A thunderous crash shattered the valley's silence as Draven, transformed into a towering werewolf, collided fiercely with the monstrous bear. The colossal beast was sent hurtling through the air, crashing heavily several meters away, raising a cloud of dust and shattered stones.

  Draven's maw split into a savage grin, eyes ablaze with wild fervor and exhilaration. From deep within his throat erupted a primal howl that sent leaves fluttering like a cascade of trembling green.

  This raw surge of power nearly overwhelmed his control. He could feel the blood coursing like molten fire through his veins, every sinew taut with explosive strength. This was the monumental ascension brought by his advancement—a force far surpassing any limit he had ever known.

  In the past, facing a bear of four or five meters renowned for brute strength, even with his bloodline awakened, he would have skirted the edges, probing for weaknesses, never daring to clash head-on. But now, the landscape had shifted entirely.

  With but a single blow, he had sent the beast flying. More remarkably, he had yet to unleash his full power.

  "Seventy percent," he murmured softly, a smile lingering at the corner of his lips.

  Before the bear could recover, Draven bent his knees, coiled like a spring, and launched himself into the air—an unstoppable meteor plummeting toward the beast. The air tore with a furious roar around him, and at the moment of impact, his claws snapped shut like colossal scythes slicing through the ether.

  The razor-sharp talons met scarcely any resistance, cleaving through the bear's thick hide and shattered bones. A jet of blood spouted skyward, and a massive skull tumbled out, rolling heavily into the grass. The bear's body convulsed briefly before surrendering to stillness.

  From their vantage point in the trees, Bran and Rurik watched in stunned silence as the battle concluded.

  "The leader is unstoppable!" Bran slid down the tree trunk, barely touching the ground before shouting with awe.

  Rurik quickly followed, his face a mixture of reverence and exhilaration. They rushed to the fallen giant, circling the corpse with admiration and endless marvels.

  "This power... it feels even greater than when the old chieftain was young," Bran whispered reverently.

  "Of course! Our leader has only just come of age—his strength will only grow," Rurik replied without hesitation.

  Listening to their exchange, Draven shook his head softly, yet a faint smile played on his lips. Gradually, he withdrew the bloodline energy, his form shrinking back to human shape. Skillfully, he reached into the bear's shattered skull and extracted a bloodied core, holding it up to the fading light with a contemplative gaze.

  "What a waste..." he muttered, glancing at the nearly bisected head and the ragged fur.

  If he could have skinned it intact, the massive hide alone would have fetched a fortune—dried meat, salt, herbs, even arrows.

  Noticing his regret, Rurik scratched his head and offered consolation, "It's just a bear skin. With your strength now, leader, we'll be able to slay many more soon."

  Bran chimed in eagerly, "Exactly! Soon you'll topple even alpha beasts, and we'll be drowning in this kind of bounty."

  "Let's tidy up," Draven said, glancing at the sky, the sun dipping behind the mountains. "We'll rest here. Eat well first, and decide whether to move on after nightfall."

  "Understood!"

  The two set to work with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Rurik tended to the carcass, skinning, cleaning, and sorting, while Bran gathered dry wood and raised a crackling fire.

  Before long, the bear's flesh was carved into hefty chunks wrapped in its own hide. Usable organs and sinews were separated carefully, piled neatly to be taken along.

  Draven selected a portion and settled by the fire, skewering a bear's paw on a thick branch to roast slowly.

  "Delicious!" Rurik exclaimed impatiently, grabbing a searing piece, huffing and puffing from the heat but refusing to release his bite.

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  Bran stuffed his cheeks with two chunks, speechless, his face puffed like a dumpling.

  Draven chuckled, sprinkling some homemade spices over the meat, filling the air with a savory aroma.

  "If it tastes good, eat more. You're almost grown now. Eating beast meat will help awaken your bloodlines."

  He spoke as he tore a piece from the paw, chewing thoughtfully, though a slight frown crept across his brow. The meat was tougher than expected, sinewy with a peculiar tang.

  Bran and Rurik said nothing, only nodding fervently, mouths full as they devoured ravenously.

  Their eyes shone with yearning, lips slick with grease, eating as if starved for days.

  Having witnessed Draven single-handedly subdue the dire bear—an unstoppable tempest sweeping across the plains—they hungered for such strength. They longed to face mighty foes alone one day, no longer bound to the survival of the pack.

  Draven regarded them with a faint, subtle smile but uttered nothing further. He understood their yearning for awakening and was acutely aware that their time was perilously limited.

  This world was fraught with peril, especially for the demi-humans. Without the awakening of one's bloodline power before adulthood, one was condemned to live a lifetime as an ordinary being.

  Devoid of bloodline strength, there was no status, no security. Even the shelter of a tribe was but a temporary reprieve.

  To common demi-humans, the wilderness was no more than a banquet for the strong. Beasts of the wild cared not for your lineage, enemies paid no heed to your desires for peace. Without power, death could come at any moment.

  After their meal, Draven's gaze swept the surroundings, his brow furrowing slightly.

  The air still clung heavily to the scent of blood, and the echoes of battle had been loud enough to summon attention from other beasts. Yet the silence around was unnervingly profound. Not even a bird dared to chirp.

  His choice to process the bear's carcass here was not merely to sate their hunger. He harbored another purpose—to gauge the nearby ecological response. Yet now, not a single stir betrayed their presence.

  This was unnatural.

  Ordinarily, beasts possessed an acute sensitivity to their territories, especially those of the alpha rank.

  The slaying of the bear was a direct intrusion into its domain—a provocation no intelligent beast could ignore.

  A creeping unease welled within Draven's chest. He had contemplated this possibility—the likelihood that the true lord of this domain had taken notice of them.

  "Pack up. We move," he ordered in a low voice.

  Bran and Rurik, perceptive of his tension, hastened to gather their belongings. Though young, both had been trained within the tribe to know when silence was paramount.

  The valley's depressed terrain was ill-suited for combat, hampering visibility and mobility. They had to leave swiftly.

  "Hurry, no looking back," Draven urged, his tone grave and urgent.

  Bran hefted his spear, Rurik slung his bow, and they followed their leader tightly, pushing through dense thickets and tangled underbrush, their pace brisk but controlled.

  Just as they neared the valley's mouth, a sudden, violent gust surged forth—an invisible wall crashing upon them.

  Bran and Rurik were hurled like rag dolls, tumbling across the ground amid a storm of dust and dead leaves, obscuring all sight.

  Draven's feet rooted firmly to the earth, muscles tensing as he braced himself, knees bent, spine rigid, blood igniting with a sudden blaze.

  Without hesitation, he unleashed his bloodline power.

  In an instant, his form contorted—muscles swelling, bones elongating—as he transformed into a towering werewolf, fangs bared, eyes glowing crimson, shielding him from the storm's fiercest assault.

  "Bran, Rurik, take cover!" he bellowed.

  Then he charged headlong into the gale, each step reverberating through the earth.

  At the valley's mouth, a colossal presence loomed—like a moving mountain—waiting for him.

  He met the beast head-on. Amid the thunderous clash, Draven staggered backward, astonishment etched across his features beyond concealment.

  It was a magical wolf.

  Leaping with deft agility, his eyes swept swiftly across the scene.

  Before him stood a gargantuan wolf, its azure fur wreathed in swirling winds, nearly matching the size of his companion beast, Ragnar. Its eyes radiated icy hostility and merciless resolve, dominating the entire valley entrance like a reaper risen from the abyss.

  It snarled low, baring teeth.

  Draven met its gaze without immediately invoking the binding contract.

  Though he could attempt to forcibly bind the beast, this mission was to eradicate the magical wolf. To do so and then contract with it risked the backlash of the bond, a pain that would recoil upon himself.

  His intent was clear—annihilation, not submission.

  Sensing the adversary's power vastly outmatched his own, Draven muttered a curse under his breath.

  No intelligence had been afforded this task; the map bore only the terrain, offering no warning of a high-level magical wolf guarding this domain.

  Freshly ascended, still unaccustomed to his newfound might, he had plunged recklessly into a realm ruled by a formidable foe.

  He clenched his jaw, knowing retreat was no longer an option. As a member of the werewolf clan, he knew well the nature of wolves.

  Once a wolf fixes upon its prey, it yields no quarter. Wolves never engage unprepared battles.

  But who, then, was truly the hunted?

  Draven glanced down at his chest. He felt his companion beast Ragnar stirring within, the resonance of their bloodlines curling his lips into a cruel smile.

  Alone, his chances against this azure beast would be slim.

  Fortunately, he was not solitary.

  "Go," he whispered, and a crimson pillar of light burst forth from within him.

  Ragnar manifested.

  The magical wolf faltered, evidently confused by the sudden apparition. It scented the wolf's essence but could not comprehend the emergence of a rival of equal might.

  Without hesitation, Ragnar lunged forward, driven by a frenzy of savage bloodlust and ecstasy in slaughter.

  From the moment of its birth, it existed solely to fight.