The slaves stood in several rows, unevenly arranged, and no one cared whether they were orderly or not. Everyone looked confused as they listened to the leader's speech.

  They didn't understand why, all of a sudden, they were no longer allowed to relieve themselves inside the stone walls. The leader even said they would build latrines to collect their waste, claiming it would be useful someday.

  But this stuff wasn't edible—why bother collecting it? Were they planning to eat it later?

  However, when Draven mentioned that they could apply for mates, the previously listless kobolds immediately perked up.

  Especially those with a bit of brains, whose eyes began to furtively roam over the female kobolds. The smiles exchanged between them were unmasked—the instinct of beasts.

  Standing at the front of the square, Draven enjoyed being the center of attention. He puffed out his chest, hands clasped behind his back, speaking with a solemn tone—just like the true lords he had once seen in Selene City.

  He liked this feeling, sensing that his words carried weight in the village.

  After finishing his speech, he assigned tasks one by one. First, he told Rurik and Bran to each select half of the kobolds, then choose fifteen strong slaves to form squads under their command.

  These would become the village's first hunting teams, and essentially the only armed force.

  Draven personally handed out weapons to them: rough but sturdy spears, and one bow per person.

  Though these were makeshift and crude, for these slaves, it was a huge show of trust and honor.

  Rurik and Bran, excited, led their people to the edge of the village to begin training.

  The kobold Titus was also busy; he came early to report that he had already picked four agile comrades.

  Draven nodded and allowed them to continue hunting independently as a five-person squad. This was an exceptional favor, but Titus was indeed smart.

  After arranging this side, Draven called two minotaurs and two bears to a vacant area behind the square.

  He had been observing these four for some time. The minotaurs were tall and silent, never lazy at work.

  They didn't like to compete but were steady and precise when they acted. The two bears looked much rougher—roaring when they spoke, ramming when they worked, clearly hard to get along with. But their strength was undeniable; they were useful tools.

  Draven thought to himself: the village not only needed people to hunt and eat but also to build things. Even if there were no true craftsmen, he had to cultivate a few himself.

  He didn't expect them to carve beams or paint decorations, only to be able to chop wood into beds and stack stones into walls. He planned to start by training carpenters and stonemasons.

  "You four," he pointed at them, "from now on, go find some sturdy trees. Don't cut the really thick ones, just medium-sized. I want to make a bed first—sleeping on the ground hurts my back."

  After arranging them, he glanced at Viola. She was efficient, organizing the remaining elderly, weak, and female slaves.

  She sent some of the younger ones to clear weeds outside the stone walls, and some with a bit of strength to collect firewood.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The older ones stayed behind to help her prepare dinner. Her tone was gentle, but no one dared to disobey. Draven watched with satisfaction and didn't disturb her.

  The sun had already shifted west, with some time left before dark. Draven strolled around the village, like a master with nothing urgent to do.

  He inspected the corners just settled, checking for anything missed.

  He came across a group of little ones pulling weeds half-heartedly, grabbed one by the ear, and dragged them back to redo the work.

  No long lecture was needed—a single stern look scared the children into standing at attention.

  Further ahead, he saw Rurik teaching archery and tried it himself. The moment he pulled the bowstring, the bow snapped in two in his hands.

  "What kind of bow is this?" he frowned at Rurik, who quickly lowered his head in apology.

  Nearby, Bran, practicing spear skills, saw this and bolted, shouting loudly, "I can't hold it, I can't hold it!" He ran out through the stone wall without leaving a trace.

  Draven shook his head, muttering a curse, and continued wandering around the village, checking for any overlooked matters.

  At dusk, he returned from the wilderness to the village's left side, carrying a fresh scent of water.

  His mood was good; he had found a small stream nearby and even bathed. He planned to build a road there later for easier access to water.

  Thinking of water, he remembered the well-digging. Thinking of wells, he thought of baths. Thinking of baths, he thought of reservoirs, drainage ditches, insulated roofs—and suddenly got a headache.

  Draven wandered back into the village, kicking a few small stones along the way. The evening breeze blew past the stone walls, carrying the aroma of food and the smoky scent of burning firewood. His mood instantly relaxed.

  The village was already bustling with activity. Viola was busy organizing dinner by the square. A few kobold slaves gathered around a clay pot, carefully adding firewood to the flames.

  Inside the steaming pot was freshly dug cassava, plump and white, bubbling away. Although they had moved inside the stone walls—much safer now—and no longer had to rush to start a fire before sunset, Viola still habitually prepared in advance.

  She said it was more orderly that way, and if anything ever went wrong, at least the food would be hot.

  On the hearth, a large iron pot simmered with a stew of braised meat. The rich scent of meat mixed with spices almost penetrated into one's nose. This was one of Draven's signature dishes that he had personally taught Viola to make.

  In this world, demi-human races had a very primitive way of eating—basically just roasting or boiling meat with almost no seasoning, relying on the natural flavor of the meat itself.

  But Draven, although he still hadn't figured out gunpowder or cement, had managed to create seasoning—or rather, found substitutes.

  "Where did this stuff come from?" At first, Viola thought it was poison.

  Draven smiled and replied, "You'll have to ask Bran and the others."

  In fact, most of the time he relied on memory and his sense of smell to identify plants, then sent Bran and the others out to gather them. To ensure safety, he specially trained a tasting team made up of captured rats.

  A plant, a bit of powder—feed it to the rats first. If the rats ate it and then kept hopping around, it was safe to eat.

  If he wasn't confident, Bran and the others went first. Not because Draven was cruel, but because they were tougher, faster to react, and besides, his seasonings had become treasures in the end.

  Of course, it wasn't always smooth. Once, a type of chili pepper made Bran's lips swell like balloons, his eyes shrank to slits.

  But after eating it, Bran still said, "Not bad, nice spicy kick." Draven patted him on the head and laughed, "If you died, we'd lose a taster."

  The results of these trials were evident now—the delicious aroma of the stew was the best proof.

  Draven tasted some meat from the pot; it was tender and flavorful, salty and rich, warming his tongue. He clicked his tongue in satisfaction.

  When it was time to eat, Draven leisurely sat back down by the hearth. He nodded slightly as Rurik, Bran, Viola, Alaric, and Ayla all gathered around. Each had a clay bowl, squatting by the fire to eat.

  After eating their fill, the group slouched around, chatting casually about village matters.

  "What exactly should we call our village?" Rurik, who hadn't said much until now, suddenly asked seriously.

  The question stumped everyone.

  Bran spoke first, "How about Black Wolf Fort? Like the village we used to have."

  Draven immediately shook his head, his face creasing, "That place is gone long ago. Calling it Black Wolf Fort sounds unlucky."

  Bran scratched his ear, "Then what? How about ‘Wolf Fox Village'? We have both black wolves and fire foxes here."

  "Sounds too small-time," Draven waved him off.

  He lowered his head, thinking for a moment. Suddenly, his eyes caught the black animal hide beneath him.

  A flash of inspiration hit him: "Black Flag Territory—let's call it Black Flag Territory!"