only frog croaks and the sound of water could be heard. Moonlight filtered through thin clouds, casting silver light on the water's surface. Draven stripped off his armor and leather clothes and jumped straight in, splashing water everywhere.

  Viola wanted to protest but was pulled into the water by him, falling into his arms.

  "Don't struggle," Draven whispered, "If you move again, I can't promise I won't do something else."

  They held each other in the water, the current gently lapping their bodies, as if the whole earth quietly watched them. No interruptions, no kids, no slaves. Just them and a silent great river.

  That night, the riverside was unusually peaceful. Even the wind was gentle.

  But good times didn't last long.

  At dawn the next day, before the sky was light, the Ghost-faced Owl sent a signal. Draven awoke instantly, grabbing his weapon and heading to the riverbank, eyes fixed on the water's surface.

  The water still looked calm, but he could sense something lurking beneath. Not an ordinary monster—it had a steady presence, but its size was huge, taking up half the river channel.

  He tried to lock onto the target but failed completely. The creature was too cunning, using the water flow to conceal its tracks, vanishing without a trace within moments.

  Draven clenched his teeth, staying alert. The creature's appearance completely disrupted his original plan. The great river was no longer safe.

  At first light, he ordered the camp to break.

  "Leave the stuff here, Ragnar stays behind. People move first." He spoke directly, no room for negotiation.

  The slaves and kids in the camp shouted and resisted when they heard about moving, some still wanting to play in the water.

  But Draven ignored them completely and gave the order decisively. Soon the group departed with only necessary belongings, moving along the cleared path toward the village.

  Upon reaching the village, he issued instructions.

  "Split the slaves into two teams. Kobolds clear the roads inside the gate to make space for supplies. Minotaurs, bear-people, and boar-people go repair the stone walls."

  He finished speaking in one breath, then turned and walked into the stone house.

  The stench was gone, the air fresh like a forest after rain. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  That was the work of the little octopuses. They had not only purified the air but completely cleansed the lingering curse's residue.

  He walked to the stone slab on the floor, lifted it, and looked toward the wine urns. Two little octopuses were swimming happily between the urns.

  "How do you feel?" he asked quietly.

  "We like it here," they answered as they swam, "The air is clean, the blood wine is pure, we're satisfied."

  Draven smiled and nodded, taking a pouch of blood wine from one of the sealed urns. He had opened this urn before and knew the wine was strong.

  Walking out of the stone house, he just happened to see Bran standing at the door, his face almost twisted with impatience.

  "Anxious?" Draven shook the water pouch.

  "The good stuff you mentioned!" Bran stared at him eagerly.

  "Right here." Draven handed it over. "Just one sip."

  Bran grabbed it quickly and gulped down a big mouthful.

  Draven wanted to stop him, but it was too late. He frowned in pain.

  The little octopuses had said the blood wine was sealed for over ten years, and ordinary demi-humans could only drink a small sip a day.

  Not because drinking too much would cause trouble, but because exceeding that amount would make it lose its effect—pure waste.

  Bran shuddered, gasping sharply. He felt a sudden surge of heat inside, as if flames were burning along his bones. His fingers tingled, legs weakened, and he barely managed to stand.